The Prussian Girls (19 page)

“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.

The duel with Wolfenbuttel for the glory of housing Princess Elizabeth Christine of Brunswick-Bevern lived long in the annals of Schloss Rutenberg. It occurred on a snowy December evening, towards the end of term. And it did so, as the Colonel of the 15th. Dragoons had promised, in a commodious drill hall at the local barracks. Both schools were present, as spectators, Rutenberg tiered to one side, each girl bandbox neat and tidy, Wolfenbiittel-rather more numerous-on the other. The respective mistresses sat below their schools, facing each other across the polished expanse of parquet. Only the two Headmistresses sat on the dais, either side the Margrave of Ansbach, a bespectacled, scholarly gentleman of some seventy summers who clung to a copy of Wolff's Metaphysics throughout, but who showed a complete expertise in all matters of the rod.

Count Karl von Schmettau ran the proceedings, with the assistance of diligent orderlies from the regiment, and a Tursteherin appointed by each side. These twin ushers, both senior mistresses, acted as umpires in the events, of which there were to be three. The first was a simple caning contest.

When the two girls to compete against each other in this came forward there was a general buzz of astonishment. Rutenberg had chosen as its champion an Upper Senior called Annie Jansen, a big bovine blonde of peasant stock and build who had practiced use of the stick under the eagle eye of Frau Dick, gym mistress, for these two weeks past. She was five eleven in her broad, stockinged feet with muscular, arching thighs, visible biceps in her arms and a slightly protuberant belly; she could hit with great weight and, allowed to perform in one Duty under supervision, had made two girls “come again” at four.

But what was the surprise of all when the Wolfenbuttel heroine tripped down the aisles, turning out to be a slim, shy-looking little Oriental of seventeen or so? Both girls stripped to stockings, heeled shoes and wide leather belts and as they did so their contrast could not have been much greater. Kho, as the smaller girl was called, was a liquid-limbed little gem whose small, pert ass looked vulnerable to the point of absurdity. Her neat triangular bush had been trimmed low, whereas Annie's was full and bushy. The Rutenberg girl tried some practice swings with the cane provided, a very long, bright yellow one, and there were some giggles and shivers in the audience as a result.

Then the bottoms of both girls were “inspected” by rival umpires-tested to see there might have been no anesthetizing, belts tightened and a line drawn out with charcoal under the sulcus of each; for no stroke could fall “low,” only the buttock proper was to be attacked. A foul cut would result in three gratis for the donor: which was to say, against her! The two girls drew for start. A hush fell on the hall. Frau Grumkow's eyes brightened.

Technically, there was little enough advantage in starting. However, it helped to come second in the administration of strokes since the girl then knew how many she had to endure to win. There was an exact simulacrum of the Duty bars created for the purpose and Kho, having lost the draw, advanced with a smile to them. She bent over in a lissome movement and grasped the bar in front. The two umpire-mistresses sat before this watching the exact moment at which the contender might give up, and leave go. It was a lovely lithe little pair she put on display, set at the top of two close soft thighs, perfectly symmetrical; and at the exact central junction of the charcoal sulcus-line a charming rosy little quim nudged back, as if apologetically, a sliced and hairless bulge. Annie addressed herself to aim.

“Commence,” called the Margrave. “One.”

The Rutenberg girl took a good run and whupped the licky stick across the creamy skin. A livid weal leapt up, and the Rutenberg mistress said, “All right.” Kho stood up, bashfully smiling, and walked steadily back to accept the quivering wand from Annie, who handed it to her and advanced to bend over in kind. Kho gave her stroke without a run, yet a very venomous welt ran across the thick posteriors of the Rutenberg Senior as a result. All the watching girls craned forward, observing symptoms, like connoisseurs. Battle had been joined. The contest was on.

Kho then took two, followed by two for Annie. Then three, then four, then… five.

Until this point the duel seemed eventless with the exception that Annie appeared to be striking twice as hard. She whipped the little ass of the Oriental girl slowly, with zeal, as if she wished to flog it off. As Kho walked back her jouncing halves were well welted up and down.

