They came for them in the dead of night.
The three mistresses had been sitting in silence in the anteroom near the entrance steps when the clatter of the carriage came up. The school had long gone to bed and since they had been told not to talk they did not talk. Only Ingeborg Untermacher leant once to squeeze Maria Daunitz's knee, as she perched nervously on a pouffe-“It's not so bad after the first one.” The force of the UNKNOWN held Maria in its thrall. All color had long since left her cheeks. Ulrika Wedell, meanwhile, was lugubriously inspecting the lacing on her glossy boots, turning her ankles this way and that.
The first thing they noticed when the Flugleman entered, saluting, was his gigantic height. He was, it was all too obvious, one of Friedrich Wilhelm's famous regiment of giants, the same that guarded the royal hunting lodge at Wusterhausen; some of these colossi were, it was said, as much as eight feet tall, to which the miter-shaped hats of the Grenadier Guards (to which they were affected) added at least another fifteen inches. It was also said that this vanity was costing the Emperor dear in prestige since, unable to recruit these mammoths from his own country in sufficient quantity, he was obtaining them from Poland, England, anywhere by barter-and now, so rumor had it, even by impressment. The three women, already curiously cowed, followed the back of this tight-fitting Prussian uniform out into the night and the waiting carriage there.
This was little more than an Army trap, without Postillion, and they sat edgily on the padded seat at the back in firm-lipped silence now, as there was a speaking slot in the top through which they could be seen. The Flugleman drove over the dirt roads of the plain as if for dear life, down the narrow streets of the neighboring town, and finished up finally to a sentry's shouted challenge. They were at the barracks gates.
“Pass and proceed!”
Again they clattered briskly forward, fetching up in a cobbled courtyard to one side the main square. And again as though there were no time to spare at all, their escort held open the door, handed them down, and marched them at haste along dimly lit corridors and passageways on which his boots resounded echoingly. Maria, indeed, bringing up the rear, found herself forced more than once to break into a run; she soon realized, however, that this frantic pace was simply due to the inordinate length of leg of the soldier leading them. At last under flares illumining great ranks of helmets and cuirasses, swords and breastplates, they had turned into a stone passage lined with guardsmen. There must have been a dozen of them, motionless, backs to the wall, staring straight ahead as if of stone themselves. About a pace or more apart, none paid the smallest attention to the cortege of three women passing under their noses. But the Flugleman had stopped at a door at the end of this corridor, rapped on it, received a thundering “Herein!”, saluted and shown the three mistresses in, again saluting before withdrawing and slamming the heavy door upon them.
The three found themselves in a gloomily lit guardroom of black stone which, at sight of the man standing to one end of it, their six knees quickly struck. It was Count Karl von Schmettau, in full uniform of Commanding Officer of the 15th. Dragoon Guards, and he was not smiling at them.
“Get up,” he said without preamble, “and stand over there.”
The three women ranged themselves across the room from the Count, facing him. “Strip,” he said.
Maria Daunitz found herself almost feverishly tearing off her garments beside her friend Ingeborg, who was doing the same. Beyond her Wedell moved more lethargically. All three, however, worked with a certain lack of cheer. The contents of the room, to which their eyes were becoming accustomed, were not designed to inspire such; already Maria, for one, had noted the presence of three other figures, all stiffly standing to attention, than the tall Count himself. Moreover, it was curiously warm within this guardroom.
Confronting them also, as they lined up buck naked save their boots, was a brawny individual with huge, horsehair mustaches wearing only a stained singlet above his breeches. Spikes of wiry black hair from his chest thrust over this single upper garment, while behind, and to one side of, him stood a ruddy-cheeked boy of about fifteen, stripped to the waist. Some drummer-lad, thought Maria, noting how closely the thin white cottonette of his trousers clung to his young hips and thighs. He, too, appeared excessively solemn. Finally, to their left, at the far end of the chamber, a figure loomed stiff as a cypress tree, some waiting Grenadier; it was glancing at him that Maria noted a brazier burning in the dim recesses. Such no doubt accounted for the heat. Iron instruments lay on the coals. It was altogether an impressive place, calculated to dampen the liveliest of spirits.
