New Girl at St Justine's, Volume 1

by Victor Bruno

  Fiona was shrieking.

  Then the cane went up high and came slashing down ... biting deep across the very centre of Fiona’s bottom.

  Sssswwwwaaaaaarrrrr ... ccrraaccckkkk!

  Martha Duerrisse put every ounce of strength into it, grunting with effort ... and a truly ear-splitting scream erupted from Fiona’s wide-gaping mouth, whilst her hindquarters were contorted in a frenzied series of squirming convulsions.

  And Fiona went on screaming. And squirming.

  The Headmistress waited patiently and impassively. From time to time she would give the cane a flick; occasionally she would start to raise it as if to begin the stroke.

  Gradually the noise and the tumult subsided a little.

  Then, when Martha Duerrisse did strike again, it was with the speed of a snake. For Fiona’s flinching, twisting bottom was only still for a brief moment.

  Ssswwwwaaarrrrrr ... ccrraaccckkkkk!

  The second stroke fell an inch above, and neatly parallel, to the first. And, as the first had done, it seemed, for a fraction of a second, to bury itself in Fiona’s soft bottom-flesh before springing away to leave behind a twin-tracked, vivid, red-purple weal.

  “YYYYAAAAGGGHHHHHHA-A-AAAGGHHH ... A-A-A-AAAAAGGGHHHHH!!”

  Fiona’s mouth was an oval hole of shrieking pain; her eyes seemed to start from her head like those of a mad woman. In the mirror, she was aware of her own bottom bouncing, twisting and turning in the excruciation of its torment.

  Again Martha Duerrisse waited calmly. She was rather satisfied with Fiona’s reactions. Obviously the cane was proving even more painful than the girl had imagined it might be!

  “Noo ... NOOOOO ... I CAN’T B-BEAR IT ...!!”

  A flick of the cane.

  Flinch and twist ... clench and clench ...

  “I ... C-CAN’T ... I CAN’T!”

  The cane being raised.

  Clench ... clench ... clench ...

  For a moment, the bottom was square. Just quivering.

  Now!

  Ssswwaaarrrrr .... ccrraaccckkkkkk!

  Excellent! Just where it was intended to go. An inch below the very first weal. Martha almost permitted herself a smile as she watched her victim writhing agonisedly. It was always satisfying to cane a girl but all the more satisfying to cane her with precision.

  The cries which filled the room were even more terrible. Fiona’s bottom was jerking and juddering, a mass of quivering woman-flesh.

  “M-M-MERCEEEEEEEE ... NO ... MORE ... OHHHHH ... NO MORE!”

  One must be patient. There was plenty of time. The moment would come when that tumult of flesh was briefly stilled.

  It came ...

  Ssswwwaaaaarrrrrr ... ccrrraaaccckkkkkkk!

  No letting up. Just as hard as possible. The girl was meant to really feel it!

  And by the look of her, not to mention the sound of her Fiona certainly seemed to be doing that!

  The fourth stroke had fallen an inch above the second.

  Accurately again.

  The fifth, coming about half a minute later, fell an inch below the third.

  Accurately again.

  “A-A-A-A-A-AAAAAAAGGHHHHHHHH! A-A-Aaaaggghhhhh!”

  What a world of pain there was in those gasping-shrieking screams!

  The sixth stroke whiplashed down.

  Sssswwwaaarrrrr ... ccrraacccckkkkk!

  The weal it raised leapt up an inch above the fourth which had been raised.

  “E-E-EEEGHHHHH ... A-A-AAAAGGHHHHHHH!”

  Halfway.

  Martha Duerrisse gazed approvingly at the encircling, parallel stripes. The twin-tracks had begun to merge, forming single bands of fiery torment which terminated two inches into Fiona’s flank.

  “MERCEEEEE ... MERCEEEE ... No M-M-M-MORE!”

  Unhurriedly, Martha moved to the other side of the Horse. During the delivery of the second six strokes, the whip-lashing tip of the cane would bite into Fiona’s left flank.

  She waited.