Professionals like the learned Frau Direktrice, however, observed that her rival institution had not selected their representative of the rod for nothing. Kho was accuracy incarnate. Both girls had now had fifteen cuts in all and you could have put a ruler over those across Annie's broad ass. This was barred, in fact, by a single solid purple weal, blood-black on the right and blistered-looking. She got up from her five visibly the worse for wear, with a strangled cry, grabbing back at her bottom quickly. She walked stiffly away, head down, for her one minute's rest-all allowed the contestant before recommencing. The problem was — could Kho endure as well as administer? She was certainly an expert in the latter art.

The Oriental girl, vividly striped behind, bent over for her six. If she gave up at four, then Annie would only have to get to five to win. But Kho resolutely withstood the six terrific stripes slowly accorded her by the heavy Rutenberg Senior. Though she hopped when it was over she did so with a grin, and Annie Jansen went forward for her six very thoughtfully indeed.

One!

“Auoee!”

Two!

“Huuuuu.”

Kho cut upwards in a biting arc. The cane seemed to espouse the solid seat, cling to it for a second, before bouncing back. She cut crisply into the bruised and aching welt she had drawn there. Twice Annie's head went back in a cry, and twice she seemed about to give up. But pluck held her to her task. Fatty quiverings and tremblings inside her cheeks showed the intensity of her pain, and her equal impossibility of flinching in this position away from the telling blows. The last bit in with a sudden surprising dash of blood-the blister on the right had broken. Gloom settled on the Rutenberg ranks. A stroke on raw skin…

And so it concluded. Kho absorbed the whole next seven, set herself carefully, and-phffffupp!

“Owww!”

Phffppp!

The big girl was in agony. She clung to the bar for four, her right cheek bleeding, then just as the fifth was falling she leapt erect, grasping her buttocks. Kho's completed stroke skinned her knuckles with a scream. Annie Jansen dropped to her knees, her cry drowned in the prolonged applause from the Wolfenbiittel maidens. Rutenberg had lost bout one, and there were only two more contests to decide.

The next was between elected mistresses. It was to consist of a switch duel-three rounds in a large boxing rectangle, roped for the occasion, each round being of three minutes in duration. Each mistress wore a leather tunic to the waist, leaving the arms bare, a broad belt, and high-heeled shoes, that was all. All cuts had to be below the belt. Any shown to have fallen above constituted punishable fouls. Jacqueline Bellais, skilful little French mistress and aficionado of the rod, faced a brawny, raw-boned woman in her late thirties called Bertha Kittel, a brunette with a thick bush and heavily overhung Sitzplatz.

When the “seconds” (assistant mistresses) were ordered out of the ring, this contest looked like a virtual walkover for Rutenberg. Bellais darted in and out, placing excruciating lashing cuts with her two-thonged switch. Bertha Kittel hissed with pain and, the round over, walked to her corner nursing some very angry-looking stripes indeed. But the second round produced sudden dismay for the Schloss-if they lost this, they lost all, and after two minutes had gone by it looked as if they would.

In endeavoring a low swipe Jacqui Bellais tripped and fell. In doing so she lost hold of her switch and her rival flicked it from the ring in a quick triumphant stroke of her own. There followed a frantic chase. Big Bertha had a minute more and was going to take every advantage of it; she got in two ferocious cuts low down on Jacqui's belly, the second of which made her double to her knees in speechless pain a moment, holding herself and heedlessly exposing, on full view, the long slotted lozenge of her veinous vulva. The other saw it with a smile, paused and whipped it with her tips. She might have been more accurate. If she were Kho she doubtless would have been. But it was enough to make the Rutenberg heroine jack straight on her belly with a scream, legs together. A rain of blows followed.

Jacqueline Bellais chose the lesser of two evils. She decided to stick out the remaining seconds of the round, prone on her belly, legs squeezed together, and as close to the ropes as regulations permitted. She had to be helped back to her corner at the bell.

Her bravery won the day, as it transpired. Revived with brandy she advanced stubbornly to the fray, blood oozing from at least two buttock welts, and one on her belly. She went straight for her adversary's hand and scored-on the wrist. Bertha dropped her switch with a howl and from there on, it was all over. Jacqueline was in her element, and knew absolutely no mercy.