The Prussian Girls

by P. N. Dedeaux

  The Sergeant-Major paused in pulling down the trousers, leaving them at halfway, just exposing the first of Frau Grumkow's deep divide behind.

  “Am I to work the buttocks, sir, too?”

  “We shall see. I shall direct for maximum effect. Commence high-shoulderblade and under the right armpit,” he palped the area thoughtfully, “that's where it fetches them best.”

  “Very well, Hoheit.”

  The man drew back aggressively, like a tiger before his prey. He fed the thongs through his fingers, whistled them round his head a couple of times and swept them agonizingly across the back, in an upwards diagonal-HUITT!

  Everyone in the room seemed to feel the stripes as they cut, leaving dark red reams under the right shoulder. The Directress was driven forward with a grunt by the blow.

  “One,” said the Count, watching from the near side. “Three more there, and then work the ribs.”

  The stretched rib-cage seemed atrociously tender and the Colonel let his man leave five frightful cuts there, each causing a jerk that rang the triangle and a mewling cry from behind the gag. The Directress had now had nine and was striped like a zebra from nape to waist.

  “They always feel it good there,” opined the Sergeant-Major, running a hand over his mustaches as he rested from his labors. “But with this one… if you let me work the buttocks, sir. I can fetch her with a few there.”

  “All right, only first two more under the armpit. And get the tails to kiss her breasts a bit. Just the side, you know, Sergeant-Major.”

  When these had been delivered Karl von Schmettau, Commanding Officer of the 15th. Dragoon Guards, stepped forward. Impeded by the belt holding up the trousers, he took it off and ripped the velvet from the stocky hips, tearing the garment straight down.

  “Now. Do your damnedest. A good dozen on the arse.”

  Huittt! Huittt!

  The Directress bounded like a gaffed trout, creaking the triangle. She was streaked with weals, some of them bleeding, and took the last of that awful thirty on her sweating back, chiefly about the tender rib area. The Colonel looked at her panting body and rolling eyes now it was over and said but two words-“Bugger her.”

  The Sergeant-Major advanced slowly and thoughtfully, as he did everything. He unleashed a navel-high tool of extreme turgidity, wet it with his saliva, and presented it to the scarified and bleeding bottom before him. The Directress' face was crimson. Her gagged mouth uttered despairing pleas, all of which sounded like “Nnggg!”

  The man pressed thumbs to either side of the amber orifice, opened the rump like some fruit, and slid in-first slowly, then with a plunging thrust. Frau Grumkow audibly squealed. She was plugged to the ball-tight hilt.

  “Take your time, Sergeant-Major. Let her feel it to the gills. Then squirt it up her gullet.”

  When it was over the Directress lay ignominiously on the ground before them, hands still bound, panting. Of back she was sweaty and bloody and a mild ooze foamed from her violated sphincter. Once more Maria Daunitz felt herself beckoned forward. She came with trepidation, sensing here some element of absolute violence, some territory she was loath to enter, yet knew she had to.

  Spit on her,” said the Colonel calmly. She paused.

  “Get on. It is your right.”

  But this she somehow could not do. She gathered gobble in her mouth, only to be unable to expel it. She looked miserably at the man.

  “I cer-can't, sir-”

  “Why not?”

  “She's… our… Directress,” Maria completed in a wail.

  Behind her the air soughed, and suddenly the five thongs of the frightful martinet wound under her skirt, and lashed her cheeks.

  “Ow!”

  Suddenly she spat. The shot of spittle hit the panting back hard, and dribbled to the ribs.

  “You will now,” said Colonel Karl von Schmettau, “lick off the Sergeant-Major here in gratitude for his good work on your behalf.”

  Two hours later a pair of strangely reciprocal scenes were taking place within the Schloss.

  In her private salon Frau Grumkow, restored by best French brandy, was lying exhausted, face down and entirely naked, on a low ottoman. Her lover Karl sat beside her, soothing her wounded back and sides with salve.

  “You didn't have to have me buggered in public like that,” she said protestingly-though not too.

