Caged!

by Yolanda Celbridge

  ‘Well, Miss Coker,’ said Miss Horsfall, several feet behind Angarad, who jumped in shock and looked round, drawing her woolly scarf over her mouth and nose.

  Miss Horsfall sat at the wheel of her dark green Bentley motorcar. She wore a fur coat, like the two racers.

  ‘Going to the village, so early, Isobel?’ she drawled.

  Angarad nodded, drawing her scarf up, so that only her eyes were visible.

  ‘I like to watch the semi-finals and, of course, the final,’ said Miss Horsfall, ‘although the dear girls think I don’t know. That’s why they race so far from prison…I dare say Ignoge has won this for the Goths, despite her little naughtiness at the finish — but who said life was fair? Of course, it scarcely matters, as the Vandals always seem to win anyway. Speaking of fair, I do hope that new girl, Angarad Stark, isn’t in thrall of some gang. She seems such a delight — almost your twin.’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t know, mum,’ said Angarad, imitating Isobel’s Durham accent.

  ‘Such an unfortunate word, “gang”,’ sighed Miss Horsfall. ‘It reeks of the lower classes. Yet prisoners must have some outlet for their…girlish enthusiasms, and it helps if they think we ignore or even condone it. That is the beauty of our British system: the only crime is getting caught or, worse, swanking in victory. Now, I would place Angarad as a decent bare-breast boxer. She has the agility, although it would be a shame to see those pretty teats take the drubbing in store for them. Come to think of it, Isobel, you might consider taking up boxing yourself, if only as a referee. The girls fight in loinstrings, bare-breasted and bare-knuckled, but with the ladylike refinement that victory is decided by securing possession of the opponent’s undergarment rather than by knocking her down.’

  ‘I’ll consider it, mum,’ mumbled Angarad.

  ‘Well, I mustn’t detain you, Miss Coker. If you call at the village shop, you might ask Oswald if that shipment of claret has arrived for me. I do like to patronise the traditional English shop, not these ghastly supermarkets, and of course Oswald Pollecutt is the bearer of a fine name in these parts.’

  ‘Oswald Pollecutt, mum?’

  ‘Why, yes. Wrigley Scrubs itself was bequeathed to the nation by his forebear, Sir George. Our labyrinth — to whose oppressions it is sometimes my duty to sentence an unruly girl — is said to be modelled on the great labyrinth of Oum El Hanch, discovered by Sir George in the Moroccan desert, when he was deputy governor of Tangier.’

  The glove-box of Miss Horsfall’s car was not fully closed and from it jutted a leather pizzle, like the dildos attached to the racing girls’ harnesses: like them, it was shiny with oil. Miss Horsfall shifted in her seat, permitting her fur coat to fall open for an instant, before she gathered it in. She wore silk stockings, suspenders and garter straps but no knickers, and her luxuriant cunt bush glistened with come.

  ‘You appear to be riding what, I believe, is called a “Vandal” bicycle, Miss Coker.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware, mum,’ Angarad stammered.

  ‘It must be rather uncomfortable.’

  ‘No…not really, mum.’

  ‘Of course, a ticketed pervert, like Miss Angarad Stark, would find such a vehicle entirely to her satisfaction. I recall apprehending the detainee Susan Race — now released — on what is called a “snout run”, riding such a contraption. I let her complete her errand, but running in her stockings, holding her shoes in her teeth, with her skirts pinned up, while I rode her cycle, caning her on the bare, all the way into the village. Forty-three strokes in all, and quite as painful for me as it was for her…’

  ‘I am sure she merited them, mum.’

  ‘What were you looking at, just now, Miss Stark? When my coat fell from my thighs?’

  ‘Why, nothing, mum! Wait a minute — what —?’

  ‘You are Angarad Stark, miss,’ said Miss Horsfall. ‘You may have seduced, or overpowered, your lookalike, Miss Coker, but you cannot hide your pervert’s eyes. So innocent and beguiling, yet begging for chastisement.’

  ‘Oh, please, mum!’ Angarad wailed, throwing aside her scarf. ‘I can explain —’

  ‘Of course you can, but think — do you wish to?’

  Angarad bit her lip and swallowed. Tears formed at her eyes.

  ‘No, mum.’

  Miss Horsfall clapped and once more her fur fell away, revealing her unpantied pubic bush and the leather car seat slimed beneath her bare bum. She did not recover herself.