When Ingeborg ventured to speak, indeed, it was in a tone of such respectful sobriety that it increased her friend's incipient apprehensions-“The boots, too, Hoheit?”
“No. Leave them. Line up there.”
Silently, slowly, the Count paraded before the three naked figures, nodding in satisfaction at the triplet of well-haired cunts on display at the tops of their legs-Wedell's vulva a bulging lump, Ingeborg's shagged in a strenuous golden furze through which the commanding officer's fingers strayed reflectively, and finally Maria's sliced twat, trim on her flat belly above the arcs of her nicely muscled thighs.
“You know why you're here?” he said, resuming his stance across the chamber from them.
“Ja, Hoheit,” came the hoarsely chorused murmur.
“I have had a platoon of His Majesty's favorite Guards attached to my strength for a month and, whilst they receive no especial favors or privileges-rather to the contrary, in fact-they needs must be serviced from time to time. Such big men require constant glandular relief. I suspect you will be surprised at the extent and power of their emissions. As there is a whole platoon and a Corporal to account for, we have some twenty-one men to get through tonight, and I told Frau Grumkow it might be a trifle, er, exacting for a single one woman, however stoic. She agreed.” Here the Count gave a sardonic smile, and his henchman in attendance stroked out the horsehair mustaches. “Sergeant-Major here will see to proceedings. A stable-boy will help mount each man… because with these… rather long… as you will appreciate. Now then,” concluded the Count, openly fingering his flies, “you'll all have your womb-sponges set?”
“Ja, Hoheit,” came the even bleaker chorus of assent, to this.
“Not that there is truly any need of them, since each guardsman has his orders and Kurt, our stable-boy, will watch closely. However, one never knows with such prodigies of manhood as these. So each of you will take seven men. You should be able to stand it, under controlled conditions such as these. All of you are strong young Prussian girls. There will be no chance of insemination since each man will fuck you in the cunt first and finish up the anus and I assure you, with tools like theirs you're going to know you've got something up you. The best thing you can do is to relax and try to help it on. You'll feel you want to go, but you can't. Understand? Any recalcitrant behavior, any lack of complete co-operation on your part and my Sergeant-Major will have the pleasure of putting his cane across your backsides in no uncertain fashion. Got it?”
“J-j-ja, Hoheit.”
Seven pricks! Merciful Heaven!
But the boy Kurt was coming forward, with an anxious frown, close followed by the bristling Sergeant-Major. Almost directly to the right of the three women was a whipping post, dripping straps. To this-the celebrated “martyr's pole”-the boy was rapidly secured. It was a simple solid upright no taller than himself, and squared off so that his legs embraced its sides. They were strapped at ankle and knee; his waist was belted and his arms locked either side at elbow and wrist. Slightly bent of knee his posture pushed back the surprisingly plump pumpkins of his arse which threatened to burst out of his thin trousers. Already the lad's normally jovial face was crisped in fear as the Sergeant-Major slid a leathern pad up a groove in the post in back, fixing it under the pelvis in a manner that stuck it even further out.
“Strictly speaking,” explained the Count as these preparatives were riveting the attention of the three Schloss mistresses, “Kurt has done nothing wrong. But on occasions such as these we administer what is called a warming punishment. It will not be too bad,” he amended wryly, with a glance at the naked cunts ranked before him, “since it will be over the trousers. It would hardly be consistent with modesty to take them down, would it. Give him a good dozen, Sergeant-Major, you have firm meat to work on here.”
