Caning Girls Prussian Style

A caning session this time, by P.N. Dedeaux from The Prussian Girls
introducing the Duty caning of which more another time. Enjoy

The time was half past eight in the evening, 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.
The lovely 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 – ‘Glück!’
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, Fräulein 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 Prefect 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 eighteenyear-
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 Prefect 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 Präfekt, 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 Prefect 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 Prefect 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 centre
and curtsey to the two women standing there, one
slightly behind the other.

It was a large rectangular place with a wooden
floor of ebony 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 Fräulein 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. Fräulein 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 thirtytwo
Fräulein 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, gourdlike
breasts, whose nipples prodded like thumbs at
the stuff enclosing them, she bent a long and springy
Rohrstock or 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 most certainly 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, Fräulein.’
‘You stand accused of speaking to a mistress
without permission. Report of Fräulein Holz. What
do you plead?’
‘Guilty, if you please, Fräulein.’
‘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 tight 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.
Monika tried to keep her face as expressionless as that of
the hefty Wedell, as the latter wiped off her
fingers on a rag and raised the senior cane. Monika
gulped. It was an aching, soulless length of round
yellow willow, or ash, that the mistress was now
rubbing with rosin at its gripping end, obviously
capable of lashing out agony across a girl's naked bottom.
It was a thing of the reformatory rather than the girls’ dormitory;
its thumping whip would make a hardened harlot dance.
Eight strokes with … that?

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 Fräulein 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.
Not content with examining Monika's buttocks, the
mistress ran her fingers up and down the lovely girl's
bottom crack and into her pouting anus.

‘Bend over there.’ The quiver of willow
indicated the caning horse.
It was a low one and Monika stretched over it in
the correct pose – feet astride, her belly on the
leather top, which inclined slightly down, her
arms in front of her, her hands gripping the wood at
the side. She stared ahead at a far wall, on which
was a rack of canes in parallel lines. She heard
Fräulein Holz come forward, the two exchange some
comments, and she heard the Duty Mistress step
well back and to one side.

Then she heard the sudden thumping pace and that tearing
of stretched silk which was the noise the cane made as it
whirred through the silent air about her, more
compelling a sound than any in her memory and,
indeed, more frightening than the little dry thuck
of its licky impact.
By then it had happened. The limber limb
thrashed round the fatted flesh of her bum low down, causing
her a blaze of excruciating pain. She gasped and
clenched her teeth, so as not to cry out.
Seven more.
There was a long pause, for these mistresses were
expert in the minutiae of physical chastisement,
knowing that the feeling of leisurely endlessness
was an essential ingredient, and timing their cuts to
succeed at the maximum moment of mounted
sensation.
Tthhhrrrrrllll-wuck!
Two.
Monika said nothing. She was being thrashed
now, and she knew it. She was a privileged member
of a master race, a race of gods and goddesses,
descended from the mists of old, ancestors of glory,
and she put her tongue between her teeth, bidding
herself bite through it rather than disgrace her
body and cry out. All she uttered were stomachdeep
grunts – ‘Huink!’
Three … four … five … you could get to five or six
with one of these light canes, but anything more
began to be a problem.
‘Lower’, murmured Fräulein Holz, from behind
her.
Phrrrrwuppp!
ONLY TWO MORE!
It was a good thrashing and, though low, well
spaced out so that the whole of her bottom stung,
hard. Wedell always had a lot of weight in her
cuts. If only she’d get these last ones over with
quickly.
Monika knew just what she looked like
from behind – a pair of welted buttocks which, try
as she might, could not keep from squeezing and
squirming and rolling, her buttocks well spread and
her puckered anus on display, the slotted oval of her sex shamelessly on show beneath. She jammed her
knees into the woodwork and found that her fingers
were scratching at the same in front.
‘That one made her jump a bit.’ There was low
laughter.
‘Anyone would think she wanted it … up her.’
Ph-ph-phrrrrrpp!
Monika lost and found her tongue – ‘Haïee!’
That had hurt very considerably indeed. Oh
God, how that beastly cane could sting. She shot out
a leg. Christ! Could she hold it for another! She
had to … for Brandenburg, for … Prussia. She knew
the Prefect outside would be counting the cuts,
which would come to her as thin flicks of air, and
she wondered if a finger would be under her skirt
working up a hungry tongue of gristle in her slit.
PHHHHRRWPPPPI
Over!
But this was the worst. The pain was at its very
worst about thirty seconds afterwards, and lasted so
for a full minute; she had to show her control by
waiting for Erlaubnis, the ritual word of permission
to get up, and then she had not to rub her bum after.

She tried to freeze herself to the caning horse, tried to
still the seething writhing of her ribbed cheeks in
her rear. Tears ran down her lovely face.

