The stay with my family was uneventful. I got many questions: was college hard, did I work hard for my classes, was my landlady nice, did I have a boyfriend, and so on. I explained that indeed I was working hard, that I had no boyfriend (my mother seemed relieved), and that Frau Beyer was a pious Catholic with a lot of culture and a nice personal library.

Despite my pretense at being a respectable and pious young woman while staying with my family, I had pastimes that my mother would definitely disapprove of. At night, alone in my bedroom, under my covers, I would masturbate thinking of Ulrike. I would even insert a finger in my moist vagina, thinking she was doing it. In fact, there was a special thrill in thinking I was doing this forbidden thing under my parents’ own roof.

When I returned to Linz, there was much effusion of affection between Ulrike and me. We kissed and petted, had a lovely dinner, and made love after dinner (and after the little but by now usual embarrassment of having my “front” and “behind” washed by Ulrike). I slept in her bed. That night, there was much caressing, kissing, finger, frolicking and licking.

I got invited to a new year party (though technically it was no longer the new year). The young man who was organizing it was the youngest child from a wealthy family. His parents would be leaving for the week-end. I was assured somebody would drive me back. I had the reputation of a killjoy, and this was an occasion to shed it. I went.

I was not from a poor family, far from it, but many of the young men and women there were from higher classes than I was. Alcohol was flowing. I’m a typical Austrian, and I’m not afraid of beer, wine, or even Schnaps, but I was not used to that kind of parties. I had little to say in small talk. There was some dancing. I was not bad at some of the dances.

At some point, beer had the usual consequence of an urge to pee. The toilets on the ground floor, where the party was held, were already occupied, and there were people waiting. A friend of mine pulled me aside and told me there were other toilets on the upper floor, third door right. I thanked her and went up there. I opened the door and…

It was not a bathroom, but a bedroom. A couple was busy. The girl had her dress pulled up, her legs, wearing stockings, were wide open, and the boy, his trousers and briefs pulled down, laid in between. I’ve just said “laid”, but this is inaccurate, as it would imply stillness; and the boy was moving in an out (I would later learn this to be called the “missionary position”; it was the only position I knew of at the time anyway). I heaved a little cry of surprise and closed the door. I started fleeing downstairs, but my bladder reminded me of my urgent problem. I returned to my senses. I realized that I had miscounted the doors: there was a first door next to the staircase that I had not counted. I found the bathroom.

Despite my physiological relief, I was feeling pretty uncomfortable. Many people were obviously drunk. One young man’s hands laid on me; I had to push them away. My head was turning. I wanted to leave this place. I said I was not feeling well, would somebody bring me back home? “Come on, we have just started enjoying ourselves!”. Since I was insistent, some young man offered to drive me home. I was definitely feeling the effects of alcohol and had to refrain from vomiting. I thought we passed a red light, though I may have misjudged the situation. Finally, I was at Ulrike’s front door. The young man insisted in walking with me to the door of the house, in case I fainted or something. I did not dare refuse. I fumbled opening the door. Ulrike opened. She had a few words with the young man, as I staggered into the house. I went to the toilet and got into bed without undressing.

I woke up at night due to the beer. I was unwell. Too much alcohol… I woke up with a headache and a stomach ache. When Ulrike saw me, she asked: “hung-over?”. I nodded.

“Nauseous?

— Yes. Stomach ache and headache. I’m going to take an aspirin.

— What you need is hydration. I’m going to prepare things for you. Wait for me here.”

Some minutes later, Ulrike was there with a little glass of water with dissolved aspirin. She watched me swallow it. “Now come with me.”. I obeyed, expecting her to take me to the kitchen or living room for some kind of herbal tea. Instead, she took me to the bathroom, and I saw her enema can ready for use with the jar of Vaseline.

“Ulrike? Why? I’m not constipated…

— But you are hung-over and need hydration, and if you try to take it orally you risk vomiting. The can contains herbal tea. Now remove your panties and get in position.”

What could I do? I removed my panties and knelt head down bottom up, dress raised above my hips (Ulrike finished raising it). Then, she inserted the nozzle as last time, and I received a slow infusion of herbal tea.

The enema was not too unpleasant. I managed to take the full can in. Then, Ulrike had me wait in this position for the enema to have better effect. She massaged my stomach, like last time, and as she massaged, she started asking questions.

“You were drunk when you came back. What happened at that party?

— Well, er, people were drunk and I was feeling uncomfortable. A boy tried petting me…

— Petting? No more than that?

— No! And I pushed him away!

— Did you fall asleep drunk? You seemed very unwell when you came back.

— No. Er… I don’t think so.”

There was a pause, and Ulrike spoke again.

