There were rumours. They were going to war; certainly their rifles had been loaded in with them in the truck that took them the first seventy miles. They were going to escort and impress a neighboring dictator. As far as Trudy could tell they were simply exhibiting their prowess for the edification of the voters. Beholding their excellence, no citizen could doubt Khalief Abhad’s insistence on only the best. They marched their circuit from village to village and were roundly cheered. Their uniforms provoked high praise and equally elevated erections.
Warrant Officer Ringbolt was in his glory. Since he was no longer a member of the ruling race he conceded leadership to Sergeant Galla and Captain Rulua. He himself, resplendent in uniform and medals, marched at the side of the column. His commands might have been heard in the next emergent nation. His bellow was impressive. Their route coincided with fairs, gala occasions, fiestas, the opening of public buildings and the like. They added a touch of class. They were serenaded by the President’s Brass Band whose martial music was easy to march to and whose trumpetings stirred patriotic fervour at every stop. Their rendition of the national anthem was often confused by the older members stoutly playing “God Save the Queen” whilst the younger recruits blared away with “Hail, Hail, Zindawba.” Trudy often wanted to giggle. But she also glowed with pride as the brass rumbled resonantly and the sound of their marching feet made a cadence of its own.
Trudy sensed an undercurrent. They were going somewhere, a destination as yet undisclosed. Sometimes she caught Rulua, Galla or the W.O. watching her speculatively as though in expectation of her seeing the tour as an opportunity to escape. Certainly escape was an ever-recurring thought, but it was impractical. She would be easily caught, and terribly punished. She seized an opportunity to confront the sergeant.
“Galla, if you’re uneasy about me, chain my ankles at night, I won’t mind, honest I won’t.” Galla was surprised. “More like I chain Maisie and Daphne than you.” She giggled. “None of you’s going to run.”
“But there’s something on your mind about me. What is it?”
Galla kissed her. “You do fine, love. Mr. Ringbolt, he’s real proud of you.” She groped around for something plausible. “We soon coming to a big town. You heard of Tulabe? The President’s going to be there and a lot of big doings. The troop’s going to have a hard day. We’s goin’ to be right out front.”
With that Trudy had to be satisfied. What did it matter! Her more immediate concern was the servicing of Warrant Officer Ringbolt.
“Never did manage our little tête-à-tête.”
“No, sir.” Trudy looked around the very masculine tent and at the man who surveyed her benignly from under beetling brows. She was trapped and knew it. She wished she could accept his insertion within her body with a better grace and less revulsion. She had thought a lot of his ‘option’ and recoiled from that too. As though it was the voice of a stranger she heard herself say. “I think I’ll take the cane this time, sir, if you don’t mind.”
He was surprised. She sensed chagrin. “Humph! Any reason?”
“I expect it’s all the marching, sir, and the excitement. I guess I’m just not—in the mood.”
“Huh! Damn gels and your moods! Well, what’s it to be: palms, soles, or buttocks?”
“Oh, not my bottom, sir!”
He laughed shortly. “Still sore, eh! That day on the post did you a lot of good. Off with that uniform and let’s see what your little arse looks like now.”
There was no help for it. Woefully, Trudy laid her lovely uniform across a chair and stood before her superior officer, naked. Letting him look his fill, she slowly turned and bent with hands on knees for his inspection.
“Damn me, you’re nearly healed! Not much left of that sandpaper.”
“No, sir, It’s been quite a while.”
“Sure you don’t want ’em across your rump?”
He sounded solicitous. “It’s the best place—and I do like to see a young rump bounce under the cane.”
“That hurt me so much, sir, I’d rather not. Could I have them on the soles of my feet?”
“You ever have your soles whipped?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s pretty bad, y’know—and the marching you’re doing? How about your hands?”
“Rulua caned my hands a couple of times, sir. It makes them all numb and fumbly for a couple of days.”
“Hmmmm!” The W.O. was obviously pondering the capriciousness of females. “Want to be tied for it?”
“Yes please, sir.”
Trudy did not want any of it. But she meekly lay on her back and allowed the military martinet to bind her ankles, one on each side of the tent pole at an elevation of about two feet. “Needn’t bother with your hands.” he said gruffly. “You can’t do much but watch.”
The watching was bad. She would see it all, every hateful stroke. The soles of her small feet were offered in poignant helplessness, she could scarcely move them. Agonizedly, her eyes followed Ringbolt as he selected the cane. A slender thing, vicious!
“Are you likely to scream, m’dear?”
She was! She knew she was! And in a tent . . . !
The whole camp would hear her shame. Trudy passionately did not want the troop to listen to the cries she would emit because the soles of her feet were being beaten. “I’m afraid so, sir. Can I please be gagged?”
“Not much sense with your hands free.”
“But something to bite on, sir.” The nude victim was feeling desperate and a little ridiculous. “I think in the old days they gave you a bit of wood or something . . . ?”
“Capital! Don’t want a fuss. Damn sensible gel!”
She wondered why, if he liked her, he could not forego this sadistic pleasure. But, no doubt, he would point out that if she liked him she would willingly spread and offer himself to be pierced. Perhaps this craggy-faced lonely man deserved pity. His life seemed barren except for the girls . . . The troop was all he had. It was while he rummaged in a box that sounds came from the entrance and Sergeant Galla joined the scene.
“Ooops, sorry!”
“I had it here somewhere,” the W.O. muttered absently. “The very thing. The gel wants something to bite on.”
“You mean you’re getting the soles of your feet beaten, love?” Galla was aghast.
“I’m—I’m afraid so. It’s a sort of option.”
“Yes I know!” The sergeant’s voice was terse. “You don’t want to be fucked. You’re crazy.”
“Does it hurt that bad?”
“You can’t imagine it, dear. Have him do something else.”
“I’m scared, My poor bottom !”
“You’re being ridiculous.” Galla was not much older than the bound and naked girl on the floor, but she easily assumed a maternal authority on a subject with which she was well familiar. “What’s so awful about our own W.O. shoving his dink in your pussy!”
“I make a nice job of it. Ask any of the girls,” Ringbolt offered patiently.
“You might enjoy it,” said Galla.
Trudy felt she had somehow been put in the wrong. She was being unkind, unappreciative and rude. But she was sure she should not feel, in this enforcement of the act of love, like a cow being escorted to the bull. The soles of her feet seemed a small price to pay for purity. “Must it be all ten strokes at once?” she asked plaintively.
“I can make it twenty,” W.O. Ringbolt said stiffly.
“Tell you what,” Galla the peacemaker suggested brightly. “Give the poor dear one to start with, and we’ll take it from there.”
“I’m disappointed in her,” said the W.O. sadly. “She seemed a real sensible gel.” He struck the bottom of Trudy’s left bound foot with a fearful accuracy.
Trudy’s ankles were tied tightly to the post. But the rest of her matched her scream of outrage and despair. She became a whirling tangle of flailing arms, taut belly and vibrating breasts. She beat on the ground with small impotent fists, her hair flew from side to side as she shook her head wildly in negation of her agony. She did not care how she might appear before her audience. She was possessed of a need to demonstrate the awfulness of what had been done to her. Pain was lancing into her being in great sweeping waves from her punished foot.