SOLDIER GIRLS

This book is a work of fiction.
In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.

First published in 2001 by
Nexus
Thames Wharf Studios
Rainville Road London
W6 9HA

Reprinted 2001

Copyright © Yolanda Celbridge 2001

The right of Yolanda Celbridge to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

www.nexus-books.co.uk

Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon

Printed and bound by
Clays Ltd, St Ives PLC

ISBN 0 352 33586 6

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

1 Degraded

2 Bare Body

3 Flagellance Sinister

4 Flagellance Pure

5 Pink to Crimson

6 Arse-meat

7 Nude on Ice

8 Whipped Wet

9 Slave Games

10 Colonel Said

11 The Sacred Gash

12 Mam’selle

13 Hanging Gallery

14 The High Colon

15 Brigade Sexuelle

16 Soldier Girls

SOLDIER GIRLS

‘Melleah will now give you a caning of twelve, mademoiselle. Bare-bottom caning, to us S’Ibayas, is a sacred ritual,’ said Dr Crevasse. ‘The squirming of a whipped bare croup is the swell of the desert dunes, or the ocean waves. The gasps of a female flogged naked are the winds of life to our sacred land.’

Lise eyed the male servant’s penis, which was now fully erect again.

‘My servants,’ said the doctor, ‘are under instruction to maintain themselves in a state of constant arousal. They will wank off as you are caned, and for your humiliation the male will spurt his sperm in your face. Now, inmate Gallard, stand with your buttocks raised and your belly on the chair back. You may not move in any way without my permission …’

By the same author:

MEMOIRS OF A CORNISH GOVERNESS
THE GOVERNESS AT ST AGATHA’S
THE GOVERNESS ABROAD
THE HOUSE OF MALDONA
THE ISLAND OF MALDONA
THE CASTLE OF MALDONA
PRIVATE MEMOIRS OF A KENTISH

HEADMISTRESS

THE CORRECTION OF AN ESSEX MAID
MISS RATTAN’S LESSON
THE SCHOOLING OF STELLA
THE DISCIPLINE OF NURSE RIDING
THE SUBMISSION OF STELLA
THE TRAINING OF AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN
CONFESSION OF AN ENGLISH SLAVE
SANDRA’S NEW SCHOOL
POLICE LADIES

1

Degraded

The jeep was parked awkwardly off the desert road, as though with an empty petrol tank; its cargo of medicaments packed tightly in styrofoam boxes. The nurse peered into the gloomy shed, escorted by a tall young male, in the traditional bafto robe, with a sword at his red and gold belt. Two other young males, their chiselled Nilotic faces smiling, stood inside.

‘Which is your sick brother?’ said the young nurse, brushing a blonde lock from her brow. ‘I see no invalids here.’

Her escort stepped away, leaving her framed in the sunlight.

‘We are all sick from priapism, sweet lady,’ he said, sighing, in broken French, ‘and need your help.’

The three young males swept back their baftos, revealing themselves naked underneath. Each had a dark, shining penis, monstrously erect. Sweating, the uniformed nurse looked back at her jeep. She travelled alone as the paved desert road was considered ‘safe’, just by virtue of being a paved road. Nevertheless, she was armed. Her automatic rifle hung cradled beneath the dashboard, and her handgun was still closed in the holster strapped to her belt.

‘I have no drugs to cure priapism,’ she stammered.

‘Your body is our cure, mademoiselle,’ said one of the males, stepping forward and raising his sword. ‘Perhaps you will be more sympathetic after a caning of your bare French arse.’

‘No!’ cried the blonde girl, ‘I’m not French, damn you, I’m English!’

‘Your fesses will be prettier after a caning, whoever owns them,’ said the sword-holder. ‘A female, heated to lust by our African sun, must be thrashed on her naked croup, for the good of her soul.’

‘No … please don’t!’ she whimpered.

The males conversed in amiable ritual, not in the Somali dialect of the Republic of Djibouti but in French. She recognised certain words: melons, peaches, ripe plums, the arse of a goddess …

‘Such a beautiful derrie`re demands to be reddened by the rod, mademoiselle,’ said one politely. ‘And the exquisite hole within, to be filled by the fleshy rods of men.’

‘Oh no, I beg you!’ she sobbed, staring at the three dark, naked cocks.

Already, she was undoing the buttons of her blouse, trembling as she stripped, and begging them to be gentle. Her skirt fell with a thump from her holstered handgun. Her full, jutting breasts, the plums of her bare nipples stiffened in excitement, sprang free of her bra, to gasps of delight from the erect males. When she finally unzipped her boots and stepped from her shed skirt, she was nude but for stockings and suspender belt. Moaning, she crouched on the ground, with her bare bottom thrust upwards and the cheeks parted, to show her anus and dripping wet vulva. Her naked teats squashed the dirt; she raised her head and her mouth fastened on the immense dark glans of an erect penis. Taking the shaft right to the back of her throat, she began to fellate the male organ with squeezing lips and fast, bobbing movements of her head, while one of her hands rubbed her wet slit and the other pinched her nipples together.

Crack!

The sword-flat twanged as it lashed her bare buttocks. With vigorous fingers, the girl masturbated her clitoris; her huge quim-thatch was soaked in sweat and love juice, which flowed from her gash and glistened on her thighs as she sucked the penis to orgasm and swallowed the male’s sperm. Its place in her mouth was taken by a second, which she sucked with equal vigour, bringing the male off and swallowing his full emission. Constant caning reddened her bare, clenching bottom, the strokes of the springy sword-flat delivered at tantalising intervals of half a minute or more, and each cut making her shriek and masturbate faster.

