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
