“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, this 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.