by Victor Bruno
Diane’s quivering-quaking bottom flesh was large in the screen. From just below the last nodule in her spine to about an inch below the buttock area where it joins the thighs, she was a mass of closely-spaced almost parallel weals. Their original vivid redness had become a glowing purple. In some places they were turning black.
Fiona found it a frightening sight. It made her feel all the more sick. Yet, out of courtesy to her hostess, she continued to gaze on the awful spectacle.
The flesh kept twitching and juddering.
Shivering ripples ran convulsively to and fro. Obviously Diane had no control over that.
“Did you say anything, Miss Von Bal?”
“I b-beg pardon, Madame. Yes ... I do see what you mean.”
“You are looking upon a truly effective caning. The kind I always give.”
“Yes ... I understand, Madame ...” Why am I so frightened, so respectful she wondered? Perhaps that was not so surprising since she had just witnessed what this woman was capable of doing.
The camera switched briefly to Diane’s face. The eyes were glazed, half rolling back. The mouth was slack. Her chin was wet with saliva and she was still dribbling. Her stertorous breathing was interspersed with low gasping-groans. Fiona got the impression that the girl was at last virtually senseless.
Back came the camera to her bottom.
Fiona felt herself shudder. One would do anything rather than be treated like that, she thought. Yes, anything!
“Diane will remain on the Horse for a further hour,” said Martha. “That is always my way. It gives her time to contemplate her misdeeds and reflect on the wisdom of avoiding them in future. Before leaving the Punishment Room, I shall rouse her from her present stupor with smelling salts. These will be repeated as often as is necessary, in order that she remains fully conscious throughout the hour. It is important that she feels the consequences of a really sound caning. After that she will be taken to the Sanatorium for recovery. In her case, I imagine we would have remained there for at least three days. More likely four.”
The screen went blank. Martha returned the video projector to its place.
To think all this happened in that room next door, Fiona said to herself. It scarcely seemed possible. She felt the palms of her hands wet with perspiration. She tried to lessen the sick feeling and her fast-beating heart.
“Well, now that you know a little more of my methods, do you still want to have your step-sister brought here?” enquired Martha Duerrisse.
Fiona found herself nodding without even bothering to re-consider the matter. “Yes,” she replied firmly. “I think it would be an excellent place for her.”
Martha’s cold eyes remained on her for a rather uncomfortingly long time. It made Fiona feel nervous. Guilty, almost.
“Very well,” said Martha at last. “I shall contact your Great Uncle and see to it that all arrangements are put in hand.”
“W-What ... what will happen ...?” began Fiona.
Again the imperious hand. “Don’t concern yourself with that, Miss Von Bal. The less you know the better.”
“Yes ... yes ... I suppose so.”
“Your step-sister’s case if different to usual. Only a small proportion of the ‘pupils’ are sent here. Those who arrange to send them all have connections with Mr Knudsen. It has to be done most discreetly.”
“Yes, of course. But ... how do the rest of the ... er ‘pupils’ arrive here?”
“They are abducted,” answered Martha, as if that were a most natural sort of arrangement. “Thousands of girls disappear, all over the world, every year. A small proportion of them find their way her. The cream of them, you might say. Mr Knudsen prefers it that way. It’s really quite simple.”
“Well ... yes ... if you say so ...”
“I do,” replied Martha with finality. Then she rose from behind her desk. Automatically, Fiona rose too. “We’d better start making preparations for your departure, Miss Von Bal. You’ll have to go under sedation again, of course.”
“Yes ... alright ...”
Martha looked at her piercingly for a moment ... then strode to the door. Fiona felt a shiver run up and down her spine. Then she followed quickly.
***
Just before the needle was put into her arm, in order to sedate her for the return journey, Fiona had a truly terrifying thought. It almost made her leap up from the couch on which she lay.
Suppose ...
That they weren’t simply going to sedate her but, instead, were going to brain-wash her!
And keep her at St Justine’s!
The scream that began in Fiona’s throat was checked by the wave of oblivion which flooded swiftly over her following the prick of the needle.
***
Pupil’s Personal Narrative
Una Schmidt
18-year-old
from
Germany
***
Resident
of
St Justine’s
for
four months
***
WE ALWAYS HAD to run the Cross-Countries (there was one a week) quite naked. It was horrible. One felt like an animal. Breasts swinging and bouncing. Bottom the same. Somehow so degrading. Yet we all had to do it.
The total distance we had to run was something like five miles. Twice round the grounds of St Justine’s. Quite far enough, believe me. Perhaps one of the worst things of all was that, at the turning points on the course (one in each corner of the grounds) were stationed one of the four men employed at the school). They were there, ostensibly, to see that none of us cheated by cutting corners.
These men were Boris Mann, the gardener; Jan Havelet, the boilerman; Jacob Durer, in charge os security; and somebody who was called a liaison man by the name of Gustav Grane. They were all men in their thirties or forties. At least, that is how it seemed to me. Can you imagine what it was like for a young woman to have to run stark naked past their leering lecherous faces? To endure their coarse remarks? To listen to their sneering words of advice and so-called encouragement? Believe me, it was a terrible experience. Almost as bad as the sweating, lung-bursting ordeal of the run itself.
