Across the dirt road from the frame
house owned by Oskar Blumenau, an attractive little bungalow stood, the
residence of Kurt von Reisenfel, who bore the rank of Oberst (major) and was
the commandant of German troops in the city of Yaounde. The afternoon was
scorching and von Reisenfel was napping. Mosquito netting was hung over the bed
like a tent and he lay naked, a smile on his sadistic lips, for he was dreaming
of the coming night and of his young English wife, Doris. He had a good
surprise in store for her, the prudish English Dirne, not that she hadn’t had
quite a few already. But he was going to pay her back for the insult which her
parents had given him on the occasion of their wedding six months ago in her
own native city of London. He, a German officer, a Junker by aristocratic birth
and distinction, subjected to the critical inspection of stupid tradespeople.
Her father was shopkeeper who sold tobacco and stationery and yet because the
fool had a little house and a few thousand pounds in the bank, he thought
himself the equal of a Junker, thought that his bitch of a daughter was too
good for a man like Kurt von Reisenfel.
He was thirty-six, and he had
advanced rapidly on the field of honour being promoted from Feldwebel to
Leutnant in a single day’s fighting at Okandahar, which had been the home of a
war-like tribe who had resisted German occupation of the Cameroons. He had
taken a detail of his men and circled the back of the great stockade which they
had built, found an opening and burst in with his men to put at least a hundred
warriors to the bayonet. Meanwhile, at the front of the village, the main force
of the battalion was wreaking deadly havoc with their rifles.
Two years ago, he had been promoted
to Hauptmann and just eight months ago, to his present rank with the important
responsibility of commanding German troops in the major city of the Cameroons.
To celebrate this promotion he had gone back to London and wooed Doris Winston
whom he had met the previous summer while he had been enjoying a greatly
deserved vacation at Trieste. Doris and her parents had been there in the same
hotel and he had been smitten by the sight of her tall, aristocratic honey
haired beauty. He had put all his philandering talents to work into her
seduction and had thawed her ice quite satisfactorily, so much that she had
actually accompanied him to his own rooms in the hotel and lain trembling and
panting with desire on the bed while he stripped her naked except for her
stockings. But artfully he had respected her maidenhead and had contented
himself with sucking her breasts and kissing and licking the inside of her
thighs until finally he had introduced her to the maddening torment and delight
that was gamahuching.
She had gone so far as to forsake
her stupid English upbringing by begging him to love her all the way - but he
hadn’t. That too had been part of his campaign. Instead, he told her very
seriously, “Liebchen, you are the woman whom I want as my wife and I will not
take you until we are married. I am planning to come to England soon on an
important mission and I shall ask the permission of your parents for your hand
in marriage. And then, beautiful Doris, I will make you die of pleasure, a
thousand times each night, I promise.”
Well. he
had kept his word. The Berlin Foreign Office had already sent him a wire
instructing him to go to London and determine from some of his friends in
important positions in the government what action the Verdammte British pigs
were going to take colonizing in Africa.
Kurt von Reisenfel had gone to
Oxford as a youth and then returned to Heidelburgh, the city of his birth, to
enter the military service. He had pleased his old father who had reached the
rank of general under Bismarck, by insisting that he be granted no concessions
because of his Junker antecedents. He had enlisted as a private, and after a
year had been made lance corporal and then sergeant. Now his rise had been
meteoric. It was now, when Germany was definitely establishing a place in the
sun by colonizing in Africa, that von Reisenfel’s contacts and knowledge of the
English would be invaluable.
So he’d gone to London and followed
Doris Winston, met her in secret and taken her to the Palladium and the Strand
and of course they had dined at Simpson’s and finally she consented to be his
wife, even if it meant coming to Germany with him - for that is what be had
told her, though he already knew that he would never go back to Heidelburgh
again, not if he could be a master of slaves and a commander of fine German
troops in Yaounde.
So finally he got Doris’ eager
consent to their marriage and he arranged it through a registrar’s office,
thanks to his connections with young Richard Marlowe, a friend of his from
Oxford days. And then he’d taken his bride to her house to confront her parents
and that was when he heard himself insulted as a ‘conniving German’ and ‘bloody
foreign adventurer.’ He’d laughed in their faces and told them, “I do not care
that you don’t approve of your new son-in-law. But your daughter is my wife and
she will go where her husband wishes, for that is what a good German wife does.
The marriage is perfectly proper, I do not advise you to attempt to go to the
Foreign Secretary to try to have it annulled. Never fear, Herr and Frau
Winston, I will take good care of your daughter.”
So there had been a tearful parting
and Doris had come away with him, almost dismayed at the family quarrel she had
created by her headstrong behaviour. But he knew that under all that English
veneer, she was a sweet hot piece of kootzele, his own German term for what the
English called ‘cunt.’ And because he was not only a notorious seducer but also
a good deal of a sadist, he gloatingly anticipated the pleasures he was going
to have with this tall haughty-faced young woman who was now his wife, to do
with as he would, to be treated like the lowliest of Cameroon slaves, in his
household. For he already had four young girls who serviced his needs and Doris
was going to be the favourite of his little harem.
