Caged!

by Yolanda Celbridge

  ‘So gratifying,’ said Max Ogule.

  ‘Now, Mr Ogule,’ said Miss Horsfall, ‘it’s time for your tea, before your long drive back to London.’

  ‘With jam, or without?’ he said, winking at the girls.

  ‘Har! Har!’

  ‘With,’ said Miss Horsfall.

  Ingrid Fage, in bra and panties, who brought Miss Horsfall the tray of tea things suspended from her teeth, evinced no surprise at the TV personality’s presence, or the fact that he was stripped naked, bending over the sofa and receiving a whopping on the bare from Miss Horsfall, skirted but stripped to her bra. Ingrid departed, face down and shuffling backwards, in her wooden hobble. When Miss Horsfall had served the tea and scones, she returned to her work with the rattan.

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘Tight, eh, Max?’ she hissed.

  ‘Yes…yes…’ he groaned. ‘Just like old times. Only, in those days, it was your arse —’

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘Ouch! That hurt!’

  ‘As it was supposed to. Don’t use vulgar language, Max. Just a handful more cuts, then a scrumptious tea.’

  ‘You’ve certainly changed, Bella, I mean, Miss Horsfall.’

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘We all do. You used to be “Major Rodd”!’

  ‘Don’t remind me! Being whopped is less onerous than whopping, and considerably more gratifying…’

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  “‘Don’t remind me, Mistress”! I dare say you’re right. Have you a regular dominatrix in London?’

  ‘Tamsin Pollecutt attends me, Mistress. But she’s expensive…’

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘Ooh!’

  ‘Consider this one on the house, in view of the valuable publicity, Max. You might consider becoming a member of the Pinkarse, on a yearly basis. A number of our tastier girls are adept at thrashing, suitably immodest, and fond of costumes, especially for a reward of extra jam at teatime…’

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘You’ll be in the best company, I assure you. The great and the good of England make their way to Wrigley Scrubs, to thrash or be thrashed. Would I lie to you?’

  ‘No, Mistress!’

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘Ahhh…! I accept! This is most…’

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘Ah! Yes…!’

  ‘Gratifying?’ said Miss Horsfall.

  ‘Har! Har!’ panted her squirming guest.

  * * *

  The girl, nude but for a bulging brown nappy around her cunt basin, struggled in the ropes from which she hung by her wrists. She was held captive to the ceiling by a ring, round which her long blond tresses were knotted. Her hair supported her whole body weight, unless she pulled up with her forearms, on wrist ropes, to ease the pressure on her mane. Her ankles dangled helplessly, bound by two ropes, looped into rings on the dungeon floor.

  ‘Enough…please…’ she gasped.

  Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!

  ‘Ahhh…!’

  Three quirts of rubber thongs lashed her naked back and shoulders, spinning her. Her bare skin was striped with livid purple bruises; above the drooping nappy showed dark blue and purple cane slices on her buttocks. From the nappy oozed a constant dribble of piss and come oil, stained dark brown and with a rancid odour of mushrooms.

  ‘You’re a tough bitch, Stark,’ said Ignoge, wiping the sweat from her brow. ‘But your tariff is a hundred lashes this session, even if you faint. Back gets equal treatment to bum, and you’ve had your first caning.’

  ‘Please believe me! I’m Habren Gaunt!’

  Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!

  ‘AHH!’

  ‘Not according to the governess. Be reasonable, slut. This is only the Pollecutt room! We haven’t taken you to the labyrinth yet, and it’s even worse than before! And wait till that marsh fungus in your holes really starts to rot…’

  Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!

  ‘We’ll depilate your pubes,’ said Althea, ‘cover your cunt with hot dripping candle wax, let it solidify, then prise it off, in a block; or use plaster of Paris, or surgical tape and superglue.’

  ‘No! Please!’

  ‘Proud of that cunt bush, eh? There’s another way — hung by your wrists and ankles behind your back, over a birthday cake of lighted candles, until your forest is burnt.’

  ‘Oh, my God! This can’t be happening…!’

  ‘But it is,’ said Goiswinth. ‘We are all females and meat for the punishment. Be happy we don’t sew up your cunt flaps with copper wire. After the nappy’s full and she pisses out the fungus, perhaps a copper mesh chastity belt? Fill her holes with woodlice and seal them with soap pads of wire wool, to keep the lice at her flesh. Woodlice can live for days, on come and arse grease.’

  Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!