  “Nonsense. A most salutory spectacle, for all concerned.” He took out his own ramrod of a prick, full of blood for just having seen those speaking stripes, that lovely welted bum. “If you're feeling better, I'm now going to fuck your cunt.”

  “I don't know… if I can take it, Karl.”

  “Of course you can. And you'll find it highly delightful.”

  Straddling the ottoman sofa he nuzzled prick to twat as a bee feels into a close-shut bud. It was greasy and he sank to the hilt in a single spearing drive, at which, lo and behold, the Directress of Schloss Rutenberg experienced volted lava in her loins, the lightning of the most rapturous spasm ever.

  “Du Faultier!” she cried as she writhed in impaled ecstasy. “At least you can buy me a new pair of trousers.”

  In Maria Daunitz's room there was a scene of another order. Majestic in black leather, Maria stood with feet astride, switch in hand. She was feeling intensely excited, molten and alive. In front of her Ingeborg Untermacher stood apprehensively holding her bottoms, veritably like any penitent schoolgirl, naked from belt to boots-and the latter only came mid-thigh.

  “Please, Mary. It wasn't part of the bet. Not like that.”

  “Come on, get down. I haven't got all night.”

  “Not like that.”

  “You know how I give it.”

  She felt a frothing in her loins, a faintness behind her eyes, just looking at this big woman showing so frightened. Inge's tawny bush was thick and dry, curving under her tummy. Maria Daunitz knew she longed to whip her.

  “Come on.”

  “I'll bend over instead. Please.”

  Maria pointed with the forked “hunting” switch.

  “Lie down.”

  For during the flogging of the Directress, Ingeborg, standing beside her friend, had whispered to her ear-“What do you bet she faints?”

  “Six that she doesn't,” Maria had whispered back.

  “Done.”

  And she hadn't. So-Ingeborg was now getting to the carpet at her feet, her face haggard with anticipation.

  “No wonder no girl's come in for a fiver in place of Detention to you, Mary,” she said, as she assumed the pose.

  “Legs right apart, please.”

  Ingeborg grasped Maria's booted ankles with her hands. She stretched her legs wide behind, striving to keep her belly as close to the floor as possible.

  “Please not in between. Only… inside the cheeks.”

  “Come on. You heard what I said. I'll give you extra for stalling, if you aren't careful.”

  Ingeborg dropped her head into the pile. The cold whiptails touched her right side.

  “Relax them, please.”

  “I can't.”

  “It'll hurt more if you don't.” Pfff-clk!

  Suddenly the eel-like limb whickered down, bit deeply inside the fat right cheek, its twin hard fangs fetching up in the right thigh, close under the cunt.

  Ingeborg uttered an ignoble “Ow!” and slowly squirmed her right leg up; it was what Maria wanted. She cut again, viciously, and the tails ate into the pulpy flesh about the cunt.

  “Naaaaoww! Maria! Please! I beg you… ooooh, it's agony there!”

  Her legs jerked straight back, protectively; she wrang Maria's ankles till she all but toppled.

  “Open up,” was all Maria said.

  “For God's sake. You don't know how this hurts.”

  “I have an idea.”

  She had more than an idea. The next two she delivered inside the left cheek. Both hurt like fury, but were not totally intolerable.

  “And now,” she said, “after those light ones, thi
s is where the fun begins. Open up really wide, if you please, and try to tip up your pelvis a shade.”

  “Maria, please. You can't mean to be so cruel.”

  But as the furry lump of flesh, bisected by the lining of red satin at the top of which presided the prompt policeman of Ingeborg's clit, came into Maria's now clouded view, she knew she had achieved a distance beyond all space and time, somewhere in the firwoods of her distant youth where amid smoke and storm the gods presided, alone and lonely, proud, untouched, understood only by the very few.

  A flame of red danced before her eyes as she struck.

  Chapter Twelve

  There was but one sequel to these lamentable scenes.

  Sergeant-Major Schlamm, striding down an upstairs corridor of the Schloss on his way out at about the time his Colonel was “going through” the celebrated Directress, paused in his tracks. From behind an oaken door at a turning in the passage came a sharp snap, an unmistakable and categoric sound. There was a pause, and it was followed by another. He counted four and his breath came quicker. All at once someone appeared to be wrestling with the door handle.

