Franengeld

Previously in Frankengeld. After making the decision not to tell the Chief of Police about the bodies, the Mystery Club members shared out the new tasks, which included Damion visiting Durishaus to pry into his Father's business connections. During an evening in the Kaffeehaus Damion overhears two hunters discussing events at 'young Frankenstein's' tower, which suggests his quest to create life has worked. The next day Damion makes the trip to his home and, in the conservatory, discovers his Mother training Gerda to reward the tradesmen and workers, keeping them sweet and well inclined towards the family.

Now read on...

16th June in the year 1784.

I had, whilst watching my sister-in-law cry as she stripped naked and lay upon the table to be pleasured, identified the source of her distress. She was happy to flirt with me, a noble, but a workman was beneath her dignity. I thought it was ironic that, in a moment, she would be beneath a workman. Gerda continued to complain that she might give birth to the child of a low-born man. She begged for this humiliation to stop.

"Do not talk like that," replied Mother. "It insults this good man. If you give birth to a bastard then a place will be found for him or her. All people have their uses, even you. In your case it is to reward some low born men for their hard work on the estate. And you will be delighted to know that there are many more where they came from. You, my dear, are going to be very busy, so you might as well get used to it."

I noted that, strangely, Mother said nothing of Gerda's duty to provide an heir to Karl.

It was clear now to me that Gerda was not frightened of the copulation that was about to take place. Actually she seemed to me to have a healthy desire for copulation. She was more concerned that a pregnancy might get in the way of providing an heir for her husband. And, possibly, most upsetting to her was the fact that her husband did not care that a low born man's seed might flood her womb.

Bastards have been, simply put, a part of life for noble families for centuries. Those extra children that were the result of liaisons and adventures with servants, slaves, and other men's wives and daughters. Indeed William, whose conquest of England in 1066 was well known to historians across Europe, was called William the Bastard, before the English started to prefer we call him 'the Conqueror.'

And Mother was right, a place was usually found for all the offspring that spilled from the phallus of a randy Lord, or the womb of a randy Lady.

The master mason strode forward and loosened the ties on his trousers. They dropped to the floor, he stepped out of them, and took up position between Gerda's legs. He massaged his member with one hand, and pushed two fingers into her vagina with the other. His member was already semi-erect and it took only a few strokes to make it hard. A little juice leaked from the fat head, he was very much ready for this.

"Oh, no, please," wailed Gerda, "I'm not ready for this. I need time to think."

"Thinking is overrated," said Mother. "Go ahead my man."

The master mason pulled his fingers from Gerda's sex, wiped her juices onto his phallus to further lubricate it, and pushed it in. I watched as the fat head of his member pushed aside Gerda's equally fat labial lips, revealing - for a moment - her secret nub nestled deep in the folds of flesh.

"No, no, no... aaaargh," wailed Gerda. "Oh please take it out. I'll suck you. I'll wank you. Or you may put your member between my titties. Aaaargh. Nooooo!"

The master mason took no notice. I was not surprised, he was being watched closely by Mother and, no doubt, understood she was not a woman to cross. The contract for the patio would be cancelled in an instant and he would be on his way back to Carlsbruck.

"Oh... urgh... urgh... urgh... shit you're much bigger than Karl... no stop, please stop," groaned Gerda, then burst into tears again. The master mason had pushed his phallus into Gerda, bit by bit, taking three hard thrusts to push it home. Each thrust eliciting a groan from her. Now it was firmly in place, their pubic hair commingled, and I couldn't help notice that Gerda was conflicted. Her vagina was sending signals of pleasure to her mind, a mind that was full of woes. Her expression moved between the two states of delight and distress.

Mother nodded at his apprentices, "You may disrobe."

One of them looked puzzled at the unfamiliar word disrobe. But, as soon as his mate demonstrated what it meant, the lad needed no further encouragement. They both dropped their trousers and stood dressed only in their shirts. Their members were more youthful, more slender, but similarly impressive in length, possibly outdoing their master's.

"Stop blubbing Gerda," said Mother. "It's very unattractive and makes these men feel that you are not giving them a willing reward. Now open your mouth, let's give you something to shut you up."

