There was but one sequel to these lamentable scenes.
Sergeant-Major Schlamm, striding down an upstairs corridor of the Schloss on his way out at about the time his Colonel was “going through” the celebrated Directress, paused in his tracks. From behind an oaken door at a turning in the passage came a sharp snap, an unmistakable and categoric sound. There was a pause, and it was followed by another. He counted four and his breath came quicker. All at once someone appeared to be wrestling with the door handle.
Sergeant-Major Schlamm stepped back behind a cornice in the dimly-lit turn of the corridor.
A plump blonde girl burst out, slamming the door behind her. She had on the scant peplum of the place, hers green, her face was bunched and flushed and, while the hidden soldier watched, she raised her head with an anguished whine of pain, thrust her hands up under the lap of tunic behind and dug them down under her panties. She moaned there a moment, her thighs threshing, and the Sergeant-Major smiled-the little punishment was doing its best work now, he well knew. Then the girl breathily straightened from her hunched position and began to hobble down the passageway.
The Sergeant-Major was about to move on, when footsteps sounded. A duplicate or carbon in brunette of the corrected child approached. She looked with consternation at her chum.
“Heavens, Helga, was it all that bad?”
“Absolute hell,” came the muffled answer.
“Is she hitting very hard?” was the pleading question then.
“I thought so. And an absolute swine of a cane, terrifically whippy.”
“How many?”
“Nine.”
“Oh God no.” The dark girl gave a sick gulp, her hands wringing. She stole a glance at the door ahead. “Oh heavens, I can't take nine. I got twice six today. It's as tender as a jelly.”
“Well, you needn't worry, she'll use the marks all right. Gott! How those last three stung. I don't believe anyone could possibly hit any harder, if they tried.” With which cold comfort the blonde went her way, still rubbing her smarting buttocks. The newcomer approached the door, and the Sergeant-Major's cock gave an appreciative kick.
Left alone, the highly punishable minx made a perfect picture of petrified apprehension; her pale and worried face turned this way and that, as if seeking some invisible exit, she wrang her hands, rubbed her thighs, finally felt her bottoms behind. At last, with a lost look, she dramatically knocked.
“Herein!” was drawled from the other side, and then, “Entre donc, ma chere!”
The Sergeant-Major ran a hand over his mustaches. This time he heard nine of the distinct snippy cracks, each like a winter's bough snapped in two. This time the door was evidently opened for the girl when it was over, and the brunette fairly pranced out, hissing with pain, and kneading her bottom under its skirt. She hopped and skipped her way down the passage.
A mistress' head came out. He saw a pretty, smiling, excited face and his blood beat up. Surely this was the one. The Frenchie. Whom the Colonel had just told him he was to… he bit his lips as she advanced into the passage, laughing, cane swinging, keys at her waist and the black leather skirt barely covering the obviously elegant bottom.
“Nest time you get your essay in on time, silly!”
Before re-entering her room the mistress' lively black eyes swept the corridor ahead. Suddenly they saw the waiting Sergeant-Major. Her smile faded slowly, a look of intense respect came over her features. After all, this individual had just emptied himself in the anus of the eminent Frau Direktrice.
Not to mention having been sucked off by Maria later.
She approached him curiously, holding her cane. Even in his short frogged forage jacket he looked all muscle. His neck was thick and round. Jacqueline Bellais was aroused. They did not have many men visitors at Schloss Rutenberg, after all.
“We too,” she said, smiling wryly, “have to mete out a little correction, now and then.”
“So it seems,” he said in a low growl, “so it seems.”
Her eyes fell. With his right hand the man was as if absently stroking the great seam of his standing prick, under the tight thin breeches. Her heart pounded as the memory of that infernal organ, slucking in, squeezing out… it ran precisely parallel to the handle of the martinet stuck in his belt, whose thongs had stained his breeches.
“You certainly administered a merciless chastisement this evening, Sergeant-Major,” she said.
