Caged!

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Caged! Page 6

by Yolanda Celbridge


  ‘There are people who do that sort of thing for pleasure,’ said Mrs Cragg. ‘One reads about them in the Sunday newspapers, at least the sort I hope you don’t read.’

  ‘Ugh,’ Isobel said. ‘How vile!’

  ‘You’ve never been spanked, Isobel?’ said Mrs Cragg.

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Although I dare say a spanked bottom looks more dramatic than it feels. How many do you give them?’

  ‘Oh, only about a dozen whops. Not too many.’

  ‘About a dozen? It’s better to count exactly, Isobel — they take it more seriously that way. A dozen whops certainly isn’t too many. Use your discretion…’

  Now, awaiting three-thirty gym class, her heart sank, as she knew Helen Dummett would be obnoxious. The last few classes, she had been less and less obedient. This one, Isobel felt, would take her across the line. She had never spanked Helen, but reported her twice; she knew that Mrs Cragg would regard further reporting as failure; knew, too, that Helen cursed her for reporting her, but did not wish to have three report marks, with permanent loss of privilege. Further goading by Helen would require spanking: another report would suit nobody. Isobel was invited to a term’s end drinks party at the Craggs’ that evening — no use being in foul mood. The class arrived, giggling and in no mood for seriousness on this, the last class of term. They wore gym uniform of short blue skirt, fluffy white socks, tennis shoes and blue T-shirt, with optional bra. A few firm-titted girls loved to wear an extra-skimpy T-shirt to show they were braless, and Helen was one.

  Isobel told them that they should be glad to warm up, as further snow was forecast to add to the inch already slushing the ground outside. First exercise was climbing the wall bars, hanging upside down, then descending. Helen Dummett made a face, then, turning directly to Isobel, expelled a cloud of blue cigarette smoke from her mouth. The others laughed; Isobel flushed, knowing she must meet the challenge.

  ‘Helen!’ she rapped. ‘You have been smoking!’

  ‘Oh, it’s just steam from the cold air, Miss Coker,’ whined Helen.

  Isobel took her pingpong bat from its drawer.

  ‘Don’t lie,’ she said evenly, ‘and don’t tell me you’d prefer a third report to a spanking.’

  ‘Oh, Miss,’ Helen moaned, ‘it’s the last day of term…’

  Helen, five inches shorter than Isobel, was lithe and wiry, and one of Isobel’s best gymnasts. Isobel bit her lip.

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘It’s up to you.’

  ‘Oh, Miss, it’s not fair…’ Helen moaned, rolling her eyes and playing to her audience.

  ‘Spanking or report?’ Isobel snapped. ‘Make up your mind, now, young lady!’

  Her tone wiped the grin from Helen’s face.

  ‘Spanking, Miss,’ she muttered, then, her lips only half shielded from Isobel’s gaze, she mouthed ‘fucking cow’. The girls tittered. Flushed, Isobel grabbed Helen by the hair and bent her over a vaulting-horse.

  ‘Get your skirt up and your knickers down!’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m spanking you on the bare! You know why.’

  ‘I…I…’

  ‘Bare bum, girl!’ blurted Isobel. ‘At once!’

  Helen sullenly lifted her gymslip and lowered her blue knickers to her knees. Isobel kicked them down to her ankles. She lifted the bat, bringing it smartly down across the full expanse of the girl’s bare, muscled fesses.

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  ‘Ouch! That hurts!’

  ‘You’ll take your beating in silence, Helen. I’m going to start again, now — any noise means an extra whop.’

  ‘How many am I getting, then?’ Helen stammered.

  Isobel took a deep breath.

  ‘Two dozen, Helen,’ she said, trembling.

  ‘Two dozen?’

  ‘Now, it’s three!’ Isobel blurted.

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  ‘Mm! Mm! Ahh…!’

  Thereafter, Helen took her whopping in silence, but gasping harshly, and with her bare bum wriggling more and more frantically, as Isobel’s whops, delivered on the two seconds, quickly reddened the naked buttocks to scarlet. Beads of sweat formed at the cleft of the girl’s clenching buttocks and dripped into her tangle of pubic hair. The class watched in awed silence; Isobel’s panting, as she spanked the girl, was as harsh as her victim’s.

