Caged!

by Yolanda Celbridge

  ‘I…I don’t understand,’ said Angarad.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ said Tamsin. ‘Captain George’s third passion was whipping women on the bare.’

  ‘God! How awful…’ Angarad whispered. ‘And the fourth passion? I’m almost afraid to ask.’

  ‘Buggering the women, afterwards.’

  * * *

  Angarad shivered; even with the heating on full, it was freezing in Tamsin’s car. Headlights lit gleaming compacted snow, and her wheels hissed through slush.

  ‘Not far now,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘Teddington seems such a funny place for…’

  ‘Pinkar’s Club? Everywhere’s a funny place, and nowhere is. Pinkarse was the rollicking seventeenth-century nickname, though Oswald Pinkar, Earl of Wrigley, named it for himself, and it’s said he was really Captain Pollecutt. He had mysterious wealth and spent it on exotic imported flagellabilia. The club was incorporated in the less rollicking nineteenth century as the “Society for the Punishment of Vice”. Call it the SPV if it sounds better — or I’ll stop and you can get the bus home, if you want.’

  ‘No! As long as I don’t actually have to do anything.’

  ‘A beautiful girl never has to do anything,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘I still can’t believe that you…’

  ‘I never told you I was part of the scene, because the subject never came up. I’ve never told you what sort of cereal I eat for breakfast, either. It’s just what I do, except pain and pleasure are more absorbing than breakfast cereal. It’s about finding your real self, which is why you are here, after claiming you hated being spanked and buggered.’

  ‘I still wonder what mysterious part you play in the…the Pinkarse Club!’ Angarad said, with a sudden smile.

  ‘Such a quaint, innocent name…’

  ‘Mysteries are absorbing,’ Tamsin said. ‘So is innocence. Remember being spanked at school, and how waiting was part of it? Heavens, Angie, admit the truth about yourself. You have perve’s eyes!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An innocent dreamy look, sort of faraway, but deeply knowing, of something we all envy, which is why dominants can be beastly to subs…like you.’

  Angarad swallowed, looking nervously with wide eyes at her friend. They drove south with the somnolent Thames to their left, past rich villas and terraces. Tamsin slowed before a detached villa, set back from the roadway, and cruised until she could slip into a parking space.

  ‘You didn’t tell me why Captain George’s grave in Tangier is empty,’ Angarad said, as they approached the house, dark, save for chinks of light peeping from drapes.

  Both girls wore long coats and scarves; Angarad, a bottle-green velvet dress, strapless, with a high hemline; seamed sockings, a pubic string, and full sussies in green lace; which Tamsin assured her was sufficiently outrageous, for a beginner. Tamsin herself had refused to let Angarad see under her clinging coat, which had a dull, metallic sheen and an aroma that Angarad recognised as rubber. It swung halfway down sheer, spike-heeled and pointed boots, also of rubber, but shiny.

  ‘It’s not empty. He fought a duel with another rogue named Cragg, about a woman they had both buggered, and left him wounded in the arse. He went through Cragg’s pockets and found stolen letters of credit on a Portuguese bank worth a fortune. So he swapped coats with Cragg and bribed the servants to say Captain George had lost the duel, then bury a coffin full of stones. He took the goodies and disappeared.’

  Tamsin gave the doorbell three long rings, then two short ones. The door opened, to the bright light and chatter of a party in full swing. No face appeared to greet them. There was a click as the door latch sprang back into place. Below them crouched a girl with long, flowing blond tresses. The girl was nude and had her wrists handcuffed behind her back. Her upraised bare bottom was marked with raw crimson weals; an unseen hand held a rope leash tautly fastened to a spiked chain around her neck and her ankles were encased in a metal hobble bar. She had opened the door with her teeth.

  Tamsin did not enter but unbelted her greatcoat and let the flaps fall open, revealing herself to the girl. The girl gasped. Angarad followed Tamsin into the hallway and put her hand to her mouth when her eyes fell on Tamsin’s body. Her friend wore a brassiere of rubber cords, holding conical silver cups, to cover no more of her massively jutting breasts than the swollen, strawberry nipples. She wore rubber sussies and stockings, woven in close fishnet, but no knickers. Hanging from her silver waist-chain was a riding crop of braided leather; strapped at her crotch, in erect position, was a rubber penis of fifteen or more inches, and the girth of a girl’s fist. Jutting at its base, and parallel to the rubber cock, was a smaller dildo seven or eight inches long, and the thickness of an erect cock.