‘All right’, she heard.
She stood up a trifle unsteadily, clamping hands
to her sides to stop them wandering out of control,
made weakly for her knickers, which she
shiveringly pulled up. Having frantically tugged
down her skirt she approached the Duty Mistress,
dropped to one knee, said, ‘Thank you for punishing
my fault, Fräulein’, and kissed the tip of the cane.
To her dry lips it seemed somewhat warm. Then she
was blundering out.
The Prefect waiting outside, just under the
well-known Duty List, frankly grinned when she
saw Monika’s writhen lips and miserably fisted
hands at her flanks. Although she was not
supposed to speak, she said, ‘Good caning? I hoped
you were going to get ten.’

She started striding back. Monika stumbled into
step behind, but was now able to grab her beaten
buttocks and knead them beneath her tunic. The
Prefect walked fast, knowing (as knew mewing
Monika) that the pain was still mounting nicely in
the pair of whipped bottoms and that self-control
on re-entering the classroom was going to provide a
salutory task of will power. It was for that one went
to places like Schloss Rutenberg, after all.
‘Hey, keep in step’, she more than once turned
back angrily to declaim.

A good caning? Monika knew it had been.
Excellent. Eight sweeping strokes right under her
chubbiest parted person, a seething cauldron of
purplish weals that made her suddenly pant and
stop, squirming, her forehead pressed to the icecold
wall.
‘Please, Gundling. Just a second. Honestly.
Wedell cuts so tight.’
‘Come on. Or I’ll have to report you for
dawdling.’
The Pre was pulling at her tunic when, from an
intersection ahead, a mistress appeared. She was
young and pretty, with rather mousy hair, and
under normal circumstances they would have
detected her approach by the jingling of keys at her
belt. This mistress as yet wore none. She was new
this term and her name was Maria Daunitz, from
near Gentin. By chance she had got to know Monika
Vorst and came forward, smiling shyly, at the
already much-embarrassed girls. Stopping in
corridors was a caning offence. In some schools you
had to run in all passageways.
‘Poor Monika. Have you just been caned?’
‘Yes, Fräulein’, came the answer, after both girls
had curtseyed.
‘Let me see.’
The mistress parted skirt and panties and
inspected. The weals were thick and hard and hot.
Another caning across them could be agonizing, if
well applied. Which, at Schloss Rutenberg, it
invariably was.
‘Hurt a lot?’
‘Yes. I was j-just …’
‘Well, you’d better be on your way, hadn’t you? I
know the Head doesn’t approve of dawdling in
corridors. Any more than I do.’

She tapped the slabby butt and watched it joggle
out of sight, round another turn of the corridor, as
Monika followed the martial Prefect. As the latter
finally opened the schoolroom door for her charge
to enter she, too, smiled. The girl was doing well. It
might be interesting to find out one day, one night,
if she … and just which dormitory was Vorst in?
‘Thanks, Gundling.’
‘Just as well it was that new mistress. Or, she’d
have had both our hides.’
Red of face and wet of eye, but hands beside her,
Monika went up to the Monitress and requested
permission to return to Prep. It was granted and,
when she resumed her desk, stood at it, as was
required of any girl who had just suffered correction.
In the total silence of the softly ticking room, every
aspect of it proclaimed one thing and one only: I
have been flogged … I have been well caned across
the naked buttocks and it stung like such sheer hell
I wished I didn’t have any. Eight slow juicy strokes,
driving in just above the sulcus until I wanted to
scream and squirm but I couldn’t. I couldn’t, because
of my country’s honour. All the same the tip did eat in like
fury. She could feel it still.

Across the aisle Barbara Mack saw sidelong the
little fatty quivers that shot through that jut of
rump. Her eyes were moist and gleaming.
Yes, it was still hurting a very great deal – as
each single breast, beating beneath those thin green
tunics knew. Monika herself bore no resentment.
Such a notion never even got near to her mind. She
was happy she had again ‘come through’, without
disgrace, and that was simply that. It had been a
routine beating, and thus another ordeal and
challenge to rise to. Like an athletic activity, in
many ways. She had broken a rule, and reaped the
consequences. She admired Wedell for making it so
painful, so ‘tight’, and knew she had got
everything out of her eight strokes she could. Once
or twice she had been a trifle wild, she had
‘overhit’ perhaps at the end, but by and large it
had been a methodical, calculated caning of the
type that made you feel corrected through and
through. Monika’s burning bottom now felt thrice its
size, heavy as lead, but she knew corporal
punishment achieved its goal. If she made that
same mistake again, she’d be more likely to get a
dozen. And anyway the worst of the smart was now
subsiding nicely, melding into a pervasive heat,
and sense of satisfaction at her centre. Relaxed and
torpid, she stared at Caesar’s rank prosaic prose
and knew she would have to borrow Barbara’s bone
thing from her again tonight.