  Fiona had begun to jerk with maniacal violence on her bonds.

  “ST-STOOO ... OOPPP IT ... OOOHHH ... ST-STTOOOPP ... IT ... OOOOHHHHH ... LET M-MEEEEE ... G-G-GOO ... OOOOOOOO!”

  Martha continued to wait. Silently and patiently. The girl would soon tire.

  Eventually, after about half a minute Fiona did. Her eyelids drooped, her mouth hung slack, if her hair had not been tied to the hook, her head would have slumped right down. What with the nerve-racking waiting and now the incredible agony of each stroke, she was reaching the limits of her endurance. Despite the morning stimulant. Martha deemed it wise to use some smelling salts.

  In a few moments, Fiona was brought back chokingly to life. To full sensitivity. Fit for the caning to be resumed.

  Martha Duerrisse resumed it.

  ***

  Fiona lay curving over the Horse.

  Her shapely young body was shuddering and quivering. Deep sobbing-groaning sounds kept coming from her at intervals of ten to twenty seconds. Her head was hanging down, her features hidden by the falling sweep of her ash-blonde hair. If one could have looked upon those features one wold have seen the lovely blue eyes glazed ... mouth wet and slack ... cheeks reddened.

  Her curving buttocks twitched and quivered incessantly.

  They were like two red-striped blancmanges, side by side, set on a table which was being gently shaken.

  And now those stripes were more purple than red. In places, particularly over the flanks, they were turning black.

  As Martha Duerrisse had said to Fiona ... once, long ago it seemed to her now, ‘You are looking upon a truly effective caning. The kind I always give!’

  Once again, the Headmistress of St Justine’s had kept her word.

  ***

  The caning was over, but the cameras continued to turn.

  It was most likely the Governor would like to take a prolonged look at the sufferings of his pretty great-niece!

  ***

  Pupil’s Personal Narrative

  Fiona Von Bal

  21-year-old

  from

  Austria

  ***

  Resident

  of

  St Justine’s

  for

  one week

  ***

  IT IS OVER! It is over! Ooohh ... thank God, it is over!

  But the pain is not over!

  It is still excruciating. It is as if my poor defenceless bottom has a grille of twelve red-hot bars laid over it. Burning deep ... throbbing and throbbing ... incessant agony.

  I have just been caned. Mercilessly caned. Then left strapped over the leathern Horse to endure my continuous sufferings.

  “Uuuuuuugghhhhh ...”

  Oh the pain of it! Oh the pain of it!

  Whilst I was being caned I had wanted to die. It would have been a merciful release. After each agonising stroke, I had thought it impossible that I could survive another.

  Yet I have done so.

  I am still here. Suffering the torments of the damned.

  “Uuuggghhh ... uurrfff ... urrfff ...”

  Now I know what a caning from Madame Duerrisse is like. It is unimaginably terrible. At this moment, I know I will do anything humanly possible to avoid another one.

  Dear God ... I could get eighteen strokes! Twenty four!

  No! No! Utterly unthinkable. I feel my buttocks contracting at the very thought. They seemed things apart; I have no control over them. They are the parts of my being which have suffered beyond all understanding.

  How could I endure ... how could I survive ... eighteen? Let alone twenty four? Yet I have seen Diane survive twenty four. So it is possible.

  Oh the
pain! The pain!

  Yet my hour of torment has only just begun.

  “U-U-Ygggghh ... uuuggghhhh ...”

  It is so unjust. I do not deserve this terrible Fate. Black hatred wells in my heart as I think of my vile Uncle Erik. It is all his doing. He will see a film of my screaming agonies. Perhaps he will see a film of me as I am at this very moment.

  I hate him! I hate him!

  My tears burst out again. Is there no limit to them?

  Throb-throb ... throb-throb ... throb-throb ... deep ... deep ... deep ... on and on ... on and on ... on an on.

  “Uuuuuughhhhhh ...”

  No ... I do not deserve this terrible Fate.

  Wait. Maybe perhaps I do. Was I not prepared to consign Belinda to this awful place? Yes. Yes. I was. So perhaps it is the Lord’s retribution.