He and Doris had boarded a British
steamer at Southampton and sailed directly to Hamburg. That had been the first
unpleasant surprise for Doris Winston, now Doris von Reisenfel. She knew enough
of geography to realise that Hamburg was quite a distance from Heidelburgh. At
the same time, aboard the steamer, in their stateroom each night, her virile
and handsome husband was succeeding in ripping away the cool poise and the
civilised veneer which her parents had built up about her. Naked, shuddering
and groaning, she had welcomed his vigorous fucking with a zest and joy that
convinced him how right he was in having tricked her.
There were a few little tricks she
hadn’t yet learned about bed, but she would learn them all in Yaounde once he
and his four little African bitches began to teach her.
He was wiry, black-haired, with a
waxed moustache of which he was inordinately vain. The tips were pointed and he
was constantly twirling them to make certain of their alignment. He was
sturdily muscled, though with surprisingly little hair on his body - Doris had
admired this, for she detested gross hairy men. During the trip to Hamburg, he
had repeated his oral conquest of her kootzele, often beginning with this and
with the nipples of her breasts until she almost tearfully implored him to fuck
her. She had even gone so far as to lend herself to the pose of being uppermost
over him, and to doing it as they lay side by side. She hadn’t yet been
educated in taking his prick into her mouth or getting down on all fours like
the bitch she really was and taking it in either of her holes - but she would
once they were back in Yaounde!
But after three days in Hamburg,
while he waited for the steamer which would take them to the chief port of
Douala, Doris began to have misgivings and asked him why they were not setting
out for Heidelburgh. To this he replied with a hoarse guffaw and a vicious slap
in the face, adding, “You are my wife, I am an Oberst and the Kommandant at
Yaounde in the Kamerun, and that will be our home. My parents are dead and the
house in Heidelburgh has been sold to a friend of mine. I am stationed in
Africa and I will have an important part in the great German colony that is
growing there. You, as my wife, have only to obey me, to keep me happy and to
furnish me with amusements and distraction. That is your only reason for
living, you English bitch. And don’t look at me with those great eyes of yours,
Doris, because I know that in spite of all your speeches and your talk of
romance and affection, what you really want most of all is to be naked on a bed
with a man and to be fucked, do you understand me?”
She had tried to run away the
evening of their departure, but his orderly, Hans Glogau, a coarse, heavily set
bully, who held the rank of corporal and journeyed with them to Yaounde, had
found her in a travel agency trying desperately to book passage back to
England. Glogau had brought her back in a carriage, and then, at his master’s
order, had tied Doris’ wrists to the bedpost and lent his Master a riding crop
which he had bought for himself in anticipation of his own brutal sexual
conquests in the African city where he too would be stationed.
Kurt von Reisenfel had stripped
Doris naked and thrashed her on the bottom and thighs with the crop until she
had shrieked for mercy. He had interrogated her, punctuating his questions with
a slash of the flexible leather whip and, when the answer was haughty or
inaudible because of tears and sobs, adding a new stroke across her pale milky
body. She had sworn to obey him uquestioningly and without further revolt. And
to prove it, after he had untied her wrists, he had made her get down on her
knees, clasp her hands behind her back and take his cock into her mouth, suck
it to orgasm and them swallow down his seed.
Doris von Reisenfel was
twenty-three, about five feet seven and a half inches in height; with a willowy
and voluptuous figure. Her breasts were like two boldly thrusting pears,
closely spaced on her chest, she had deliciously long yet shapely thighs and
sinuously highset calves. Her face was a pure oval, with large hazel eyes, a
haughty little snub nose, and a thin small mouth which bespoke her insolence.
But her bottom comprised two spacious and tightly compact ovals and from the
very moment when he had first seen her walking down the street of Trieste with
that magnificent bottom of hers shifting and squirming about beneath the
bustle, he had known that he was going to own her and strip her of all that
bulky clothing to find the ardent naked bitch that was beneath. How right he
had been!
Now they were here in Yaounde and
after three weeks, Doris, pale and agonized with her loneliness, had only last
night begged him to free her, telling him that it had been a dreadful mistake,
that she could not bear to live in such a savage country. The bitch hadn’t
noticed his four girls of course, but tonight she would. She would become one
of them and she would have to vie with big-bosomed Elsveta who was a
chocolate-skinned Kru girl of nineteen and the most passionate thus far of his harem;
Latika, a seventeen-year-old Kamerun girl who’d been a virgin when he’d bought
her from her father for all of fifty Marks; Noulamara his special favourite
because she was the youngest, only sixteen, petite and with amazingly
attractive features for a Furlani, with ebony skin, small but marvellously
pear-shaped Butzen and slim muscular thighs that already knew how to wrap
around him when they fucked: and finally, Djanga, eighteen, another Kamerun
beauty whose soft mouth and big ripe round closely spaced Butzen had already
given his cock many unforgettable delights. He had taught DJanga to kneel over
him and, cupping her breasts, take his cock in the soft satiny moist valley
between them, and move herself back and forth until at last he ejaculated.