P. Dedeaux: The Prussian Girls

“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.