“Damn, blast and Gott sei I-don't-know-what,” said Maria Daunitz, entering her own room a few moments later and seeing her friend Ingeborg Untermacher reading in a chair. “It was exactly what I thought. I'm going to catch it.”
“Maria Theresa, you don't mean it?” Tender-faced Ingeborg leaned forward with vivid sympathy. She had dark auburn hair and young, dry lips.
“Flogged across the buck-naked bottom for a few minutes. Ah well, all for the glory of Prussia, I suppose.”
“Maria!”
But the new mistress had turned to the wall and was already feeling up under her skirt to detach her sausage-casing-thin and skintight panties from the twenty bone buttons, ten before and ten behind, by which they were secured, as per regulation, to the lower edge of the belt which came inside the skirt.
Ingeborg rose hurriedly and went to her.
“You mustn't take it like this, my dear.”
But Maria Daunitz was extremely frightened. Tears of vexation prickled at her eyes and she did not want her mentor to see them. It was unjust. She did not think she needed thrashing for… that It would teach her nothing. Except, except blind obedience to… the rules.
“There,” she said at last, stepping out of her knickers which made miserable wrinkles on a table, “Do they look bare enough for the whip like that? Do you think Wedell will bring me to my senses through my backside?” She thrust it out, warm and rosy.
“Is Wedell going to do it?”
Ingeborg Untermacher contemplated the lifted pan of skirt and the rump it revealed. Above the boot-tops, Maria showed a well-cheeked, close-set sit-upon, at the base of which curled back a tendril of dry dark hair. The elder mistress gave it an impish tug.
“Darling. Don't take it so hard.”
“Oh Inge!” She flung herself round, and into the other's arms. “I'm so frightened. Will it hurt dreadfully?”
“Dreadfully, I fear.”
“How many will it be, do you know?”
“From what you've told me… well, I don't truly know. I suspect it'll be the cane.” She paused a minute, and added, “An Army cane. Like they use at Duty Hour.”
“Oh of course,” Maria laughed sarcastically and not a little hysterically, “how would I feel it else? Do I look nice and penitent doubled, darling?”
So saying, and flipping her skirt over her back, she bent and touched her toes. Ingeborg contemplated the round and sturdy hips, diamonded with the well-haired fig of flesh at bisection of the thighs; she saw the unusually deeply dimpled anal bud, all a crinkled brown, and she wondered if now was the time to tell her charge certain other things…
“Don't be silly, Maria. Come over here and let me pour you out a glass of wine.”
But it was not to be. As the carafe tinkled, there came a knock at the door. Far sooner than expected. The Head worked fast.
“Already?” she moaned sickly.
“Herein!” called Ingeborg curtly and a maid came in, tall also and dressed in a short black satin costume with lawn apron spotless at her lap.
“Frau Direktrice…”
“I know, I know,” Maria said irritably, “she wants to see me. I seem to be rather popular in the East Wing tonight.” She tossed her head and tossed her skirt. “Te morituri…”
“I'll be here when you come back,” Inge whispered gently as Maria Daunitz followed the totally impassive maid.
She walked as she was supposed to walk, absolutely expressionless and in total silence, her shoulders back. She noted with a tremor, however, that these landings were empty, and that at each stair she passed stood another maid, face turned away, as sentinel. In short, the floor was “cleared” when a mistress was flogged. No one should see her going or coming. This time the maid led Maria up the usual steps to the Directress' wing, but instead of stopping at her door turned left along another corridor, neighboring. Here she halted at last, at another door, that of the Head's personal Chastisement Chamber. She dropped a curtsey and Maria remembered that she was supposed to have brought a coin; it was a custom to tip the maid taking you to correction a thaler at Rutenberg, it seemed.
“I'm sorry, Helen,” she said. “I forgot. I'll… I'll give it you after.”
“Oh, it doesn't matter, Miss. And if I may,” the girl gave a sweetly shy smile, “I'd like to hope it won't hurt too much.”
“I have an idea that it will though, don't you?” And chucking the girl under the chin she knocked.
There were three figures in this room which, like the Duty, was rectangular, barren, high-vaulted, but in this case brilliantly lit. Chandeliers hung overhead. Under one stood the Head, divested of her jacket, her frilled stock and gilet much in evidence. Beside her stood white-tunicked Wedell and in front of them both, with her back to the entrant, was big Else Gundling.