  Crack!

  ‘There!’

  The beating had taken less than two minutes, and Isobel had gone one over the three dozen. Helen was unable to control the frantic clenching of her bare buttocks, or her grimace and tears.

  ‘Oh! I’m sorry, Helen…’ Isobel blurted.

  Helen’s face was as scarlet as her whopped bare bottom. Slowly, she pulled up her knickers and lowered her skirt.

  ‘How dare you, Miss?’ she sobbed, her cheeks moist.

  ‘I’m sorry…’ said Isobel, shifting nervously to ease her crotch in her dampened knickers.

  ‘I’ll get you!’ spat the thrashed girl.

  Isobel hurried home, through eddies of snow, to her cottage by the school gate. Once inside, she ran a hot bath, set a pan to boil and opened the refrigerator. She removed a dish of butter and one of three massive corn cobs, a foot in length and a hand’s span, which stood like sentries in the fridge door. The cob went into the bubbling water, and Isobel went to her bedroom to strip off the gym clothes she still wore. Nude, she inspected herself in the mirror: the full, jutting breasts, alabaster, body rippling with curved muscle; the huge tangle of pubic thatch, which crawled halfway to her navel and hung in fronds beneath the thick red lips of her quim. She half-turned and stroked the unblemished firm skin of her ripe buttocks.

  I’ve never been spanked. How awful it must be! Yet, I lost my temper with Helen. Perhaps I should know what I’m dishing out…perhaps I deserve it…

  She returned to the kitchen and took the corn cob from the pan; it was hot, but scarcely softened. She placed it in a dish and covered it with butter. Then she took the dish to the bathroom, shutting the hot tap. The bath was full; Isobel perched with one foot on either side of the tub, her thighs parted and her quim open to inspection, a vivid red slash in the misted mirror. Isobel touched her clitoris, moaned, trembled, then began to rub. The corn cob, lathered in butter, approached the open folds of her gash, now dripping with oily come. The mist was clearing from the mirror and Isobel watched her vulva, as the tip of the corn cob hovered between the fleshy, swollen lips. She yelped as the hot buttered cob sank all the way into her cunt, until only an inch was left for her nails to grasp. As the fingers of one hand masturbated her clitoris, Isobel cunt-fucked herself with the giant cob, twisting and reaming and thrusting its hot tip right up to the neck of her womb. In less than a minute she brought herself to orgasm, squealing, and her belly spasming, as the heel of her fist rammed the tool to fill her wet pouch. She sank into the bath, holding the cob inside her and pressing her clitty.

  ‘Ahh…’ she sighed.

  That’s better. That’s always better.

  * * *

  Isobel pedalled cautiously through the drifting snow to the priory, or headmistress’s house, half a mile away across Wearbridge estate. She propped her bicycle and entered the brightly lit house where the noise of the party was already spirited. Mrs Cragg, flushed and wearing a strapless silk gown of startling décolletage, greeted her.

  ‘Be of good cheer, Isobel,’ she murmured, her eyes twinkling.

  In the cloakroom, Isobel hung her overcoat, mittens and woolly hat, and swapped her rubber boots for a pair of low slingbacks from her handbag; a quick visit to the loo, where she squatted, combing her hair in her pocket mirror as she peed. The drawing-room held a large crowd, of faces mostly unfamiliar, and Isobel drew glances as the tallest and most striking female in the room. She wore a black evening frock, tightly clinging and with string straps that left a generous portion of breast-flesh bared, the breasts themselves thrust upwards in a black scalloped bra, to match he
r panties; the dress had a four-flounced hem a few inches above her knees; seamed black stockings; a single choker of fake pearls at her throat.

  Equipped with a glass of punch, Isobel stood by the door, looking around for someone to talk to. There was a clattering outside and Mrs Cragg broke away from her own conversation to go to the front door.

  ‘Rollo!’ her voice carried. ‘Go and change!’

  ‘All in good time, gel!’

  There was a slap and Mrs Cragg giggled.

  ‘You’re dreadful,’ she said.