“Not known for my leniency, Ma'am,” was all he answered. His eyes quickened as he saw the number on the door. The same!
“No, I don't suppose you are, are you? But then, all punishment should be merciless, should it not?”
“Completely without pity,” he agreed.
“Yes, it's all they understand.” Jacqueline Bellais' thin nostrils flared. “Still, I thought you waxed close to cruel at the end, sir.”
“Would have liked to work the buttocks more.”
I'll bet you would, thought Jacqueline Bellais, staring him straight in the eye. They understood each other perfectly. Quickly she said, “I have two more girls to whip. Four late essays handed in today. The next will be down from her Dorm rather shortly, I believe. I'm giving them nine with this cane across the naked… arse.” She pronounced the word with deliberation, her eyes again dropping to his pipe of a penis. “Naturally, it's nothing like what you administer at the barracks, but we do our best. If you would care to watch.”
He bowed his assent. With an ironic flip of her skirt that revealed the fact she had nothing on beneath, the active little French mistress swung on her high heels and led the way into her room.
When they were alone she said in a low voice, her chest heaving, “I'm using this willow. It's extremely bendy and stingy and although it doesn't bruise like yours, Sergeant-Major, they'll feel it sitting for a day or so. I am afraid I shall have to ask you to stand behind those curtains there-you can see through them from the other side quite well-because it would not be consistent with modesty to have a man in my rooms.”
There was a pause and he laughed. “Least of all, one in such a manly state as me, eh?”
“I'm afraid that's all too evident, Sergeant-Major.”
“That last one, she squeezed her sitters so…”
“They do, don't they? Furthermore,” went on the mistress, feeling herself more and more in charge of the situation, “we believe in total fairness here, and I have been taking them across this table. However, if you would prefer another position… I mean, I could get her to bend over here with her back to you, entirely double, that is, and you'd get a full view of the twin surfaces, and naturally the… the…” Jacqueline Bellais' eyes roved the ceiling.
“The cunt between.”
“As you say, sir, the cunt between. But of course you'd miss the expression of the face.”
“It won't be necessary. As you had 'em, Ma'am.”
“The next girl in has a lovely heart-shaped face and you'll see that this table is fitted with head-and-hands stocks. Their expressions get quite comical by the end and usually they try to turn their faces round to the left. So if you watch from those curtains there, Sergeant-Major,” and the mistress indicated the left side of the room to the table, “you'll have an admirable profile of the rump as well.” To say nothing, Jacqueline Bellais well knew, of her own, under the lifting skirt, as she swung.
But there came a knock at the door. At a nod the Sergeant-Major secreted himself soundlessly behind the curtains, opaque from the room side, transparent from the other.
The girl who entered was in gold. She was a big upright healthy Slavic specimen with a mane of fair hair and if her face was a heart, it was a large one. Thick velvety brows shaded anxious pale blue eyes, already dewed with tears, and she was biting her pretty small pale lips with fear. Her whole body was on a sumptuous scale and quivering all over.
Jacqueline Bellais stood with her back to the roaring grate and smiled at these symptoms.
“Come, Irina, you're not going to the gallows. I'm not going to kill you exactly. You've been beaten before, I believe. What are you here for?”
“Late theme. In your grammar class, Miss.”
“To be flogged across the buttocks, yes. Let's see if I can't make those big fat hams of yours somewhat more prompt. Have you anything to say, at all?”
“No, Mademoiselle Bellais.”
“I'm going to give you nine. With all that avoirdupois you'll scarcely feel it, will you, Irina? Come, stop that cowardly crying instantly. Stop it, I say.”
Advancing, the trim French mistress unleashed two swinging slaps that sent the big girl staggering. She held her head, sobbed once, received another blow that rang her head like a bell.