Maria curtseyed profoundly. “You sent for me, Frau Direktrice?”
“You stand accused of Loitering,” said the compact little woman to the Prefect. “Report of Fraulein Daunitz. Have you anything to say?”
“Nothing to say, Headmistress.”
“Do you wish to appeal?”
“No, Headmistress.”
“You know we require especial attention to rules on the part of our Praelictors?”
“Yes, Headmistress. I request permission to be punished for my great fault.”
Maria blinked. This was a different kettle of fish from the Junior. The broad-shouldered, broad-bottomed eighteen-year-old stood unflinchingly erect, head up. Only when she was told to make herself ready did she galvanize into action, stripping off her knickers and rolling her skirt high out of the way into her chain belt. She had long deep pear-curved arsecheeks, downy and unmarked.
“As this is a first offense I shall not strip you of your rank, Else. But you will do Duty Prefect for a week, write me out five hundred times, T must not loiter in passages,' and the next time you are found in the slightest fault I will see to it that you get three dozen, slowly, with the whalebone birch. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Frau Direktrice. Thank you.”
“Four strokes with the Sole.”
Maria had seen this implement, and saw it again now, reposing on a table to one side. She was surprised, however, at the sudden accession of wild, and most definite fear to the eyes of the girl as she went forward to where the Duty Mistress now pointed. Surely four was not too bad.
“Lie down on your back.”
On her back? What was this?
Her lips-yes-quite distinctly trembling, Else Gundling lifted her legs into an L of her body. Her ankles were subjected to stout straps, which were then shackled to a pulley Wedell had lowered from the ceiling. There was a squeak of a wheel and she was hoisted until she rested but on her shoulders; the pulleys were parted, as were her legs. By now she was looking ashen with fear. Her cunt was richly bushed with swarthy hair which streamed up her belly in a flat broad bar. The tackles were adjusted, the Duty Mistress pressing on the girl's hams to see that she was thoroughly held; then in a sudden athletic swing Wedell, grasping her victim's wrists, swung the girl's torso forward till her back arched. These wretched wrists were then likewise cuffed in leather and secured to the middle of a set of bars, evidently for the purpose. Maria breathed in deeply.
She faced the offender from the back. Else Gundling hung clear with widely parted legs, her upper body a bow attached to the bar in front. The oval purse of her pussy pouched downmost, its fat lips close. But the hair ran up the squeeze of bunched buttocks behind, the turgid flesh of whose inner sides were fully exposed, below-which was to say just above the closure of cunt.
A cold sweat started on Maria Daunitz' brow. Undulations in the tender flesh where thigh met hip showed her that Else was not indifferent to the enormity of her situation, either. Her slabby cheeks were ripe for whipping, were going to be whipped. Wedell pressed down on them again, creaking her pulleys, then went to get her instrument. This was the Sole.
It consisted in a wooden handle and a broad leather strap of some three feet in length. Not an implement to make an experienced eighteen-year-old pant and stretch in fear like this, surely. But it was curved at its conclusion and Maria Theresa knew why it glittered in spicules at its tip. The last third of the striking side had been sewn with minute needle-like nails. The way to strike with the Sole, Maria Theresa had been taught, was to draw or drag it in a currying motion across the flesh. Her tongue ran over her lips as Fraulein Wedell positioned herself with an attitude of relish some six feet back from the exact center of her victim's person.
“Slowly, Wedell.”
The Prefect began to tremor, her breath coming fast.
The mistress raised the tawse above her head with both hands and with both brought it down in a slapping crack that rang through the room like a pistol shot. She had chosen as target the inside of the left buttock and the pulpy flesh under and inside the thigh there. Else jerked like a fish, emitting a startled “Au je” and a fart. Then she twisted and panted with pain.
Clearly this had been considerable. The red weal that had been ripped into her was going dark at its rim, and already showing spicklets of rubby dew. It had cut close to her cunt but no more, yet such was her position terror of intimate violation arched her back, clenching. The second swiped across the right, and produced a collected cry-“Ooooh… nicht… bitte, bitte…”
The mistress had but four and to extract the fullest extent of learning from them had to draw down in a scraping effect at the very last moment. This she effected so well at the third, again on the sturdy left cheek, that the Headmistress was moved to remarks “Good, very good, Wedell.”
