Caged!

by Yolanda Celbridge

  CAGED!

  Yolanda Celbridge

  Rover Books

  New York

  www.RoverBooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction.

  In real life, make sure you practice safe sex.

  This book is made available in electronic form by permission of VirginBooks by RoverBooks.

  www.RoverBooks.com

  First published in 2001 by

  Nexus

  Thames Wharf Studios

  Rainville Road

  London W6 9HA

  Copyright © Yolanda Celbridge 2001

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN 0-7952-0101-X

  DOI 10.1335/079520101X

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The author and publisher specifically disclaim any responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly, of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue — Hauled and Strung

  1 Scene

  2 Payback

  3 Gymslip Mistress

  4 Whipping Fort

  5 The Full Bare

  6 Done and Dusted

  7 A Fair Bum

  8 Scared of Strokes

  9 Womancart

  10 Snout Run

  11 Twin Prongs

  12 Vice Versa

  13 Labyrinth

  14 Meat for the Punishment

  15 Pollecutt’s Box

  16 Vandals

  Other eBook Titles from RoverBooks

  Prologue

  Hauled and Strung

  There are two worlds, the cold and the hot. In the hot world, a wench’s lust must be tamed, and in the cold world, it must be kindled. The instruments of both taming and kindling are the same: rod on bare arse, and tarse in coynte, or better, her nether hole most secret and sublime.

  Sir George Pollecutt, Universall Travels

  ‘Fan harder, you wretch,’ drawled the woman, reclining on her divan.

  The male continued to wave the garland of goose feathers, his exertion as placid as his gaze, at the woman’s half-dressed body, was stern.

  ‘Bah! You don’t understand a word,’ she sighed. ‘How I hate Tangier! The babble, the stink and fools who cannot speak the King’s English. How I wish His Majesty had never gotten this place, nor given Pollecutt his post. Sometimes, I wonder if Dodd’s tropic whippings weren’t better than Pollecutt’s neglect — at least I got regular swiving from him, with a tarse not so damnably big as to hurt my pouch.’

  The windows were open on the balcony; below them, the noise of afternoon in the souk: donkeys, carts clattering, voices in Spanish, Berber and Arabic. The woman loosened an eyelet of the brocade corselet, which was all that covered her upper body, and allowed her maid and two male servants to view her white breast, straining against the heavy fabric. The ripe pears of her bottom were sheathed only in a voile negligée shift, its sweat-damp fabric clinging to the rippling contours of buttock and thigh, which were naked under the film of cloth. Her stockinged feet waggled the air, their curled Moroccan slippers discarded on the carpet beneath.

  A second male filled her glass with mint tea, and proffered a dish of marshmallow. Both servants were muscular dark youths, Berber tribesmen, of the lady’s own age, slightly over the twentieth year; like her, they were clothed for the heat, their upper bodies bare, with loose blue ankle-robes draped at their loins. Despite their ebony bodies, the young men had blue eyes. The barefoot, besmocked maidservant knelt by her mistress’s feet, bathing her toes in scented water. Though tanned by the sun, she was European, of the same young age, ripe body and tresses as her lady. The lady sighed.

  ‘So hot…’ she gasped. ‘Well, you are but heathens…’

  She unfastened her corselet completely, allowing her bare breasts to spring free, with the strawberry nipples jutting and firmed. She shook her head, waving her long blond mane, so that its hairs caressed her nipples.

  ‘That’s better,’ she murmured, sipping her mint tea.

  ‘Yes, you damned hussy,’ whispered a male, concealed behind a spyhole in a false wall, on the shaded side of the boudoir. His shirt was clinging wet to his torso, above cotton breeches and calfskin boots, with a brace of pistols, rope, donkey-crop and rapier at his belt. ‘Messalina, Jezebel, the temptress Eve herself, were lambs compared to you!’

  The lounging woman pulled up her negligée, baring her buttocks and pubis completely; her bush of tangled, golden pubic hair glistened with her sweat. She began to fan her loins with the voile negligée, parting her thighs, to show the rich ruby lips of her vulva and the wet, shining pouch within. The male servants continued at their tasks, each with a growing bulge at his crotch, while the maid lifted her smock and fanned her lady’s feet, showing her own bare arse and loins, and a pubic jungle massive on the lithe, muscled basin of her quim.