“Put your hands by your sides. So. Now then. Off with your knickers and up with your skirt, tuck it right into your chain now.” When this was done, the mistress surveyed her prey. A good thick blondish fur covered the cunt in front, which was tucked into the top of the thighs, surprisingly wide for the girth of calf. The cheeks of the rump were young and full, tender-looking with a good overhand, yet well divided centrally. The cane tapped a spot on the floor. “Stand here. Back to those curtains.”
Unseen by her victim, she gave a sly wink, to the hidden watcher and slowly palped and joggled the thick globes in her hands before him. The pair was solid and springy and with an overhang like this the sulcal fold would be doubly tender. Jacqueline Bellais intended to work there. The cheeks were unmarked.
“What's wrong, Irina?” she said, smiling. “You're quivering all over like a pony.”
“Please, Fraulein.”
“What is it?”
“It's just… that I have a Matron's waiting for me when I get back to the Dorm. Last thing tonight.”
“What's that got to do with it?”
“It's b-bound to be six, and nine now…”
“Will make fifteen,” said the expert mistress cheerfully. “Keep you warm in bed. No, my dear, in five years' time you'll be thanking us for this training from the bottom of your… heart. For the present concentrate on the problem of punctuality. For about three minutes you're going to feel some lively sensations in your derriere.” And she gave it a playful pat. “Now bend over quite double. Tight. Feet slightly apart.”
If that doesn't jack him erect, she thought with a smile as she went to a sideboard for the bottle, nothing will.
She returned with a small brush and medical bottle. The anal crater was no more than a dimple in the deep divide and Jacqueline Bellais daubed it with the caustic unguent quickly. The girl hissed as the burning liquid touched her and the mistress rapidly popped wide the sphincter with finger and thumb and scrubbed rapidly inside with the brush. The girl rose with a wretched expression; the treatment made her want to spread and dilate herself, it was awful.
Jacqueline Bellais put the bottle and brush back and took up her stick, which shivered with menace. She stood in front of the punishment table, smiling. The girl was simply trembling all over, her lips were even shaking! The mistress sucked in her breath. These moments were divine, only matched by the antics afterwards.
“Nine lashes,” she said. “Well, what are you waiting for? Is anything wrong?”
The girl paused, gave the mistress a look of dumb imploring and then stepped up to the punishment table, over which she bent at right angles.
On the far side of this were the stocks and the girl duly put her neck and wrists, one either side, in the slots provided; the mistress clicked down the bolt. Furthermore, she had stepped just inside a wooden rail, connecting the two legs of the table and running behind her ankles.
Jacqueline Bellais then affixed in place another parallel rail just at or over her knees, forcing her to brace back her legs well and thrust out her rump. This was now broadly curved over the edge of the table and the mistress stepped back to survey it, knowing the hidden watcher at the side was losing no time in doing so, either.
At the base of each heavy hemisphere the indentation of the sulcal fold showed like a cuticle. She resolved to hit there… hard.
“Arch your back, Irina.”
The mistress gave a long pause, then lengthened it. She was breathing ever more deeply. Living. She knew these moments waiting for chastisement to commence were golden, to all concerned.
“Stop quivering, Irina.”
“I cer-can't help it, Fraulein.”
“I'm not going to start until your bottoms are placid. Thrust back with your thighs, child, go on. That's better.”
She took a quick nervous run and whicked the bendy wand into the buttery fat at the base of the buttocks. A violet line flamed up. The girl gasped.
Jacqueline Bellais was aware as she pranced forward to cut again that her own skirt swung up, revealing her muscular thighs and naked saucy bottoms to the watching, and doubtless ever more ardent, Sergeant-Major of the 15th. Dragoon Guards. Guards.
The cane hissed rankly into the puppy-fat once more and the girl gave a pronounced groan-“Ach… au!”
“Low enough for you, Irina?”
“Ach… je… please, Fraulein…”
“What?”
“Per-please… hit me higher.”
“Why?”
“It hurts so terribly down there… in the f-fold.”