The puce blotch now extended into the buttock cheeks, at their juncture, and there were definite trickles of blood. The girl strove to clench these maddened surfaces with all her strength, gave up in a slackened pant-as the mistress struck. The strap thucked home athwart the right side, producing a positive frenzy on the pulleys. And let down, her lower limbs released before her wrists, Else Gundling writhed amain like some stranded shark, doubling up her knees, bicycling in agony as wave after wave of pain seemed to get to and engulf her — “Auch weh…”
By a miracle of control she rested as if exhausted on hands and knees a moment, head dropped, lost, freed. She kissed the reddened tail the mistress held out, pulled up her knickers which her raw weltings stained at once, as they did her tunic skirt behind, once it was put in order too. She prostrated herself on the floor, in slowly heaving motions.
“All right, Gundling, you won't be let off so lightly next time.”
For a second after the girl had gone the two senior mistresses seemed to forget Maria's presence. The Headmistress even smiled.
“It really is a most effective instrument. I must order it more often. You handled it superbly, We-dell.”
“Thank you, Frau Direktrice.”
“Have you ever had it?”
“Never.”
“You quite took the skin off the inside of her left thigh. A few more and she'd have looked like a skinned hare there.”
“And if you'd ordered her a few with the switch on top of it, Head, I'll wager she'd have jumped right out of her skin.”
They laughed in complicity a moment.
“Well, she's a good big girl and will be right as rain tomorrow. A sound whipping never did anyone a mite of harm.”
“Never, Head.”
There were indeed one or two spots of red on Wedell's ivory tunic. She ticked at them in annoyance, knowing she would have to soak them out with salt.
“Stand out, Daunitz. You're going to be flogged.”
Maria took two sharp steps forward and clicked her heels. Her eyes stared straight ahead at a spot in the wall above and to the left of the Headmistress. She was shivering all over like a mare in heat, and knew it.
“Drop your skirt. Now step out of it.”
For a second the Frau Direktrice's gleaming eyes fell to the bushy twat set on that sill where the plump thighs ended. Maria's leather now concluded at her waistbelt, beginning again at the tops of her bitingly tight boots, above which her skin bulged creamily. She felt totally nude, the lump of her cunt enormous.
“You will be figged.”
“Thank you, Frau Direktrice.”
“Do you know what that is?”
“A ginger suppository up the anus. If you please, Madam.”
“A cavalry trick. Prevents tensening and clenching-in of the cheeks. The cane does its best work inside.”
So it was to be the cane. Maria breathed in deeply. Wedell was approaching. A fingerlong stub of something glisteny in one hand. Maria felt herself turned.
“Lean forward.”
Finger and thumb puckered out her bunghole, as now she held her breath, and the suppository slid wetly in and up her 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 teeth.
Hhuittt!
“Four!”
Not even halfway through. “Oh… oh… auuuh.”
She stretched out, twisting up the trestle, her posteriors cringing like those of some well-whipped dog. The long penal cane was unspeakably painful, its tip digging into her right side unbearably.
Five… six… seven… dear Christ in Heaven.
“Aaaah…”
Then something happened. In a cold tone the Headmistress was speaking.
“You're letting her off too lightly, Wedell. If you don't hit harder than this, I'll have you put to the triangle. It'll be twenty, in public.”
“Ja, Frau Direktrice. Entschul'.”
“These last cuts over two minutes.”
Maria listened to the metronome ticking. Her anus was burning like a brand. Her whipped seat was afire. No more, no more…
But the next belted into her with a shock that shook the trestle and a drenching streak of agony seemed to pass right through her. Her vision fogged.
“Much better. They should all have been like that.”
“Haaa. uuuuu…”
H-h-hwhttt!
“Nine. That was too high. Take her at the top of the legs for the last.”
Shivering as if with the ague Maria Daunitz awaited the stroke, stretching forward and, in doing so, pulling up just that part the mistress had been told to flog. The big woman took a prancy pace and wrapped the length of the rod around the base of the wealed surfaces. Maria lunged with a grunting moan, her body spasmed in a cramp, then sheer pain seemed to flood through her from insteps to eyeballs. The last three stripes had been worse than the whole of the first seven.