  Sergeant-Major Schlamm stepped back behind a cornice in the dimly-lit turn of the corridor.

  A plump blonde girl burst out, slamming the door behind her. She had on the scant peplum of the place, hers green, her face was bunched and flushed and, while the hidden soldier watched, she raised her head with an anguished whine of pain, thrust her hands up under the lap of tunic behind and dug them down under her panties. She moaned there a moment, her thighs threshing, and the Sergeant-Major smiled-the little punishment was doing its best work now, he well knew. Then the girl breathily straightened from her hunched position and began to hobble down the passageway.

  The Sergeant-Major was about to move on, when footsteps sounded. A duplicate or carbon in brunette of the corrected child approached. She looked with consternation at her chum.

  “Heavens, Helga, was it all that bad?”

  “Absolute hell,” came the muffled answer.

  “Is she hitting very hard?” was the pleading question then.

  “I thought so. And an absolute swine of a cane, terrifically whippy.”

  “How many?”

  “Nine.”

  “Oh God no.” The dark girl gave a sick gulp, her hands wringing. She stole a glance at the door ahead. “Oh heavens, I can't take nine. I got twice six today. It's as tender as a jelly.”

  “Well, you needn't worry, she'll use the marks all right. Gott! How those last three stung. I don't believe anyone could possibly hit any harder, if they tried.” With which cold comfort the blonde went her way, still rubbing her smarting buttocks. The newcomer approached the door, and the Sergeant-Major's cock gave an appreciative kick.

  Left alone, the highly punishable minx made a perfect picture of petrified apprehension; her pale and worried face turned this way and that, as if seeking some invisible exit, she wrang her hands, rubbed her thighs, finally felt her bottoms behind. At last, with a lost look, she dramatically knocked.

  “Herein!” was drawled from the other side, and then, “Entre donc, ma chere!”

  The Sergeant-Major ran a hand over his mustaches. This time he heard nine of the distinct snippy cracks, each like a winter's bough snapped in two. This time the door was evidently opened for the girl when it was over, and the brunette fairly pranced out, hissing with pain, and kneading her bottom under its skirt. She hopped and skipped her way down the passage.

  A mistress' head came out. He saw a pretty, smiling, excited face and his blood beat up. Surely this was the one. The Frenchie. Whom the Colonel had just told him he was to… he bit his lips as she advanced into the passage, laughing, cane swinging, keys at her waist and the black leather skirt barely covering the obviously elegant bottom.

  “Nest time you get your essay in on time, silly!”

  Before re-entering her room the mistress' lively black eyes swept the corridor ahead. Suddenly they saw the waiting Sergeant-Major. Her smile faded slowly, a look of intense respect came over her features. After all, this individual had just emptied himself in the anus of the eminent Frau Direktrice.

  Not to mention having been sucked off by Maria later.

  She approached him curiously, holding her cane. Even in his short frogged forage jacket he looked all muscle. His neck was thick and round. Jacqueline Bellais was aroused. They did not have many men visitors at Schloss Rutenberg, after all.

  “We too,” she said, smiling wryly, “have to mete out a little correction, now and then.”

  “So it seems,” he said in a low growl, “so it seems.”

  Her eyes fell. With his right hand the man was as if absently stroking the great seam of his standing prick, under the tight thin breeches. Her heart pounded as the memory of that infernal organ, slucking in, squeezing out… it ran precisely parallel to the handle of the martinet stuck in his belt, whose thongs had stained his breeches.

  “You certainly administered a merciless chastisement this evening, Sergeant-Major,” she said.

  “Not known for my leniency, Ma'am,” was all he answered. His eyes quickened as he saw the number on the door. The same!

  “No, I don't suppose you are, are you? But then, all punishment should be merciless, should it not?”

  “Completely without pity,” he agreed.

  “Yes, it's all they understand.” Jacqueline Bellais' thin nostrils flared. “Still, I thought you waxed close to cruel at the end, sir.”

  “Would have liked to work the buttocks more.”