Mother took hold of Gerda's head and turned it so she faced one of the apprentices. Her eyes went wide with the sight of his phallus pointing at her. "Please stop," wailed Gerda.

"A moment ago you said you'd do this for the master mason, that you would take him into your mouth, are his apprentices less worthy?" Mother snapped.

The lad approached her open mouth, his phallus in hand.

"Open wide," Mother added. "He is well endowed, this one, despite his youth."

The master mason had settled himself and was beginning to thrust. Gerda twisted her hips to try to escape but the master mason grabbed her large thighs with his immensely strong hands and her wriggling stopped.

"No, no," she cried. "Do not make me with child. Fuck me in the arse. Anything but... gluuub... gluuub... nnnnn... nnnn."

The young apprentice had pushed his phallus into her mouth and words stopped and became suggestive sounds. I watched, helpless, as Mother held tight to Gerda's head, keeping her mouth and throat well aligned with a now vigorously thrusting penis. The apprentice went at this hole with a level of enthusiasm that suggested it wasn't the first time he had performed this act. Within moments saliva was dripping from Gerda's mouth onto the tiled floor as she struggled to cope with a member that went from just the head inside her mouth, distorting her cheek, to fully rammed home so that her nose nestled in his pubic hair.

"This, Gerda," explained Mother. "Is called, in peasant circles, fucking the head. It is not as hard work for the woman as fellating a man but you must keep your mouth and throat accepting of his phallus. Lean your head back over the edge of the table, yes like that, it will keep you aligned so he can thrust smoothly."

With a look and a nod Mother suggested a course of action to the other apprentice who was standing, watching, patiently awaiting his turn. He smiled as understanding came to him. Gerda was still trying to talk but the apprentices member had reduced her to incomprehensible moans, punctuated by grunts each time the master mason made a particularly powerful thrust at her quim. The unoccupied apprentice clambered onto the table, knelt over her, and placed his phallus between Gerda's breasts. Here he found more than enough mammary gland to permit him to plunge his member deep into warm flesh. He started to thrust away, rubbing it between her wonderful soft globes.

"Hold your breasts together," said Mother, grabbing at Gerda's hands and showing her what she was expected to do. "Yes, push them together, it will make his thrusting more pleasurable. If you are good you may even make him spill his seed."

Gerda's expression was telling me she didn't want him to spill his seed, but in that she was doomed to disappointment. The lad was so callow and inexperienced that the sensations from her breasts, and the sight of his friend plundering her mouth, made him quickly ejaculate. He did so at the fullest point of penetration between her breasts and, as a consequence, his member was very close to her head. Seed spurted over her neck and face and she twitched in revulsion.

The master mason, who was much more experienced, looked determined to enjoy his reward to the fullest. He had a look of great concentration on his face as he thrust long, deep and hard into Gerda. He was making a simple short grunt each time his phallus achieved full depth, but otherwise said nothing. After all it wasn't his place to speak until he was spoken to. And Gerda, with an apprentice phallus in her mouth, was unable to initiate a sensible conversation. I found myself wondering exactly what she would have said if she were able. Would she have protested her position here on the table, or would she have asked, as nobles often do, what work the man performed, and has he been doing it for a while?

Mother continued to issue advice, mostly to the apprentices, and encouraging them to greater efforts. She assured them that Gerda was enjoying this as much as they were. The apprentice who had spilt his seed early removed himself from the table and stood holding his member, encouraging it to rise again. Mother reached over and grabbed Gerda's hand, which was still holding her breast, and placed it on the lad's phallus. Then moved Gerda's hand when she failed to, rubbing it up and down his length.

"Pleasure him with your hand, Gerda," she instructed. "He wants to enjoy you many times today and he can't do that if he's not hard."

Gerda gave a very desultory stroke, but it was sufficient to excite the young man, and his member twitched in her hand. There was evidence she was beginning to accept her fate. She moved her right hand from her breast and grasped her quim. There she applied first and second fingers to her secret nub and rubbed vigorously. She also seemed to have stopped wriggling her hips to escape the master mason's thrusts but was now rolling her hips to help his penetration.