The big man's eye seemed to glow as he trembled the cane through the air a moment. Moistening his right hand with spittle, he took his eager and impatient stance at a calculated distance from the boy's expectant bottom. Maria saw his hairy muscled arm, his bull-like neck, noted the shake and tremor of the frightful stick as it rested on the stone a moment, and all marrow seemed to melt from her limbs. He was more like a savage animal than anything. Finally, at a nod from his superior, he started work, with obvious relish. The cane swung with the full might of his arm, its powerful whirr-and completed clap-sufficient evidence of its hurt. The stable-boy gave a convulsive movement of his body, driven to his toes by the sheer force of the blow, but said nothing, biting on a kerchief.
He received no less than eight slowly measured stripes of such severity before he allowed a dull moan to escape him. His neck muscles stood out like cords, his back ran sweat, and his whole chest heaved like a runner at the end of his race. Maria Daunitz thought she had never seen such a brutal flogging. They were all three close enough to see the ooze of blood that stained the trousers on the right side, where hard, dark-colored swellings could be seen. By the last two his thighs and knees were knocking on the post in some despair and when he was let down he fell to his knees for a minute, desperately contorted and moaning in cramps.
“Pull yourself together, boy,” said the Count, “and get to work. Which of you three is to be the first? Here, you're Wedell, aren't you. I was up you once as I recall and it was a commodious cunt. Let's see you show a lesson to the others, as you're senior, so I think.”
“Klotz!” yelled out the Sergeant-Major at the same moment, replacing his immense cane on a wall-rack. And an answering shout came from outside-“Sir!” A second vast guardsman stamped in, his heels clashing, saluted, and took up his position behind the man already waiting there. This latter, Maria saw with sudden horror, was now distinguished by a rock-like erection visible up one side of his trousers. Aroused by the sight of the flogging as well as the women, no doubt. She was beginning to feel faint. Already she was running with a cold sweat. The place reeked of male perspiration, boot polish, and bad brandy.
“Trice her up tight, Kurt,” came the Count's command. “Above all let them see her cunt. No, tighter still than that. You won't hurt her arms.”
Wedell was obscenely spraddled and spread. There was a form of frame ringbolted to the floor, something like a common saw-horse in design. Her legs were widely spread and tied to the rear legs of this at ankle and knee; her body was bent forward and belted to the central strut but, to assure proper cambering of hips, and arching out of the pelvic area, her arms, strapped at the wrists, were hauled high, to straining pitch, to a ring in the ceiling.
The mistress was most certainly on display. Under the strongest lighting in the room her massive buttocks were broadly parted, yet so well fleshed as to retain a shadow of sulcus still at their base which was, in Wedell's case, curiously be-haired. Her anal bud was pink, almost-one might say-excited-looking, but it was her wide vulval gash that drew most attention for it looked deep and drippy, and was so bucked back that its clit tongued out, an amazingly thick stamen under the hood of flesh at her belly.
The stable-boy Kurt, though still red in the face, had recovered some semblance of order and, having secured the hefty mistress, returned from a side table with a dollop of grease on his fingers. This he smeared round the hungry cunt, ran up the buttock furrow and finally daubed into the anus itself, turning his two fingers there round and round until the woman gasped in protest. Then producing the infamous choke-pear he inserted it deep into her mouth, releasing the spring so that her jaws were wide distended.
“Now get into her, Heumann,” ordered the Count, “and you two others stand either side of her so that my men can see what a cunt looks like from in front as well as behind. Though I rather think they know that already, eh, Sergeant-Major!”
He guffawed as the Grenadier advanced, unleashing his manhood-“drawing” it, indeed, as Maria was to remark to Inge later, like a sword, and wetting it with saliva. It was a monstrous erection, military in stance and shape, and it sent the twin hearts of those watching it from either side of the sacrificial victim into their wombs, if not their boots. Advancing to the hairy groove with bobbing prong, the guardsman grinned as Kurt took it, gave it a lick of his saddle grease, drew back the incredibly thick cowl of the foreskin and introduced the enormous organ into the pink satin shining in the lighting. The guardsman groaned but, once gripped by the lips, gave a muscular thrust that sent him home, squatting slightly, right to the balls. Ulrika Wedell tensened in a stiff tremoring spasm of protest, uttering a gargled “Nnnngh!”