The mistress laughed and clipped two singing cuts even lower, on the thighs. The girl's feet trampled, her face turned to the left. Her writhing fingers fisted. Wh-h-h-h-lkkkk!
Six… seven… eight… a long pause, then nine!
“Uuuuuuh… uach… wen!”
Released and set erect the girl abandoned herself to the frenzy of her pain, arching a-tiptoe and then half crouching as she strove to throw off the burn. The mistress watched her with shining eyes, then sent her on her way-“I think you'll feel the Matron's cuts tonight, Irina.”
In the silent room she realized she was sweating.
She went slowly up to the curtains and with a malicious smile tried to part them. Instead, she missed their opening. And found herself holding a crowbar. At first she thought it was the handle of the martinet the man had used. Then she gasped her appreciation, and approval. She had the Sergeant-Major's prick in her grip. She gave it a squeeze and it bucked to her touch.
“Well, do we hit… hard enough?” she whispered.
He growled some assent.
“Sinks in better than with a drummer-boy, I believe? Gott in Himmel but the Head must have felt something up her with this.”
Jacqueline Bellais was now profoundly excited, the blood beating behind her eyes, her whole flesh aglow.
The next and final girl was a full eighteen-year-old, in her last term, tall and well-but not bigly- built, with mousy hair and a rather petulant expression. When the mistress asked her if she had anything to say, she responded: “If I might, Fraulein. I took ten this noon, to pay off two hours' Detention, and then I got six from Fraulein Katte later. I think even you will agree that my person has been very thoroughly punished. I would ask for remission of this correction until tomorrow.”
“Mmn,” mused the mistress with a smile, stroking the silk of her stick, “let's get your knickers off, Andrea, and have a look at these posterior portions. Bend over with your hands on your knees. Facing this way, please.”
The girl's compact cheeks were furiously wealed. Sixteen strokes had been placed across their center, and the right side was a hot band of purple bruise.
“Dear, oh dear, Andrea, this is going to hurt, isn't it? Stand up, dear, and tuck in your skirt.”
“Please. May I take them tomorrow?”
Jacqueline Bellais shook her head. “Sorry.”
“Please,” the girl persisted. She bit her lip. “I beg you, Fraulein, but hit me other than on the marks, and I will do my best to bear it.”
“Are you appealing, Andrea, is that it?”
“No.”
“Well then, bend over.”
The French mistress cut deliberately, yet as hard as she simply could. The first two bit into the lower edge of the tumified wales, and then she sank two more into the very tenderest part of the wealing.
The girl bore it with astonishing stoicism. Her slender thighs threshed and writhed with pain, but she made no sound, her face scarlet, jaws clenched.
The fifth cut up into the fat, bouncing the cheeks; it was an excruciating slice and after it the mistress was able to announce, slowly, “Well, well, well, so Seniors do bleed after all, Andrea.” She was standing by her victim's head, “negligently” holding her own skirt up behind for the delectation of the Sergeant-Major, and a small whinny came from the girl's bitten mouth-“Mercy.”
The mistress laughed and moved back. This time she waited a whole minute. The knees were allowed little traction by the rail but even so it was amazing how the scoriated cheeks could grind and stir against each other. Suddenly there was a burst of breath and the girl cried out, “Dear Christ, I can't bear any more of it… please, please, I beg you not to give me any more…”
“Come, Andrea, I thought you were made of sterner stuff than this. I see I shall have to make the last four especially exemplary.”
There was a flurry of sobs. “No! No! Not there. Hit me lower, not on the marks. I implore you, Fraulein.”
“What a contradictory lot you children are,” said the mistress, preparing her next lacerating lash. “First you want them higher, then you want them lower.”
“Auuuuueeee!”
When it was all over, and the girl had gone, Jacqueline Bellais was pouring with sweat and lust. In the silence of the room she locked the door and with a loose smile on her lips went to the parting of the curtains and grasped the turgid staff unleashed by the Sergeant-Major and drew him forward by it into the room.