Her legs were released first, and she jacked them back together, writhing. Ingeborg had instructed her in protocol. She was somehow or other supposed now to kneel and kiss the… the… and thank for punishment… with her hands by her sides… with her… but her hands had been released, her mouth, and her waist, and herself, and a voice was saying sternly, “Stand up at once. This is extremely poor comportment, Daunitz.”
Alas, it was. Pain suffused her from tip to toe, and she realized she was rolling on her back on the floor, with her knees drawn up to her chin, and her hands grabbing and rubbing the twin coals of her arse-cheeks. Wedell was looking at her with some interest, from the distance of that endless cane, while the Head's gaze had been converted to a winking glare by the insertion, in her right eye, of a monocle. “Get up.”
“Yes… ohoooooaaaah… Frau Direktrice.”
“Pull yourself together and get up and thank for punishment. Cease this unnecessary exhibition at once.”
Maria forced herself to obey. She had to drag herself to her knees. Half-blind with pain she kissed the tip of the outstretched cane, mumbled the ritual words of thanks, resumed her discarded skirt, curtseyed stiffly to the Headmistress, then stood up to attention, trembling like a jelly all over.
“I had hoped you would do better than this, Daunitz. Do you feel well punished?”
“Th-th-thoroughly, Headmistress.” It was something she could gasp out with complete conviction. Her buttocks felt at this moment like so much molten lead. “Thank you,” she managed to get herself to add.
“You will not be let off so lightly next time. In fact, I shall recommend some training correction for you so that you do not behave like this again. Meanwhile, you bear Fraulein Wedell no grudge, I hope; she was merely doing her duty.”
“None,” she breathed in reply.
“Return to your quarters.”
Maria Daunitz dipped another curtsey, held it, half-slipped, got up and went to the door where she appeared to wrestle with the handle for a moment — then was gone. The Headmistress was left alone with the Pflichtlehrerin of the day. For a time she gave her subordinate a long and level gaze. We-dell's bosom was heaving, her white tunic patched with sweat under the right armpit and in front, its scant skirt perching pertly oft a muscular rump behind.
“Talking of doing your duty, you didn't let up on those last three, did you, Wedell?”
“No, Frau Direktrice.”
“I didn't think you would be so silly as to.”
“It… it was perhaps that… she squirmed so, and I hit too high, at the end.”
“She did wriggle, didn't she?” The Headmistress adjusted her monocle. “Tell me, when did I last order you a flogging, Wedell?”
The undermistress spoke to the wall in front- “Two years ago, Frau Direktrice. Twenty strokes with the switch. It was across the buttocks, thank you.”
“Hm. Well, you seem to have profited from the experience, not to have come back since then.”
“Yes, I have tried to obey orders implicitly, Head.”
“Good. However, I don't like my mistresses to go too long without a reminder of what they themselves are inflicting, so I serve notice on you that I shall be watching you closely this term, Wedell.”
“Yes, Frau Direktrice.”
“Is the Duty Book completed and signed?”
“On your desk, Head.”
“How many did you have at Duty tonight?”
“Five. Kraus, Nagel, von Hoffmansthal, the little Elrich, and Uhlein.”
“Get any of them to 'repeat?' ” Here the Directress was referring to the custom whereby, when a girl did not “take” her Duty cuts in complete stoicism, she received them again afterwards, added to those she had been unable to manage the first visit.
“Uhlein,” said Fraulein Wedell a little more brightly now that the conversation had taken a securer tack. “I very nearly got Nagel to get up, too, but she just held on. However, I think I really hurt Uhlein, the second time. She could barely find her knickers again afterwards, and went out of the door twisting like a belly dancer. I passed her dorm just now, Head, and she was still in floods of tears.”
The Directress thought. Finally she said, “Stand here and wait until I dismiss you.” She turned on her heel and left the room on the opposite side from that taken by the punished junior mistress. This connected with her salon where a tall, big-boned, red-faced officer in a perruque and off-duty clothes reclined with a glass of fortified wine. His tight pale-blue trousers and flounced shirt suggested an immense muscularity of body beneath.