‘Ohh …’ she sobbed, pausing in her fellation. ‘No, please …’

She masturbated herself to her own squealing orgasm three times, as she tongued stiff cock-flesh, and her squirming, naked fesses were caned crimson. When she had taken a full twenty-one strokes on the bare, she groaned as a cock’s helmet nuzzled her anus bud, then fully penetrated her hole with a hard thrust right to her root. She whimpered and sobbed as she was buggered by all three cocks in turn, those she had milked having rapidly firmed again. Horses whinnied and pawed the sand, outside the stone shed. They were the only sounds, apart from the gasping sobs of the buggered and masturbating girl, as the black cocks rammed her arse-root, and the grunts of the males, as each filled her anus with sperm.

There was a whirring noise, far away, which neared, and became a pulsing throb. The males, sated, replaced their baftos, and left the girl crouching in the dirt, rubbing her sore bottom and still masturbating.

‘No …’ she whimpered, ‘please don’t go! Fuck my cunt! Please!’

Horses thudded away. The girl wiped her tears and struggled into her uniform, a task only half completed, when a helicopter landed before the shed. The figure of a grizzled, middle-aged Legion policeman entered.

‘I …’ she began to stammer, but he put a finger to his lips.

‘Save it for the tribunal, mademoiselle,’ he said in a kindly voice. ‘You poor young thing! These Djiboutians are the most sexually beautiful people on earth, I know. It’s cruel of the Legion to provide females for us, but expect you nurses to remain virgins …’

‘They forced me!’ she cried. ‘They whipped me! Look at my bottom!’

‘Your cheeks must be smarting,’ said the policeman, as he gently helped her into the helicopter, behind the pilot, and a third legionnaire took charge of her jeep. ‘But then, I expect you’ve come to like it. Every month you deliver medical supplies to Fort Holhol, and every month you are unpredictably late. Unfortunately for you, Moussa, one of your paramours is our spy. I dread to think what his friends will do if they find out he has deprived them of your derrie`re! Those necklaces of theirs aren’t made of chestnuts. Or, perhaps you could say, they are!’

The legionnaire slapped his thigh, laughing at his own crudity, then put a paternal arm around the shivering young nurse.‘Never mind, sweet. Whatever happens, just remember that the French Foreign Legion, like a good parent, always looks after its own. Moreover, you’ve never in all these months had your weapons or medicines stolen. Take that as a compliment! For those males to value your behind more than black market profit, you must have the arse of a goddess …’

‘God, how I hate the fucking French,’ Lise Gallard whispered to herself in a mantra of despair. ‘God, how I hate the fucking French …’

She stood, sweat stinging her eyes, in full dress uniform of the nursing corps of the French Foreign Legion: white blouse, fastened to the neck, with an ultramarine brooch; tight red jacket, with brass buttons polished to brilliance; bottom-hugging ultramarine knee-length skirt, and matching heavy cotton stockings, with a fleur-de-lys pattern. Beneath, she was swaddled in a pinching ultramarine corset, with lacy bra, knickers and suspenders of the same hue. It was a long-standing joke amongst the girls of the Foreign Legion Nursing Corps that the French – the fucking, blasted French – were such sticklers for elegance that even a girl captured by virile Somali or Djiboutian nomads had to look chic when ravished. Her long blonde tresses were pinned tightly in the regulation bun under the white tricorn nurse’s bonnet. All her garments were drenched with sweat, even the red, white and blue tricolour sash of the French Republic which cradled her full – pure English! – breasts and bottom. The zipped boots of dark blue rubber, like jackboots, with their casual French blend of practicality and elegance, only increased her discomfort.

God, how I hate the fucking French ...

‘Nurses … attention!’

The parade ground cracked as sixty pairs of female heels snapped together. At 9 a.m., it was already baking in 30-degree heat, and dust was blown by the hot wind from the Red Sea, just visible beyond the white sprawl of Djibouti city. Lise Gallard stood in the open before her comrades in the Foreign Legion Sisters of Mercy, soon to be her former comrades.

‘After this ceremony of degradation,’ pronounced the Sister-General, ‘three of you will no longer be Sisters of Mercy, but common legionnaires. The tribunal has passed sentence and the malefactresses have accepted their degradation of rank and subsequent penalty: indefinite training in the Punishment Battalion at Fort Lafresne.’

Lise mentally translated the French into English, a habit she enforced on herself in order not to forget her proper tongue altogether. She found herself thinking in French most of the time, and hated herself for it. The Sister-General had not said ‘punishment battalion’ but ‘Centre de Formation’, which could be equally applied to a harmless training school for teachers or dental hygienists, or the most savage prison, as Fort Lafresne was widely rumoured to be. The nominal similarity to the French prison of Fresnes was understood by all the girls, few of them French, as another odd, academic joke of which the Legion seemed so fond: like the colour ultramarine for their uniforms, meaning ‘overseas’. The Legion’s motto, however, was not a joke: Legio Patria Nostra: ‘the Legion is our homeland’. Once a legionnaire donned the white hat, he or she was subject to a disciplinary code that had nothing to do with the laws of France, and in which any government, French or otherwise, tried to intervene at its peril. The Legion closed ranks, including those members it punished; the Legion was its own law.