  ‘Or a locked chastity belt, cunt packed with marsh fungus and a bush full of pubic crabs,’ said Ignoge. ‘Surely, you don’t want them! Just admit who you are, bitch! We’ll give you a final thrashing, then take you back to surgery.’

  All three top strokes had stripped to their loinstrings in the close heat of the Pollecutt room, and their bare breasts bounced as they flogged the trussed Habren. Each punisher held her quirt high, with her other hand pawing aside another’s loinstring, to wank her off as they whipped. The room was soundproofed in rubber; around them gleamed racks, branks, tongs, pincers, stocks and flogging-stands, in copper, iron, brass or silver, and none less than three centuries old. Come flowed copiously down the three naked girls’ thighs as they masturbated each other.

  ‘I’m in no hurry,’ said Goiswinth Moss. ‘Having carte blanche with a slag means plenty of wanks…’

  ‘I’m not a slag!’ Habren sobbed. ‘I’m your new boss!’

  ‘Let’s break for a rollie,’ said Ignoge, her fingers rubbing Goiswinth’s clit, with Althea’s probing her cunt and Goiswinth masturbating Althea.

  All agreed and struggled to roll cigarettes with come-slimed fingers; eventually, all three had damp butts in their mouths and were blowing clouds of smoke over Habren’s face and titties.

  ‘Whipping is hard work, slut,’ said Ignoge.

  ‘I’m not just some businesswoman!’ sobbed Habren, ‘I’m a professional dominatrix.’

  She blurted the whole story of her films, and Joss, and Morocco, submissive sluts, and tribesmen huge of tool.

  ‘Thing is, slut, even if all this was true,’ Ignoge drawled, ‘it wouldn’t do you any good. Who runs a prison? Who gives and takes the whoppings? The slags, that’s who. They build the labyrinth and even we strokes don’t know what’s in there. You could order us all whopped but we do that anyway, while we wank off. That’s why we’re here, just like Miss Horsfall, the extreme sub who pretends she’s a dom. We humour her, whop her arse with those corny taped instructions…it’s all a game! Just like those men in suits who love to be whopped, and pissed on, and stooled on, and to beg for mercy…we get two ounces of snout for every session, double if we have to bugger them with strapons. The really posh ones insist on that…’

  Habren stammered that she wished to recruit girls for her films in Morocco. Subs or doms…and the men with huge, ever-spunking black tools were a reality.

  ‘Imagine,’ she said, ‘doing your time in the sun, with bare girls’ arses to whip all day and huge cocks to spunk in your holes all night!’

  The three smoking girls masturbated each other vigorously, moaning, as Habren described a domina’s life in a whipping fort. Come flowed from swollen gash flaps as the three wardens ground their cigarette butts on the crotch of Habren’s nappy, making it sizzle, then plunged fingers into one another’s cunts, and wanked each other off to climax.

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Ah!…’

  ‘So good…’

  ‘I wish you’d wank me off,’ blurted Habren. ‘God! I…I want to come.’

  Goiswinth grinned and began to rub the crotch of Habren’s slimed nappy. Immediately, the trussed woman convulsed; s
he pissed long and hard, her golden pee mingled with copious come, and her belly flattened, heaving in orgasm.

  ‘Ah! Ah! Ahh…!’ she squealed, panting in harsh gasps.

  ‘God! Oh, yes…’

  ‘I wish all you say were true,’ sighed Ignoge, picking up her whip. ‘I’d like to see one of these studs. A good bumming would be more fun than roasting you, stretched on the rack, while we flog your pincered cunt and nipples, you dirty little whore. Which we shall…’

  Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!

  ‘Ahh! No! Please!’

  Habren’s bare shoulders writhed under the lash of three rubber quirts; yet a powerful new spurt of come flowed down her shuddering bare thighs. Vip! Ignoge delivered a short stroke to the inside of Habren’s come-slimed thigh and held the shiny thongs up for her inspection.

  ‘Whoever you are, you came when Goiswinth wanked you and your juice gives you away. You like it. You are a sub,’ she said.

  ‘If you’d only let me get to a telephone…!’ Habren wailed, her loins jerking. ‘I can send for my best stud! Put him on the next plane from Marrakesh! His name is Aggar, and his cock…to die for! If my hands were free…!’

  The three girls looked at each other.

  ‘Miss Maclaren would let her phone,’ said Althea. ‘We could take her to surgery, to certify she’s fit for the rack, brank and pincers — just to be on the safe side.’