The man fucked her so solidly he seemed to lift her buttocks off the trestle strut. Maria stood at the pinioned mistress's right and could see the pistoning dark rod, shining in the light. Glancing, she saw also the look of revulsion on Wedell's broad flat face, its jaws bursting in their sockets as she strove for breath under the assault. The glistening rod had o be twenty-five centimeters at least. How on earth could they be expected to swallow such a tool up the anal hole? She looked at the piteous dimple, its wrinkled edges greased ready, and then looked back at the inflated sausage sucking in and out beneath. Then no doubt of the ghastly union was left in her mind.
The guardsman had been thumping Wedell's hips hard, and now his grunts began to echo each squishy plunging in the silence. The stable lad put ringer and thumb round the root of the rod as it emerged and without further ado drew the man out of his lodging by a firm grip on his balls. The grenadier's muscular cylinder dribbled, as if disgustedly, then was aimed at the velvety bung-hole. This the boy puckered open expertly with the fingers of his left hand.
Wedell threw back her face, frozen in horror. Her inner cheeks cringed in. Little moaning sounds came from her distended mouth. Ingeborg and Maria watched in stunned stupefaction. The head could not be lodged. It nuzzled half-in, half-out the slippery entrance.
“Hurry up, man, we haven't all night.”
Finally the guardsman himself placed great gnarled hands on the broad slopes of the bottom before him, twin thumbs burst the bud and allowed his cockhead purchase. Suddenly, to a drawn-out whine from Wedell, about a third of it slid in.
Hugged by the rectal ring the humid tube slid in and out for a thrust or two, then the guardsman jammed to the balls, shaking woman and trestle too. A mewling cry escaped the “pear” in Wedell's mouth. She turned and twisted frantically, panting and moaning as the rhythm of her buggering began.
Watching it, Maria felt a faintness behind her knees. She had never conceived of such cruel impalement, and yet there was a mesmerizing fascination in the sight. At each suctioning withdrawal the meatus emerged gloved in the fluted rim of the swollen sphincter, a pale band in the sullen, brownish-red surround into which the prick was plunging. And now it was digging hard and deep. Wedell was lurching her upper body, her face was crimson, suffocated sounds escaped her whinnying mouth, her toes tattooed, she squirmed and writhed up the trestle. With a short barking roar the grenadier thudded into her, creaming. Maria saw his spasms travel up the parted back and literally possess the panting mistress, whose eyes threatened to start out of her head. And when the man withdrew to an ignominious plop, Wedell hung slackly in her fetterings, a mucal or seminal ooze dripping to the floor between her legs and replying, in curious antiphony, to the dribble that ran off the exhausted jaws of her upper face.
“Send in Nebelkopf.”
“Ja, Hoheit!” The man dressed his front rapidly, wiping his tool on a rag, resumed his shako, saluted, clicked his heels and thundered out the name as he turned and left. A new Goliath came in and took his stand behind the waiting warrior, the state of whose manhood, Maria saw, promised more of the same in a moment. Indeed, it was obvious that speed was the motto of this “servicing,” and the sight of one man at work stimulated the next, who was immediately ready.
Then the Count spoke briskly.
“You have six more, woman. You had better loosen up or it'll be worse for you. Give her three, Sergeant-Major.”
There was the rattle of the cane being taken down and the singleted Sergeant came forward, flexing it. Ulrika Wedell, lying limp to the point of senselessness, squeezed shut her eyes-this at least she understood… The cane-tip touched and joggled her flaccid buttocks, in the midst of which the sphincter still dribbled, winking. Then in a pracing rush the man thudded the stick across the outstretched fat, into which it bit pitilessly, lifting the mounds and leaving a black band athwart them.
“Nnnnnnngggg!”
Twice more she was lashed and to Maria, close by, the cuts seemed tougher even than those accorded the stable-boy.