Within the Hospital of Mercy at Djibouti that law was represented by Sister-General Louise Grenier, already, at thirty years of age, one of the highest-ranking female legionnaires. That a woman of such lush russet hair, pouting lips and full figure should choose the military life instead of marrying the millionaire of her choice, made her the subject of more than the usual vitriolic gossip: that she had murdered her husband and fled France; that she was the mistress of one of the Legion’s male generals; inevitably that she was a lesbian and the mistress of one, or several, wives, high up in the French government; at the very least, that she conducted policy meetings with other senior female officers in the nude, in her whirlpool bath. Certainly, she was a strict disciplinarian, and took a personal interest in the humiliating punishments she imposed for minor infractions of discipline or the uniform code. An unpolished button might mean a girl’s cleaning the latrines with her own panties and clad only in her skimpiest underthings under the watchful eye of the Sister-General.

Beside Lise, two other girls stood stiffly at attention. One was coltish, big of croup and full-breasted like Lise, and was a German aristocrat, Gabi von Titisee, known as ‘Titzi’ for short. She stood haughtily, as if the punishment to come was no more significant than a flea-bite to the proud beauty of her swelling Saxon croup. The other was compact, but ripe of body: a sultry, brown-skinned girl, her pendulous teats and full, taut buttocks tight under her clinging uniform, and her sensuous lips set off by an aquiline nose. Her enormously long Sri Lankan name was shortened to ‘Sutra’. Lise figured that her own abbreviation of Elizabeth was to her advantage, and even preferable to the ‘Liz’ by which she had been known before the Legion. She knew both her sister-prisoners only slightly, the three girls being from different squads.

What was I like before the Legion? What was Sutra like, or Titzi?

Not ‘before enlisting in the Legion’, but ‘before the Legion’: that was how the girls called their previous lives, as though time before had no meaning, and would never have one again, outside the Legion. Lise knew, to her horror, that no matter what brutalities she must endure at Fort Lafresne, found on no map, she would nevertheless defend the Legion to her last breath, because she belonged to the Legion. In this arid corner of northeast Africa, there was, in any case, no preferable alternative. The Republic of Djibouti, formerly the French Territory of Afars and Issas, consisted mostly of desert, with a nomadic Somalian population devoted to chewing narcotic qat. Djibouti was the African headquarters of the Legion, in a land as big as Belgium, with just 300 kilometres of paved roads and 100 kilometres of railways, the object of frequent terrorist attacks. Dependent on French money, the republic was claimed by the various bandit rulers of neighbouring Somalia; outside the capital, which contained three-quarters of its half million people, the law was the French Foreign Legion.

‘The Legion has trained you in the manner of lady soldiers,’ the Sister-General continued, ‘and each of you has disgraced the name of soldier, the name of lady, and, far more important, the name of legionnaire. Thus shall your degradation be witnessed by your sisters as an example and an encouragement. You are still legionnaires, and the Legion looks after its own. However oppressive you may think your treatment, you must never forget your pride as legionnaires, nor your hope that one day you will be readmitted to the ranks of your sisters. Sergeant-major, commence!’

Brrrt! Brrrt! Brrrt! A snare drum, beaten by a nurse in dress uniform, began a tempo at once sinister and mocking. The sergeant-major, a petite Portuguese, stepped forward and unfastened the sashes of Titzi, Sutra and Lise. She handed the sashes separately to three orderly nurses, then removed the bonnets and throat brooches of all three girls. Each girl’s insignia were fastened in a wooden box, stencilled with her serial number, since the sash of the French Republic, and the brooch and bonnet of a nurse legionnaire, must be kept as sacred. The sergeant-major signalled to three nurses armed with surgical knives.

‘Commence!’ barked the Portuguese in a deep contralto, surprising for a woman so feminine.

Brrrt! Brrrt! Brrrt! The drum seemed to beat more loudly. Each nurse stood in front of one degraded sister. Their lips and faces impassive as stone, the nurses began the ritual of degradation.

God, how I hate the fucking French, GodhowIhate thefuckingFrench ...

Lise winced, as a clean stroke from the razor knife sheared open her uniform tunic, then her blouse, which flapped open, exposing her bright blue bra. Another two slices, and her skirt was slit, to fall to her ankles, revealing her pubic mound, swelling under the high-cut blue panties, and her jungle of blonde curls spilling out, to brush the lacy stocking-tops and garter belt. Beside her, and in exactly the same rhythm – their sister nurses had been trained to this task of humiliation! – Titzi and Sutra’s garments were cut away. The three girls stood in their bras, panties, suspenders, boots and stockings. Their humiliants bent down as one and sliced open the rubber boots with three quick strokes to the uppers and one across the toes, so that the rubber fell completely away from the girls’ feet; the knives never even brushed their stockings. The sergeant-major ordered the three prisoners, still at attention, to take two paces forward. All three obeyed, rigidly, like automata, and stood in their underwear with stockinged feet on the burning stone slabs.

The bras were the first intimate garments cut away: two clean strokes and the bras fell, exposing three pairs of bare breasts to tremble under the scorching sun. Swiftly, the panties were cut off, with clean slices at pubis and in the croup-cleft; then the suspender belts, and finally, each stocking was ripped apart with a long, slicing cut down the back seam, the razors never touching flesh – which seemed to add obscurely to their humiliation, as if their bodies were pieces of equipment, either too expensive to be damaged or too worthless to damage a knife. Again, two paces forward, and the girls obeyed, each stepping out of her shredded stockings.