  ‘So,’ said the lady, ‘you are heathens, but men for all that! How I wish Sir George recognised my charms! I so rarely see him — prancing in the desert, in search of treasure, or, more like, goats to swive!’

  ‘Foul harlot!’ hissed the spying male.

  ‘When he serves me, his tarse swives me so ill, I can scarcely move for the pain of it! More a horse’s than an Englishman’s, and too often put in the place unintended by nature! You have no English, so cannot understand my woman’s plaints…but serve me well, and I shall reward you well.’

  ‘Ah…’ groaned the male. ‘Calumny upon vileness!’

  ‘Perhaps this you may understand,’ she continued, licking her teeth and placing her fingers on the lips of her vulva.

  She drew her lips back, and thrust three, then a fourth, finger inside her pouch, now gushing with copious juice.

  ‘You see? My purse needs good meat for the filling — just as yours needs silver. Peruvian pieces, fresh snatched from the king of Spain…piezas de plata peruviana! — one for each of you, if you obey.’

  She rose, casting off her negligée, and placed her hands upon her head, standing with one leg bent and raised, with the heel wedged in her open slit.

  ‘I am as helpless,’ she moaned, ‘as a slave in your marketplace. The captain is away until tomorrow, and I have no one to protect me from your tools I see so monstrous, you lustful brutes.’

  The two males had fully erect cocks, clearly outlined as they strained against the fabric of their robes. Her teeth and eyes sparkled in the shadowed chamber; a shaft of sunlight fell on her nipples, fully hardened and erect, like plums. Juice trickled from her quim down her thighs to the sole of her raised foot; her thigh trembled as it supported her. The two servants let fall their robes and the lady gasped, licking her lips. She reached out and touched each of the swollen, shiny helmets on the peehole.

  ‘Your foreskins cut! Smooth horns, both, to give my husband horns! Truly, you are heathens, so I can commit no sin…’

  ‘Knowing nothing else, you count sin as virtue, damned trollop!’ snarled the watching male.

  He continued to watch, as the lady took a marshmallow from her mouth and moistened it inside her wet quim. She bit the sweetmeat in half and put a piece in each of the servants’ mouths; stretching herself belly down on the couch, she raised and parted
her taut bare arse-melons. Both males chewed and swallowed their juiced sweetmeats. One stood at each end of the couch, while the maidservant drew up her smock, revealing her own naked loins and her tangled quim-hairs glistening. She mounted her lady like a pony, sitting on the small of her back, and began to rock back and forth.

  ‘Ride me, Ghislaine, ride me…!’ groaned her mistress.

  The lady fastened her lips over the male’s cock, and her tongue began to dance on the glans while her lips pressed and tickled the helmet’s base, and her fingers dripped with her juice, as she frotted her swollen nubbin. She gasped as the second male’s cock nuzzled the open lips of her gash, and grunted when the dark tool penetrated her wet crimson folds, right to the balls. Her mouth fastened completely on the cock at her lips, taking the whole shaft right to her throat. Her head bobbed up and down as she sucked one cock, while the second rammed her quim. The maidservant’s own cunt was bared, seeping copious oil. She masturbated her swollen nubbin as she rode her mistress’s back, slapping the lady’s bare buttocks, quivering under the black tool’s thrusts.

  After several minutes of vigorous swiving and sucking, the lady moaned and gestured. Ghislaine remained in saddle; the males switched places, and she began to suck the cock slimed with her own cunt-juice, while its fellow penetrated her womb, fucking her vigorously for several seconds, before she grasped the member and transferred it to her opened anal pucker.

  ‘Oh! I am the weaker vessel! Take me where you will!’

  The cock sank deep into her arse-passage and she sighed, growling in her breast, and masturbated hard, using both hands to frot her clitoris and erect nipples, as the naked servant vigorously buggered her. She squealed, drooling, as she sucked, and her buttocks writhed under buggery, with the male’s hips and belly slapping her bare arse-flesh.

  ‘Do your worst, you Vandals!’ growled the watcher.