  ‘Hello, Bee,’ said Tamsin. ‘Have you been a good girl?’

  ‘Welcome to Pinkarse, Mistress,’ said the girl’s voice.

  ‘No, I’m rather afraid I haven’t…’

  The person holding Bee’s rope handed the leash, with a smile, to Tamsin. He was a man in early middle-age, wearing a grey business suit, collar and tie, and black shoes, but with a leather mask covering his cheeks, chin, and lower brow.

  ‘Tamsin! Delightful! Just in time to take charge of this brat. Bee has been awfully whiny awaiting you. And your friend, Angarad? I am enchanted. She is even lovelier than you painted her.’

  His voice was a purring baritone.

  ‘Hello, Marcus,’ Tamsin replied.

  Marcus bent to brush Angarad’s hand with his lips.

  ‘Do join the throng,’ he said, his eyes fixed on Angarad’s breasts. ‘You’ll find us eccentric, but lovable…’

  Both girls deposited their coats in the cloakroom and Angarad followed Tamsin into the drawing room, which looked out through closed French windows on to a broad, snow-shrouded lawn sweeping down to the sluggish river. The room was hung with velvet drapes, four or five feet from the wall, as if they were in a dressing-room or stage set. It rang with party chatter, and Angarad whispered to Tamsin that she was sure she recognised some voices.

  ‘Marcus’s voice is familiar, too,’ she said.

  ‘The TV studios are nearby,’ Tamsin answered. ‘You might meet some celeb like Max Ogule. Nervous?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t be. Nothing will happen to you unless you want it to. We perves are the nicest souls.’

  ‘It seems so casual. Apart from…well, you and Bee.’

  Bee crawled behind Tamsin, who held her riding crop and absent-mindedly flicked Bee’s bare buttocks, making the girl squeal like a piglet. Bemetalled women posed in rubber costumes or black leather; whips and canes dangled from studded belts as casually as handbags. Others had clothes everyday to the point of aggression, with men and women in business suits, but each with a fetish sign — a rip, a knotted kerchief, an angled brooch.

  Four girls wore frilly French maid’s outfits, their tutus and bodices, or corselets, leaving breasts, buttocks or both artfully bare. Other girls were pink sugarplum fairies, with diaphanous gossamer costumes that showed breasts thrust up by bras many sizes too small, or with perforated cups that squeezed the nipples to gooseberries; bellies strapped in rubber waspie corsets, loins swaddled in lattices of knotted rope or fastened in heavy rubber clamps; some wore nothing at all beneath gauze. Chat hummed.

  ‘Haven’t seen you since I gave you a seven dozen on the bare with my rattan — no, it was eight, I think.’

  ‘Darling, how can you take so many hours with a studded corset, brank and butt-plug? And tit-caned as well!’

  There was a buffet with plenty of wine and food. Tamsin was greeted with embraces, kisses, cries of delight, but her greeters focused on Angarad, who trailed behind her, alongside the petite blond Bee, snuffling in her cords, and sobbing every time Tamsin punctuated her conversation with a flick of her crop to Bee’s bare arse, or sometimes undercutting her pendulous bubs. Bee was blond, like Angarad, and her hourglass figure a petite replica of Angarad’s. She alone had nothing to eat
or drink — until Angarad saw a saucer of water in the corner, which Tamsin permitted her to drink, occasionally throwing her a scrap of food, at which the roped girl twisted her nude body, to gnaw voraciously.

  ‘Tamsin,’ Angarad whispered, ‘why does she do it? Bee, I mean. Abase herself so?’

  Tamsin delivered a particularly vicious slice to the cleft of Bee’s bum, catching her on the anus pucker, and her crop tip flicking the swollen cunt lips, moist with fluid.

  ‘It is her nature,’ she replied. ‘She’s a sub, and a wretched little squirt, like all subs. Aren’t you, Bee?’

  Vip!

  The crop lashed Bee in a fierce undercut, slashing both her erect nipples. The sub’s come dripped copiously.

  ‘Yes, Mistress,’ she whimpered.