  ‘The correct answer, Angarad! Whatever you say, you are in trouble, and implicating Miss Coker would make things worse — possibly for her as well. Such a delicious dilemma! Were you masturbating as you watched the chariot race?’

  ‘Yes, mum,’ blurted Angarad, her face scarlet and moist with tears.

  ‘With the prong pleasuring your pervert’s anus.’

  There was silence, for a moment.

  ‘Yes, mum,’ Angarad whispered, sobbing. ‘Yes…’

  ‘You shall continue about your business and take your tea early this afternoon. Then you shall be caned publicly, while the other girls take theirs. I expect you to be in your own uniform and Miss Coker in hers.’

  ‘Yes, mum. Thank you, mum. I’m so sorry, mum.’

  ‘Please give my fond regards to Oswald.’

  ‘Yes, mum.’

  Miss Horsfall slipped her car into first gear. Her fur coat shifted, revealing a square of brocade clinging to her bare right buttock.

  ‘Oh, and a week or so after your public flogging, miss, you shall spend a night in the labyrinth.’

  11

  Twin Prongs

  The village of Wrigley Scrubs sat grey and gloomy, like an extrusion of the bleak scrubland around it. There was an inn and a street of huddled dwellings, but no church and a single shop bearing the legend ‘Jos. Pollecutt, Esq., Haberdasher and Licensed Victualler’ in gothic script. The River Wrigley looped sluggishly behind the terrace where the shop squatted. The shop door tinkled, with the same cowbell as was fastened to the nipple or quim of a chariot girl. Inside, the air was foggy with warmth from a blazing log fire in a cast-iron fireplace, the metal design showing interlaced female bodies, nude and thrashed by impish cupids with erect penises for wings. Tongs, pokers, and leather bellows hung on either side of the fireplace, above a pair of brass fire dogs, their metal bodies dancing with light. Above the fireplace, an antique enamel sign proclaimed that ‘Pinkar’s Brandy Will Bring A Glow To Your Cheeks’. Goods were piled at random: unopened cases of wines and spirits; corsets and corselets of leather, nylon, rubber and pink brocade; shears, ploughshares, bullwhips, riding crops, harnesses, bits and buckles; cheeses, hams and haunches of meat, hanging on ceiling hooks; blocks of compacted rolling tobacco and boxes of cigars. Perfumed smoke trickled from a censer, hanging above the glowing logs in the fireplace. The shop was unattended; Angarad wiped sweat from her brow and removed her raincoat, folding it over her arm. She passed some minutes touching the items displayed, ending at a riding crop, of whalebone or fibreglass, braided in leather with a metal thorn at the tip. Shivering, she stroked the shining fabric of the crop and started when a man’s voice interrupted her.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts, miss.’

  It was a command, rather than a question. A young, tow-haired male, red-faced and swarthy over a muscled frame, stood with his thumbs in the waistband of leather breeches, staring at Angarad up and down. He leered.

  ‘An’t seen ye before. Come for snout, I suppose. Unless haberdashery’s more your line…I’ve a corset or two could squeeze that pretty frame and tighten those bubbies.’

  ‘Miss Horsfall asked if her case of claret had arrived,’ Angarad blurted, blushing.

  The male nodded towards the pile of bottles.

  ‘Could have asked an hour ago,’ he sneered. ‘Likes her breakfast, that one.’

  ‘Wine…for breakfast?’ Angarad said.

  ‘Not wine, no. The colour of wine, maybe…’

  His leer deepened.

  ‘I’m here for Miss
Isobel Coker,’ Angarad said. ‘She hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting you yet, but said you would know what I wanted…Mr Oswald?’

  ‘What do you want?’ he said.

  ‘Isobel said…you’d know…’ Angarad gasped lamely, for her eyes were at the crotch of the man’s breeches, now swelling blatantly in erection.

  ‘Like it, do you?’ said Oswald.

  ‘What?’

  Angarad jumped, taking her fingers from the riding crop.

  ‘The riding crop.’

  ‘It’s very nice.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  He looked at her with glittering, amused eyes.

  ‘I mean…it’s strange that a thing of such beauty should be used to inflict pain,’ Angarad blurted.

  ‘Instruments of supplice are often the most beautiful works of art. Ever seen the jewelled iron maiden in the dungeons under Rouen cathedral? Or the silver rack of the Visigoths at Salamanca? This one’s my own work, like the rest. Family firm, and I’m the family. Do everything myself.’

