‘Oh, Darren,’ whimpered Angarad. ‘Don’t stop. Come inside…fuck me, I’m almost there…!’
‘I wonder who else has fucked you in these panties,’ he rasped.
‘No one! I swear!’
‘I’ll fuck you bare arse,’ he grunted, and tore away the flimsy garment, to reveal the bruises of her office spanking.
‘What…!’ he cried.
Angarad wriggled her bottom and, delving under the panties, began to masturbate.
‘Darren, I’ll explain! I’m almost coming! Oh, finish me, please! Take me! Fuck me!’
He slapped her fingers away from her stiff clitoris.
‘I’ll fuck you, all right,’ he said. ‘You never told me you were fond of spanking.’
‘I’m not! I hate it! Oh, God! Will — that’s my boss — he spanked me to make up for my mistakes, that’s all! It was my suggestion! My dress is ruined…’ she wailed.
‘So it’s “Will”, eh? And what does Will do after he’s spanked you?’
‘Nothing! It was the first time! Oh, don’t be so cruel!’
Darren tore the shoe from her left stockinged foot.
Vap!
‘AHH! Stop!’
Angarad’s left fesse glowed a new pink where he had thrashed her with the sole of her shoe.
Vap! Vap! Vap! Vap!
‘Oh! Oh, God, it hurts! Please stop!’ she sobbed.
He lathered each bare buttock with fierce whops from the shoe leather as her bottom began to clench, squirming and splashing in the pool of red meat sauce.
Vap! Vap! Vap!
‘AHH! No, Darren! Please…!’
Vap! Vap! Vap!
‘Oh, God…no…no…!’
Angarad’s buttocks flamed scarlet as her shoe worked on the existing weals of her hand-spanking, opening and deepening them. After fifty slaps, her bottom was fiery dark, and the squirming of the thrashed bare fesses as uncontrollable as her choking sobs.
Vap! Vap! Vap!
‘Ahh! Oh…! Darren, I can’t stand it! You’re hurting me! It’s agony, my bum’s so sore from my spanking!’
‘It’s supposed to be agony,’ he snarled.
Vap! Vap! Vap!
‘AHH!’
Angarad’s body convulsed, as a long stream of golden piss steamed from her quivering cunt, soaking her dress and dripping down her torn stockings. Darren’s fingers poked between her quim lips and emerged, shining with her mingled cunt slime and pee. He wedged her buttocks apart and rubbed the liquid into her anal pucker.
‘Darren, what are you doing?’
‘You told me to fuck you.’
He pushed the crinkled anal pucker open with the cunt-slimed glans of his cock.
‘Not there! NO! I’ve never — AHH!’
‘But you want it…don’t you, bitch? Like the rest…’
‘Please! Please!’
Angie howled, and a second jet of piss spurted from her quim as Darren plunged his cock fully into her anal shaft.
‘Oh, God! No! Don’t! It hurts! It hurts! It —’
Vap! Vap! Vap!
‘Oh! Oh! AHH!’
As he began to bugger her, Darren resumed his slippering of her scarlet bare fesses. He held both her shoes, his cock impaling her body, which quivered, helpless to move. As he rammed her anal shaft, his cock sank right to his balls, withdrawing fully before each thrust, and baring the whole of her buttocks for a flurry of spanks. When he penetrated her, he remained in place for seconds, writhing his hips as his cock-tip probed and teased the root of her anus. During buggery, when his loins covered her central fesses, he thrashed her haunches, which were already bruised blue, the skin puffy and mottled in deep ridges.
Vap! Vap! Vap!
‘Oh! Oh! It hurts! It’s shameful! Oh, I hate you! Oh, do me…Yes…!’
Darren buggered her harder as his spanks increased in savagery; her squirming bare bottom was darker than the meat sauce in which she splashed, and the flow of come from her cunt was so copious that only its limpid oiliness distinguished it from any further spray of girl-piss. Darren grunted as he began to climax and sank his cock right to her root, bouncing on top of her, while leaving the glans pressed to her anal womb for his ejaculate. Bubbles of his creamy froth surged from her impaled anal hole and Angarad’s come flowed faster as her cunt gaped and wriggled; her whole body shuddered, and her belly was sucked in by the intensity of her own orgasm.