The three girls stood nude and barefoot under the hot sun before their sisters, stiff at attention, until the Sister-General ordered the ranks of nurses to stand at ease: the nude, humiliated prisoners no longer merited standing at attention. They were shackled with their wrists wedged behind their backs in the cleft of their bare buttocks, and ankles locked in iron hobble bars chained to their handcuffs. The final indignity was the removal of their hairclips, so that each girl’s full, uncombed mane cascaded over her naked breasts and shoulders. Lise gasped, for she felt her nipples stiffening as her tresses stroked her bare breasts; at the pressure of her shackling her quim seeped moisture. She peeped and saw that both Sutra and Titzi had stiffened nipples and moist quims, and that Titzi’s inner thighs glistened with juice dripping from her swollen gash lips. The German girl’s erect clitty poked from its fleshy wet pouch, revealed by a severely cropped pubic bush. Sutra’s pube-hair was dense and matted like Lise’s, and trailed in wet fronds concealing her clit. Were the other girls as guilty and .. . perverted as Lise? Why had they joined the Legion?

‘Prisoners!’ cried Sister-General Grenier. ‘Naked and without uniform, you are no longer sisters of the Legion, so you shall be transported naked to the place of your reformation. The Sisters of Mercy deny you!’

‘Response!’ barked the sergeant-major to the ranks of nurses.

With one voice, the Foreign Legion’s Sisters of Mercy cried to their nude and shackled ex-comrades: ‘We deny you!’

Titzi’s lips twisted in a sneer, while Sutra’s eyes were misted with tears as well as sweat. Three girls, barely twenty years of age, humiliated by shackling in the nude, and to be brutally imprisoned for offences against military discipline … Lise’s lips tightened.

‘God, how I hate the fucking French,’ she murmured to herself.

After the second hour in the windowless prison van, Lise no longer bothered to count the minutes. The jolting ride over the unseen desert was hell. Each of the three girls was locked in a stifling cage, with two sets of three cages fitted on either side of the vehicle, but the side walls were corrugated iron, and the girls were positioned so that they could not see or speak to each other. Each girl remained nude and shackled for the entire journey, while the stifling, piss-stinking air grew hotter, and the only ventilation blew hot desert air, with accompanying dust that clung to Lise’s sweat-soaked body. The seating in the cage was a throne of wire mesh with a hole in the van’s chassis beneath. Her hands were still cuffed behind her, and her feet in the hobble bar, so she was helpless to wipe the sweat that stung her eyes. If she needed to piss or dung, she must do so through the coarse wire mesh which was her only seat, and which became uncomfortable after a mere half hour of travel; hideous thereafter, so that she was obliged to raise her bare bum from the wire for as long as her aching thighs could stand it. From the roof of the van dangled a rubber tube that constantly dripped drinking water. By an agonising stretch of her limbs and pressing her feet to the scalding hot metal floor, Lise could press her mouth to the tube and suck fluid, or let the water drip over her head and breasts. Beside the tube hung a metal brank, a head-frame with gag, and tongue-depressor. Its clanking against the wire cage was enough to quell any desire to speak. A burly legion policeman sat smoking, with a carbine on his knees, behind the driver, and the vehicle only stopped at intervals for them to change places.

Lise no longer bothered to chant her mantra to herself; she was a numbed, stricken animal, in a desert hell, than which nothing could be worse. Her only friend was the faithfully dripping water tube, from which she drank and bathed herself as often as her tortured limbs could stand it. At first, she had been embarrassed by the presence of male escorts, imagining their custodians would be female. Eventually she understood this was part of her humiliation, since the males did not glance lustfully at three voluptuous nude girls shackled before them, nor even bother to glance at all. Lise, Sutra and Titzi were just prisoners, so much meat in chains: denied by the Legion, they did not exist. Yet the Legion was taking care of them with its own logic. The Legion would not allow its valuable investment to go to waste. Lise, like all other Legion nurses, had been speedily trained to do most of what a male legionnaire must do, except fight. The physical standards for nurses were as exacting as for males, but their training lacked the casual brutality of kicks and punches by which a male legionnaire was toughened. Nurses must swim, canoe, trek or parachute with a full kit of medical supplies, but received only rudimentary weapons training. Their pistols were for self-defence, or, in the last resort, to give the coup de grâce to a mortally wounded soldier, with the implicit instruction to save the last bullet for herself. Alone amongst the world’s elite fighting forces, soldiers of the French Foreign Legion were not issued with poison capsules.

Completely disoriented, Lise had no idea how far they had travelled from Djibouti, nor in what direction. Yet a gush of gratitude washed over her: legionnaires were trained to survive hell. The water tube was Lise’s friend, and it symbolised the care the Legion meant to take of her, and would always take. She could piss and stool as she wanted: once at Fort Lafresne, she would be released from the hell of her shackled nudity, would be fed, bathed, and the Legion, however brutally, would look after her. No imprisonment could be worse than this stinking bondage, and Lise realised that this too was part of the Legion’s psychology of control: she wanted to get to Fort Lafresne, where she would be free, and expected to hate the fucking French even more … The Legion wanted her to hate it! Prison would be liberation.