  Gradually, plates were cleared by the girls dressed as French maids, and the light slowly dimmed to a red, incandescent glow. Behind each French maid’s croup sparkled a filigree chain, reaching between the pleats of her skirt into her arse-cleft. The maids were bound together by this most delicate shackle, yet managed to weave their way about their tasks without entanglement. Each wore her hair ironed perfectly smooth, and had identical fishnet stockings with teetering high stilettos, although the arrangement of their skirts and corselets varied, to tease with an exact amount of exposed flesh. Drinks were replenished to the full, but the food table disappeared. Those whose dinner plates still held food twanged the French maids’ waistbands, and dropped leftovers down her rubber knickers; at which the maids curtsied, bowing low, to reveal their expanse of tethered teat-flesh. The air was heavy with cigar smoke: those wishing to tip ash, did so down the cups of a maid’s brassiere. One maid served as a receptacle for finished tobacco stubs; her skirt had a tin cup, pressed close to her knickerless pubis, and guests summoned her to stub out their smokes in this metal cunt-pouch. She grimaced as she curtsied, then smiled, as the hot metal singed her cunt hairs.

  ‘I am so glad you could make it, Tamsin,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Bee has been an absolute bitch, whining for you. No amount of whopping seems to keep the slut quiet.’

  ‘Mm!’ Bee protested, with sob.

  Vip! Vip!

  Tamsin gave her two cuts to the full bare, already laced with cane marks.

  ‘Mmm…!’

  Drool dribbled from Bee’s slack lips, like the droplets of fluid dripping from her cunt and her bushy, untrimmed jungle of pubic fronds. Tamsin wrinkled her nose.

  ‘The slut needs a bath,’ she murmured.

  ‘I’m sure you can give her an imaginative one, my dear,’ said Marcus.

  He melted into the shimmering red half-light, touching a switch; the drapes rose to the ceiling. Angarad gasped; festooning the walls, sullen in gunmetal, stood clamps, irons, whipping frames, racks and apparatus of supplice. Whips hung, oiled and gleaming; canes, as crisp in their racks as fresh young schoolgirls. Five rope nooses dangled from the ceiling, with the same at ankle level; buckled rubber waist cinchers, heavy flanges two feet thick, were hinged to the wall.

  ‘Welcome to my dungeon, friends,’ said Marcus. ‘Enjoy, and thank Pinkarse.’

  ‘I just can’t believe people use these things for fun,’ said Angarad.

  ‘It’s not fun,’ said Tamsin. ‘That’s the point.’

  Vip! Vip!

  Her crop striped the bare buttocks of the snivelling Bee.

  ‘Is it, slave?’

  ‘N…no, Mistress,’ Bee whimpered.

  Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ah! Ouch!’

  ‘You hate it, don’t you, Bee?’

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’

  Vip! Vip!

  ‘Wrong answer. I’ll have to punish you for that, you realise.’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  Bee’s bare bum glowed violet in the half-light.

  ‘Ohh…! Yes, Mistress!’ she sobbed.

  Angarad watched as business suits came off, to reveal a variety of costumes as bizarre as Tamsin’s; or otherwise nude bodies, corseted, sheathed and strapped, or pinned and ringed, at breast or genitals. Everyone donned mask or pixy hood, except for Tamsin, Angarad, Bee, and the four French maids.

  ‘This is where your saucy designer lingerie leads, Angie,’ said Tamsin, ‘only, the scene got there first. In a few years, this stuff will be in every Rockingham’s shop window…’

  Vip!

  The first canestroke pierced the air. ‘Uhh…’

  A woman, nude, straddled a spanking stool like a milkmaid’s, her bare bum held high, with her head and arms pinioned by the masked man, introduced only minutes before as her husband. Her caner was a female, nude but for a pixy hood and rubber boots, extending almost to the jungle of pubic curls that dangled well below her red, swollen cunt lips, each of them pierced with a silver ring. The domina’s clinging boot rubber glistened with come, dripping from her cunt rings, as she raised her cane. Behind her, a black male, nude but for a leather mask, spread her pale, quivering bum-flans, and penetrated the domina’s open anus with a massively swollen cock.

  Vip! Vip!

  Her titties trembled as she flogged; her victim’s bare buttocks clenched, as pink stripes etched across the quivering skin. The black male fucked the caner’s arse in powerful thrusts, his slimed cock withdrawing from her cleft, to pierce the caner’s anus, in time with her strokes to the helpless bare female.

  ‘Uhh…! Yes…!’

  Tamsin’s cane sliced Bee’s anus bud, directing her towards the erect cock of the flogged woman’s husband. Obediently, Bee got her lips around the swollen crimson glans, and her tongue began to flicker on the peehole.

  Vip! Vip!