  The others murmured agreement.

  ‘Wait,’ Habren murmured. ‘I’ve only been flogged seventy-two and…and you promised me a full hundred…’

  * * *

  The sky was grey and cloudy and a bitter wind blew from the river. Nevertheless, the snow had held off, though a light drizzle threatened.

  Crack!

  The leather stockwhip lashed the naked shoulders of two staggering cart girls, as they pulled the Vandal cart into the home stretch of the chariot race.

  Vip!

  A long rattan cane sliced their buttocks, full on the bare. The harnessed and hooved pair already bore the welts of numerous whipmarks, and their nude bodies were puddings of mud, come, piss and tears. Inches behind, the Saracen chariot lumbered, its strapped and harnessed crew red-faced and panting hoarsely as they sobbed and stumbled towards the finishing line, where Miss Horsfall and a group of guests awaited them, cheering. The progress of the two carts was followed by a motorised television crew, their buggy bearing the legend ‘CPTV’. Both charioteers were nude, like their crews, and brandished a whip in one arm and a long cane in the other.

  ‘It is so nice to see old friends,’ purred Miss Horsfall, sipping champagne, as the Vandal driver leaned over and slashed her opponent’s naked, swaying breasts with her cane. ‘Goodness! I think the Vandals are going to win.’

  Rollo Cragg, Tamsin Pollecutt, Will, Marcus and Bee all clapped as the Saracen driver responded with a canestroke to the Vandal driver’s bare bum, throwing her off balance. The Vandal ceased flogging her crew with the stockwhip and lashed her opposing driver instead, right between the thighs, on her open cunt. The Saracen again caned the Vandal’s buttocks; the carts veered as the race became a flogging match between drivers. The beslimed cart girls pulled gamely until the Vandal chariot crossed the line, just inches ahead of the Saracen. The two drivers leapt from their vehicles and continued their contest by writhing in the dirt, pummelling, gouging and biting, with slaps and teethmarks to cunts and titties amid snarls and shrieks.

  ‘Good show,’ murmured Rollo, blowing cigar smoke.

  The Vandal and Saracen teams helped their harnessed friends loose from their straps and rubber corsets, while the drivers fought, slapping, biting and punching, in the mud. Miss Horsfall and her guests deemed the Vandal chariot to have won but the outcome was confused by the Saracen driver, who squatted on her opponent’s breasts, with her left foot and head in a thigh-lock, and was clawing the girl’s exposed quim, demanding submission. Tamsin Pollecutt settled the issue: borrowing Miss Horsfall’s cane, she stepped into the mud and whipped the topmost fighter savagely across the nipples, toppling her, so that the Vandal driver was now bent over, teeth chewing the Saracen’s cunt flaps and clit, while pissing on her face, which dominance was deemed victory for the Vandals.

  ‘I suppose I’m sentimental for the Vandals,’ said Tamsin, leaving a smear of black lipstick on her glass as she sipped champagne; she slid open her fur coat and lifted each of her rubber thigh-boots in turn, to allow a barefoot slag, in bra and panties, to lick them clean.

  The opening of her fur revealed Tamsin herself, clad in stockings and sussies of fine latex mesh, and a black rubber corset with tightly knotted copper eyelets that made her naked breasts jut high. Her erect nipples were pierced, with copper rings dangling over the studs of her corset.

  ‘There are more things for you to film,’ said Miss Horsfall, ‘a whole range of penal practices. Shall we proceed to the river for the skin-diving? What a lovely coat, Tamsin. Sable?’

  ‘Not so grand. Submissive girls’ pube hair, with the collar and cuffs of my own.’

  The party climbed aboard their own chariot, pulled by four nude girls in harness, with two uniformed drivers, Amy Patel and Belinda Garce. Amy and Belinda cracked their whips on bare girl-skin and the carriage moved towards the River Wrigley.

  ‘How convenient, Rollo, that you are a director of SPV, the outgoing franchisee, and of Gauntco, the new one,’ said Miss Horsfall.

  ‘SPV?’ said Rollo. ‘Oh, yah…Pinkarse. Suppression of loathsome vice in all its female forms.’

  ‘I suppose it’s entirely ethical,’ added the governess.

  ‘No one has said otherwise,’ said Rollo, ‘but then, I didn’t remind them. What I did do was ride around on railway trains with a mobile phone amid nonentities telling their wives they were on the train, as if they could imaginably be anywhere else. I addressed a nonexistent stockbroker, telling him to buy either SPV stock or Gauntco stock, on a hot tip. Everyone listened, both stocks soared and everyone has made pots of money. I dare say that’s ethical.’

