“I’m sorry to have to do this,” said Sergeant Galla.
Trudy was sorry too! She arched her back to protrude her impudent behind, hoping her pendant breasts would not betray her trembling. The handcuffs shone brightly on her wrists where her fingers touched her toes. When her world exploded into pain she gave a startled yelp and fell forward on her knees.
“Still think we’re something to laugh at?”
“Oh no, Sergeant.”
“Stand up straight, then bend over again. I’d better start you out right.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Trudy stood, her cuffed hands ineffectually seeking her scorched flesh. Once more she bent over for punishment. It would be worse this time—the knowing . . .
But she managed to hold, position as the cane thunked into her innocence, the pain of it choking her throat and tying her stomach into knots. If this was life in the President’s Guard she did not want it.
“Stand up and apologise.”
“I really am sorry, Sergeant! And thank you for caning me.”
Galla smiled, In anger, obviously simulated, she barked at her troop. “You can stop grinning. Stand at attention for discipline. You needn’t think you’re getting off just because she got a couple first.”
With burning bottom, Trudy stood aside to witness feminine agony inflicted and endured for her edification. She was sure the girls would all hate her. She longed to massage her wealed skin, but the handcuffs and Galla’s eye inhibited. Her bottom blazed.
Sergeant Galla enjoyed her work. The girls were docile and resigned—and seemingly without resentment. Each bottom, as it was revealed, bore evidence of previous inflictions. Their salute was unfailingly smart, their thanks sincere. The cane whirred, thunked and splatted, weal after weal sprang into scarlet. Some pouting pudendums pushed themselves into rearward prominence and were painfully rewarded for their temerity.
After it was all over, Trudy had to fight back more giggles. The sergeant, from some sense of what was proper to the occasion, insisted on a shaking of hands all round. Miss Trudy Ramsay must be properly introduced. The handcuffs jingled incongruously with each handclasp.
The uniform was fun. “Suppose I’d better take these off.” Galla unlocked the handcuffs with obvious reluctance. “What’s your dress size?”
The guard uniform was sparse. It was designed to emphasise every female feature. But after total nakedness or the Union Jack, Trudy actually felt covered. In her hometown she would have been arrested for indecent exposure.
“You’ll be a credit to us,” Galla approved. “And now I suppose you’d better have the interview with the W.O.”
“What do I have to see Mr. Ringbolt for?”
“It’s more a case of him wanting to see you, love. Butter him up a bit, he’s touchy: still mourning the good old days.”
Warrant Officer Ringbolt was indeed a relic of times past. Enduring his fierce inspection across his office desk, Trudy longed for Galla. But she was on her own. The probing male eyes reduced the guard uniform to total indecency. Momentarily they switched to the sheet of paper in his hand. “English, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So’m I. But don’t expect favours.”
“Oh no, sir!”
“Off with that uniform.”
The demand was a shock. Trudy gazed fearfully upon the bristling handlebar mustache and bleary eyes. Her voice quavered. “But, sir, why?”
“So I can have a look at you, of course.”
“But, sir, is that allowed? I’m a girl . . . ?”
“So I notice! Off with that uniform!”
It was Zindawba. After the cage, did anything matter! The curves of the girlishness had been ogled by a thousand men. But the W.O. was different, more personal—and he shouldn’t be using his authority to have a look at a girl’s breasts and pubic hair. But still . . . ! Trudy shrugged and unfastened her newly acquired splendor.
“Trim!” The W.O.’s exclamation was approving.
“I do like a girl to be trim! No sags! Turn round slowly—put your hands behind your neck!”
The exposure was blatant. Trudy knew herself reddening. She postured slowly for Ringbolt’s enjoyment.
“Couple of stripes, I see—on your arse! Fresh?”
“Yes, sir. I was not properly respectful.”
“But you will be now, eh?”
“Oh yes, sir!”
“Spread your legs—out wide! I want to see your quiff.”
“My what, sir . . . ?”
“What you pee through! That’s right. Lean back, but forward with your hips.”
It was cruelly demeaning, reducing a girl to a pouting vulva.
“Nice! Very nice! All right, at ease, girl.” Trudy stood before him, limply naked, longing for Caroline.
“His Nibs fuck you yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Not anybody?”
“No, sir. I’ve been chained in a cage.”
“Oh yes, of course!” he pondered morosely. “Well then, I suppose I’d better do you.” He made it sound a dreary chore.
Trudy had no wish to be ‘done.’ Feeling a giggle imminent, she hastily interposed. “Please don’t feel you have to, sir, I won’t be offended if you don’t ‘do’ me, I don’t want to be a bother.”
“No bother, really.” The military voice was sad.
“But there’s twenty-one of you—I do the sergeant too! And I’m not as young as I was . . . ! His Nibs doesn’t help much either—”
The giggle was boiling over, Trudy quenched it with words. “I think you’re to be admired, sir. It’s not every man who could ‘do’ a whole troop.”
The W.O. visibly preened. “Think so! Well, nice of you to understand. Damn girls . . .” He fixed her with a more benign regard. “It’s the chutney, y’know. If a chap puts a bit o’ chutney on everything he eats he can do wonders—probably the mangoes . . .”
“I’ll try and remember that, sir.”
“Hell, you don’t need chutney!” he pondered.
“Suppose I’d better do something with you though . . .” He searched an invisible repertoire and sighed. “May as well whip your arse. It’s a good old standby.”
“But, sir, I haven’t done anything!”
“Who said you had! Touch your toes.”
“I don’t want to be caned again, sir. It hurts terribly.”
“That’s the whole idea. Look, girl, go over to the rack and pick your own tool.”
She had noticed the rack The things it held were shivery. None seemed less lethal than another. She picked one at random and tendered it humbly. Adjusting her nudity into the punishment posture she longed to cry.
“Spread your legs a bit more.”
She had scarcely obeyed when the cane bit. She moaned pitifully but held still.
“Good girl! Hold it for another.”
The snickering whirr was frightening, the pain exquisite.
Trudy Ramsay screamed.
4
Zindawba Jail
The two men sat, ill at ease, in a room provided by Zindawba’s Foreign Ministry. Its appointments indicated Zindawba’s approval of foreign visitors, provided they arrived bearing gifts. Americans were always viewed with hopeful expectation.
“The damn woman’s a pain in the ass,” Irwin of the State Department scowled at the Consul. “Look, Blakeney, how far do we have to push?”
“I’ve already pushed. There’s a resistance we haven’t assessed. I’ve fallen back on just being curious.”
“But we can’t just abandon the fool girl!”
“Why not! You’ll ask yourself the same—”
The sentence died with the opening of the door. The two men stood and gaped askance at the woman who entered. It was Irwin’s first glimpse of Mrs. Caroline Dowling. He absorbed a brief flashing impression of great beauty artfully and tastefully attired, an impression dashed into oblivion by the chain.
“Do sit down, gentlemen. I’m flattered.” Deliberately, she raised her hands to give a full view of the metal bands locked upon her wrists and the considerable length of shining links by which they were joined. “May I ring for tea or coffee?”