The whole school ran.
Twenty four of us.
And we ran our guts out.
Why?
Because only the first twelve home escaped punishment. The rest were punished according to their finishing positions. One stroke of the crop for the girl who finished thirteenth, two strokes for the girl who finished fourteenth. The unfortunate who finished last received twelve strokes of the crop.
These punishments were administered while the girls were still in an exhausted condition, a few minutes after the Cross Country race had ended. Cruelty upon cruelty. Typical of this vile place in which we were kept.
There was another cruelty. I happen to be quite an athlete. I can run well. Without difficulty I could always finish in the first dozen and escape punishment. However, they soon became aware of my abilities. So what happened? I will tell you. They put leaden weights about my ankles, to slow down my pace. They did it to the other good runners as well. Always they tried to make it that it became a desperate struggle for all of us. Whether be runners good or bad. Handicapping, they called it.
It was a monstrous cruelty.
Yet another monstrous cruelty!
That afternoon, the pace seemed slower than usual. I had one thing to be thankful for. Since I had finished in the second twelve in the last two races, the weight of my leaden ankle weights had been reduced slightly. Thus I reckoned it would be possible for me to get myself back into the top twelve places and so escape the crop.
Before me Rita’s plump bottom swung and bounced. She was not a good runner and, though she carried no ankle weights, she almo
st always finished in the last twelve. Near the rear in fact - so she always felt plenty of the crop on those Cross Country afternoon.
For the second time we approached and turned past revolting Boris, the gardener. He was an obscene, middle-aged lecher.
“Oh lovely, girls,” he would cry as we passed, “lovely tits ... oh ... beauties ... swing them then ... oohh ... lovely! Don’t forget that crop waiting for the sluggaras.”
Hate for the beast surged through me ... yet, at the same time, I felt a shaft of dread at his mention of the crop. I had received four strokes the previous race and six the race before that. It hurt. And I didn’t want any more. I surged past Rita, despite my ankle weights. At that moment I was lying no better than fourteenth, I reckoned. But I wasn’t worried. I reckoned I had plenty in reserve, even though those ankle weights were an awful drag.
We turned past the boilerman, Jan Havelet. He, at least, was silent. But one could not but see his eyes hot with lust as he gazed upon our juddering nakedness. There was, I knew, about a mile and a quarter to go. Soon the pace and the pressure would be on. The girl in front of me was much slimmer than Rita. Also she wore ankle weights. I recognised her as Sophie ... who was possibly the best runner of all of us. She had used to win fairly comfortably. But now I saw that the weights she wore were heavy indeed and she was labouring in her stride. Body covered in sweat, breath gasping, it was obvious the poor girl was already done for. It would have been better for her if she had concealed her abilities somewhat. As it was, she looked a certain candidate for the crop that afternoon.
On, on, on ...
Feet padding on the cool grass.
Now the pace had definitely speeded up. I experienced a moment of panic. I was still in the middle of the pack. It was essential I make an effort at that moment. Often, unweighted girls came sprinting through near the finish. I gritted my teeth and forced my body to the limit. Past the labouring Sophie. Past two others. Ahh ... that was better. I must be lying eighth or ninth. Pretty comfortable. Just keep going. And watch for those sprinters. Still, that effort I had made was taking its toll. My limbs felt heavy. I was panting and sweat was beginning to bead me. Thank God there was only another half mile.
Past a grinning Jacob Durer.
The swine actually slapped my bottom as I went by him.
“Come on, girlie, or you’ll feel worse!” he yelled. Behind me I heard him slapping others.
I was tiring. I knew it. Gritting my teeth again, I forced myself to move faster. At least, I thought I did. But, at that very moment, to my dismay, two girls passed me. Despair gripped me. I was falling back ... and I was weakening. Curse those weights!
I pounded on.
Come on ... come on! Yet, hard as I tried, I seemed to make no progress. The naked figures in front of me were getting further away, not nearer. I was near to weeping. There was four hundred yard to go.
Come on ... a last effort!
Then to my anguished horror, two more girls rushed past me. I almost screamed at the unfairness of it. They were both without the handicapping weights. Something seemed to snap in me. I hurled myself after them, chest heaving, breasts swinging wildly. But I did not care about that . I was back into the last twelve. And I had to get back into he first twelve.
Three hundred yards ...
Two hundred yards ...
I was gaining. Definitely. Yes ... Oh come on ... keep going ... it hurts ... but the crop hurts more!
One hundred yards ...
I was breasting them. Triumphant almost. But it was an agony of effort.
And at that moment, I tripped, sprawling on the grass.
That is the most terrible thing that can happen to a runner. To fall. All the wind knocked out of one. All one’s fire and spirit. You’re done ... quite done.
Feet pounded past me ...
My brain reeled. I must get up. I MUST. The effort to do so seemed as great as shifting a massive boulder. But, somehow I made it. The, rubbery-legged I stumbled onto the finish, blind with tears and sweat.
Oh the injustice of it!
Oh the bitterness of it!
I passed the finishing line and once again sprawled in a heap. How many, I wondered, were there behind me. Not many ... oh ... I feared not many!
