Caged!

by Yolanda Celbridge

  The nurse took her speculum, a metal device like a pair of compasses, and prised open the pucker of Isobel’s anus, leaving the speculum to hold it stretched wide open. Isobel groaned as her index finger penetrated the anal shaft, extending to its full length, and probing.

  ‘Well,’ said Miss Maclaren, ‘Isobel may or may not choose to tell us how she came by them. We may surmise that her job interview was more…testing than usual.’

  ‘Ouch!’ squealed Angarad, as Miss Maclaren pulled open the flaps of her vulva and inserted a second, larger, vaginal speculum, to hold open her pouch, then inserted three rubbered fingers.

  Isobel began to squirm slightly.

  ‘You have a very large, or else swollen, clitoris,’ said Officer Maclaren. ‘Most interesting — do you feel excited in a situation like this? Nude and helpless?’

  ‘No!’ yelped Isobel. ‘I mean, no, mum.’

  ‘Good,’ said Miss Maclaren. ‘A slag — detainee — is quick to sense weakness, or the enjoyment of weakness…’

  Isobel twisted to look at Ignoge’s face: the lips were slack and filmed with drool, the eyes heavy slits, fixed on Isobel’s bare.

  ‘The vagina is also abnormally large,’ said Miss Maclaren.

  ‘I am a big girl, mum,’ said Isobel. ‘And as for my welts, mum’ — directed at Ignoge — ‘I’m a Durham lass, and I dare say a mite tougher than you southern folk. We played tough games at Wearbridge Girls’ Grammar.’

  Ignoge’s nostrils flared and Miss Maclaren chuckled.

  ‘You English are all southerners to us,’ she said. ‘Perhaps Durham lasses all have large pouches, and the men tarses to fit! You were a staff member at Wearbridge?’

  Her finger poked at the neck of Isobel’s womb and the nude girl shuddered; moisture seeped from her slit. Isobel took a deep breath and swallowed.

  ‘Yes, mum,’ she said, ‘and Mrs Cragg told me, a staff member here must be able to take whatever she dishes out, and, yes, she tested me. I didn’t know it would be that hard, but I promise I took it without a squeal.’

  ‘Are you looking forward to dishing it out, then, Isobel?’ murmured Miss Maclaren, as she removed her fingers and speculums from Isobel’s holes and wiped her rubber glove clean of Isobel’s cunt fluid.

  ‘If it’s needed, yes, I am,’ said Isobel, sitting up.

  Both Miss Maclaren and Ignoge Brand smiled.

  ‘Judging by the bare bottoms it is my duty to tend,’ Miss Maclaren said, ‘I would imagine it is often needed.’

  Isobel wriggled uncomfortably in her new warden’s uniform; despite her suggestion that the clothes, especially the regulation black bra and panties, were a size too small, Miss Maclaren said they were a perfect fit and any initial discomfort would vanish when she had got used to her thermal corselet, worn over her bra. Junior wardens wore standard white shirts, short-sleeved; the display of underarm hair, like the antique tabard, was a privilege of top strokes, though even they were forbidden to shave or trim their cunt bushes. The stockings were of extra-thick, sheened nylon, and the only area visited by air gusts was the sliver of thigh, uncovered by the heavy rubber garter straps, between Isobel’s panties, high in cut, and her stocking-tops. The garter belt, like the straps, was of black latex and bit into Isobel’s haunches. Her fingers brushed the gleaming new cane dangling from the wide leather belt at her waist and her coiled rope, with its sliding noose, on her belt buckle: it was a lariat.

  Ignoge showed her the room in the wardens’ block that was to be her home: a tidy bedsit, furnished with table, chair, sofa and bed, and the board floor brightly polished.

  ‘Bathroom is down at the end of the corridor,’ she said.

  ‘When you’re on night duty, you share the spare bedroom in the cell block with another bottom stroke, so you have to cross the courtyard to come back here if you need the bathroom. Unless you’re brave enough to pee with the stinkers and slags, which I don’t advise. By the way, you must shave your legs and armpits but never your mound. Public shaving is a slag’s punishment, usually before she’s flogged.’

  ‘Flogged?’ Isobel blurted.

  ‘As in “beaten”,’ said Ignoge, ‘with a cane, quirt or whip, on the naked back or arse. Clear enough, miss?’