It was late afternoon when the three dazed girls emerged, blinking in the fierce sun, from the darkness of the prison van. They were drenched in sweat and piss, their long hair matted and damp from their water tubes, and each girl had fragments of dung clinging to her anus and smearing her lower buttocks. They stood in a vast sandy courtyard; like the town square in Djibouti, each side of the square was occupied by shady terraced arcades, like shops, except that most had barred windows. A gap at the far end of the square led to another one, where a three-storeyed, turreted building of drab greyish-brown stone was visible, the original Fort Lafresne. A high wall with manned sentry posts enclosed the terrain, but the sentries’ attention was directed outside, not inside, the fort. The van had entered the open gates as though entering a marketplace. It was parked in a row of similar wagons, trucks and jeeps, by the grandiose entry portals, topped with arabesque curlicues of wrought iron, and made of solid wood. Lise, Sutra and Titzi looked out – their last glance of freedom – and saw only desert. There was no need of barbed wire at Fort Lafresne, as any threat was from outside, not from escaping prisoners.

Camels sat in the shade of the colonnades, and beside them fine-boned Somalis, males and females, squatted in their bafto robes chewing qat, as they offered fruits, dates, dried meats or bric-a-brac spread on tarpaulins. They bargained, listlessly smiling, with prison staff or prisoners – Lise could not tell which at this distance. All were female, and most completely nude but for white prison caps, like sailors’, stencilled with numbers, and rope sandals; or else wearing white corporals’ kepis and badges of rank on otherwise nude bodies. The prisoners seemed at ease with their guards, though they carried canes on rubber waistbands. Lise grimaced, hopping, as the sand burnt her bare feet.

The square was drowsily alive with female bodies. One group of prisoners, entirely nude, with white rubber swimming caps buckled under the chin, drilled back and forth at the double, their unfettered breasts bouncing. A second group marched round and round in a circle, also nude, but shackled together at waist and ankles, and carrying large rocks in wire baskets clamped to their bare nipples, so that if a prisoner failed to support her burden, her teats would be stretched. A third group of nude prisoners dug a trench, shovelling sand from a deep hole in the middle of the square, and, as fast as they dug, the sand was shovelled back by another group. These groups were also shackled and carried smaller rocks, clamped to their nipples and labia, which swung, striking their skin, as they dug. They were bare-headed and shoeless, their bodies completely shaven, including the pubis, scalp and limbs. All these groups were supervised by cane-wielding corporals, themselves nude but for their hats and badges of rank. None paid any attention to the others, and the naked females who idled by the merchants did not glance at the sweating bodies under discipline, even when a cane cracked on a bare croup. All the naked prisoners gleamed white, and the air bore a curious perfume above the stink of sweat: the nude inmates were smeared with sun-blocking cream. The Legion looks after its own ...

The two legionnaires did not salute, as a naked, hatted prison corporal approached, bearing a clipboard and papers. Rather, the corporal saluted the two ordinary legionnaires. She was tall, with rippling thighs and breasts, and a firm, swelling croup. Under her sun screen of oil, her nude body glowed with an unbroken suntan. Her naked breasts bounced at her smart movement; her status was indicated by her hat, by two corporal’s stripes as copper armbands on her bare right bicep, and by a double-stripe cloth name-badge of red and blue in a copper clasp, pinned through the pierced nipple of her right breast. A cane a metre in length dangled from her rubber thong waistband, and her pubis and scalp were shaved gleaming bare. It was impossible to tell the colour of her hair before the Legion, or before Fort Lafresne; the firm brown pears of her croup were etched with scars of past cane-stripes. Her shiny pubic hillock swelled like two breasts, with a deep dimple between, at the pubic bone. Beneath it, the pink slash of her large, gaping cunt glistened wetly, as though she had recently pissed, or was seeping come oil at the prospect of new prisoners to break. Her swollen, extruded clitoris, peeping from the cunt-folds, suggested the latter, and her cane quivered on her bare thigh. She wore white rubber nursing boots, instead of rope sandals, and clicked them to attention as she saluted.

‘Inmate Corporal Lavoisier, detailed to escort prisoners!’ she rapped, her stony face not concealing the contempt smouldering in her eyes for the shackled and bedunged newcomers.

Paperwork was signed and exchanged, and the males lit cigarettes, then ambled, without a backward glance, towards an elegant arcade, crisply labelled Centre d’Acceuil– ‘Welcome Centre’ – with tables, a bright crimson-striped awning, and coolers of food and drink. They paid no attention to the nude prisoners but sat at a table, where two waitresses at once brought them beer. They were lissom and sultry Somali girls of Lise’s age, with sleek, black tresses clinging to the clefts of their buttocks, and were bare-breasted, their firm, conical teats topped by nipples like peeled chestnuts. They wore only sandals and white pleated mini-skirts, flaring loose, after tightly hugging their ample haunches and the delicate plums of their bottoms; gold necklaces hung piled in the valleys of their breasts. The legionnaires slapped each girl’s bottom, on her thin cotton skirt, making her neck chains and breasts bob, and her flimsy garment flap, to show neither girl wore panties; their spanks were delicate, like a handshake. The girls giggled and sat down with the men, resting their bare teats coquettishly on the table, and accepting sips of beer.

Corporal Lavoisier unhooked her cane and whipped each prisoner once, on the bare. Her cuts were deliberate, not hasty, and hard. Lise gasped as the cane stung her bare bum, already sore from the mesh seat in the prison van; Titzi sneered silently; Sutra squealed as the cane cracked smartly on her full brown buttocks. The corporal slapped her hard across the mouth and followed her slap with a lash of her cane, squarely on both Sutra’s naked nipples. The Sri Lankan girl’s face contorted, her whipped bare breasts quivered and her eyes moistened, but she made no sound. Corporal Lavoisier nodded, leering.

