feel nothing, during, but you must confess it's heaven to watch them like that… when it's over.”
There was a knock at the door. Helen von Brandt came in, visibly crying. She had had a good beating only that morning and now got another, across her plump, pugnacious little buttocks which still held fat when bent. She took the count stoically, though gasping and panting a lot throughout, and finally leaving the room with stricken face, holding herself and moaning. It was the turn of Steffi Nagel, the “niner.”
Ingeborg Untermacher took particular care over this correction, which was clearly, for her, a challenge.
The girl had a dewy, heart-shaped little face, thin sloping shoulders fashionable at the time, yet a buttock, when disclosed, that went outward into a surprisingly full and heavy base. She had had her six at Duty on Tuesday and the lines still showed well. When bent, she was broad and placid behind, the central seam of her twat tucked in. Ingeborg took a long run, and Maria held her breath; she knew in her soul she wanted her friend to win the duel, she wanted to see this firm, meaty flesh lashed into agony.
The air soughed… fffffttt!
The first strokes smacked home viciously. The girl began to gasp at once.
“Au weh, aaaah… o Gott, wie das tut weh… mein Gott, liebe Fraulein…”
She was a loquacious victim but despite her imprecations (“Ach, das halte ich nicht aus…”) absorbed the whacking stripes like a sponge. Four, five, six, seven… Ingeborg was not going to “win.”
“Bend right over… tight, tight.”
The girl gave a long crying moan. Her thighs rubbed together and the split plum of her sex showed suddenly, a winking wound. Her puckered sphincter seemed to swell a second, dilate and withdraw. The right cheek was splodgy with welts, one of which appeared to be oozing.
“Ooooh… auuuuuu…”
Ingeborg Untermacher stood behind her victim, chest heaving, an eager, almost exasperated expression on her face. She seemed to be wondering- how was it possible to cane anyone harder?
“Turn in your toes, Nagel. I want those fat hams absolutely separated for these last two.”
The eighth and ninth whunked into the buttery flesh at the very bisection of hip and thigh. Steffi cried out loudly each time, but did not rise. The mistress let her stay so a long time before the “Permission,” and then said, “All right. Get your knickers on. Hardened little slut, you ought to be caned like that every day.”
Maria mused on the difference in reactions to extreme pain as the girl, her panties up, half-hobbled to the door, holding her riven buttocks and moaning loudly and slowly still.
“Have the Matron see to that place where I broke the skin.”
“Ja, Fraulein. Th-thank you.”
Alone once more, the two stared at each other. Ingeborg sat back on the edge of her table, panting like a runner. Her mouth was wide, there was a quick tawny flicker in her eyes, that of an unsatisfied animal. She parted her legs, the thin stuff of her tunic draping conspicuously over the butting mound of her mons.
“Shall I bring in Weg again?” Maria asked.
The other crossly shook her head. “No, no. Of course not. The maid. For the desk.”
Maria Daunltz paused. Her friend had spoken in rushing gasps. “You don't have to talk to me like that, Inge,” she protested gently.
“I'm sorry… it's just that afterwards…” Her glowing head went back, she sucked in breath again. “Well, look.”
Lifting the limp material from her front, Ingeborg bared her burning cunt. Unlike Frau Dick, she did not even have to part her hairy lips; the tough tail of glistening gristle stuck up through them like a ready tongue.
“Good Lord,” said Maria, not without a certain reverence.
“We… we… some of us… this special operation… Matron does it… uh, with pins… agony, absolute murder… elongates th-th-au Gott! I'm going to go off with you just looking at it like that, let alone a touch, and I want to
There was a knock at the door. Helen von Brandt came in, visibly crying. She had had a good beating only that morning and now got another, across her plump, pugnacious little buttocks which still held fat when bent. She took the count stoically, though gasping and panting a lot throughout, and finally leaving the room with stricken face, holding herself and moaning. It was the turn of Steffi Nagel, the “niner.”
Ingeborg Untermacher took particular care over this correction, which was clearly, for her, a challenge.
The girl had a dewy, heart-shaped little face, thin sloping shoulders fashionable at the time, yet a buttock, when disclosed, that went outward into a surprisingly full and heavy base. She had had her six at Duty on Tuesday and the lines still showed well. When bent, she was broad and placid behind, the central seam of her twat tucked in. Ingeborg took a long run, and Maria held her breath; she knew in her soul she wanted her friend to win the duel, she wanted to see this firm, meaty flesh lashed into agony.
The air soughed… fffffttt!
The first strokes smacked home viciously. The girl began to gasp at once.
“Au weh, aaaah… o Gott, wie das tut weh… mein Gott, liebe Fraulein…”
She was a loquacious victim but despite her imprecations (“Ach, das halte ich nicht aus…”) absorbed the whacking stripes like a sponge. Four, five, six, seven… Ingeborg was not going to “win.”
“Bend right over… tight, tight.”
The girl gave a long crying moan. Her thighs rubbed together and the split plum of her sex showed suddenly, a winking wound. Her puckered sphincter seemed to swell a second, dilate and withdraw. The right cheek was splodgy with welts, one of which appeared to be oozing.
“Ooooh… auuuuuu…”
Ingeborg Untermacher stood behind her victim, chest heaving, an eager, almost exasperated expression on her face. She seemed to be wondering- how was it possible to cane anyone harder?
“Turn in your toes, Nagel. I want those fat hams absolutely separated for these last two.”
The eighth and ninth whunked into the buttery flesh at the very bisection of hip and thigh. Steffi cried out loudly each time, but did not rise. The mistress let her stay so a long time before the “Permission,” and then said, “All right. Get your knickers on. Hardened little slut, you ought to be caned like that every day.”
Maria mused on the difference in reactions to extreme pain as the girl, her panties up, half-hobbled to the door, holding her riven buttocks and moaning loudly and slowly still.
“Have the Matron see to that place where I broke the skin.”
“Ja, Fraulein. Th-thank you.”
Alone once more, the two stared at each other. Ingeborg sat back on the edge of her table, panting like a runner. Her mouth was wide, there was a quick tawny flicker in her eyes, that of an unsatisfied animal. She parted her legs, the thin stuff of her tunic draping conspicuously over the butting mound of her mons.
“Shall I bring in Weg again?” Maria asked.
The other crossly shook her head. “No, no. Of course not. The maid. For the desk.”
Maria Daunltz paused. Her friend had spoken in rushing gasps. “You don't have to talk to me like that, Inge,” she protested gently.
“I'm sorry… it's just that afterwards…” Her glowing head went back, she sucked in breath again. “Well, look.”
Lifting the limp material from her front, Ingeborg bared her burning cunt. Unlike Frau Dick, she did not even have to part her hairy lips; the tough tail of glistening gristle stuck up through them like a ready tongue.
“Good Lord,” said Maria, not without a certain reverence.
“We… we… some of us… this special operation… Matron does it… uh, with pins… agony, absolute murder… elongates th-th-au Gott! I'm going to go off with you just looking at it like that, let alone a touch, and I want to
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