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| Behind the Screen |
| By sebastianB |
It was the day after my fifteenth birthday. Since no celebrations were allowed at Saint Claire’s Reformatory the previous day went by uneventful except for a little secret adventure which led to the following consequences.
Morning outdoor exercises that day were exceptionally unpleasant. To an amusement of our drill instructor Sister Olivia cold rain turned our routine running around the dormitory building, squatting and push-ups into a misery. After the obligatory cold shower that followed the exercises we were reduced into a shivering mass of bodies. The Latin class was held in a cold classroom. I remember wishing that I could rub my hands a little. This I would not risk under a threat of being singled out for fidgeting, a punishable offence.
When Miss Gluck entered the classroom a sudden surge of fear send a wave of heat through my body. Drops of cold sweat trickled underneath my white shirt. Her presence had peculiar effect. It meant trouble. She seemed to enjoy the unease she elicited. Being the disciplinary administrator in charge of punishment schedule and one of the two non-ordained women in the facility she performed her tasks with a rare zeal. Her secretarial outfit matched perfectly her plain, expressionless face. And when upon her arrival the entire classroom froze in an anticipation a silent prayer rose in a still air: NOT ME PLEASE.
She handed a slip to our Latin teacher Miss Kantor who scrutinized it with a spiteful smirk. My heart begun to pound and then stopped.
There were two essential components to the disciplinary training we received at the Saint Claire’s Reformatory. Pain was one of them. Humiliation was the other. It was one thing to be punished in the privacy of the room 305 where the sign on the door announced; “CORRECTION IN PROGRESS, DO NOT DISTURB”. It was entirely different matter to be called out of the classroom among the suppressed smiles of the pupils relieved not to be among those selected for a disciplinary treatment at this time.
My name came third, after Anna’s and Kasia’s. Unlike our dormitories our classrooms were co-ed. Socializing between pupils of opposite sex was efficiently discouraged. Our faces were red with embarrassment. In front of the entire classroom we were led outside. Everybody knew where we were going. The specter of Corporal Punishment hung heavily over the classroom. And Anna and I knew why. But why Kasia? Her only offence was being a witness and not reporting immediately to the disciplinary administrator in charge.
Being called out of the classroom meant far more serious treatment than our routine bi-weekly corrections. The standard correctional procedure consisted initially of a listing of a name of the culprit on the disciplinary bulletin board which hang ominously in the hallway. On the board one could find next to their name a list offences, the form and amount of punishment and required time to report to room 305. The anxious culprits awaiting their inevitable turn populated a long bench along one of the bare walls of the room 305. The wall opposite the bench was partially covered by a freestanding screen behind which the treatment took place. There behind the screen two disciplinarians on duty shared their functions, one acted as a duty supervisor and another as an administrator. Their treatment was cold and impersonal. No anger or emotions were part of this institutional procedure. Each culprit was read the list of their offences and the sentence. This was followed by the humble request for correction from the soon to be punished individual. A well-memorized formula was burned into our memory by the sharp pain that followed the recitation.
“I ask humbly for a strict corporal punishment, which I fully deserved; (amount) strokes for (the specific offence) on my naked bottom. I believe that this correction is necessary for my discipline. I hope that my punishment will be painful and humiliating, I ask for an merciless severity and promise full obedience and cooperation during its administration.” A mistake in the recitation of the formula was unimaginable. It had to be projected loud, clear and with enthusiasm! How we tried! After that we had to assume the strictly supervised position “A”. That meant being bent over a chair, panties lowered to our ankles, arched back, straight legs, our exposed bottoms offered a strap or a cane with acceptance. And yet for them, our omnipotent disciplinarians our bottoms were never arched out enough, we were never enough “open” for correction. Once in position the subsequent strokes were being administered slowly and deliberately. The culprit had to count the strokes clearly while maintaining perfectly elegant position “A”. Any whining or unauthorized motion during punishment was rewarded with extra strokes. Twisting of a body upon an impact of a stroke was qualified as “dancing” and resulted in the “start from scratch”, which meant repetition of all the strokes already absorbed. As the punishment proceeded the stakes rose like the swelling welts on our behinds. When the administration was over another recitation was due. Again an well-engrained formula was to be flawlessly performed. This expression of gratitude had to be genuine and convincing. And it was!
“Thank you for your generous effort in administering to me a thorough corporal chastisement; (amount of) strokes on my naked behind for (the offence). I deserved this punishment fully, I am grateful for its strict implementation and ask for merciless severity in my future disciplinary training.” No mistakes were allowed and I never witnessed any. Following the formula each punished culprit kneeled facing the wall. This was a precisely supervised stage of correction. With panties around the ankles, hands on the neck, body straight as an arrow, the chastised individual had to adhere to perfectly elegant and entirely motionless position. Any fidgeting meant return to the chair.
All of this was a “daily bread”. Being called out of the classroom in the middle of the day meant something out of ordinary. It spelled special measures. It was Inga, an older girl who aspired to be joint the staff of Saint Claire’s that informed Miss Gluck about our transgression. Anna and myself planned smoking together. We talked about it during our afternoon brake and Kasia was a witness of this conversation who failed to report this to the school authorities. I was relived a little thinking that we were “lucky” not to be caught with cigarettes at this time. Being caught with a cigarette was a grave offence and was punished with extra severity with a procedure called punitive cleansing. Punitive cleansings were dreaded far more than the customary strap or cane. Called alternately a “disciplinary flush out” the procedure consisted of a long series (a minimum of three) of large enemas administered to a culprit until the returns were clear. The injections were given by the school hygienist Elge, a sour faced matron who made us hold the water for at least 10 minutes and evacuate it later on a bucket under her tight supervision. She was the most feared figure in the dormitories. Obsessed in the personal hygiene, her inspections were often impossible to pass. She took a peculiar pride in her ability to keep us clean and the “inner person” as she referred to our digestive tracks was her specialty. And any person sent to her for a treatment would not leave the spotless infirmary room until the water coming out their bowel was crystal clear.