‘You come to Fort Lafresne as dirty little nursing sluts,’ she barked, ‘but you leave as soldier girls. Bare-body caning will see to that! Prisoners! At the double! Follow me to the reception centre!’

Trotting in her springy rubber boots, she led Lise, Titzi and Sutra, hopping in their ankle hobbles, past the squads of sweating, naked prisoners, in the opposite direction to the Centre d’Acceuil.

2

Bare Body

The girls showered twice: once before they were shaved and medically inspected, and once afterwards. First, they showered singly, with three minutes allotted. All stretched and sighed, as medical orderlies, nude but for white rubber bootees and fluffy socks, removed their hobbles, cuffs and shackles. The shower was sumptuous, with a shelf of plastic bottles containing lotions and scents, and the water blissfully cold, turning to hot at the flick of a switch. Each girl emerged, smiling radiantly, to be fed a cup of hot broth, then taken by orderlies into separate, spartan surgery rooms. Lise was ordered to lie on her back on an operating table.

Her body was still wet from the shower, and she had begun to sweat again in the dry heat. The buzz of an electric barber’s shear startled her, then she closed her eyes and felt the teeth slicing off her long head-tresses until her scalp was only a stubble. The armpits were next, then, with a finer blade, her whole scalp, arms and legs were shaved smooth. She raised her legs and parted them, trembling, as the razor poked into the crevice of her thighs, beside her cunt lips, but not yet touching her pubic bush. She sat up, bending forward, for her back to be shaved, and finally was ordered to lie again with thighs spread wide and holding her arse-cheeks apart.

‘Pity to lose such a splendid jungle,’ said the orderly. ‘I was quite proud of mine, when I was a nurse.’

The razor, on heavy blade, was muffled as it delved into Lise’s pubic forest. The orderly nurse was elfin, yet strongly muscled, with high cheekbones in a gamine face, and spoke French with a Scandinavian accent. Her right nipple was pierced with a copper pin, twisted at both ends, and holding her orderly’s badge. Lise asked where she was from.

‘Finland,’ said the orderly. ‘We’re not supposed to talk. My, what a lovely bush.’

The girl had a trickle of come clearly visible from her pink cunt lips. As her pubis was shorn, Lise, too, gasped, as she felt the tell-tale wetness between her thighs. The Finnish girl slipped her free hand between her own cunt lips, and began to masturbate, by flicking her nubbin until it stood wet and red in her swollen pouch.

‘Do you mind?’ she whispered to Lise.

Lise shook her head.

‘I’m Heidi.’

‘Lise.’

‘Lise, it’s just that … you’ve such a lovely cunt-mound and arse, and such big titties, and I wish I had, too! Looking at you makes me feel all tingly. I’m not lesbian, you understand, but I like to wank a lot – all the girls do, here – and we don’t get much chance to do it together. Usually, a girl only gets to wank herself at night, and always alone. Do you want to masturbate to keep me company?’

Without answering, Lise grasped her stiffened clitty and began to press it, while slipping the four fingers of her other hand into her already slimy cunt. Both girls masturbated in silence, come streaming on their thighs, while the orderly completed the shaving of Lise’s pubis to a gleaming smoothness, and applied the razor to her perineum and anus bud.

‘I wank off two or three times a day,’ said the Finnish girl, with her own hand balled in a fist, and right inside her wet cunt, up to her wrist. ‘O … yes! Mmm. ..! It’s all right for the corporals, they can have cock from the drivers or helicopter pilots, sometimes even afford their own male slave. Or for a girl who is one of Dr Crevasse’s lesbian pets. Yuk! I haven’t tasted cock since I’ve been here, so I wank off, just thinking of those gorgeous big Somali tools, so big and black and hard in my wet cunt, or ramming my bumhole … Mmm! Yes, I’m coming! O! O! O!’

Lise wanked harder as she saw the Finnish girl’s belly convulse in her spasm, and soon gasped aloud as her own cunt gushed come, and the pulsing heat of orgasm filled her.

‘The doctor will be here soon, for your examination,’ said Heidi.

‘Dr Crevasse?’

Heidi laughed.

‘No, the medical doctor, Dr Frahl. Dr Crevasse will see you tomorrow morning. She is the fort psychiatrist, and she will evaluate you, give you the details of fort routine, and prescribe your own personal discipline regime. This doctor is a captain, but an inmate like the rest of us. Almost everyone except Dr Crevasse is a prisoner, apart from her friend, the nurse-general. Hm! The general is Crevasse’s prisoner. But don’t worry about Dr Crevasse. She won’t molest or proposition you. She waits for you to beg her.’

‘And you haven’t, Heidi? You are lovely, you know.’

Heidi grimaced.

‘I’ve masturbated for eight months … I can wank for as many years.’

Lise rubbed her eggshell-smooth scalp and pubis, and smiled.

‘We’re the same, now, Heidi,’ she said. ‘I feel better.’

‘Just naked animals, with a number,’ said Heidi. ‘As you progress in rank, you get to wear uniform, but no matter how grand your costume, you must still bare your bottom or tits for caning. I get bum-caned, mostly, but you have such lovely big titties, you’d better beware of breast-whipping. It’s unspeakable, but then, you’ve a beautiful bum, too. O, I’m sorry, I must be frightening you! You get used to it … look.’

