“Thank you, sir. Oh, thank you!”
“You’re welcome, m’gel. You took ’em well. You’re good stuff.”
It was good to just stand and pant, knowing the cane had finished with her. Being bound did not matter. She was not going anywhere! But, in a final awareness, Trudy turned her head and was appalled. Warrant Officer Ringbolt was copulating with the girl tied, most conveniently, on his cot. Nikola was beginning to gasp in the oncoming throes of orgasm.
The girl tied to the post quenched panic. The W.O. was exercising a perquisite of his office. He was as entitled to it now as well as any other time. Their girls’ bodies were his on demand. They had been since the inception of the troop. It was useless to travail or feel injustice. Galla and Rulua probably knew perfectly well what was taking place. This was Zindawba!
“A girl’s always better with a sore arse.”
“So I’ve heard,” Trudy agreed politely.
Nikola had choked her way to a screaming climax and now lay panting, but still tied, oblivious to all save her own sensations. Warrant Officer Ringbolt had withdrawn from her doubly punished sheath and thoughtfully wiped his penis. “It won’t be ready for a minute,” he apologised. “It’s something a man can’t hurry.”
“I understand, sir. I don’t mind.” Trudy did not mind! She was wracking her brains to think of some expedient by which she might evade the imminent piercing. But there was nothing! Previous attempts to escape this female obligation had ended in disaster. If she made too much fuss the rest of them would regard her as stupidly prudish. “Perhaps you would like to untie me, sir?” she ventured timidly.
“Eh? Oh yes—see what you mean! Not a good position, eh!” The W.O. was pleased by her thoughtfulness. “It’s hard to beat a girl on her back with a pillow or two under her arse,” he said conversationally as he untied her arms. “May as well leave these on.” He flicked her handcuffs. “They look good on you.”
There came an awkward pause. Two pairs of interested eyes examined the military phallus. It failed to rise to the occasion.
“Age tells on a man,” said the W.O. bitterly. “There was a time . . . !”
“I’m sure there was, sir. Please don’t worry.”
“I’m not worrying, but I’m not pleased. The damn thing needs a bit of inspiration.” Its owner looked around vaguely for an aphrodisiac. “Would you mind standing with your legs apart while I whip your cunt a couple of times? That always does the trick.”
“Could I not do something manually, sir?”
“No you can’t! Spread your legs. It’s not much to ask.”
“Of course not, sir! I’m sorry.”
Trudy sighed. She was becoming accustomed to these sexual absurdities. What did two more strokes with a whip matter! Best not to make a fuss. She obligingly separated her feet and clasped her handcuffed wrists at the back of her neck.
“By Jove, that’s perfect! You’re really a smashing girl!”
It was miraculous! But Trudy had to believe her eyes. Ringbolt’s penis was on the way up, its lethargy lost in admiration of the shaming posture she had assumed. It was definitely approaching rigidity. Its owner was less astounded, no doubt accustomed to its whims and stimuli. He had picked up the small whip and was fingering its supple lashes. He struck her from behind, a slashing upward cut squarely upon her sex, then another so that she squealed in surprise at a new and fresh agony.
“As fine an erection as I’ve ever seen,” said the W.O. proudly.
Trudy lay on her back upon the floor and spread her legs. Obligingly she raised her hips for the cushion . . .
It was hinted it would be a big day. Something momentous and Zindawban in which they were to play a stellar role. There had been frequent drills. They were now camped a bare five miles from Tulabe so that in the morning they could march there and through the town streets without fatigue. The troop was pleasantly excited. Trudy was done with handcuffs and with chains. Her uniform had been returned and she was a trooper in good standing, once more trusted. She was never naked unless she wished to be, the cane marks on her bottom had begun to fade. She could think of escape only with distaste. It held no allure. She was a trooper and proud to be a guard as were all the rest. The future could look after itself. For now she was simply thankful not to be bound and not to be whipped. In the natural course of rotation she would not be impaled upon W.O. Ringbolt for quite a long time. She approached the march to Tulabe with pleasant curiosity.
There was a rousing thrill in the sound of their marching feet and the crisp commands of the W.O. as he shepherded his flock through the town. The populace was out in force, joined by country visitors. Their appreciation of the Guard uniform and its contents was vociferous and prolonged. It was a triumphal march indeed, but no one knew what the triumph was about. Reaching the Town Square they found the President’s Brass Band already assembled and producing a creditable rendition of Colonel Bogey. Trudy felt the vagus nerve tighten in her tummy.
There was a platform draped in gay bunting in the colours of the new Republic. On it a podium and chairs. The band took up position on one side, the Guard formed a double line on the other, facing the scene of whatever there was to come. It was a front-row seat. From time to time the W.O. had them do a smart about turn so that the male citizens could fully appreciate their breasts as well as their backs. Each turn was greeted by applause. A back is not alone: it has a bottom!
She should have guessed! When President Khalief Abhad appeared the crowd responded with frenzied cheers, and the band managed to reach a reasonable accord with the national anthem, the words to which no one seemed quite certain of. An omission thoughtfully foreseen by the girls’ choir from the local college who lustily paid vocal tribute to their new land and stuck out their breasts for the President to admire. Khalief returned the tribute with a fine baritone of his own. Zindawbans glowed with pride and sweated profusely.
The speeches were dull, mostly in the dialect Trudy did not understand. It was not until the President stood at the podium that the hush of expectancy truly fell. Whilst Khalief rambled through the inanities all Presidents must say, Trudy fell into a reverie remembering their last meeting. It seemed a long time ago. His formal attire today was in sharp contrast . . . Like a receiver with a loose wire she picked up intermittent words:
“This great land of ours . . . Foreign domination ended forever . . . stronger than our enemies . . . A new consciousness and a new voice . . . Today a dawn . . . a testimony . . . a courageous personality . . . A unique visitation of sincerity . . .”
From the lengthy preamble Trudy gathered they were about to hear someone speak about something that mattered. When the President stood aside and extended his hand, and the band blared forth in exaltation, she caught her breath in a gasp of pure incredulity. The woman Abhad led forward was Caroline Dowling.
The amplifiers were well tuned. Caroline’s contralto reached every attentive ear with clarity. It struck Trudy like a blow. This beauty with whom she had so long shared a cage was denying the divinity of the white and extolling the spirituality of the black. Attired exquisitely in formal white, she scornfully condemned the class from which she came. She was filled with gratitude to Khalief Abhad for rescuing her from a parasitic society now doomed. Those who listened now must look to Khalief Abhad for sustenance and leadership. “Follow where this great man leads.” There were dramatic pauses. Now and then Caroline raised a white kid-clad arm to emphasise a point. Her words crisply disposed of the Caucasian and heralded the rich new world of those with darker skins. In conclusion, and in the same ringing peal of sincerity, she told of her determination now to take upon herself the expiation of the sins of all her decadent race. She had asked the President of Zindawba to allow her to be publicly whipped.