  Both males spunked in unison; she swallowed the sperm creaming her mouth, while the bugger’s spunk bubbled at her jerking anus bud, and the lady masturbated her clitoris to a loud, long spasm. The maidservant’s panting breath indicated that she, too, had masturbated to climax, attested by the stream of come flowing down her mistress’s writhing bare back, Ghislaine’s bucking mount.

  ‘Ah — ah — ahh…’ the lady squealed, her cries dying away to a sated gasp: ‘Mmm…’

  The spy quit his cubbyhole. Moments later, he burst through the door of the chamber, clutching his pistols.

  ‘You vile beasts!’ he cried.

  ‘George!’ shrieked the lady, groping for her negligée.

  The maidservant Ghislaine pushed down the front of her smock and curled herself in the corner of the room; the two males seized their robes and vaulted over the balustrade, to disappear into the throng a few feet below.

  ‘Oh, Captain,’ sobbed the buggered woman, clutching her bum-cleft. ‘How thankful I am! You have rescued me from shame and agony! I gave those damned beggars a few coins, and they refused to leave me until they had earned my charity! Little did I know…’

  Whap! Whap! Whap!

  Her husband slapped her face three times.

  ‘Oh!’ she squealed, bursting into tears as he ripped her negligée from her, and wound her hair in his fist.

  Holding her on tiptoe by her hair, he began to slap her naked breasts, until her strawberry nipples were bruised blue. She shrieked, sobbing, her mouth drooling spunk and her quim and bumhole dribbling. Her heavy teats shook under the slaps; her bare feet flapped helplessly, trying to kick her husband’s calfskin boots; her bottom still glowed pink from her maidservant’s spanks.

  ‘You lie, slut!’ he hissed. ‘I saw you buggered. Your holes are still full of another’s spunk! Little Ghislaine, your bawd, got those whelps to serve you.’

  The maidservant emerged from the shadows.

  ‘No, Sir George!’ sobbed the lady.

  ‘Though mute, Ghislaine speaks to me,’ said her husband.

  ‘Ghislaine!’ shrieked the lady.

  Ghislaine smiled coquettishly, and nodded. She expressed in swift, impish sign language the entire transaction: her procuring the males, and her mistress’s promise of silver from the captain’s treasure. Without command, she accepted the rope, uncoiled from the captain’s belt, and bound her mistress by her wrists. The captain ripped her negligée in half and wound it around her ankles. Trussed, the lady was pushed on her belly, on the floor. The captain slid the point of his rapier under her pubic mound and touched her clitoris, obliging her to raise her buttocks and cunt basin; Ghislaine held the sword, while the captain unbuckled his belt. The lady sobbed, her sob turning to a scream as Sir George’s cock penetrated her still-slimed anus, and began to bugger her, with hard, slamming thrusts.

  ‘Take that, ma’am! And that!’ he roared. ‘Damn you for a strumpet!’

  ‘Ahh…!’ shrieked his wife.

  ‘High office I have won, yet am still bound to a whore!’

  ‘How dare you, sir!’ she shrieked, her arse-globes writhing under her husband’s buggery. ‘God! The shame! Oh! It hurts! To be Lady Pollecutt, an English lady, twice ravished in the foul sin of buggery! Ah! Ah!’

  ‘You were nothing but a bonded slut when Dodd sold you in the mart of Hispaniola, with your coynte the best travelled road in the Caribees, and the widest. Why, a man could get his camel to fill your chasm, and have room for himself and a squadron of hussars! Before your bondage, slut, you were Molly Coker, a whore from the alehouses of Hartlepool…my faithful Ghislaine, though heathen, is more a lady than you! Wait…yes…ah! A dirty job, but must be done! You’ll have your punishment…ah!’

  Sir George Pollecutt grunted as he spunked in her anus, his jet frothing over the lips of her squirming anal pucker, already slimed with arse-grease. His wife sobbed, quivering helplessly, as Ghislaine fixed her roped wrists to a pulley, which she drew up, until Lady Polecutt hung naked, with her bare feet wriggling inches from the floor. His member breeched, Sir George reclined on the couch, lit a cigar and accepted the bottle of port wine which bare-footed Ghislaine nimbly served. While she poured the wine, her master’s fingers slipped under the girl’s smock and began to play between her legs. He grinned at his trussed and suspended wife, who sobbed, staring aghast at Ghislaine’s face of pleasure and the bouncing of her pert bubbies, as her loins swayed to Sir George’s fingering. Leering at his helpless wife, the male withdrew his fingers from Ghislaine’s basin, and showed them, oiled with her fluid. He licked his fingers, one after the other, of her come. His port wine drained and his lips and fingers well slimed by the pretty young maid, Sir George’s cock was stiff.