  They proceeded to a rapid tour of the prison’s inner corridors and outer courts. The cell block was in the shape of a cross, with the wardens’ office and bedroom at its centre, so that two wardens could observe all four cell corridors at once. The wardens’ area was sealed off from the cells by steel doors and accessed directly from the courtyard. The inner courtyard circled the cell block and contained refectory-cum-assembly hall, gymnasium, cells for solitary confinement and classrooms, occupied by girls at woodwork or other crafts, sewing or book instruction. There were bathrooms throughout the prison for detainees and wardens but the crux of the cell block was too small to contain one. Both wardens’ and detainees’ bathrooms had long troughs for squatting and indented with bum-rests, through which running water gurgled constantly; the wardens also enjoyed separate lavatory cubicles. The outer courtyard led to workshops and stables, beyond that were the swimming pool and sports fields, and then the scrubs stretched to the River Wrigley and its flanking hillocks of moorland.

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve taken everything in, mum,’ Isobel said.

  ‘You will,’ replied Ignoge. ‘First thing is to learn the names of your sister strokes.’

  The three top strokes were Ignoge herself, Althea Tite and Goiswinth Moss; Isobel’s colleagues as bottom strokes were Belinda Garce, Judon Oates, Sarah Bunn, Amy Patel, Imogen Tandy and Edra Forge. Ignoge explained that every detainee had her own private cell, a luxury in regular prisons, where the indignities of the day could heal.

  ‘Or where we can inflict new ones,’ she sneered.

  ‘I’ve…I’ve never carried a cane before,’ Isobel said, as they paused to visit the wardens’ bathroom at the gate lodge of the inner courtyard. ‘I knew corporal punishment was part of discipline here, but not to what extent.’

  Ignoge squatted in a cubicle, after unfastening her garter straps and lowering her stockings and knickers in a swift, practised thrust. Isobel took the stall beside her, after a brief glimpse of Ignoge’s luxuriant pubic mane, dangling between her large ruby cunt lips. She removed her new underclothing carefully and her hiss of pee joined her superior’s beside her. As the steam rose above the low cubicle partitions, Ignoge said it was at the warden’s discretion.

  ‘That cane is not for show,’ she said curtly. ‘If you don’t use it, the slags won’t respect you — and I mean use it at will, outside of formal canings and whippings. The belt comes in handy, too, buckle out.’

  ‘Formal whippings?’ Isobel said.

  There was a rapid plop-plop as a jet of stools filled the pan beneath her thighs. Ignoge laughed.

  ‘Frightened of whipping a girl on the bare?’ she said.

  ‘After seeing that scorched bum of yours, I’d think not.’

  ‘No…no, of course not,’ said Isobel.

  ‘As gym mistress, you’re i/c equipment, understand? We whip the slags on vaulting horses, wall bars, that sort of thing…’

  In the near distance came a faint rhythmic sound: tap-tap-tap, like a blacksmith’s hammer.

  ‘What’s that, mum?’ Isobel asked.

  ‘Some girl taking bare-bum caning, of course. I’d say it was Miss Oates, she should be on patrol, and that sounds like her style. She likes to lay it on hard.’

  Tap…tap…tap…

  Some girl taking bare-bum caning…

  ‘It doesn’t sound very hard,’ Isobel murmured. ‘It’s funny, from a distance, you miss the terrible whistle of the cane, and the whop on the bare. It’s a drier sound.’

  Some girl taking bare-bum caning…

  Isobel’s fingers slid down her woollen corselet, raised above her belly-button; over her tingling bare belly, to plunge within her forest of pubic curls and delve between her slit lips. She sighed as her thumb found her clitoris
.

  ‘You all right? Nearly finished?’ said Ignoge. ‘I have other things to do, Miss Coker — one of the bottoms, Miss Garce or Miss Oates, perhaps, will brief you more thoroughly.’

  ‘I…I think I’m a bit bunged up, mum. The coach trip…’

  Isobel gulped as her fingers began to dance in the rhythm of the tapping between her juicing cunt flaps, and her thumb rubbed her swelling clitty round and round. She shut her eyes, shaking her head, but her breath came as a hoarse rattle as she masturbated more and more vigorously. Four fingers inside her pouch, not filling her big wet cavern but scratching the walls — yes! the g-spot! — and the thumb wanking the clit…

  Tap…tap…tap…

  Twelve…thirteen…fourteen…

  ‘How many strokes are there in a caning, mum?’ she blurted.

  ‘Why, as many as it takes,’ snapped Ignoge.

  ‘Isn’t there a tariff of offences?’