“Maria, I need to check if something happened to you. Please excuse me.”

I then felt Ulrike’s finger probing my vagina. I understood she was checking if my hymen was still in place, if I had sex, if I had lost my virginity. The humiliation was incredible.

“Why? Ulrike?

— Drunk girls get raped at parties and sometimes don’t remember it.

— I saw a boy er… fucking a girl.

— See? And was she really consenting, or was she too drunk to realize?

— I don’t know. I just walked upon them and left immediately.

— It could have been you. Maybe her drink was spiked.

— Spiked?

— Drugs in alcohol. Some men do that… Hilde knew about that as, as a nurse, she had to deal with the consequences on the girls.

— At some point my head was turning…

— Maybe your drink was spiked as well. Maybe it was not. Who knows? You were drunk.

— What if that girl I saw got pregnant?

— There are things that can be done in an emergency. If she thinks of going to family planning very quickly, that is. I hope the boy was using a condom.”

There was a pause.

“Maria, I refrained from warning you about the dangers of parties with people you may not know too well. I’m not your mother and did not want to sound like I would like to keep you at home or anything. I now regret I had not. When you’re done going to the toilet, please come to me, we have a matter to discuss.”

Ulrike’s method for curing a hang-over may have been unorthodox and embarrassing, but it was effective. Most of the bad effects were gone, except that it was tired. Very tired. Ulrike was waiting for me in the living room.

“There is another issue. The boy who drove you back was drunk. Didn’t you notice that?

— Well er he was acting a bit weird and drove slowly I think.

— He was unfit to drive.”

Ulrike paused.

“My parents died in a car accident caused by a drunk driver. I take drink-driving very seriously. You could have died as well. I don’t blame you for misjudging the risks at that party, but you should not have got into that car.

— But what could I do? Walk back?

— Phone a taxicab.

— I don’t have that kind of money.

— I would have paid for it.”

There was another pause. I did not dare look her in the eyes.

“Maria, do you think you deserve punishment?”

Her words surprised me. I looked at her.

“Punishment?

— Yes. Punishment.

— What do you mean?

— Well, what did your mother do when you were doing something really stupid?

— You don’t mean you want to spank me?

— I do.

— But…

— I sense you feel guilty. Don’t you?

— I do.

— Then maybe a good spanking is what you need. And maybe it’s what I need, because of all the grief this drink-driving caused me.”

I was somewhat surprised to hear myself say, in a little voice, that maybe indeed I needed a spanking.

“And do you think it should be a good spanking? One that you would remember next time you would be tempted to get in a car with a drunk driver, or to drink and drive yourself?

— Well er I guess so.

— I recall your mother threatened to spank you with her carpet beater if she caught you masturbating again. I don’t think this was appropriate, masturbation is harmless. Drink-driving can be very harmful. So, I’ll use my carpet beater on you.”

With these words, she went to fetch the instrument. I was trembling when I saw her.

“Let’s get to your room.”

I walked the stairs like, I thought, some criminal climbing to the gallows, or at least to the whipping-post. Ulrike took my pillow, folded the bolster and arranged them on the side of the bed, as a form of support. “Panties off, raise your dress…”. I obeyed. “Bend over your bed, your stomach over the pillows.” I obeyed. She arranged my dress. My feet were on the floor, my bottom raised, my nose on the bed. I was feeling the cool air on my backside.

“Ready?”. I uttered a little “yes”. The carpet beater rested gently on my derrière, as for seizing the target. Then it raised, and fell. Ouch! Ulrike was not pretending. She went on beating my hindquarters from various angles, with some pauses between strokes. At the beginning, I wanted to keep my dignity, not shout, not plead, not cry. The conjunction of shame, sorrow and pain was however too great, and I began breathing heavily, uttering little cries, and then sobbing. (I later saw a birching scene from a movie called Lady Jane, and there were similarities, though of course the carpet beater was a much less stringent instrument than the birch or cane that she was receiving.)

Ulrike stopped only when I was having a very good cry. Then, she had me raise, dress still up, and stand in front of the wardrobe with its mirror. She wanted me to admire her handiwork. My behind was red and slightly bruised. She then held me close to her and kissed me on the cheek. “I love you, Maria. This is why I don’t want to see you end as yet another car fatality.”

She left. I laid in my bed on my stomach. The burning in my buttocks was gradually subsiding, but the shame remained… the shame of not having done the right thing with the drunk driver, the shame of being so drunk myself, the shame of the enema, the shame of the virginity check, the shame of the spanking.

At lunch, I sat gingerly. We spoke little. I worked in the afternoon, despite my tiredness. That night, I did not join Ulrike in bed.