  Five minutes later, they pulled up on the river bank beside a knot of slags, busy beneath a wooden gibbet thirty feet high, and reaching out over the choppy waters. Two slags in bra and panties were hog-tying the wrists and ankles of a girl, clad only in a pink rubber punishment corset, who lay on her back in the mud, her teats and belly squashed by the buttocks of the slags, both girls splattered with mud from the girl’s kicking. Her arms and legs were bent upwards over her belly, and pressed over the thighs of the sitter, who slid off her when the roping was complete. The girl’s trussed body formed a diamond shape, with a wooden hobble bar parting her thighs and the spattered slag kicked her, rolling her on her side, so that her spread cunt and buttocks faced the newcomers.

  ‘Carry on,’ said Miss Horsfall.

  An anal plug of freshly cut, unskinned oak was inserted into the girl’s nether hole and a larger plug in her vulva. Her cunt flaps, and both her nipples, were clamped in copper vices, with her mane and pubic forest fixed in similar clamps, all the clamps wrenching her flesh or hair, and tautly hooked above her navel to a copper chain, clipped to her punishment corset. Edra Forge directed a slag, who winched the trussed girl up by the chain, until she was hauled and perched on top of the gibbet by a second slag astride the gibbet’s arm, who fastened a rubber cord to each of her body clamps. The rubber cords were piled and coiled in a bow, while the copper chain was unspooled to slack. The slag threw the long end of the bow down to Edra; one pull would release the coil of rubber ropes, sending the girl to plunge towards the water, until her progress was halted by springy rubber, or the longer chain.

  ‘Some girls call this bungee-jumping,’ explained Miss Horsfall, licking her teeth, ‘but I prefer skin-diving as more ladylike. When her cords are released, the subject can twist, so that the rubber cords jerk her body clamps above water; or she can fall, more painfully, to her chain length, underwater. By skilfully treading water, she may remain under, preventing the rubber from bouncing back and exposing her
wet bottom to the girls’ canes. The contest is between the girls on shore and the skin diver, who must try and direct her bounce, to spend the maximum time either underwater or aloft, free from canestrokes. Bound, she is of course unable to clutch the gibbet and must drop again. If she cries halt before ten minutes, then she pays a forfeit of a real, dry-bum caning on shore; if she lasts ten minutes, then she may cane her opponents’ bottoms. Each cane has a device, like the tachometer of a bicycle: it records each stroke from the movement of the caner’s wrist, whether or not it lands. If the skin diver submits, she takes a caning of the largest stroke total of one cane but, if she wins, she may cane each of her opponents the total number of strokes given. This contestant is Ghislaine Bassin and she is very good at it.’

  ‘Super game,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘I thought of it myself,’ said Miss Horsfall.

  ‘Did you test it yourself?’ said Tamsin, slyly.

  ‘Why of course!’ said Miss Horsfall, adding coyly, ‘I mean, I saw that it was tested.’

  Five girls in bra and panties took position on the muddy shore under the gibbet, while Edra Forge smartly pulled the bow, releasing the bound girl. The rubber cords sprang free, billowing outwards as the girl plunged, head first, plummetting from the gibbet towards the river; she twisted and squirmed, tangling the cords. The copper wire twanged and she jerked to a halt just under the water, emerging in an instant, wet, with a rubber rope wrenching her anal plug. She screamed as five canes lashed her swivelling buttocks, before the rubber cords twanged up again and she squirmed to unravel them before her trussed body cannoned into the gibbet’s arm. Bucking, she dropped again, with the cords only halfway untangled, and this time the jerk on her quim clamps made her scream, the cunt ropes twanging tight, followed by the cords on her breast clamps and pubic hair.

  Vip! Vip! Vip! Vip! Vip!

  Wailing, the girl fought to right herself. Her body spun as the canes slapped her wet titties, cunt flaps and buttocks, and the camera crew cheered, with one camera girl in green wellington boots kneeling to get a close-up of Ghislaine’s pain-wracked face and flapping bare titties. Ghislaine rolled and bucked, to soar upwards, before plummeting again, with the cords almost disentangled, and plunging deep into the water; all the rubber cords twanged, save the one fastened on her titties, and the cord that strained most was that on her copper waistband. Miss Horsfall and her guests clapped.