“Another,” proclaimed the Count. And then he said, “Another still.”
Guardsman Klotz advanced to the broad rump across which the five lines now lay hard and close. He declined the vulva with a smiling nod and went straight to buggery. After him Nebelkopf enjoyed a long steady screwing in the cunt, then withdrew a rod that seemed to have doubled in size to impale the lush and now well-lubricated tallow of the bowels. Wedell cried and moaned constantly throughout this buggering, and the Count was forced to counsel-“Shit, woman. Try to shit him out. It'll end quicker for you, if you do.”
She received three more strokes after Nebelkopf, and after Nebelkopf came O'Brien, and after O'Brien came Wyztowski, a Polish ploughboy who had been impressed. Snorting and stamping this youth grew rapidly excited in the cunt, so that the stable lad had difficulty extracting him. The strong guardsman thrust him aside and relodged himself, delirious with enjoyment; at the call from the Count the boy grabbed the balls of the obviously spurting Grenadier and pulled him backwards by them, yelping and shooting his sperm in drenching gouts all over Wedell's body, principally on her hips. Maria Daunitz watched, horrified. The ejaculation was a series of quick thick jets, one of which spat so far it sizzled on the brazier.
“Clumsy oaf,” said the Count. “Send him to my Orders tomorrow. He will be flogged. It's the gauntlet for anyone who comes in her cunt.”
Wedell's face was streaming in tears, just as her behind was streaked with gism. She had only two more to take and took them, Maria thought, heroically. Let down off the trestle, her gag removed, the poor woman simply knelt stunned before them all for a minute, rasping groans coming from her throat, her anus bubbling and leaking. Only a couple of swinging whacks from the cane across the backs of her legs could bring her to life.
“A disgraceful exhibition,” said the Count, as a short tawny turd slipped unprotestingly out of Wedell's gut. “We'll give her something for that before she goes back home tonight. Now then-you. Get your arse up on the horse. Grease her well, boy. Rodell is a tiger.”
Ingeborg's ashen face and trembly limbs filled Maria Daunitz with another dizziness of terror. It was happening. It had to happen. In a moment she was going to be there, outstretched, rammed, jammed and screwed up the… oh, it was unspeakable, why could she not faint, die? But, alas, she stayed all too alive in her every sense. Indeed, Wedell was revived with brandy.
Perhaps after the sight of that furiously thrashing cane, Ingeborg opened herself like a flower. She endured Rodell, the Corporal, almost complaisantly, then two colossi, and then a long and obviously very painful buggering by a Spanish youth drove wails from the back of her throat. After which she cried constantly. Maria Daunitz was sobbing brokenly as she was ordered forward…
“Stop those silly tears,” said the Colonel when she was triced up like the others. “Here, boy, flavor the pear for milady.” To Maria's horror the cold moistened choke was dug up her anus before being placed between her jaws. “Now give her four.” When that was done the Colonel said, “If you shit on the floor you'll get a dozen. When I said shit it out I meant the prick, that's all. Now go to her, Roberts, and let's see her eyeballs pop. Show her what a Grenadier's prick is like. Stuff her to the gills, man, and squirt her full of lead, quick.”
But the stable-boy was exclaiming-“Sir, sir. Hoheit!”
“What is it now? Eh, eh?” Maria Daunitz was weeping, head hung. The Colonel understood. “She a virgin, is that it? Very well, let her take them all up the arse. Ever buggered a virgin, Roberts?” The Count spoke to him in accented English.
“No, Your Grace,” grinned the English lad advancing manfully.
“Ever buggered a boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Think you can make this young lady feel full to the gills?”
“Yes, sir.” He advanced even closer, grinning gleefully.
It was happening, it had to happen. Maria closed her eyes, opened them again at the touch of the cockhead nosing her most intimate entrance. No, no… merciful heaven, it could not happen like this. She was aware of Ingeborg on her right, standing straight to attention, expressionless, while to her left Wedell sighed and still rubbed the bruises on her bottom. Then she was lunging in her bonds with a whining grunt-“NGGG!”