We were not lucky after all. That day Inga was assigned to assist Elge. Trying to ingratiate herself to Elge she had been eager to put us on the treatment table. She extracted the information about our smoking stint from Kasia who confessed under duress of interrogation. She was beaming with pride and satisfaction when she brought us before Elge. “The are here for a good washout. Smoking” she told to her with an exulted outrage. Elge’s dour expressionless face hardened. “Well, I think I know how flush that idea out of them today” she said and addressing Inga added to “Bring me two extra large canisters and lubricate their rectums thoroughly. The will need it. I mean to teach them a lesson they will never forget. Let us see how clean their inner being can be made.” After returning with the tin canisters Inga hanged a sing outside the door of the room 307 the infamous infirmary; “HYGIENE ENFORCEMENT IN PROGRESS, DO NOT DISTURB, KNOCK BEFOR ENTERING”. The cold, spotless white tiles, which covered the floor and walls of room 307, set a standard for the soon coming result of the internal purification.
Soon enough Anna and I took our turns on the treatment table, the water filling our aching insides. After each enema Elge demanded, that we stood straight on the cold tiled floor, hands on our necks, bellies swollen and sweating to retain our respective doses, which she made us “swallow” to the last drop. Separated by the white screen we didn’t see each other but we did hear our moans and pleas, not to mention the long jets of water gushing from within our insides into the bucket. After being pronounce “clear and ready” the actual correction was to take place.
The room 305 was only two doors down the brightly-lit corridor. But this space which could have been traversed in several seconds was not be taken for granted. We had to line up and wait silently in front of the Correction Room for another eternity of 30 minutes, our woeful expressions exposed to a silent mockery of our schoolmates. When finally admitted to the room 305 the sight inside was already a source of great anxiety. Two boys and a girl sheepishly sat on a long narrow bench along the wall, their eyes cast down, hands folded on their knees, projecting unconditional docility. They strained in their effort hoping that this display of modesty might make their punishment less severe. In vain, since leniency was not never witnessed in room 305. Opposite the bench, on the other side of the room two exposed bottoms of two girls were glowing with deep red hue around the perfectly parallel scarlet-blue lines in the middle of each buttock. They kneeled erect with their noses on the wall. Above they a large sign read, “DO NOT CONTRACT BUTTOCKS DURING PUNISHMENT”. Behind the screen a woeful voice of a boy could be heard counting out loud. “Eighteen” – exclaimed the voice, which despite a great effort to control itself, sounded like something between a gasp and a whine. “Compose yourself young man”- said a woman’s voice from behind the curtain, “And arch your bottom out” – added another voice. I knew these voices very well. Sister Karen was supervising the punishment and Sister Monica was administering the cane. The most feared corrective duo in the dormitories.
“He is clenching again. It’s time to fig him” – said the voice of Sister Monica. “I’ll bring some ginger to open him up a little” – said Sister Karen. She emerged from behind the curtain and smiled with satisfaction at the sight of the two of us waiting for a permission to sit on the bench. “Two more for a treatment” – she said loudly through a facetious smile. “You don’t look very enthusiastic” – she addressed us, and added – “We will change this attitude very soon. Show me your slips.”
She snatched energetically from our trembling hands small envelopes that were given to us by Miss Kantor. The open the envelopes and took out the dreaded pink slips containing the list of our offences and the prescribed treatment.
“We are out for some real work dear Monica. They get 120 each for smoking, with contingency of an extra dose. They have just been thoroughly purged out which makes them more prone and docile.” –said Sister Karen and addressing us “Wait on the bench for your turn, and appreciate sitting while you still can. I mean to make it memorable for you. I was just going to fetch ginger suppositories which considering your prescribed doses you will most likely need.” “Or I may give them to you just in case” – she added leaving the room.
The suppositories were sticks of freshly cut ginger. They were meant prevent clenching of the bottom halves during punishment. The experienced disciplinarians considered contracting of the buttock as a willful act of resistance on the part of the punished individual, intending to reduce pain and an impact of each stroke. It was unacceptable! The suppositories produced a strong burning sensation in the anus making a clenching unimaginable. On the contrary, the desire to expel the peppery burn was so strong that one tried to keep they globes as far apart as possible. In the vicious jargon of the disciplinarians the insertion of a ginger suppository was called “opening for punishment”. Among the culprits it was called “the flame”.
Sister Karen returned briskly with a white enamel tray on which a several short yellow sticks glisten ominously. “A very fresh ginger. It will make you wish you’ve never clenched your globes.” – she said to the boy behind the screen. “Let’s see this little pucker bloom like rose” – added Sister Monika. There was a short whine that followed and a gasp. “We will begin from scratch” – said Sister Karen. “I want him to take his dose properly. This ginger is remarkably effective. Look at this rosebud. Full bloom. Who would have thought that he can be so open?”
There was a swishing sound of a cane and a trembling voice of the boy – “one”. After a short but meaningful interval provided for stroke to sink in and for the culprit to absorb the impact another swish cut the air and the number “two” was uttered in a voice so docile, obedient and pained that it seemed broken.
I recognized that stage of a punishment, being broken. When it comes, you no longer think of your correction as of a trial that would soon be over. You are thankful, genuinely thankful. Your resentment is beaten out of you. Your obedience is absolute.
And when it is over you know you deserved it. You are grateful. And, you know there is more to come….
We were sitting on the bench paralyzed by shame and anticipation. We were next.
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