“Dire execution over?” he murmured as the Frau Direktrice entered and closed the joining door behind her. “It sounded salutory, and I am sure was.”
“Yes, I flogged a Prefect and a young mistress. A new one.”
His brow raised over the glass. “Really? Do I know her?”
She shook her head with a laugh. “Nor will you, until at least next term, Karl. I'm not sending Maria Daunitz to you ruffians at the barracks until she's trained.”
“Not even for a flogging, Beth? I've one Corporal who is accuracy itself. And 'tis so entertaining for the young officers, y'know.”
“Did you see that Ritter girl get it, by the by?” asked the now insouciant Directress, serving herself to wine.
“Alas, no such luck. Had to take my squadron out on training at the time. But Leopold-you know him-saw the last part and says the skin was fairly taken off her back by the end. Unfortunately she kept on fainting, despite all the brandy they gave her. No,” he ended on a sigh, “I rather fear she won't throw eyes at our young Prince Fritz again in a hurry.”
“Wedell's outside. If you're interested.”
“I'm always interested,” said Colonel Karl von Schmettau, standing up with a laugh and grabbing hold of Elizabetha Grunkow's stocky bottoms in both hands and lifting her bodily off the floor for his kiss. “And particularly in this!”
She hung glued to his lips for a long moment, feeling the mast of his manhood along one thigh. He put her down and laughed.
“And always ready whenever I see this marvelous randy little rump of yours, Beth. Which is We-dell? I forget. Can't I cane her first?”
“No.”
The Frau Direktrice was thoughtfully peeling down her skintight britches, and the cambric knickers beneath. The man's prick kicked like a mule at the sight of her short but very round buttocks and fleecy mound in front. He hastened to let it free, while she, moving in spraddle-step, placed herself against her ormulu desk, over which she leaned pensively on her elbows.
“Heard any more from Dessau, Karl? I don't suppose so. Heavens, it's been a busy day. Always is, at start of term like this.” She shook herself and arched up her bottom. “Now stick it up me like a good Commanding Officer. You… beast.”
The big man approached her grinning with lust, his turgid tool fisted in front. Placing himself centrally, he addressed his dribbling Cyclops eye at the trim twinned bud of her belly, set under the clefting of her already swaying cheeks. He nuzzled the outer lips, then sank in fully, to the balls, with a sudden vigor that drove the breath from the good Directress and thudded her thighs into the desk.
“Kaaarl… ugh… oooogh!'”
He jammed into her so that she felt violently full and oddly breathless, then pistoned slickly for a bit, till she started gasping and moaning-“God, let it come… lover, beast… Christ, I feel stuffed to the… the guts!”
She was about to come, he knew, and so sank deep in, forcing her to wince and raise up her torso, for he threatened to wound her womb. Her tough clit squirmed.
“Nohhww! Give it me, Karl… shoot, cream,Come!”
Chuckling, he held her on his prick, as if impaled, then as the spasming started at her depths he caught both nipples between finger and thumb and brutally twisted them under the Malines stuff of her shirt. With an arching cry she scrabbled at his hands, scratching and gasping, stamping desperately with her boots about the carpet.
In that perfect control worthy of a Prussian warrior he held her hanging there, on the edge or summit of her spasm, unable to register it for exquisite pain. Then he increased pressure, twisted harder and threatened to pull her tits off in his fingers. Speechless, she hissed on tiptoe, clawing, arched like one cramped. Then at once he let her go, ploughed her weakly slackened belly which went on coming and coming as if her clitoris were being sick on him. She was still heaving and retching slightly, her hand on a lapus lazuli paperweight, when he withdrew, having come in cloudy gouts himself. She lay moaning rhythmically a moment and he turned to the fireplace, and his port. When he looked back the Frau Direktrice had gone.
“You utter bastard!” was her greeting a few minutes later, when she re-entered from her bedroom, having put some order in her attire. “Have you any idea what my nipples look like, my dear man? She poured herself a large glass and drained it in a single gasping draught. “Schweinhund!”
“I have an idea,” he said, standing and manhandling his tool which had already showed signs of resurrection at the succulent directress's presence. “Confess it was twice as long for you when I did that. Come, Beth, there's nothing for it. I'm not leaving tonight till I've buggered you or beaten you. Or preferably both.”