Darren grunted and withdrew his cock from her anus with a sucking sound as the pucker closed. He snapped the heel off each of Angarad’s shoes, reopened her bruised pucker with his thumb, then slid each stiletto heel fully inside her anus; oiled by his sperm and her arse-grease, they slid in smoothly to her root, while she squealed and wriggled, sobbing. He held them in place, churning her anus for some minutes, while he continued to spank her writhing bare fesses with the shoe flats. Angarad masturbated her dripping cunt, as she was arse-reamed and spanked; her sobbing became panting gasp, then a squeal.
‘Oh…oh…I’m there! I’m coming…do it to me…!’ she wailed, her belly and teats heaving as she spasmed once more, with her come a torrent from her swollen cunt.
Darren ceased spanking, grasped a hank of her hair and wiped his cock clean before releasing her soiled mane.
Angarad sobbed in the bathroom as she removed the shoeheels from her anus, her whimpers louder than the running water; she emerged in her street clothes.
‘Don’t offer to drive me home,’ she said. ‘I’m in time for the last tube. Darren…I think it’s better we don’t see each other again.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘Bye, now. You know my number, darling.’
Angarad sobbed louder.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll throw away your number, because I won’t be seeing you again. Oh, Darren…how could you?’
‘You can keep the panties,’ he said, without opening the door for her. ‘I mean, they were yours anyway. And wipe your arse and cunt with this. I promise it’s been cleaned since the last user.’
He pulled up her skirt and clapped a square of pink brocade cloth to stick to her welted fesses.
‘Oh! God! You animal!’
Angarad stumbled down the stairs and ran across the snow-covered square towards the tube station. Only when seated in the last District Line to Richmond did she control her sobbing and open her purse. Her hand fastened on a piece of paper. Made out to Angarad Stark and signed by Darren Dodd, was a cheque for ten thousand, on the bank of Cragg, Joule and Co, Grand Cayman. Beside it were the split-crotch panties, still soaked in her cunt’s fluids, which had abetted Angarad’s first buggery. Her cunt and bumhole still seeped: she slipped her hand under her skirt, withdrew the square of pink brocade, and wiped herself, until the brocade was soaking, all the way to Richmond.
3
Gymslip Mistress
Isobel Coker looked at her watch, before taking it off and slipping it into the waist-pouch strapped over her gymslip. It was twenty-five minutes past three. She pursed her lips, pausing before the door to the gymnasium. The sixth-formers were always difficult, especially the last class of Friday afternoon. The younger girls gave no problem, scaling the bars, jumping, doing their bends, squats and somersaults obediently, but the sulky young ladies, ready to leave Wearbridge Girls’ Grammar for ever, were another and quite rebellious matter. They didn’t see why they should waste energy more profitably saved for the night’s clubbing. Worse, this was the very last class of the winter term. Other teachers let their classes mess about on the last day, but Isobel Coker insisted on the last drop of sweat from the bodies of her charges.
Isobel entered the empty gymnasium and stood by a vaulting-horse, ready to welcome the sixth-formers. The room still smelled of the girls’ sweat from her last class an hour before, since when she had taught a period of elementary geography. Three-quarters of her work was athletic, and her title was gym mistress. Only a few years before, Isobel herself had been one of those sixth-formers, though already devoted to the gym: t
he three years at college, to earn her teaching certificate were merely an interruption of her beloved Wearbridge and its ancient school.
Wearbridge Girls’ Grammar was a rare survivor, remaining independent of the state, thanks to its founder, Lady Gertrude of Spennymoor, whose husband, of Frisian marauder ancestry, had brought back a fortune from the Fourth Crusade. The towers and crenellations of the school had, for centuries, provided ‘board, instruction and discipline’ for deserving girls of marriageable age who were orphans or of lowly rank. Nowadays, only a few girls boarded, there were as few orphans, and the discipline was a shadow of its former self, but the school still smelled of tradition, of history…of England; as did Wearbridge itself, untouched by the industrial or any other revolution.