“Come,” was all she said.
She stood facing him in the center of the room, panting, feet astride.
“Fuck me,” she said, ripping off her leather tunic and baring herself absolutely above the boots. “Jam me up, stick, stuff, ram…”
But though he was moodily nodding his head the soldier was replacing his gleaming penis. And he was loosening the thongs of his fearful flail, moving it through the air with a measuring motion that showed its awful weight.
“Yes, I will,” he murmured, stroking out his mustache, “but first I have to flog you.”
There was perfect silence in the room then.
He went on: “Yes, yes. It was agreed. You see, I nearly missed the number of your room. Colonel sent me to do it. He and your Directress, that is. Seems as since you counseled the pizzle for that poor mistress, it is deemed you shared in the general complicity. Of injustice, that is. Thus you are to have a dozen.”
Jacqueline Bellais felt the marrow drain from her bones. She stood bush-bare, facing him, and she did not let the smile fade an iota from her face. But her skin froze to pimples.
“A butcher's dozen,” he added.
“Which is to say, thirteen,” she came back, with the same rigid smile. She had no strength left in her at all.
He nodded.
“With… that?” she whispered.
“Aye. It's a bloody buttock, I'm afraid, Ma'am, and I have to show you to the Colonel after, and if it's not considered enough, it's another dozen then.”
Sickly she turned her back to him and stared into the fire. She held the mantel for support. “There is no… possibility of avoiding?”
“No.”
She had known there was not.
“Well, then,” she said turning with a frown, “we had better get on with it, had we not, Sergeant-Major? How do you mean to take me?”
“Lying over the table. With your feet secured in those stocks, you see.”
“I understand,” she answered after a moment. “With my bottom on the edge and my torso hanging down over the side, yes, yes.” She shuddered violently. “Oh you Germans. So that's what you were thinking of behind the curtain all the time.”
“You have cuffs for your hands, behind your back, Ma'am?”
“In that drawer,” she said miserably. She took a brave pace forward to the shining table, suddenly realized the enormity of the position, turned an anguished face: “But that will be excruciatingly painful. With those thongs you're bound to strike between my legs. Even the Head wasn't hit in the cunt. Oh God, oh no.” She went to him, beseeching, her hands on the frogging of his tunic. “You can't mean that,” she began to babble, “my own is set quite low, it pouches back, you'll see, oh please… dear God…”
But he said nothing, running the ruddied thongs through his gnarled fingers.
“At least gag me,” she said. “There's a pear in that drawer also.”
And a minute later pretty Jacqueline Bellais was perfectly placed for the maximum infliction of pain.
She was face down across the table, her booted ankles held in the stocks that had held her victims' wrists. Her hips came just to the side of the table, over which her upper body dangled, arms locked behind elbow-to-wrist. Nervous flutterings spasmed the tender underbuttock spread out for the flail in this abandoned pose, through which the healthy, thick-lipped quim pouched up.
The Sergeant-Major stood in front of her by a good two paces and laid the ends of his thongs in measuring aim on the cringing skin. Then with all his strength he whistled the keen fangs down, and in.
No more than a strangled croak escaped her throat but her upper body, hanging down, bounded about like that of some stranded trout. The tough strands had painted vertical dark lines along her buttock and two of them, nipping into the furrow, had cut the skin at once.
And one of them had sliced into the seam of the very underbelly.
The Sergeant-Major of the 15th. Dragoon Guards drew breath. He was going to lash her to the blood and, oh, beyond. Jacqueline Bellais was about to learn the true meaning of Prussian discipline.
Here is the story of Schloss Rutenberg, a Prussian ladies' seminary of 1729, devoted not only to the corporal correction of its high-born pupils but also of its mistresses. An erotic memoir of girls' dormitories and corridors that, although from a vanished age, can still cause the skin to tingle.