  I'll bet you would, thought Jacqueline Bellais, staring him straight in the eye. They understood each other perfectly. Quickly she said, “I have two more girls to whip. Four late essays handed in today. The next will be down from her Dorm rather shortly, I believe. I'm giving them nine with this cane across the naked… arse.” She pronounced the word with deliberation, her eyes again dropping to his pipe of a penis. “Naturally, it's nothing like what you administer at the barracks, but we do our best. If you would care to watch.”

  He bowed his assent. With an ironic flip of her skirt that revealed the fact she had nothing on beneath, the active little French mistress swung on her high heels and led the way into her room.

  When they were alone she said in a low voice, her chest heaving, “I'm using this willow. It's extremely bendy and stingy and although it doesn't bruise like yours, Sergeant-Major, they'll feel it sitting for a day or so. I am afraid I shall have to ask you to stand behind those curtains there-you can see through them from the other side quite well-because it would not be consistent with modesty to have a man in my rooms.”

  There was a pause and he laughed. “Least of all, one in such a manly state as me, eh?”

  “I'm afraid that's all too evident, Sergeant-Major.”

  “That last one, she squeezed her sitters so…”

  “They do, don't they? Furthermore,” went on the mistress, feeling herself more and more in charge of the situation, “we believe in total fairness here, and I have been taking them across this table. However, if you would prefer another position… I mean, I could get her to bend over here with her back to you, entirely double, that is, and you'd get a full view of the twin surfaces, and naturally the… the…” Jacqueline Bellais' eyes roved the ceiling.

  “The cunt between.”

  “As you say, sir, the cunt between. But of course you'd miss the expression of the face.”

  “It won't be necessary. As you had 'em, Ma'am.”

  “The next girl in has a lovely heart-shaped face and you'll see that this table is fitted with head-and-hands stocks. Their expressions get quite comical by the end and usually they try to turn their faces round to the left. So if you watch from those curtains there, Sergeant-Major,” and the mistress indicated the left side of the room to the table, “you'll have an admirable profile of the rump as well.” To say nothing, Jacqueline Bellais well knew, of her own, under the lifting skirt, as she swung.

  But there came a knoc
k at the door. At a nod the Sergeant-Major secreted himself soundlessly behind the curtains, opaque from the room side, transparent from the other.

  The girl who entered was in gold. She was a big upright healthy Slavic specimen with a mane of fair hair and if her face was a heart, it was a large one. Thick velvety brows shaded anxious pale blue eyes, already dewed with tears, and she was biting her pretty small pale lips with fear. Her whole body was on a sumptuous scale and quivering all over.

  Jacqueline Bellais stood with her back to the roaring grate and smiled at these symptoms.

  “Come, Irina, you're not going to the gallows. I'm not going to kill you exactly. You've been beaten before, I believe. What are you here for?”

  “Late theme. In your grammar class, Miss.”

  “To be flogged across the buttocks, yes. Let's see if I can't make those big fat hams of yours somewhat more prompt. Have you anything to say, at all?”

  “No, Mademoiselle Bellais.”

  “I'm going to give you nine. With all that avoirdupois you'll scarcely feel it, will you, Irina? Come, stop that cowardly crying instantly. Stop it, I say.”

  Advancing, the trim French mistress unleashed two swinging slaps that sent the big girl staggering. She held her head, sobbed once, received another blow that rang her head like a bell.

  “Put your hands by your sides. So. Now then. Off with your knickers and up with your skirt, tuck it right into your chain now.” When this was done, the mistress surveyed her prey. A good thick blondish fur covered the cunt in front, which was tucked into the top of the thighs, surprisingly wide for the girth of calf. The cheeks of the rump were young and full, tender-looking with a good overhand, yet well divided centrally. The cane tapped a spot on the floor. “Stand here. Back to those curtains.”

  Unseen by her victim, she gave a sly wink, to the hidden watcher and slowly palped and joggled the thick globes in her hands before him. The pair was solid and springy and with an overhang like this the sulcal fold would be doubly tender. Jacqueline Bellais intended to work there. The cheeks were unmarked.