  ‘There are only two offences at Wrigley Scrubs, Miss Coker: dumb insolence and insolence. When a slag or stinker reaches a certain number of points in her tariff book, she is formally beaten in public, a stroke for each point, which cleans her slate: say, a caning of fifteen for fifteen offences, or a whipping if it’s over twenty-one. Or she can accept an informal swishing on the bare, for each separate offence, and get it over with leaving her tariff book clean.’

  Formally beaten in public, a stroke for each point…

  Isobel’s fingers wanked her clitty harder.

  ‘But why not let her points mount up, mum, and have all the offences punished at once? Taken into consideration, they call it. Then she’d take fifteen in one go, instead of a separate caning for each of fifteen offences.’

  ‘If her tariff book’s full, she risks being transferred to another jail! Aren’t you finished?’

  Tap…tap…tap…

  Fifteen…sixteen…seventeen…

  ‘Ahhh…!’

  A girl’s choking sob.

  Her bare buttocks quivering, bruised, helpless under cane…

  ‘Nearly, mum,’ gasped Isobel, masturbating her swollen clit and trying to stop her gushing come from soiling her stockings, stretched between her thighs. ‘I’ve never seen a girl whipped bare, in public…do they wriggle awfully?’

  There was another plopping, as a further jet of stools left her anus.

  ‘Listen, mum,’ she said, ‘I’m loosening…’

  Tap…tap…

  Eighteen…nineteen…

  Tap…tap!

  Twenty…twenty-one!

  ‘Oh! Ahh…!’ screamed the distant girl, her voice just loud enough to drown Isobel’s own panting as her belly convulsed in climax, and her come-soaked fingers pummelled her stiff, swollen clit.

  Isobel rapidly wiped herself, pulled the chain and joined Ignoge outside the cubicle, where Ignoge was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.

  ‘By the way, Miss Coker, I watched you through a knothole. You were too busy wanking yourself off to notice. You do have a big pouch!’

  ‘Oh…!’ Isobel blushed fiery red.

  Ignoge smiled, blowing a plume of smoke in Isobel’s face.

  ‘I’m sure you wank off as much as the rest of us, but wardens must be discreet,’ she said. ‘As for any slag caught wanking, singly or together, well, it’s a caning, just for starters. Just remember that the code of discipline covers every girl at Wrigley Scrubs…You’ll have to make your own arrangements for snout, unless you want to cycle to the village ten miles away.’

  ‘Oh…I don’t smoke,’ said Isobel.

  ‘You will,’ said Ignoge.

  * * *

  It was lunchtime. Wardens lined the half-timbered brick walls of the refectory, supervising the detainees, who ate, seated on benches at oak tables under a low, beamed ceiling. Isobel stood to attention beside Belinda Garce. The girls, uniformed in short grey skirts, white cotton stockings and white blouses, received their food on trays from a counter, where other detainees served. Some girls wore only bra and panties, the panties no more than a g-string that left the buttocks bared, and in most cases marked by recent chastisement. Those girls were barefoot and had their wrists strapped behind their backs. They were obliged to pick up their trays by clamping the rope handles with their teeth; they ate by plunging their faces into their food, being unable to use wooden spoons like the others. Belinda explained that they were stinkers who had committed an offence and been caned for it, then ‘stripped to smalls’. All detainees wore a skimpy thong as standard issue so that, if awarded a bare-bottom caning, they had only to lift their skirts. It was cold in the refectory and the girls ate fast, shivering; beneath their thin blouses, only a white bra was visible, with no thermal bodice.

  Belinda said that on Miss Brand’s order, Isobel was to accompany her on patrol that afternoon. Belinda was a muscular Welsh girl of Isobel’s age, with ash-blond tresses in a pony-tail. Like Isobel, and every warden’s, her spic-and-span uniform, designed to cling, hugged a ripe figure, accentuating the breasts, thighs and buttocks. The slags, too, had clothing apparently a size too small, causing bare flesh to bulge at midriff, breast or thigh top, where seemlier kit might have hidden it. The discrepancy between body and kit size was most noticeable in the bra, from which breasts thrust, jutting and swelling. Isobel commented on this in a whisper and Belinda told her that Miss Maclaren, i/c uniforms, thought all girls should be wiry and petite, like herself.

  ‘Also, it looks good when the Home Office inspectors or the TV news people come round,’ she said, grinning slyly.

  ‘Maclaren’s a tough nut — if you really want to terrify a slag, threaten her with a visit to surgery for her beating. I hear you’ve been pretty well tested yourself,’ she added, licking her wide pink lips.

  ‘What…?’