  He approached the trembling Angarad and brushed her skirted haunches with his fingers.

  ‘Everything…’

  His penis was uncoiled like a snake, straining at the leather. Angarad stared, not resisting, as his fingers crept beneath her skirt and touched her stocking tops. She swallowed, gasping, and her eyelids flickered shut for an instant.

  ‘Who was Jos Pollecutt?’ she asked, as the male’s fingertips squelched her come-damp nylons.

  ‘Oh, great-something-great grandpa. And his great-something-great grandpa was Sir George, who started the whole pretty show. Deputy governor of Tangier, had a chain of whipping forts in the Atlas mountains where he kept pleasure girls, some notion they descended from the Vandal tribe, whose treasure he hid in a box. Got a bit carried away, like all enthusiasts, thought everybody was a Vandal — or, at any rate, a flagellant, which ain’t wrong at all. He gave Wrigley Scrubs manor to the nation! Rather, the discerning nation…’

  ‘What was it, before it was a prison?’

  ‘The same. Dare say you’ve heard of Pinkarse Club, in the reign of King Charles the Second.’

  ‘The Pinkarse Club? I have heard of it…I thought…’

  ‘What a slut thinks don’t matter. Pinkarse never really went away, d’you see. Wrigley Scrubs — secluded, far from town and the unthinking masses, fit for pleasures of gentlemen and gentlewomen, even in this woeful modern age. Four ounce block of snout, was it?’

  ‘I think…yes. No, six ounces.’

  ‘I sell blocks of four ounces. Six strokes per ounce, it costs. If you want me to cut one in half, there’ll be extra — more than strokes.’

  ‘I don’t understand…’

  ‘Yes, you do. Got any cash?’

  ‘Why, no…’

  ‘On the slate, then. Got some famous hussies on the family slate.’

  ‘Ouch! How dare you!’

  Oswald’s fingers suddenly clamped her wet bare cunt, unprotected by her broken panty string. He slid his thumb into her slit.

  ‘You must have enjoyed your cycle ride, Miss Angarad Stark,’ he hissed. ‘Nice and wet. Whipping wet filly is all the easier, for both parties. Six strokes an ounce, on the bare, miss, with that very crop. Followed by my extra.’

  He nodded at the the bulge in his leather breeches.

  Angarad’s buttocks shifted, clenching, as her eyes fixed on the male’s monstrous penis.

  ‘How did you know my name?’

  ‘More important is how I know your tastes, miss. In fact, I’m surprised your name isn’t Dodd.’

  ‘Dodd?’

  ‘You look just like Habren Dodd, the film star: a voluptuous sadique, the queen of flagellance. She married a Gaunt, of the beastly supermarkets…a Lancashire family, I believe, who have had the impudence to bid for the Wrigley Scrubs franchise. So, you may make Mrs Gaunt’s, or Miss Dodd’s, acquaintance sooner than you’d like…’

  His thumb reamed her sopping cunt and Angarad, wincing, clenched her thighs, trapping it inside her, and rubbing her throbbing clitty against its calloused roughness.

  ‘Ohh…don’t make me…’ she gasped.

  Two fingers, slimed with Angarad’s copious come, artfully straddled her perineum to penetrate her anus, sliding into the elastic shaft which yielded, allowing him to poke her bumhole right to the knuckle. She squealed as his sharp nails pinched the elastic of her arse-root. The two fingers parted, stretching her anal shaft, and began to slide slowly in and out. Angarad moaned, her eyes closed and face scarlet.

  ‘Ohh…please, don’t…Ouch!’

  She screamed as his fingers jabbed hard at her arse-root, remaining embedded in the anus, and pulling her towards him.

  ‘My…my tastes?’ she sobbed.

  ‘You have a pervert’s arsehole, miss, and a pervert’s eyes, but differ in — shall we say, posture — from la Dodd. Take the crop from the wall with your teeth.’

  ‘Oh! Please, no! Don’t make me submit to this!’

  ‘You may leave snoutless, if you wish, and disappoint a jail full of tobacco-starved sluts. Or you may be a good girl and obey. Kneel, first.’

