P. Dedeaux - The Prussian Girls

Maria beat her fists under his buggering. It was impossible to feel any fuller. The smack of his thighs on her hips as he thudded into her drew stifled wails that turned to gusts in her belly. She was going to be sick, she was going to vomit. The vicious ramming was too much. The column seemed to throb and rise within her guts.

“By Heavens, man, this is what I call buggery!”

Total hysteria took hold of her, then, as the coursing girth grew even greater in her guts, her nostrils flared, sweat streamed down, the cock pounded into her until she felt his hairy belly on her ass. Then she tasted the first fluid of her bile. She began to retch. Helplessly, hopelessly.

It was as if it drew the gism out of her adversary physically. The syrupy stuff surged deep into her, filling her with misery as her mouth overflowed, past the gag, with her own hot filth.

It was a rape, and when he had plucked out of her tender and irritated sphincter she lay in her bonds nerveless, soiled and disgusted, whimpering.

“A rotten exhibition,” said the Count calmly. “Give her eight.” And it was done. “That's better,” he said after the cruel belting, and then Maria knew the worst. He was walking towards her, she felt the sudden throb of his cock at the fringed pink buttonhole of her cunt.

“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.