Heidi turned, to show her bare, tightly muscled arse, suntanned evenly with the rest of her brown body. Numerous welts, some still fresh, criss-crossed her naked buttocks, with older, fainter stripes on her bare teats. She said that it was forbidden for prisoners to talk to each other at all, and this obviously absurd rule was a blanket justification for any caning whatsoever. If Heidi were known to have spoken to Lise, let alone masturbated with her, she would lose her orderly badge and be caned a dozen on the bare, and obliged to wear a rock in her nipple piercing.

‘Expect the cane most days,’ she said. ‘But I mustn’t tell you too much, for if Dr Crevasse senses you’ve already been told, she’ll know we’ve talked, and we’ll both be punished. The corporals can give up to three strokes on bum or tits, or both, without reason, warning, or explanation. For a caning of six, there must be a witness, and you can choose to be stooled. Sometimes you get a dozen, or more, in a full-body caning. It’s so shameful to be caned on the bare. And I can hardly bear to watch a full public whipping, though if you are caught closing your eyes, you get the same whipping yourself. The funny thing – the damned Legion!– is, that those promoted seem to be those most lashed.’

Heidi’s fingers stroked Lise’s bare bum, still ridged from the Somali’s sword-caning, as well as the stripe from Corporal Lavoisier.

‘You’ve been caned already …’ she gasped.

‘That was before I was sent here. That was why I was sent here. That, and moral turpitude. I like dark men’s cocks too much, in my anus, and their canes on my bare behind. That’s what I think of when I masturbate, Heidi. A man, caning my bare bum, then buggering me.’

‘I’m here for moral turpitude!’ said Heidi. ‘It’s hardly a crime, compared to thieving. I used to be a ward nurse, and I would pleasure soldiers in plaster, you know, wank or suck them off, or ride their cocks with my cunt – sometimes my anus. I went with Somalis, too, sometimes for anal sex. Isn’t it gorgeous to be buggered by a huge black tool? O … I must wank again! I’m so glad you’re not a thief.’

‘Are there many thieves here?’ asked Lise, as both girls recommenced masturbating, fingers diving into sopping wet cunts.

‘Well, none I know of. But … you like bare-arse caning, Lise? You wank off, dreaming of your naked bum being thrashed? O! Mmm … it’s so lovely to wank with a friend! Wank faster, Lise, the doctor’s coming. O! O! I’m ... Ohhh .. .’

‘Mmm …’ gasped Lise, ‘I’d like to be strapped and nude, for a big Somali male, thrashing my bare arse, right now, and his cock standing, ready to prong my bumhole. Caning my naked bottom, harder and harder, making me wriggle and squeal as my bum turns crimson. Oh! Oh! Oh! Ohhh …! I joined the Legion so that I would stop liking it …’

‘That should be easy enough.’

Panting, Lise sighed.

‘It isn’t.’

Corporal Lavoisier entered the room, followed by the doctor, a tall, coltish woman with a crop of dark stubble on her scalp. She had a stethoscope around her neck, dangling between her heavy naked breasts; through one of her pierced nipples was pinned a silver coiled snake of Aesculapius, signifying her medical status. She wore white rubber knee-boots, with high pointed heels, and a white rubber skirt hanging just above the knee, which clung so tightly to her firm thighs and arse-globes, that she was obliged to hobble. She sniffed, and wrinkled her nose.

‘I smell come,’ she said. ‘You have been masturbating, Orderly. There is juice at your cunt, your clitoris is stiff, and your thighs are moist. The new inmate’s cunt is also wet, and you, as orderly, are responsible. You will touch your toes, for a caning of six, on the buttocks. Corporal Lavoisier, you will administer punishment when I command.’

The doctor swabbed Lise’s own cunt and thighs dry with cotton wool, then inserted a pipette right to the neck of her womb, placing its open end in a metal dish that was wedged underneath Lise’s buttocks. Heidi’s face was stony as she bent over and touched her toes.

‘Cane her as hard as possible, Corporal,’ said the doctor. ‘It is not the first time this inmate has been caught masturbating.’

‘Ohhh …’ moaned Heidi, as a stream of yellow pee hissed down her inside left thigh and wetted the pile of Lise’s hair clippings on the floor.

‘After your beating, Orderly, you will clean the floor of hair clippings with your mouth,’ ordered Dr Frahl, ‘then fill your vagina. Corporal Lavoisier, tape her for two hours, both cunt and anus.’

‘Yes, Captain,’ said the corporal, swishing her cane.

‘If we were not so short of staff … hm! Commence punishment,’ said the doctor. ‘The new inmate will observe closely.’

Vip!

The first cut of the cane took Heidi on the tender top buttocks, which clenched as the girl’s body trembled.

Vip!

The second lashed the same welt, and Heidi’s buttocks began to squirm violently. Lise did not take her eyes from the naked caned bottom, and the dish where her buttocks nestled was slimy with her own come.

Vip! Vip!

The third landed on the fleshy mid-fesse, as did the fourth . ..

Vip! Vip!