  Tamsin began a rhythmic caning of Bee’s croup, as her slave’s throat accepted the man’s cock.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  Tamsin thrashed Bee’s naked arse with strokes at one-second intervals; she reached between her legs, getting her fingers between the strap-on tool and her massive wet cunt bush, her nails right down to the slit lips. She touched her distended clitty, poking at her rubber dildo, and began to masturbate as she caned Bee’s quivering bare fesses. Bee took her punishment in silence, except for a gurgling noises as she fellated the man, whose caned wife seemed to enjoy responding to the cane of the buggered woman, with a drama of strangled gasps.

  Vip! Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ouch! Ooh! Uhh…Ahhh…!’

  Her naked buttocks, bruised with a crisscross of darkening weals, performed a sinuous, writhing dance as the naked arse-globes squirmed under the cane’s welt. The flogging-stool was well slimed with her come, seeping from the gash lips that fluttered in time with her caning.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Oh! Yes! Ohh…’

  She began to rub her pubis on the wood, smearing it with come, as the caning passed twenty-five strokes. Another ten and the woman was scarlet in the face, her cunt gushing fluid, and she sobbed to her husband.

  ‘God, it’s so good! Just one touch, darling! Bring…’

  Vip!

  ‘…me…’

  Vip!

  ‘…off…! Oh! Oh!’

  ‘At the fifty, bitch.’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘I do think she needs more discipline at home,’ Marcus murmured to the husband of the caned female. ‘My sister would never listen to my advice…’

  The strokes continued towards the fifty. At the fiftieth slice of the buggered woman’s cane on his wife’s frenzied, quivering arse-jellies, and with Bee continuing to suck his cock, the male pinched his wife’s swollen clitty between thumb and forefinger; she squealed, heaving in orgasm. Her husband released her and grasped Bee’s titties, squeezing and clawing them as her bum continued to writhe under Tamsin’s cane. He pressed the nipples until they stood white; Bee groaned, with her head bobbing like a pigeon’s, as she fellated his stiff tool, until her groans turned to a gurgling and her throat bobbed as the male spunked in her mouth. She swallowed his spunk, but a little of the powerful jet dribbled from her lips to splash her squeezed bubs. Tamsin began to lash
Bee’s titties with hard, rapid strokes, concentrating on the spunk-slimed nipples. The male withdrew his cock, leaving Bee’s mouth drooling the remnants of his sperm. Her bare bum still clenched, even when Tamsin varied her caning, with strokes to her quivering bare breasts; Bee’s rosebud cunt juiced with heavy come.

  ‘Filthy little beast,’ said Tamsin. ‘I think it’s bathtime…’

  Female bottoms were bare, for spanking, slippering or the loud thwack of the tawse or cane. The pink sugar-plum fairies had their gauzy dresses torn from them and were held helpless and squealing, to be thrashed by females in rubber; others meekly, or teasingly, bared their bums, daring their thrashers to hurt them. The black cock pumped between the domina’s arse-cheeks, while she frotted her clitty to orgasm; he cried out, a froth of spunk bubbling from her anal pucker, between her buttocks, to drip down her perineum into her luxuriant cunt bush. Tamsin directed Bee to suck the domina’s cunt hair dry, before proceeding to her own cleansing. When Bee had drunk come from the domina’s cunt as the domina masturbated her still erect clitty, then sucked the black male’s spunk from the soaked pubic bush, Tamsin jerked her rope, and ordered her to open the handles of the French windows with her mouth, then go into the garden.

  Bee obeyed; there was a gust of cold air before the windows closed again. Tamsin ordered Bee to roll naked in the snow, as Angarad watched, mouth agape. She looked further and saw a shadow over the river, like a gibbet, with a chair beneath it: a mediaeval ducking stool. Bee rolled herself into a snowball, then came to a halt, with only her head exposed from the hillock of snow and tears streaming from her pale, shivering face. Tamsin grinned, looking down at Angarad’s crotch; Angarad followed her gaze and blushed a fiery red. Her hose tops were slimed with come, seeping from her cunt string.

  The French maids flattened themselves against the wall, each patting her ironed hair straight. Their faces were unsmiling, as they spread their legs and raised their wrists to the rope nooses hung at the ceiling. Marcus’s sister, still rubbing her own caned bottom, helped fasten the first maid in her wrist and ankle ropes, then stripped her of her maid’s uniform, all except her stockings and shoes.