P. Dedeaux: The Prussian Girls

A careful observer, one looking over her shoulder, might have noticed the stain of a tear on that monotonous Latin. For Monika Vorst was going to get a whipping. It was not the first she had had, nor the last, but a saying among the sufferers in this school was that a whipping brought on whipping, and she simply couldn't concentrate on her recitation. It was no good. She only hoped and prayed she would not be called on by the mistress the morrow. Her mind kept straying, like her eyes, to the clock. It ticked stertorously.

The time was half past eight, and at nine the Duty Mistress held her notorious session with those unfortunates who had been put up on the Duty List. This was one of the most dreaded moments of the day, for all concerned. But the woman would have to get Monika's individual report over soon. The girl sighed. She shifted her thighs. Under the tight green knickers her bottoms felt shivery and wobbly, and twice as big as usual. She wondered if it showed, behind. A book dropped and she jumped.

It was the girl in the desk to her right. As the book had fallen open near Monika's feet she reached to help pick it up. A note was stuffed hurriedly in her hand. Two bright eyes caught hers.

Slowly, under carefully cupped fingers, Monika read the single word scribbled in pencil-“Gluck!” Good luck. She ventured a quick glance across the aisle, and caught her friend Barbara Mack's eyes in a sympathetic squeeze of commiseration. Then she swallowed the morsel of paper, barely moving her gullet as she did so. That had been decent of Barbara. If they'd been caught, Fraulein Katte would have given Barbara ten with the birch. At least.

The door swung open and Monika's world crashed about her. For a second she couldn't catch her breath. A tall Praelictor called Else Gundling strode in, wearing her uniform of office-in her case, of the same soft black leather as the mistresses', but the skirt in very short pleats falling over smoky stockings, tautly hauled, and knee-length leather boots. These clicked with precision as the eighteen-year-old girl went up to the Monitor's desk in silence, curtseyed, and whispered something. Then she was coming along the aisle to Monika, whose heart began to hammer like a… like a…

“Duty Mistress requires to see you. Follow me.”

Sickly closing her Caesar, Monika stood up and — with nobody looking at her but everyone looking at her-followed the Praelictor out of the room. Once outside Gundling led off smartly down long stone corridors, lit by flares. She marched in martial tread-left, right, left, right-and Monika had to keep step with her, just behind. The girls were not allowed to talk. The shadows fled over the strong broad shoulders of the figure leading her, yes, to hell. Round Gundling's thick neck was the gold chain from which hung a P, symbol of her office-not for Prafekt, but for Pflicht, since she was Duty Prefect for the day. The shoulders tapered to a surprisingly narrow waist, caught in by a broad leather belt, and beneath that the hips thumped out lustily to either side, making the brief skirt swing, as the heels struck down sharply at the flagstones. Monika was feeling sicker and sicker-it was all happening so fast, so irrevocably-she tried to breathe in deeply, half-tripped round a corridor, heard an irritated “Come on!” and was soon aware, at the end of their flickering vision, of the long, long corridor leading to the West Wing and the little area, or parade-ground, in front of the Duty Room. Before she knew it, the Praelictor had reached this, turned completely round, standing to attention with her back to the wall one side of the door, and staring expressionless over Monika's shoulder.

“Hurry up. Knock,” she hissed in a whisper.

Monika stepped up shivering to that plain deal door whose vision had filled so many Prussian girls with trepidation. She raised her hand. She had to knock. But her fingers refused to function. She bit her lip. She was going to cry. Perhaps to pee. After all, it had been such a very little fault. Hadn't it? Speaking to a mistress without being spoken to. An accident, as a matter of fact, a slip, but as in the Army every accident at Rutenberg was treated as a crime. How many then? Talking out of turn was surely only six. It couldn't be more than six, could it… Wedell wouldn't give her more than…

“Oh come on,” said a voice and the Praelictor beat her own knuckles on the door. A low “Herein!” resounded in a woman's tone and Monika constrained her fingers to open the door, enter the room, close the door behind her, march to the center and curtsey to the two women standing there, one slightly behind the other.

It was a large rectangular place with a wooden floor of ebon black and a general impression, at first always, of being furniture-less. Like some gymnasium, or stripped prison antechamber. An air of stern gloom hung over all.

This was not relieved, for Monika, by the sight of the two mistresses. The one who stood closer back to the fireplace was Fraulein Holz, of whom Monika had inadvertently asked a question, without being addressed, or raising her hand first, that morning. Thus incurring mandatory chastisement. The one in front was much more impressive, however, since she was not in the customary uniform. Fraulein Wedell, as Duty Mistress for the day, did wear the gleaming, creaking thigh-length boots, it was true, but above these what she had on was no more than a most skimpy tunic of spotless white, a heavy Tours silk, caught in at the waist by the usual wide belt but the skirt falling, in a slight flare, over the firm slopes of her hips from which it depended briefly, in suggestive reign, on the tops of her brilliant boots. She had on the chain of office and a golden P was embroidered between her breasts. At thirty-two Fraulein Wedell was a massive beauty with a rather flat face, slumbrous eyes and a mane of brown hair held back in a slide. Under her tense, gourd-like breasts, whose nipples prodded like thumbs at the stuff enclosing them, she bent a long and springy cane, yellow, highly polished and concluding in a knob, at the grasping end. She looked as if she could cane extremely hard, which she could, and enjoy doing it, which she did.

All this had Monika's gaze, fixed straight in front of her like a soldier's, taken in, as well as-to her right-the outlines of a leather-padded vaulting horse. These occasional punishments could be treated in various ways. In this case they had probably decided to take her over the horse. But her thoughts were interrupted from further speculation on her fate.

“Monika Vorst?”

“Yes, Fraulein.”

“You stand accused of speaking to a mistress without permission. Report of Fraulein Holz. What do you plead?”

“Guilty, if you please, Fraulein.”

“Have you anything to say?”

“No.”

“Do you wish to appeal?”

“No.”

This ritual over, Monika waited with bated breath.

How many?

“You will receive eight strokes with the cane.” Eight!

“Thank you, Miss,” she said hastily.

“Strip,” came the command and again hurriedly, as if there were suddenly no time, Monika reached under her tunic and slid her green knickers down and off, leaving them neatly folded on the floor. Then she tightened up her stockings and folded her skirt into her chain-belt. After which she stood to attention again.

The Duty Mistress came forward and for a second inspected her naked front. Monika had a heavy bulging mound adorned with strong curls rather darker than her hair; her vulval lips were pulpy and close-seamed. Evidently satisfied the mistress went behind.

“Lean forward, hands on your knees.”

She palped and pressed the flesh of the young buttocks carefully for a moment. Monika knew she had marks from a previous beating behind and the good Fraulein was feeling the extent of bruise left, if any, in order to see if she should use the same spot again. For maximum pain within the just limits of allotted discipline was a sine qua non of Schloss Rutenberg, as elsewhere in the kingdom.