  ‘I mean, your bum’s been well dusted. No need to tell me why…but word gets around fast in here. It’s good for a stroke to know that what she dishes, she can take — and enjoy how much a slag’s arse is hurting under her cane.’

  ‘Fucking bum bitch!’

  ‘Fucking gob whore!’

  Isobel looked up to see a tussle between two slags, each tugging at a sliver of meat and accusing the other of stealing it. Suddenly, there was a whistle, then a crack, as two lariats snaked through the air, each one looping a girl under the breasts, pinioning her and dragging her from the bench on to the floor. Ignoge Brand and Goiswinth Moss approached the girls and pressed their heads to the floor with their boots, whilst a table was cleared by other slags, protective of their own food. The strokes hauled the roped girls on to the table, with their bottoms in the air, and gave their lariats to two of the bottom strokes to hold the girls helpless. Their skirts went up, revealing the bare orbs of their g-stringed bottoms. Ignoge and Goiswinth raised their canes.

  Vip! Vip! Vip! Vip! Vip! Vip! — six strokes cut smartly on each wriggling girl’s bare arse, their beatings delivered in exactly six seconds. Both howled at the first and second strokes, but were told by the other girls to ‘shut it, bitch’. The two slags, sobbing, were not permitted to rub their wealed bare bums as their wrists were strapped behind their backs with rubber thongs, and their shirts, skirts, stockings and footwear were removed. Nude but for bra and panties, they were obliged to resume their places at table, clad as stinkers and delving with their faces into the remains on their food trays. The two wardens holding the girls released them from their nooses and threw the lariats back to the caners, who caught the ropes with their teeth.

  ‘They don’t get much food,’ said Belinda, ‘so that tends to happen quite a lot. Many of the stinkers are in fact slags, who’ve suffered a month’s loss of privilege after being caned bare for wanking off or other insolence.’

  ‘Will I have to learn how to use a lariat?’ Isobel said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Belinda.

  At the wardens’ luncheon, where food was plentiful, Isobel met all of her new colleagues. She sat between Belinda and the top stroke Althea Tite, a tall girl, with a rich russet mane and
figure like Miss Horsfall’s: slim frame ripening into ripe thighs and croup, and pert, jutting breasts straining under her shirt. Her long colt’s legs slithered as she crossed and uncrossed her nylon-sheen thighs, brushing against Isobel’s. Suddenly, over pudding, she felt Isobel’s biceps.

  ‘Gym mistress, eh?’ she said, her voice a silky Home Counties drawl. ‘Good caning muscle, there.’

  Her hand strayed to Isobel’s thigh.

  ‘Well-built all round, I’d say, with a fair bum.’

  Althea’s fingers strayed to Isobel’s arse-cleft and pressed briefly on her buttocks.

  ‘Althea,’ said Ignoge, mildly.

  ‘Just testing the beef,’ said Althea, which raised a laugh.

  ‘I can assure you, the girl has more than a fair bum,’ said Miss Maclaren. ‘Pure Aberdeen Angus! She’s lucky not to be a slag, or I’d swish that juicy rump…my way.’

  Isobel blushed but returned Miss Maclaren’s gaze with a stare of her own, at the two top buttons of Miss Maclaren’s blouse unfastened, showing bra and tight, jutting teat-flesh; the trim surgical officer grinned and allowed her eyes to fall. After pudding, most of the girls rolled and lit cigarettes. Then, after coffee, it was time for afternoon patrol. Isobel accompanied Belinda, who explained that the inmates were occupied as fully as possible during waking hours at class or in physical pursuits. ‘Frisky’ girls had to break rocks in the quarry, half a mile distant. Classwork consisted of calligraphy, sewing, arts and crafts.

  ‘I suppose there are computer studies?’ Isobel said.

  ‘Heavens, no,’ said Belinda. ‘Miss Horsfall doesn’t approve of things like that.’

  ‘Is there a chapel with religious services?’

  Belinda laughed.

  ‘You could call it that. Let’s go straight to the gym — you’ll probably need a squad of stinkers to help you move things around when there’s a public punishment. Miss Horsfall likes things…theatrical.’

  The gymnasium was a low, vaulted chamber, like the refectory, with mullioned windows, and Isobel remarked that it looked more like a chapel than a gym. Solid fixtures like wall bars looked incongruous against the oak-panelled or white plaster walls. A doorway led to a chamber almost as large, which was the store. Here, Isobel saw ranks of vaulting-horses, jumping bars, skipping-ropes, dumb-bells, and exercise machines; also, devices punitive.