The Prussian Girls by P. N. Dedeaux Read Free Book Online Page A

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