The apprentices swapped positions, which gave Gerda the brief opportunity to comment on her situation, to complain if she wished, but she did not, saying, "Oh my, oh hell, yes... yes... more... more... glubbb... ghuuuh... mmmmmm!."

Mother had achieved her goal. Gerda had moved from faithful wife, who was a dreadful flirt but wouldn't dream of cheating on Karl - except perhaps with me - to a slut and a whore. Prepared to service the lowest of tradesmen. It had happened very quickly.

Speaking of low status I noticed that the scene was being observed by our gardener, Ulf, from outside the conservatory. The last time I'd seen him, when I first arrived half an hour ago, he'd been tending plants many metres away. Now the plants directly outside the conservatory clearly required his attention. He was watching through the glass with mouth open and a look of lust on his face. His hands went inside his trousers and pulled out his phallus. It was of a good length, just over average in that regard, but it was the girth that was astonishing. It was as fat as the mason's arms with a huge flat head that resembled an animal's phallus more than a human being. Ulf leant on the glass with one hand and furiously stimulated this monster of a phallus with the other as he stared at what my Mother had called 'a transaction.'

I made a judgement to engage Mother in conversation at this point. She had got her way, and perhaps Gerda and the workmen could get along just fine without her directions, I might safely approach.

"Mother," I said. "May I be permitted to examine the Red Room?"

"Push harder," said Mother to the master mason. "Put some effort into it, man! I want her ready and willing to take both these two handsome lads. If you slow down then we will lose the momentum in this exchange, which must stay constant if Gerda is to learn her place. Gerda, get those legs wider, he doesn't want to have to push past your fat thighs to get balls deep. Sorry Damion, what was that you wanted?"

"To visit the Red Room," I explained. "I believe there are some papers relating to number 34 that Father neglected to give me."

"Don't bother me with business matters, Damion," Mother replied. "You know I have no head for it. Yes, go ahead." I thought for a moment she was talking to me but it turned out she was directing her remarks to one of the apprentices. "Spit on her nipples lad," she ordered. "Then roll them between finger and thumb, yes that's right. See... she arches her back and pushes her breasts up when you do that."

"Thank you Mother," I said, deliberately misinterpreting her comment about going ahead, and started to back out of this bacchanalian scene. There was a pattering like heavy drops of rain on the glass of the conservatory and I observed that Ulf had spurted his seed directly at the glass. It slowly slid down to become fertiliser. Gerda made a muffled scream and twitched on the table between her three lovers, she was having what she referred to as a 'wheeeee!' After a minute or so of spasms she grabbed out at her lovers to encourage them to continue. It seemed she and my Mother would be busy for a while longer yet. It was safe to explore.

Upstairs I paused at the door to the Red Room to stroke the cat.

A cat! I didn't think we had a cat. Not in the house. There were cats on the farms but my recollection was that we'd never had one in the house. The cat was elegant, no doubt about it. It was jet black and had short, sleek fur. Its yellow eyes seemed very exotic. This was not a scruffy farm cat but the pampered pet of a princess. It looked up at me and licked its paw. My eyes were drawn to the only fur on it that wasn't black. There was a little patch of white on the upper part of its chest, it looked like the beast was wearing a tiny diamond pendant.

I realised that I was stalling, using this creature as an excuse not to enter my Father's domain. The last time I had been here was to receive the deeds to number 34, and to witness Una's abuse. Father was away, there was no danger, but years of my mother saying things like 'your Father is in his study, do not disturb him' had left its mark on me. I took a deep breath, screwed up my courage, and entered.

The problem with the Red Room, to my mind, was that everywhere you looked there were instruments of death. Things specifically designed to kill people, to get past protections like shields and armour, to fracture bones, and pierce the soft flesh of the victim. They sat in their holders on the walls, or upright in racks, just waiting for a mind with the will to use them.