“No one buggers the principal of Schloss Rutenberg,” she said, eyeing his one-eyed monster which truly seemed to be licking its lips. Why, its head alone was far too big to get up her… entrails.
“Drop your britches,” he ordered jovially, “and drop them quickly. Then kneel down in front of me here.”
“No, Karl.”
He advanced as she backed. She saw his immense, veined flat hands, and gulped at the jerk of his cock. He was strong as an ox, they all were… quickly she sought for her straw.
“Wedell's still next door. I haven't dismissed her yet.”
“Fine, bring her in and let her watch. What do I care?”
“I couldn't possibly let her watch. Nor is this… this thing going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because I say it won't, that's why.” But already she was making for the door to the punishment room. “You can service Wedell, I'm sure she's got a juicy cunt, and I'll test her submission at the same time.” Flinging open the door before the Count could object she revealed the Duty Mistress of the day standing under the blaze of light perfectly impassive, at attention. “Come in.”
Wedell came in expressionlessly and curtseyed. After the bright light of the correction chamber the salon was almost gloomy and she did not see the Count at first. When she did so, however, she remained on her knees after her curtsey. She did not look at his prodigious and glistening erection. She knew what she was there for, all right. She only hoped she would not be whipped.
“The Count wishes to honor you with his presence,” was all the Frau Direktrice said curtly-she herself knew she had to work fast. “Get your Duty costume and belt off, and then come over here.”
Over here was a low penitence table, or long stool, kept for correctional purposes. Fraulein Wedell had sat on it once and did not want to again, especially. She had broad solid buttocks, which slabbed from side to side as she most gingerly approached this steel surface; though on the fat side, it was sensitive fat.
“Here,” said the Directress, tapping the edge facing the rampant soldier in a businesslike manner. “Sit here with your knees apart and lie back.”
“Yes, Frau Direktrice.”
Her boots creaked, the steel was ice-cold to her warm and wobbly bottom and long, strong back when she reclined it fully.
“Have you been whipped lately?” said the Count.
“No, Hoheit.”
“Ever been flogged at the barracks?”
“No, sir.”
“We should repair that omission. A big heavy girl like you could stand a few. Open up your pussy wider, and relax it quite. Good. Ach so.”
The steel table was some eighteen inches high. The Directress inclined it slightly with a crank handle, so that Wedell's head was lowered, hanging over one end. At the other her booted knees were spread and bent, her ridged slit quiffed dark against the powerful cushioning of her bottom.
“Oh no you don't,” chuckled the Head, “get right on it.” The mistress slid back a trifle, her waist was strapped to the stool and her arms under it to the back of the waist-belt. Her chest arched, throwing out her solemn sturdy bosoms. She closed her eyes, her mouth open, when suddenly a spasm shot through her, she emitted a quickly stifled whine. The Count, with knees bent, had his prick nuzzling puppy-like the outer lips and laughed as Frau Grumkow jerked the lever. In doing so, the perforated steel surface was suddenly serrated with a grim army of tiny ice-cold needles, tacks less than half an inch in protrusion at the moment but long enough to penetrate the recumbent mistress' skin and freeze her to sudden stone.
“Capital, Beth. We ought to cane our drummer-boys strapped to this. Teach them to wriggle from the cuts.”
He eased in with a squelch (had beating Maria Theresa liquefied the good Wedell, wondered the watching Directress) and began fucking. The woman greeted his entry with a soft gargle of protest, then gritted teeth to bear i. The slightest test, then gritted teeth to bear it. The slightest movement of her pelvis dragged her rump across the needles and for a minute Count von Schmettau might have been fucking a corpse. With a prick the size of his, however, Wedell could not long remain indifferent and the Frau Directrice watched the resultant battle of control with considerable interest. She toyed with the rubbery stub of a nipple to help increase reaction.
Deep in the chubby crevice, the Commanding Officer of the 15th. Dragoon Guards was satisfied for the moment, then turned to his old friend- “I'm about to give it to her, Beth. Make her move a bit. It's all very fine discipline, no doubt, but this is like screwing a log.”
