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entrails. Wedell followed it with an insistent finger, then two, worrying and working it unnecessarily home and high, so that Maria gasped and straightened under this unseemly goosing. It wasn't meant to go up her throat, after all.
    “You will receive ten strokes of the cane across your buttocks.”
    Heavens, worse than she had thought. Maria tried to keep her face as expressionless as that of the hefty Wedell, as the latter wiped off her fingers on a rag and took up the penal cane. Maria 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 agony. It was a thing of drill squares rather than girls' dormitories; its thumping whip would make a Westphalian plough pony dance. Ten strokes with… that?
    But Wedell was walking, marching, and Maria knew she had to follow her, bottoms in apprehensive joggle, to one end of the room where sprawled a wooden trestle. As she moved there was a wet sensation at her insides, a smart at her sphincter ring. A sudden caustic burn made her want to pull her cheeks apart, physically. Perhaps the observant Frau Direktrice noticed this for she said, “Beginning to take effect?”
    “Yes,” Maria could answer with feeling.
    The stretched trestle leaked straps like hungry tongues. Broadly spread, her legs were fastened to it at ankle and knee. There was a leather pad at the center against whose slightly stained side she rested her pubis, her arms being pulled forward to the lower struts and secured at the wrists; as the front section, or headpiece, was lower, she found herself bent positively forward, and very much on display behind.
    This sensation of utter vulnerability was intensified as a wide belt was drawn tight and buckled over her own. And when a thin tough strap dangling from the pad between her legs was drawn up her furrow and the bisection of her buttocks, to be hauled tight to the back of that same belt behind her, Maria winced with an admixture of both pain and shame. She was beginning to feel utterly trussed and strapped, out of breath and red of face; it hardly helped her general sense of shame that, in this state, the involuntary tremblings of her body all seemed to communicate itself to her lower person (now her highest!), nor that her increasingly oppressive anus seemed to be trying to turn itself inside out against its lining of saddle strap.
    But Wedell had by no means finished. Things were not done by halves at Schloss Rutenberg. Maria had asked to be secured, and would be. From under her armpits two thin black straps bit into the cream of her shoulders, straining forward. Finally, a chain-a common curb or snaffle perhaps — was brought from behind her head through her mouth, and was fastened, after some oil had been smeared on the sides of her lips. She was bitted, no less! And in this process Maria heard a quick sympathetic whisper in her ear as Wedell leaned over her, fastening the chain-“Breathe deeply.” It was surely all she could do. Why, she could scarcely twitch. She felt… all bottom.
    “Proceed,” said the headmistress, “begin with four a minute.”
    A metronome was set going.
    “Jau, Frau Direktrice.”
    “Hau', was Du hauen kannst,” came the irrevocable order then.
    Fraulein Wedeil stood behind Maria, waving the long, heavy Rohrstock in her right hand. She laid its cold wood on the parted, plummy posteriors a second, drew back, and swung.
    It was a long sweeping stroke that cut upwards into the fat and Maria had known nothing like its bite before. Allmachtiger Gott! It drove her slack cheeks upwards, branding a band of burning agony athwart them. Then suddenly the true flame of pain drove through her, taking the breath from her half-uttered gasp.
    “One,” said the Frau Direktrice. “Schon gut.”
    After three every pore of her person seemed possessed of pain and she bit feverishly on the chain between her