of antlers, boar's heads, and copper lamp brackets turned down low there stepped the implacable Count Karl, close followed by his stalwart major-domo, clad as before in breeches, dirty singlet and… horsehair mustaches. Frau Grumkow seemed to pale a little as the latter closed the door behind him and stood there, winding through his fingers a ferocious martinet whose shiny wooden handle ceded to five furious lashes made of sheep's gut. These were a little stained at their edges. The Colonel spoke.
“You are to scratch Madam's back a little,” he said with a grim smile. “Thirty of the best, if you please, well laid on, up and down.” He turned with an amused smile to the Directress. “Strip.”
Frau Grumkow took off her flounced shirt, under which she wore nothing; her compact little torso supported two good round apple-like breasts. She held out her hands for the wrist-cuffs.
But Colonel von Schmettau was still smiling. He beckoned Maria Daunitz forward. “Your honor, Fraulein. Urinate on it.”
And such was Maria's training by now she made no hesitation. She crouched and sprayed the little ruffled Malines shirt until it was sodden with her liquid; after which the Sergeant-Major tore it into shreds and wadded it into an effective gag. Having done so he attached his victim to the triangle. Elizabeth Grumkow stood with arms hoist to the shiny apex, legs parted and secured apart at the base, offering a virgin back for the frightful whip.
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.