When Isobel had been head girl a few years before, the headmistress, Mrs Cragg, had allowed her to read a rare copy of a privately published school history, written by a twentieth-century alumnus, identified only as ‘G.D.’. Isobel had searched in vain for any mention of athletic pursuits, for, until the beginning of the twentieth century, Wearbridge girls were permitted nothing more strenuous than crochet; the girls of olden times must, however, have been sturdy beasts, for the writer dwelt at some length on the ‘discipline’ designed to make them English ladies, and their uncomplaining acceptance of punishments latterly unacceptable, or downright illegal.
Isobel was at first shocked, but, as she read through the centuries, marvelled at the praise of her school and its disciplinary methods, by each alumna who had written of her education at Wearbridge. The slightest failure in manners, handwriting, grammar or deportment brought punishment which the miscreant not only accepted but welcomed, and no punishment was inflicted without the approval of the miscreant, conscious of her error.
Isobel had imagined that beating on the buttocks was the gruesome privilege of boys’ schools, but she learned that had never been the case. English girls were flogged just as enthusiastically by their mistresses as English boys by their masters. Isobel found herself skipping the lists of ennobled or successfully married alumnae, and following the disciplinary history of Wearbridge, threading through the ages as a story in itself. The annals of Wearbridge detailed severe floggings, and even birchings, often on the buttocks covered only in a ‘flogging-cloth’ of thin brocade, or, in some cases, actually on the bare. A girl caned would usually be held down by two other girls, and bent over a rail, with a third holding the brocade cloth over her bared buttocks and, sometimes, her skirt lifted to hood her head. She had her flogging-brocade as a keepsake and, if birched naked, was permitted to keep her denuded birch.
Each age had its own coquetries of beating: in mediaeval times, birchings were administered on the ‘throne of error’, a chair built just like a royal throne, upon which a miscreant sat, with her wrists strapped to the armrests. The chair had no seat, and the girl’s croup was bare, birched from beneath in an uppercut flogging, while she recited prayers in Latin. Twenty cuts of the birch, on the full bare, was not an uncommon punishment. The girl might wear a brank and tongue-depressor for a ‘grand birching’ of more strokes for she was considered unable to restrain her screams, than which no deportment could be less ladylike. ‘Whipt in a cage’, without further detail, was another antique practice.
Sometimes, girls were beaten wearing shameful headgear, such as a crown of thistles or goose-feathers, or were ducked naked in the River Wear, then flogged on bare wet skin, for extra pain. Naked beatings were, in fact, often at the miscreant’s own request: preferring to be whipped nude than risk damage to her garments from the instrument of chastisement. Throughout, the book hinted that northern English girls, and those of Co Durham in particular, were a tougher and more truly English breed than any others. As she read on, Isobel suspected that G.D.’s real theme was not so much the success of Wearbridge alumnae in high society, as the beatings that had got them there.
The Elizabethan age saw beatings taken in the pillory, or stocks; in the former, the girl’s skirts were pinned up to reveal her bare bottom; in the latter, her wrists were roped to her ankles and her chemise lifted for a whipping on the naked back. In the eighteenth century, whippings were delivered in the upright position: either at the whipping-post, with the girl’s arms wrapped around the post and her legs free; or, for a ‘grand beating’, with her arms and legs splayed, and the wrists, or sometimes both wrists and ankles, roped to the corners of a whipping-frame.
Nineteenth-century Wearbridge aped the newly popular boys’ boarding schools, with young female miscreants being invited to bend over a chair back, or touching their toes, for a caning, which, by that time, was almost always on the bare; the full brocade of previous centuries had given way to a token square of the fabric, placed on the cleft of the buttocks, and soon sliced away by cane or birch, leaving the buttocks naked — although the punished miscreant was still awarded her flogging brocade as keepsake. Birching was carried out at a block, at which the offender knelt, having her waist strapped by a rubber thong two feet in width, and then her skirts pinned to her collar, she having previously removed her undergarments.
Caning or birching on the buttocks was always more popular than public whipping, rare in the nineteenth century, although in the early twentieth, there was a vogue for ‘full bare flogging’ of both back and bottom, the front portion of the body draped, but the rear completely naked — using twelve-thonged quirts of Malayan rubber. G.D. concluded that throughout Wearbridge’s history, caning and birching of the female fesses were more popular, because speedier, and less formal, than the more shameful public whipping, although private chastisement of the buttocks was generally accepted to be more painful.