  Yet ... yet ... does anyone, whatever they have done, deserve to suffer as I am suffering?

  Surely not ...

  I has been a week of unimaginable horror. Those repeated strappings from Miss Hester. My naked bottom juddering and squirming before them all. Displaying myself indecently. But unable to do anything about it. My knickers ripping. The pain of leather on flesh is breath-taking. Blazing. Burning. It almost robs one of one’s reason if it falls again and again in the same place. As it often does. Then one doesn’t care any more what a spectacle one if making of oneself. There is only one emotion in one’s being.

  The awful pain.

  And the frantic desire for it to cease.

  All the same, though it may seem so at the time, it is not so painful as the cane. The cane wielded by Madame Duerrisse. No ... nowhere near. That woman is a monstrous sadist. She canes with a savage mercilessness.

  I have watched it.

  And now I have felt it.

  “Uuuugghhhh ... uuuuggghhhhhh ...”

  How long have I to wait before I am released? Before there can be some easing of this torment? I will be taken to the Sanatorium, I know. The thought of that ointment going on to my burning bottom is bliss beyond anything. I can scarcely wait for it. Yet I will have to of course.

  Then ... then what?

  Back to that hideous classroom. Back to those impossible lessons. Back to Miss Hester’s strap. Always under the threat of a second, and worse, caning!

  “Uuuuuurrrfff ... u-u-uurrfff ... ooooohhhhhh ...”

  Why cannot I die? Here and now? It would be a blessed release, would it not? Yet, I am aware, there is no hope of my escaping that way. My Fate is sealed.

  And at the end? After I have been here six months ... or, maybe, twelve? What then? Will I be ‘brain-washed’ and returned to my former life? Or will the second alternative be mine? To be auctioned. To be bought by some Arab. To be used by him. For his sexual amusement. And whipped if I fail to please him.

  Oh dear God, how can all this be happening to me?

  To ME?

  Throb-throb-throb ... throb-throb-throb ...

  Oh those terrible weals. If anything, the pain seems to be becoming worse!

  “U-U-Ugghh ... u-u-uuggghhhh ...”

  I have just been caned. I am suffering agonies. There is no one to comfort me. To aid me. No one cares. I am alone with my torments. A pupil punished. It is as simple as that. Deservedly punished, they would say. For what they call laziness. Barbarically thrashed!

  Unbelievable!

  But true ... TRUE!

  How bitter it is, how cruelly bitter, to think that that evil woman is probably proud of her handiwork. Of how she laid on so hard ... and so accurately. I can still hear her voice.

  ‘... a memorable occasion.’

  ‘... I do not believe in light canings.’

  ‘... mine are severe and exceedingly painful!’

  Yes, she was right. They are. Yes, she will be pleased and proud of what she has done to me. To cure me of my so-called laziness. The bitterest thing of all is that, after this punishment, I almost certainly WILL be cured of that laziness!

  Punishment works.

  I now know that. No one wants to be thrashed again like I have just been thrashed. One can be made to do virtually anything to avoid it. I know. Now I know.

  Throb-throb ... throb-throb ... throb-throb ...

  Burning deep ... burning deep ...

  Incessantly!

  My mind suddenly seems to scream. What would TWENTY FOUR such weals feel like? Worse ... what would it be like to feel THIRTY SIX such strokes?

  One dare not let oneself imagine it!

  “Ooooh ... no ... no ... no ... ooooo ... mmmmfff ... uuuggh ... mmmff ... uughh ...”

  Oh let me die ...let me die!

  But it will not happen.

  ***

  How much time has passed?

  There is no means of telling. It seems an eternity. Just as that waiting hour seemed an eternity. Slowly, I raise my head, toss back my hair and look into the mirror before me. My face is not really my own. The eyes are wild and bloodshot. I am covered in red blotches, my mouth seems twisted and I have difficulty in controlling my lips.

  Can this really be me?