The fat prickhead was inside her, swelling her unutterably, then with a couple of lubricating rubs the living limb slid up her-SLUCK! She gave a speechless scream, a soundless arching pant. She felt full up, jammed, every atom of her wanted to expel the monstrous intrusion. She was sweating steadily.
“Get it all up, man. The deeper you get the more you'll feel it.”
“Nnnnghhhhaaaaaah!”
In, out… in, out… two, three… out! Please, please…
It was swelling, inflating… the size was some impossible… air, air, where was air, for God's sake?
“Coming soon, Roberts?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, drill her full of it, man.”
Sluck!
“Ggggaooeqw!”
Once, twice, thrice, the shoot of semen thrashed her insides, jerking her straining torso like some fish. Four, five… one last gasping jetting. Then the long length of the pipe was sliding slowly out of her. Maria hung breathless, in utter sobbing relief, dangling like some side of beef.
“Give her brandy.” The neck of a flask rattled at her teeth. Seething fluid burnt her throat. “Now spread her wider, Kurt. That poor devil from England could hardly get in. She's got half a dozen more to take.”
“Shall I liven her up with a couple, Hoheit?”
(No, no, no…!)
“Not necessary, I think, Sergeant-Major. Proceed.”
The second was not so bad, nor the third. After the third she was leaking stained come in driblets to the floor. The fourth was mercifully quick. The fifth and sixth took their frightful time. The last… dear God, the last. But they had left their veritable colossus to the end.
He was not a large man, an Italian judging from his name, but the dimensions of his member as he came forward brought a whistle from even the watching Count.
“Good God, no mule is better set up than that.”
“Hoheit,” came Inge's beseeching on behalf of her friend.
“What's wrong now?”
“She's… virgin!”
The plea received but a guffaw-“Not there, I think.”
The Italian's eyes devoured the curves of the under-ass, saw the thighs twitching either side the dark pink of the tucked quim, then fingered his foreskin back so that the club-like head coned up firmly. His hands cupped under the cheeks, he laved his dong with a shot of spittle and sank into the puckered tissue with a sigh.
Maria beat her fists under his buggering. It was impossible to feel any fuller. The smack of his thighs on her hips as he thudded into her drew stifled wails that turned to gusts in her belly. She was going to be sick, she was going to vomit. The vicious ramming was too much. The column seemed to throb and rise within her guts.
“By Heavens, man, this is what I call buggery!”
Total hysteria took hold of her, then, as the coursing girth grew even greater in her guts, her nostrils flared, sweat streamed down, the cock pounded into her until she felt his hairy belly on her ass. Then she tasted the first fluid of her bile. She began to retch. Helplessly, hopelessly.
It was as if it drew the gism out of her adversary physically. The syrupy stuff surged deep into her, filling her with misery as her mouth overflowed, past the gag, with her own hot filth.
It was a rape, and when he had plucked out of her tender and irritated sphincter she lay in her bonds nerveless, soiled and disgusted, whimpering.
“A rotten exhibition,” said the Count calmly. “Give her eight.” And it was done. “That's better,” he said after the cruel belting, and then Maria knew the worst. He was walking towards her, she felt the sudden throb of his cock at the fringed pink buttonhole of her cunt.
“Noooaaaah!” she managed to exhale.
“I'm on fire for a fuck,” was all he said as he slid into her, felt the tuck of flesh inside vibrate a fraction, and then lunged, spearing her. It was a short lewd come under the spraddled rump and Maria Daunitz hardly knew she had lost her virginity. Her bottom hurt far more from another rod.