The worst items, and the ones I couldn't look at without getting a terrible twisting in my stomach, were the three poles at the southern end of the room near the door. They were about four metres tall and, upright, they nearly reached the ceiling which was just a couple of metres higher. They slotted into brackets on the floor which permitted them to be lowered and raised and they were tipped with a metal point. The point was about a metre long and tapered to the width of a finger, but was not sharpened further. They were designed for that most terrible form of execution and humiliation, to be impaled.

Invented centuries ago impalement had been the favoured punishment delivered by Vlad Dracul. He was the Voivode, or ruler, of Wallachia and fought Ottoman enemies and even his own family. He would skewer his enemies through their stomachs and raise them on poles to watch them die, horribly, whilst he sat and ate his supper.

He died in battle in 1476 but since his time some rulers had 'improved' on his technique, trying to make the suffering more extended, and the finger-pole was one solution. It would be lowered and the victim would be pushed onto the tip. Impaled through the anus, if a man, or the vagina, if a woman. Then the pole would be raised again and locked into place. There was a heavy counterweight on the butt end of the pole to help raising it. The weight of the victim would then drive the pole through their body and out of their mouth or through their shoulder or upper chest. The onlookers would cruelly laugh as the victim tried to climb off the pole, an impossibility since the pole was polished smooth and probably slick with their blood. The victim would quickly become weak from the pain and shock of this invasion of their body, sliding down until their crotch met a small metal crossbar. Depending on the degree of internal bleeding the victim could last hours, or even days. This was why the tip was not fully sharpened but narrowed to a rounded finger-sized tip, it could push through the body doing the least damage, extending their suffering.

For all our talk of civilization in the world, we bred too many people who saw violence, war, and torture as a way to get power, or keep it. Which meant that other people, who could have happily lived their whole lives never touching any of these weapons, also had to pick them up and use them in defence. I turned to my investigations, very aware that I had nearly got to the logical conclusion that I might have to lift a weapon against my own father. That I might have to be part of the process of arresting him. Damn! I just thought it!

My father's desk was an impressive thing. Designed to intimidate. Solid, far larger than was needed, with red leather panels on the top, and a wide range of drawers, it sat saying 'this is the seat of power.' The side that faced the visitor was carved with panels depicting famous victories, leaving the viewer with a graphic impression of what war is like. War, and its aftermath, for some panels showed how captured enemy were treated - and it wasn't with mercy.

I avoided looking at the carved decorations and concentrated on the drawers, working my way through each in turn. Luckily they were not locked. Father did not expect his authority to be challenged, or his family to conspire against him, so had never fitted locks on things. Fear of what he might do to a servant who pried, or a child who peeked, kept everyone behaving themselves.

A quick look through the larger drawers told me how our family made their money, and it was nothing to do with the farms that brother Karl was studiously managing. No, it seems we own property, lots of property. Some as far away as Vienna. The rents from these was a small fortune. In Vienna, for example, father had to employ an agent, who himself employed many rent collectors, to gather the money - such was the number of properties. I made a note of the man's name and address in case we ever needed to contact him. However there was no sign of actual deeds to these properties, they must be elsewhere. Perhaps Father's lawyer was holding them. Or... perhaps not. I thought of the secret panel in the old doctor's desk. Could there be one here?

I started by checking inside the drawers for a false bottom, or compartment at the back. I found nothing except that they only went halfway into the depth of the desk. So, plenty of room for compartments in the pillars. I moved to the front of the desk. It would be typical of a craftsman's sense of humour that the hidden doors would be facing a visitor, but so subtly hidden that they would never know. I chose a column and ran my fingers over the carvings, trying not to look too closely at the scenes of death and destruction. To my surprise, after only a minute, I came across a figure of an impaled male captive which seemed promising. It seemed loose on the stake and when I slid the figure down a short way, so that the stake emerged - horrifically - from his mouth, there was a click. A panel opened.

Leather bags chinked when I handled them. There were a dozen here. I took a peek in one to find gold coins. The quantities here would dwarf the old doctor's hoard, thirty, forty, fifty times over! I had found my father's secure hiding place. Buying number 34 would have hardly dented this fortune. I closed the panel again. Money was not what I had come to find. Convinced that there must be at least one other hidden space, I studied the desk again.