  Then, reflected, I see my poor bottom. The twelve long, purple-black weals encircling my buttocks. Weals so precisely raised. Twelve individual ridges of stabbing agony! No wonder my tormented bottom twitches and quivers quite out of control.

  No one deserves to be so savagely treated.

  No one.

  “Mmmfff ... mmfff ...” Though nearly an hour must have passed, the dry sobs still come from me. The pain does not seem to have ebbed at all.

  Then my blood seems to freeze as the door opens silently and Madame Duerrisse comes in. The hour must at long last be up. The simple sight of her crossing the room fills me with abject terror. For this woman has the authority and power to make me suffer beyond all reason!

  Seemingly unconcerned, she looks into my petrified features. Looking at her, her pale face so placid, it is impossible to believe that it is she who has done this terrible thing to me.

  “Now you know what a good caning is like, Fiona,” she says. “I dare say it will encourage you to try and cure your lazy streak. Mmmmmmm?”

  I open my mouth to try and answer, but only a croak comes from my throat. So I nod my head.

  “Good,” she says, “because next time you are sent to me for laziness, young lady, I shall give you eighteen. AT LEAST!”

  Terror is like a knife in my bowels. She means it! SHE REALLY MEANS IT!

  I close my eyes in horror as I feel her unfastening the straps.

  ***

  I am in the Sanatorium. Face down on a bed. On a plain sheet. Still naked. I could not stand after I was released. I screamed with pain as I tried to straighten up. It was as if the skin over my bottom had shrunk to half its normal size.

  So ‘Matron’ was sent for ... to carry me here. A big, jolly woman who carried me as easily as a baby. She is bustling about behind me. I ache for the relief of the ointment.

  “Have a bit of a tanning, eh?” she says, seating herself on the bed. “Still, I expect you deserved it. Most of you young ladies do.”

  I weep. How could such a savage caning be termed ‘a bit of a tanning’?

  I shriek as she slaps my agonisingly tender bottom.

  “Answer me when I speak to you,” she says sharply.

  “Y-Y ... uugghh ... ess ... M-Miss ...” I croak feebly.

  “What’s your name?”

  “F-Fiona ... Miss ...”

  “Put your wrists to the bed-head, Fiona.”

  I do so at once. It is made of iron. I feel cold steel, hear a click. My wrists are shackled to it. Oh God ... what is she going to do? Surely I cannot be made to suffer more!

  “Nothing very serious though,” she says conversat
ionally. “Twenty four ... well that really IS a good hiding. As for thirty six, most of ‘em would rather not survive that!”

  I shudder. The vicious callousness of it all!

  “As for a birching,” she goes on, “they’re bleeding when they get here. It’s like raw steak. Not a bit of skin left. Have to stay here a week they do.”

  I continue to shudder. What a nightmare of horror it is!

  “Now, young lady,” she says, “this is going to hurt a bit.” My nerves flare. “Surgical spirit,” she says. “Must make sure there’s no infection.”

  A cold liquid runs over my tenderised bottom.

  Then I am shrieking and shrieking. As the spirit seeps into my flesh the intensification of pain is indescribable!

  I scream and scream ... threshing wildly ... jerking on my handcuffs.

  It is unbelievable!

  Quite unbearable!

  I become one long scream ...

  And I go screaming into a roaring darkness.

  Flesh and blood has at last reached its limits.

  ***

  I stayed for two days in the Sanatorium, more or less in a state of shock, being sedated at night. Every four hours, day and night, healing ointment is applied to my bottom.

  It is an exquisite joy to receive its soothing effect.

  And it is amazing how quickly those terrible weals began to heal and fade. That, in fact, is more that amazing. It is very frightening.

  My bottom is simply being made ready to receive further punishment!

  ***

  On the morning I leave the Sanatorium, I am back in my humiliating uniform.

  And back in my place in class.

  Miss Hester says nothing about my caning. She just favours me with an understanding little smile.

  Before the hour is up, I am getting the strap across my squirming bottom. The double-thonged one. My knickers rip at the third and last stroke.

  I have made two errors in my French translation.