  ‘The tarse you affect to despise, dear,’ he said to Lady Pollecutt, ‘inspires your further chastisement.’

  ‘No! Please! I beg you!’ she squealed. ‘I’m so sore! Oh, no, please!’

  Sir George rose, and took his tap, the Berber crop of heavy braided leather used on the hides of asses and camels. Ghislaine knelt once more at her mistress’s feet, this time to hold them still, pulling and stretching Lady Pollecutt’s body, to present the quivering bare buttocks as a ripe, fleshy target for her husband’s crop.

  ‘No, sir! Please! Don’t flog me!’ she squealed.

  ‘Whipping is the only language your whore’s arse understands. Many’s the time you were hauled and strung, to be lashed naked, as a bondservant.’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  His wife’s bare buttocks clenched and squirmed as the crop bit her trembling skin.

  ‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘It hurts so! Oh, please, no!’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ahh…! You’ll ruin my fesses!’

  ‘On the contrary, madam! A pink arse is the tastiest.’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ahh! Ahh!’

  Her ankles firmly held by Ghislaine, Lady Pollecutt shuddered, wriggling, as the tap bruised the bare expanse of her fesses with livid stripes of crimson, darkening to purple. Sir George thrashed every exposed inch of her naked croup, from her haunches, which wer
e soon black with welts, to the fleshy, quivering mid-fesse and the inner thighs below the croup, where the tip of the crop caught the jutting, swollen cunt lips amid her wet pubic jungle.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ah! Ah! Ahh…!’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘OH! Stop…! Please stop…!’

  When Lady Pollecutt’s flogged buttocks were a blotched, puffy mass of crimson and purple welts, her husband laid down his tap. The ridges, wealed in her thrashed bum-flans, were etched in shadow by the lowering sun.

  ‘Now, dear lady, you shall see real pleasure,’ said Sir George. ‘I warn you — if you avert your gaze, your flogging shall begin anew.’

  Sobbing and trembling, the trussed woman watched, as Ghislaine lifted her smock to reveal her heavily juicing slit and tangle of pube-hairs, exceeding her mistress’s in richness; flat, muscled belly and hard, conic bare breasts, with domed nipples already stiff with excitement, as Sir George’s cock penetrated her. Ghislaine lay beneath her dangling mistress, with her thighs wrapped around Sir George’s back, clutching him to her, as he fucked the maid’s copiously juicing cunt.

  ‘I fuck in your arse for your pain, milady,’ he panted, ‘but in sweet Ghislaine’s coynte, to give her pleasure! She is a true whore, as pure as the desert sands. Your lusts are cold and joyless, and only your arsehole has sentiment. You cannot feel pleasure without suffering pain, to remind you that pleasure is wrong.’

  ‘Mm! Mm! Mm!’ Ghislaine cried, rocking back and forth, as her belly threshed under the male’s pounding.

  Sir George began to fuck her very slowly, withdrawing his cock to its full length from the wet, squeezing gash, before plunging into her again, each stroke right to the hilt.

  ‘See how Ghislaine enjoys, my dear! As she will enjoy our bed tonight, while you hang, to meditate on your sins.’

  ‘No…!’ wailed Lady Pollecutt.

  ‘There are many like Ghislaine here in Barbary,’ said Sir George. ‘Pity a slut like you cannot share my philosophical interests. What can you understand of the goddess Flagella, worshipped by Roman and barbarian alike? Nature repeats herself, in strange harmonies and strange places. How many tribes have seeded the desert sands! Greeks, Goths, Romans — Vandals, like Ghislaine here, blue of eye and blond of tress. Our English race itself is nourished by divers roots. I feel it my duty as an Englishman to reacquaint these beauties with the joys of an unskinned tarse…and a well-pickled rod for their fesses!’