With a smile the Directress lowered the bench till it was level and stepped on it in her boots. These she placed either side of the strapped mistress, facing the Count. Wedell gave a quick moan. She knew what was to happen. For the Directress carefully aligned the pencil spurs of each boot into the opened armpit of the mistress lying beneath her, and getting an imperial view of her superior's breeched bottom.
“Tell me when you're ready, Karl.”
“Yes, yes. But I want her to come with me.”
“She will.”
Wedell began heaving.
“It's… it's…” said the big man with a snarl, as if some wolf were at his throat. He thrust his hands on the woman's thighs, pressing them too into the spikes. “Gott in Himmel, but… I'm… going to hose her insides out!”
The Directress made a slight kicking motion of her right boot. And Wedell squealed. The steel pencil-spur had a spring which released an inch-long needle that could penetrate even a Percheron's plump side. It drove in her armpit where it joined to her breast. And the second, the left… was…
“Aaaaaahhh!”
This time the Directress not only dug the spur home, but worked it there for the seconds of Karl von Schmettau's scalding spasm, into which the mistress' scream melded as he uttered a torrent of curses in losing hold and pumping squirts of gism over the heaving, panting body beneath them. This too, in incredible paradox, was spasming in the ecstasy of very agony. Then Wedell lay back on her bed of spikes, cunt foaming, while the two replenished their glasses. When she was let up, she curtseyed, said, “Thank you, Hoheit,” and resumed her white Duty dress. One armpit ran with blood and soon stained it gory. Her front was patched with sweat and the Count's scum and when she turned to leave, the couple could not resist a common laugh-little prickings of rosy red starred the tunic all over, especially at the bottom, despite the knickers.
I seem to think,” said Elizabetha Grumkow when they were alone together again, “that one of my mistresses will be sleeping on her belly tonight.”
“I should have buggered her,” he said morosely. “Then I wouldn't have lost it like that at the end. If I thought the clumsy fool threw me out a-purpose I'd have put her to the yard and flogged that fat ass off her. Cut her to pulp and peelings and rubbed in hot pepper and vinegar, after. It's all they understand.”
“You're insatiable, Karl, aren't you.”
“For you,” he said with sudden tenderness, “yes.”
“You must admit she showed great fortitude. She took it well.”
“Could you?”
“Yes,” said Frau Grumkow after a moment, and a light of bliss entered her otherwise rather cold blue eyes. “Now then, do you think you could give it me again? A really long drawn-out rogering, Karl. Any way so long as it's deep. After that little spectacle, I happen to feel… rather warm.”
“I'm sure I could,” he said. “But first I demand my rights. Remember your motto, my dear. Just to keep you in training, Beth.”
“Oh all right,” she consented crossly, tossing him the whalebone switch. “But make it quick. I'm randy.”
“For you I use the cane. The long one.”
“You would.”
“Come, my dear. You know 'tis twice as agreeable, after.”
“If not exactly, during. How many, Your Highness?” she asked mockingly, her fingers once more fleeing over the buttons of her breeches.
“Twelve,” he said darkly, looking at the sudden explosion of her snowy flesh. “At least, let's say…”
“I know, I know,” she said, moving to the desk with her britches at her knees now, “thirteen… the celebrated butcher's.”
“Exactly, Beth,” he said proudly. “This is going to hurt you so much more than it does me. But think of our Emperor… throughout.”
The Directress pillowed her face, after first removing her monocle, and in a quick thrill of apprehension that sent expectant shivers down her thighs awaited the onslaught of the enemy. The dark tongue of her clitoris stuck like some engorged stamen through her lips.
Maria Daunitz, meanwhile, had made her way back to her chamber as best she could. No maid had been waiting outside punishment room to accompany her, and all those still guarding the approaches of stairs and corridors had their faces turned resolutely away from the spectacle of a mistress speechlessly kneading her buttocks as she walked, as she might have kneaded dough. Still writhing with pain, she entered her room half at a run and made quickly for the closet, and its commode, to void herself as soon as possible of the burning jelly inside her. Ingeborg Untermacher watched her with a sympathetic shake of the head. She knew only too well how lost to all thoughts of dignity at such moments the female person could be.
Ten minutes later she was rubbing soothing cream into the wealed posteriors of her friend, who lay extended naked on the bed, still panting slightly.