She was on her knees. Her senses turned blue-black. There was much stamping and shouting in the room. They had released her and were sloshing water on the floor, sloshing it over her. Ice-cold. On hands and knees she hung her head, gasping. Curd-lets of come oozed from cunt and bum, driblets of bile from her lips; she felt fucked to exhaustion, beaten and buggered, unable so much as to lift her eyes. Her limbs were hung with weights. But no one was paying any attention to her. She had done what was required of her. She had “serviced” the Guards. They were occupied with Wedell again- to be punished, it appeared, for her brief incontinence earlier. All Maria knew was, thank God it wasn't her. No pity. Not pity at all.
Ulrika Wedell was imploring.
“No, no, not th-that… I beseech you… pleease!”
“Grilled Rumpsteak,” the Count was declaiming, wiping his bloody penis, “I'll have mine done three seconds, Sergeant-Major.”
Ulrika Wedell was attached to the “martyr's pole” like the attendant Karl, with the exception that the pad had not been slid up under her pelvic region. She was bared of buttock, legs gripping the upright, knees lightly bent, and face… thoroughly frightened. The whiskery Sergeant-Major stood to the left behind her. Dark weals crossed her hips horizontally.
Suddenly Maria saw it. An upright iron frame was placed below Wedell's broad behind, centrally. From the brazier the youth Karl plucked out with a pair of tongs a glowing grille. This faded quickly but yet was hot enough, when he affixed it to the top rungs of the frame, some six inches under the mistress's base, to make her clench forward to the post in a trembling cry-“NOOOOOO!” A drip of curdled gism from her anus fell on a bar and spat, hissing there. She pressed herself, pleading, to the upright strut. The Count's streaked torn gave a jerk at these manifestations.
“While I count three,” he said pleasantly, feeling it.
The mistress seemed to know what was required of her. Her face became a comedy of concentration, and tortured doubts, as slowly, very slowly, she flexed her knees, lowering her large rump still closer to the hot bars. These were arranged so that they fell vertically, up her arse-cheeks. Maria watched, aghast.
Suddenly contact was made. The striped seat sat on the heated bars and Wedell straightened with a startled jump, screaming. “Auuuu…!”
The Count nodded.
Huish! Huissch!
The long cane wrapped itself beltingly about the startled buttocks. The mistress tried once more. This time she jerked off the inconceivably painful burn with four livid lines inscribed up her hams. Four cuts with the cane followed them. Wedell's bottom was becoming respectably tender.
“I haven't even begun to count, as yet,” drawled the Count watching, his ramrod high. “Thrash her again, Sergeant-Major. I like my meat well done.”
“Wait!”
With clenched teeth and starting eyes Ulrika Wedell lowered her buttocks the little allowed her by her fetters. With a grimace of agony she touched the bars, seemed to lift up, then held herself there. Slowly the Count said, “One.”
Her face screwed up with the effort of self-discipline, fighting down her riotous senses, her temples sweating.
“Two,” said the Commanding Officer gently. He waited an interminable period, then said, “Three.”
Ulrika Wedell fairly hurled herself in one strangled stifled yelp of agony upwards, her body crashing into the upright. Four fearsome blistered burn-marks crisscrossed her cane welts. Her bottom was a cauldron of white-hot coals. Never had Maria Daunitz seen, or imagined, its like before.
In the Army trap back Ulrika Wedell indeed had to kneel on the floor, weeping; she was too tender altogether to sit as yet. Ingeborg put her arm around her friend with a shudder.
“Too bad you lost your cherry,” was what she said.
“I'd sooner have lost ten than been buggered again,” Maria answered. “It was quite the most repulsive evening of my life.”
“Yet in the interests of Prussia,” opined the other passively. “What mammoth pricks,” she said with another shudder, and an undertone of pride.
“What was it he said to you as we left?” Maria asked quietly.
Ingeborg replied gloomily-“The contest. Between us and Wolfenbiittel. It's to take place shortly. And evidently at the barracks.”
“We have to,” said a voice through set teeth, as Ulrika Wedell spoke from the floor, “win!”
“What spirit,” commented Ingeborg Untermacher as she snuggled closer to her friend. Already she was recovering, a gentle warmth stealing over all her body, and there were inchoate delights ahead, when they returned.