… with the fifth and sixth cracking on the slender brown haunches. Her caning over, Heidi sobbed uncontrollably, and after only a brief prod from the corporal’s cane, she crouched and began to collect Lise’s piss-soaked hair with her mouth, spitting the clumps of golden hair onto the table. When this was done, she held open the lips of her cunt, while Corporal Lavoisier wadded every tuft of hair inside her. A roll of brown vinyl package tape was passed across her perineum and her gash several times, until Heidi’s cunt and anus were thoroughly bandaged. The doctor removed the pipette and dish, brimming with come, from Lise’s vulva, and decanted the contents into a titration tube. A smile played on her lips, as she gazed into Lise’s eyes, then down to her wet cunt lips.

‘Over twenty-three millimetres of titration,’ she said. ‘You are quite the heaviest comer I have examined, inmate. Dr Crevasse will be interested to learn that your masturbatrix’s caned bottom excited you.’

Lise blushed but remained silent, and the doctor conducted her examination in silence, which, like her pedantic ‘masturbatrix’, was coldly demeaning. After routine measurements and stethoscopy, speculums were inserted into both vulva and anus, and she was instructed to squeeze as tightly as she could. The doctor’s rubber-gloved finger poked deeply into both Lise’s holes, as well as measuring her clitoris, both before and after ordering Lise to rub herself to arousal. Lise gave a sample of her piss, but was unable to stool, so the doctor inserted a spoon into her anus, and scraped a smear of dung from her root.

At last, a sullen Heidi, her vulval tape squeaking, led her back to the shower area, where she rejoined Titzi and Sutra for their second cleansing. This time, they stood in a communal shower stall for hosing by the orderlies, without soap, and in brackish, tepid water. The naked girls had little time to inspect each other’s newly shaven bodies, before Corporal Lavoisier issued each of them with a pair of rope sandals and ordered them, dripping wet, to follow her, running at the double, across the darkening square.

They entered the low, fetid hut of the refectory, joining a long line of girls, all still running on the spot and supervised by corporals, who dealt malingerers a cane-stroke on the buttocks, or even an occasional slash across the nipples. The canteen inmates were nude like the others, but wore chef’s toque hats. When they reached the food dispensary, Lise, Sutra and Titzi were handed segmented trays, each of whose compartments received a slop of food, while the holder still ran in double time. Most of the food was spilt by the time the three reached their allotted places at the end of a bench, and slotted their trays into grooves that ran the entire length of the table. Each table was supervised by a corporal, standing at the end, and Lise felt Corporal Lavoisier’s breath on her bare skin as she tried to eat. The inmates ate rapidly and without looking up, pausing to take draughts of cold water copiously provided in tin jugs. Exhausted, Lise picked at her food: some greasy stew, stale bread, soggy leaves … Suddenly, a whistle blew, and the corporals upended their tables: every food tray, emptied or not, slid down the grooves into a waste bin at the far end. Corporal Lavoisier leered: the three new inmates would go to bed hungry.

It was pitch dark outside, save for a sparkle of starlight, and they followed the snake of naked girls, still at the double, into the large dormitory, its thick stone walls pierced by slits that gave minimum illumination. They kept up their double time while queuing for the latrines, where the three new inmates were issued with toothbrush, dental floss and toothpaste. Lise pissed, but did not stool, but Titzi and Sutra dunged copiously into the communal sluice. There was no lights-out, for there were no lights. Lise, Titzi and Sutra were separated and each marched to straw mattresses on the bare earth floor, only an inch apart, with a water jug between bed and wall, and a toothbrush mug. There were no sheets or blankets. The girls lived, and slept, in the nude: packed together, their sweating naked bodies glistening like sardines. The girls’ bodies were of every race, every hue, every nation, united by their naked humiliance, and by whatever impulse or yearning had drawn them to the Foreign Legion. A narrow aisle separated the facing rows of beds, just wide enough to allow a girl to pick her way to the latrines at each end of the dormitory, after begging permission from one of the patrolling corporals.

Lise lay on her back, not sleeping. There was no talking, none of the delicious whispering as at an English girls’ boarding school. Nor, despite the closeness of the straw palliasses, was there any touching. The corporals patrolled with penlights directed at the empty inches between the mattresses. Girls constantly rose for permission to stool in the latrines. If this was granted, the corporal followed the girl and sometimes there were two or three canestrokes, after which the girl, having dunged insufficiently or not at all, returned in tears, rubbing her caned bottom. Girls wishing to pee simply squatted at the foot of their straw, and pissed into the bone-dry ground, which rapidly drank their piss.

Almost every girl masturbated. This was tolerated, or even tacitly encouraged, by the corporals, who ogled the spread wet cunts and flickering fingers of their prisoners, as they vigorously wanked themselves to come after come. The air gasped and moaned with orgasm, and was perfumed with the oily scent of cunt-juice. Forbidden to converse, the female prisoners expressed themselves by wanking off. Lise’s fingers crept across her bare belly, stroking for moments the new nakedness of her pubic mound, before she too slipped fingers into her wet cunt and rubbed her clitty to stiffness. She parted her fesses, and poked her index finger, then forefinger also, into her anus bud, getting the two digits all the way into her elastic anal passage, and buggering herself as she wanked her erect clitty, while her fingers pinched the pulsing wet walls of her slit. She was not the only girl with fingers in anus as well as cunt. After her first orgasm, she rose to piss and emitted a thick golden stream, sparkling in Corporal Lavoisier’s penlight, like drops of yellow rain. She held her cunt lips wide open so that the corporal could see, and, as Lise pissed, she continued to wank her clit; Corporal Lavoisier began to masturbate, too, her face slack with lust, as she wanked her stiff clitty.