In face, there were four. Poor Sophie the best runner of all, could do no more than jog the last hundred yards and came in last. That was typical of St Justine’s. Even if you were the best you could get punished the most!
“Come on ... line up you lot!” It was the rasping voice of Miss Ingrid, the tall blonde Danish woman who was in charge of Grade II, the senior form. As I staggered up, feeling as weak as a kitten, I saw her whacking a meaty crop, with doubled tab, against her calf-length boot. That made me feel even weaker.
The twelve unfortunates stumbled over to what, at first sight, appeared to be a post-and-rail fence but was, in fact, a series of Whipping Hurdles placed side by side. Each girl bent over the top bar and had her wrists and ankles shackled to the bottom bar. Unless one was particularly tall, one had to stand on tip-toe to do this ... and as a result the hindquarters were drawn taut. The fortunate ones that afternoon lined up behind us, forced to watch our suffering. I felt the hard, rough timber grinding into my belly ... felt the relentless pull of my shackles ... felt the sweat cooling on my body ... felt the hideous vulnerability of my upthrust buttocks.
Thhwwaaccckkk!
The girl on the end of the line, she who had finished thirteenth, got hers. Only one ... but it made her yelp all the same.
Thhwwwaaaccckkkk!
Tthhwwwaaccckkkk!
Two agonised gasps this time.
Thwwaaccckkkkk!
Thwwaaccckkkkk!
Thhwwaaaccckkkkk!
Three yelping cries. Obviously a girl less experienced.
So it went, with Miss Ingrid moving steadily down the line, making each punishment more severe. Then, all too soon, she was dealing with the girl on my left. Seven strokes. The sound of the leather cracking across soft flesh chilled me to the marrow. My nates kept contracting in sympathy ... and dread.
Then Miss Ingrid was beside me. The crop tapped just once, lightly, then I got it.
Blazing pain ...
I gasped between clenched teeth. I must not break too soon. That only made things worse. Two more across the fullness of my bottom. Oh God, the pain of that crop!
At the fourth stroke, which fell mainly over the third, an uninhibited cry was torn from me. Then Miss Ingrid attached the top six inches of my thighs ... and louder and louder cries erupted from me as each one bit agonisedly. The flesh is so, so tender there.
Miss Ingrid moved on. And I was left with eight bands of throbbing torment to endure. On my right, the girl started to shriek and plead as she began getting her nine. Obviously another fairly inexperience newcomer.
Sophie got hers last, of course, and took it well ... not really giving way until the fifth or sixth stroke. How bitter she must feel, I reflected, knowing she is the best, yet being punished in that cruel fashion.
When it was at last all over, we were released, formed a long crocodile, and jogged back to the main school building. There we all showered before being permitted to go back to our cubicled quarters.
Oh the Heaven of that soothing, healing cream as it was gently spread on! Bliss ... sheer bliss! As was customary, the girls unpunished treated the girls who had been punished.
Young Tess dealt with me. Such a pretty little thing. I found myself getting awfully randy at her touch. But, knowing the appalling penalty for lesbianism in the dormitory, I quickly pulled myself together.
Anything of that nature would have to wait until the week-end ...
Chapter Three
“WELCOME TO St Justine’s ...”
The face seemed to float in Fiona’s visi
on. It’s owner had reddish hair. It was really quite a pleasant face. It’s owner was smiling. Then, as Fiona began to focus better, she saw a glint in green eyes.
Where was she?
What was it the woman had said?
The scream which had been checked as Fiona was being sedated, now burst from her lips. Her mind was suddenly ablaze with terror. She realised she was lying on something like an operating table. It had a smooth leather top.
Good God ... she was stark naked!
Screaming again, Fiona pushed herself up and instinctively covered her bouncing breasts with her hands.
“No need to be shy,” said the red-haired woman. She was still smiling.
“What is this? Why am I like this? What’s going on? Where am I?” The questions tumbled out, but somewhere at the back of her mind, Fiona knew the awful truth. “Is ... is this a h-hospital ... h-have I had an ... an accident?”
“This is the Sanatorium of St Justine’s,” said the woman.
“Of ... where ... where?” A dagger of ice seemed to be going through Fiona’s belly. She almost wet herself.
“St Justine’s ...” The voice calm, matter-of-fact.
“It can’t be!” Fiona’s voice was hoarse with sudden terror. “They ... they ... were sending me out of there. Sending me home.” The word ‘home’ came out more as a shriek.
“Plans have been changed.”
“No ... NO ... OOOO ... they can’t have been! W-What ... what do you mean ... changed?” Fiona’s voice was half-hysterical.
“I mean,” said the woman, “you should come here.”
Fiona was stunned. Every vestige of colour drained from her face. Even her fulsome lips seemed to turn pale. Her mouth sagged open and a rattling noise came from her throat.
“NOOOOO ... OOOOOOOO ...” she groaned. A long drawn-out sound which epitomised all the horror in her mind.
The unbelievable ... the impossible ... had happened!
“I’m afraid so,” said the woman in a cheerful sort of way. “Belinda may be sent along later, of course. But that’s a matter for your Uncle.