“Never till now,” said Maria Daunitz, in a half-laughing paraphrase of the young Prince Frederick's comment on having been thrashed to blood by his father, “has a Brandenburg bottom been so disgraced.”
In fact, as Inge's fingers slid over greased hams, she felt a pleasant warmth more than anything, a sense of relaxation that was psychological as well as physical.
“That Duty cane's a brute,” agreed her friend with a soft chuckle beside her, “but she didn't have to hit you this hard. Heavens, some of these weals on the right are thick as fingers…”
“Ouch… easy…”
“Open your legs a little bit, darling.”
“Inge. She didn't hit me th-there.”
“Sssh, dear. Just lie still. It always helps, after.”
“Inge, what are you doing?”
But Maria, crimsoning, knew well enough. The answering buck of her loins betrayed her as she tried to reach back and push those pushing fingers away. For the older mistress' experienced thumbs were rolling up the oiled and spongy tissue inside the thighs, inside the cheeks, inside the… inside… Surprised, even alarmed at her own reaction, Maria Daunitz tried to clamp her legs shut. But it was no use. The surge of sensation had started to happen, her depths were rising, her legs unjoining…
“Inge, please. I'm… I'm…”
“I know you are, darling,” came the soothing whisper from behind, “just let go and let it come.”
“But I've never…”
“I know. And when it comes it'll go on… and on… there… and on… for ever!”
Maria moaned, suddenly burying her face in the pillow and clawing it to her. Her hips jacked up like a beast's in heat, as if belonging to someone else, as the volted spasm responded to those seeking thumbs in her guts, in her soul, in her essence of womanhood that boiled to the writhing stub of flesh being so skilfully manipulated by the mistress.
If Fraulein Wedell was rinsing her body off with clear, cold water, preparatory to lying on her stomach all night, one figure in bed in an upper dormitory was doing just that. Under the horsehair Army blankets Monika Vorst lay on her belly with her nightgown around her waist. In the darkness the row of beds were silent, for no talking was permitted after “Lights Out.” Least of all, in Dormitory “D.”
Only the Praelictors were allowed to retire later and the bed of this dorm Prae, on its raised dais or platform at one end, was still empty.
There had been much bright-eyed excitement when Monika had rejoined her Dorm to go to bed that night. She had been careful to cool off the worst of her pain in the so-called Groves, or lavatories, outside, before rejoining her comrades in this short half-hour of pre-bed merriment. Wandering in feigning nonchalance-for stoicism was a status matter with all at Rutenberg-Maria had at once been surrounded by half a dozen ogling girls, in various stages of undress.
“Did you get it again?… Oooh, let's see… another eight!.. who was it from?… Daunitz, the new mistress?… is she tight?… oh do let's see…”
They crowded round, ooohing and aaahing, as Monika with fake indifference kicked off her panty-knicks and let them raise her skirt and examine the marks behind. The streaked bottom seemed to arouse considerable respect in even the most experienced.
“Good Lord, Monika, I wouldn't have liked to be you. You're absolutely black for at least two inches on the right. And this one…”
“That was Wedell. Hey, don't press it, if you please.”
“Her whole bottom's covered.”
“Sixteen!”
“Are you going to ask permission to stand tomorrow?”
“It really is a beautifully beaten bottom”-this from Barbara Mack. Monika gave her a smile.
“What was Daunitz like? Did she hit very hard?”
“I thought so.” She contrived to stifle a yawn. “Now if you wouldn't mind… I want to sit in some cold water for a minute, please…”
In the darkness between her bed and that of Barbara Mack now something glimmered palely. Quickly Monika Vorst reached out and accepted the offering. It was a six-inch stretch of bone, slightly slimy. Barbara had been using it first. Monika inserted the phallus at once. It slid up her vagina instantly. She had to work quickly and carefully. The slightest suspicion of a stain on her sheet and she would be up before the Matron next morning and what she'd had this evening would be child's play, by comparison. She lifted her hips a little, but not too much, in case she might be seen from the open door. Suddenly she hissed. In a very few seconds this was going to be total heaven. And was. Gosh, it was almost worth getting a beating sometimes, if only for that glory of ecstasy after.
“Good?” whispered Barbara Mack, re-accepting the even slimier length of bone.
“Bliss,” murmured Monika Vorst and, turning over, she fell asleep almost instantly.