Caning continued throughout the twentieth centuury, although birching became a rarity, and was discontinued in mid-century. The tradition of the token brocade flogging-cloth was maintained, even in the nineteen-twenties, G.D.’s ‘golden age’ of discipline, when modesty had weakened sufficiently to let girls take their floggings completely nude, yet ‘namby-pambyism’ had not yet tried to outlaw the practice. As well as the formal punishments detailed in the punishment annals, Wearbridge had a tradition — a healthy one, G.D. suggested — of informal spankings taken privately, on knickers, nighties, petticoats, or on full bare, with the undergarments lifted, lowered or discarded.
Isobel learned that punishment annals, dating back to the school’s foundation, were kept locked away. Mrs Cragg had assured her that if she excelled at college and returned to Wearbridge qualified to take the post which awaited her, then she might see the punishment books. When Isobel at last saw them, she gasped at the formal, yet matter-of-fact descriptions, in the quaint lettering:
Beth Shadwell, to be held down for fifteen strokes of the cane on the bare nates, with shift at her ears, for impious thoughts;
Elizabeth Joule, to be whipt thirty lashes on bare back at the pillorie, for failure in grammar and catechism;
Sarah Dunton, to be birched on naked posterior twenty strokes, in the throne of pleasure, for swearing; to be whipt straight thereafter twenty lashes on bare back in the pillorie, for opening her eyes during prayer; to remain pilloried with skirts pinned up and back bared, for three hours, for the sport of her collegians…
‘Sometimes,’ said Mrs Cragg, ‘I wonder if things weren’t healthier in the old days. Punishments were given and forgiven, free of modern do-gooder nonsense, which just causes anxiety. I hate writing reports in jargon, when sometimes all the girl needs is a good spanking! Girls at gym sometimes get rowdy, and if you decided a whopping would clear the air, it would save me paperwork, and I would look the other way, as it were…’
‘I’m not sure I could, Mrs Cragg, but I’ll remember…’
Although Mrs Cragg was in her mid-thirties, her almost girlish vitality and trim figure encouraged Isobel to confide in her as a sister.
‘I don’t seem to make friends easily,’ Isobel admitted.
‘Your trouble is, you are too attractive,’ said Mrs Cragg.
‘Your h
eight and, frankly, superb body make women jealous, and men afraid. I take it you include boyfriends.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Isobel, blushing, and tossing her long blond mane back from her breasts. ‘I’ve had boyfriends, and — you know — but it never seems to work out. I…I don’t know how to put it…they don’t seem to satisfy me.’
‘You’re a healthy young woman,’ said Mrs Cragg.
‘Forgive me for prying, but I think I know what you mean. Some men aren’t very…well, manly, where it counts — in the size department. I take it we are talking about size.’
‘Yes,’ said Isobel, blushing furiously.
‘Until the right one comes along, there’s nothing wrong with a jolly good manual workout,’ said Mrs Cragg, and both women laughed.
Finally, when settled and confident as gym mistress, Isobel confided to Mrs Cragg that when a sixth-former was ‘being really obnoxious — you know’, the girl could choose to go on report, or settle matters with a spanking by ping-pong bat on her knickers — ‘only with girls of proper age and never touching skin. As a gym mistress, I have to be very careful. I shower separately, and only after supervising their own showers, together with a prefect. Spanking has to be done fast, hard and by surprise, in front of the others.’
‘I imagine so,’ said Mrs Cragg.
‘I hope I’m not too awful…’
Mrs Cragg smiled, clapped her hands, and said she hadn’t heard a word.
‘Sometimes, a girl’s skin is all the better for being touched,’ she added. ‘Do keep me informed.’
Isobel’s commanding physique made such occasions rare, but when she did have to spank a sixth-form girl, Mrs Cragg took a lively interest in the punishment — how the girl took it, did she cry, or wriggle, or say anything rude, whether the beating was on knickers, or bare bum. Mrs Cragg’s eyes lit up whenever Isobel said she was so cross, she had spanked the girl on the bare.
‘It seems wrong to hurt,’ she said, ‘although I see it as my duty to the school, and to save you trouble.’
Caged! Page 5
