Viciously Strapped For Loitering
The fictional school for young noblewomen detailed in The Prefect by P. N. Dedeaux has harsh punishments for many different trivial offenses, to include the dire crime of loitering in hallways:
‘As this is a first offence I shall not strip you of your rank, Else. But you will do Duty Prefect for a week, write me out five hundred times, “I must not loiter in passages”, and the next time you are found in the slightest fault I will see to it that you get three dozen, slowly, with the whalebone birch. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Frau Direktrice. Thank you.’
‘Four strokes with the Sole.’
Maria had seen this implement, and saw it again now, reposing on a table to one side. She was surprised, however, at the sudden accession of wild, and most definite fear to the eyes of the girl as she went forward to where the Duty Mistress now pointed. Surely four was not too bad.
‘Lie down on your back.’
On her back? What was this?
Her lips – yes – quite distinctly trembling, Else Gundling lifted her legs into an L of her body. Her ankles were subjected to stout straps, which were then shackled to a pulley Wedell had lowered from the ceiling. There was a squeak of a wheel and she was hoisted until she rested but on her shoulders; the pulleys were parted, as were her legs. By now she was looking ashen with fear. Her cunt was richly bushed with swarthy hair which streamed up her belly in a flat broad bar. The tackles were adjusted, the Duty Mistress pressing on the girl’s hams to see that she was thoroughly held; then in a sudden athletic swing Wedell, grasping her victim’s wrists, swung the girl’s torso forward till her back arched. These wretched wrists were then likewise cuffed in leather and to the middle of a set of bars, evidently for the purpose. Maria breathed in deeply.
She faced the offender from the back. Else Gundling hung clear with widely parted legs, her upper body a bow attached to the bar in front. The oval purse of her pussy pouched downmost, its fat lips close. But the hair ran up the squeeze of bunched buttocks behind, the turgid flesh of whose inner sides were fully exposed, below, which was to say just above the closure of cunt.
A cold sweat started on Maria Daunitz’s brow. Undulations in the tender flesh where thigh met hip showed her that Else was not indifferent to the enormity of her situation, either. Her slabby cheeks were ripe for whipping, were going to be whipped. Wedell pressed down on them again, creaking her pulleys, then went to get her instrument. This was the Sole.
It consisted in a wooden handle and a broad leather strap of some three feet in length. Not an implement to make an experienced student pant and stretch in fear like this, surely. Maria’s tongue ran over her lips as Fräulein Wedell positioned herself with an attitude of relish some six feet back from the exact centre of her victim’s person.
‘Slowly, Wedell.’
The Prefect began to tremor, her breath coming fast.
The mistress raised the tawse above her head with both hands and with both brought it down in a slapping crack that rang through the room like a pistol shot. She had chosen as target the inside of the left buttock and the pulpy flesh under and inside the thigh there. Else jerked like a fish. Then she twisted and panted with pain.
Clearly this had been considerable. The red weal that had been ripped into her was going dark at its rim. It had cut close to her cunt but no more, yet such was her position, terror of intimate violation arched her back, clenching. The second swiped across the right, and produced a collected cry –
‘Ooooh … nicht … bitte, bitte …’
The mistress had but four and meant to extract the fullest extent of learning from them. This she effected so well at the third, again on the sturdy left cheek, that the Headmistress was moved to remark, ‘Good, very good, Wedell.’
The puce blotch now extended into the buttock cheeks, at their juncture. The girl strove to clench these maddened surfaces with all her strength, gave up in a slackened pant – as the mistress struck. The strap thucked home athwart the right side, producing a positive frenzy on the pulleys. And let down, her lower limbs released before her wrists, Else Gundling writhed amain like some stranded shark, doubling up her knees, bicycling in agony as wave after wave of pain seemed to get to and engulf her.
By a miracle of control she rested as if exhausted on hands and knees a moment, head dropped, lost, freed. She kissed the tail the mistress held out and pulled up her knickers over her raw weltings. She prostrated herself on the floor, in slowly heaving motions.
‘All right, Gundling, you won’t be let off so lightly next time.’
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