  Oswald shuttered his shop. Sobbing, Angarad opened her mouth and fastened her teeth on to the cool leather braids of the riding crop. She crouched, the man flicking up the back of her skirt as he bent over her, to secure his fingers in her anus. On all fours, clutching the riding crop in her teeth, Angarad was pushed by the man’s fingers in her bumhole to the back of the shop where the fire blazed. Sweat glazed her eyes as she approached the flames.

  ‘No, wait!’ she whimpered. ‘Please! What are you doing?’

  ‘As you desire, my lady,’ he hissed. ‘I shall warm you, this cold winter’s morn…’

  With a plop, his fingers left her bumhole. Oswald took the crop from her mouth and hung it over her head above the flames. His fingers wrenched her blouse buttons and the garment came off; Angarad’s face was inches from the fire and her sweat poured. There was a snap! as her bra came loose and her bare breasts spilled out, slapping the brass fire dogs. Another snap! and her suspender belt was undone, the garters flapping and her stocking tops sagging, as steam hissed from her drying come that soaked them.

  ‘Ahh! It’s hot!’ she squealed, but Oswald held her down, squashing her nipples on to the metal.

  He seized each arm and plunged her hands into coal-scuttles on either side of the fireplace, locking her wrists with hinged brass handles snapped shut. He placed his boot on her nape, pinning her teats to the hot brass, with her face twisting away from the flames. He lifted a leather bellows, slid his fingers between her legs and penetrated her wet slit, where they dabbled several seconds before emerging, slopped with her come, to oil the brass nozzle of the bellows.

  ‘No! Don’t…!’ Angarad screamed.

  The hot, oiled metal slid into her anus and sank to its full depth. As Oswald began to pump, Angarad’s screams turned to a sobbing, continuous whimper.

  ‘Oh! Oh! You’ll burst me!’

  The bellows wheezed and Angarad’s belly swelled as her bottom wriggled; helpless, she was pinned by the man’s foot on her nape and by the pinioning force of the leather bladder, forcing air into her rectum. Her bare titties, squashed on the searing fire dogs, squirmed as frantically as her bum-flans. Oswald pumped her arsehole for several minutes, before laying aside the bellows and taking down the riding crop, its leather seared hot from the fireplace. Scarcely had Angarad’s anus expelled the last gasp of wind, than her groans turned to new screaming as Oswald began to beat her on the bare.

  Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ahh! God! Why me?’

  The crop lashed twice, hard, across her bare buttocks, making them clench and wriggle and slamming her teats against the hot metal. A thick red stripe rose on each white arse-globe.

  ‘The Pinkarse discouraged usage of such names,’ said Oswald. ‘Unless, of course, you have some personal, pagan deity in mind, whose answer would undoubtedly be, because you want it, slut!’
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br />   Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ah…oh!’

  Vip! Vip!

  Her bruised bare croup squirmed, the fesses clenching.

  ‘AHH! Please, stop!’

  ‘While your arse is blushing so pretty, my dear? I am most fond of a warm entrance…’

  Vip! Vip!

  ‘Oh…oh…oh…!’

  Angarad’s naked arse glowed scarlet, the jagged edges of her new welts thrown into relief by the flames. Her bare fesses danced like the flames before her, as the logs spat and crackled. Her titties and belly writhed, helpless, as her bare bum quivered; Oswald delivered his strokes in sets of two, with one clean cut across each fesse or haunch so that, in her first minute, Angarad took ten lashes on the bare; in her second minute’s thrashing, she took six; a third minute brought her to twenty-four, which, Oswald declared, completed her tariff. He unrolled his leather breeches to mid-thigh, revealing his cock monstrously erect. Without warning, he grasped her belly and pulled her loins upwards towards his. The coal-scuttles rattled as Angarad’s arms were stretched by her clamped wrists; her titties sprang free of the fire dogs and glowed blushing hot, with the nipples dark crimson. He grasped her cunt flaps and squeezed, milking her pouch of its copious come.

  ‘Please, no. Don’t fuck me, sir…’

  ‘You common bawd! You whore! Like the rest, you beg for it…’

  ‘No! My pouch won’t take one that big!’

  ‘We can accommodate…’ he hissed.

  ‘Ahh!’

  Slopping the come on the shaft of his cock, Oswald drove hard into her anus pucker, penetrating her to three inches; a second thrust plunged his cock all the way to her anal root, with his balls almost sucked in by Angarad’s bum elastic, writhing to accept the invading cock.