  In the doorway, Rollo Cragg appeared in riding apparel, with skin-tight jodhpurs, muddy boots and a cutaway riding coat. Isobel gazed, at once. He was perhaps the same age as his wife, but his aquiline face did not draw Isobel’s attention. The cutaway coat fully exposed the crotch and the skin-tight breeches outlined, so clearly that it seemed almost naked, a penis bigger than any corn cob. His bulge was massive, even though the organ was not erect. Isobel, and every woman in the room, stared at Rollo Cragg’s cock, across which he held his riding crop.

  ‘Hello, all! Had to take the nag for a canter, to quiet her. Mare on heat, in this weather!’

  It was the first time Isobel had seen Mr Cragg close up. The founder’s statutes, often amended, now permitted mistresses to be married and cohabit with their husbands; yet, by unspoken consent, males stayed in the background, school affairs being strictly female. Isobel had only seen Rollo Cragg in his car from a distance. Rollo gazed on Isobel.

  ‘With you in a jiffy,’ he said, his eyes piercing hers.

  ‘Yes,’ said Isobel. ‘Yes…’

  Returned, and in casual attire, Rollo’s eyes transfixed Isobel as Mrs Cragg introduced him.

  ‘So this is your notorious spanking gym mistress, eh, Gemma?’ murmured Rollo.

  Isobel blushed a fiery red, and Mrs Cragg grinned.

  ‘Don’t be cross, Isobel,’ she said. ‘I only mentioned it.’

  ‘Girl with spirit,’ drawled Rollo. ‘I like that in a filly.’

  He had changed into designer jeans, almost as clinging as his jodhpurs and which showed his bulge as vividly. He joined his wife in a grin, as Isobel lifted her eyes.

  ‘I’ll leave you two to get to know each other,’ said Gemma Cragg.

  ‘You must have plenty of boyfriends, Isobel,’ said Rollo, refilling her glass.

  His hook nose seemed to tremble and the nostrils dilate, like a horse’s. Isobel allowed her eyes to fall once more to his bulge, now swelling, quivering and inches from her own cunt basin. Her breasts heaved, thrusting up the creamy teat-flesh that Rollo made no pretence of ignoring. She hung her head, staring at the growing penis.

  ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘I’m rather shy.’

  ‘Good heavens, why…?’

  ‘Are you sure Mrs Cragg didn’t just mention that, too?’ asked Isobel, with a thin smile. ‘My special need, sir?’

  She swallowed, blushed, and took a deep breath that thrust her breasts up; Rollo licked his teeth, as his cock-bulge grew.

  What are you waiting for, Isobel?

  ‘ Gemma is a terrible gossip,’ he replied, ‘and sometimes it’s a teacher who most needs to be taught a lesson…’

  It’s now or never…

  ‘I’m a teacher, too, sir,’ she blurted.

  * * *

  ‘Now the bra and panties,’ purred Rollo Cragg.

  The shadow of his erect cock fell across Isobel’s breasts as she knelt before him. His peehole and glans were wet with her saliva; the crotch of her black panties, furrowing her cunt, glistened with her copious come that doused the pubic forest sprouting outside the panties thong.

  ‘Please…’ she whimpered.

  ‘Do it!’ he snapped. ‘I want you nude. Then you can watch me teach my wife a lesson. And then…’

  ‘Please…’ Isobel sobbed.

  ‘Please, what?’

  Vip!

  ‘Ah!’

  He cracked the riding crop on her bare haunch. Her eyelids were heavy, her lips slack; drool slimed her chin.

  ‘Oh! Please, yes…’ she gasped.

  ‘You’d do anything for my husband’s cock,’ said Gemma Cragg, daintily stepping out of her panties.

  Isobel whimpered.

  ‘My wife tells me you’ve never been properly swived,’ said the male. ‘Something of a loose box , eh?’

  Isobel shuddered.

  What am I doing here? My ankles roped, kneeling in the filth of a stable, ready to be whipped! They said it was just a game…

  ‘I…I’ve never met a man big enough for me,’ she wailed.

  ‘So you wank off a lot,’ said Gemma Cragg. ‘What with? A cucumber? Or some fancy electric vibrator…?’

  ‘Please!’

  With numb fingers, Isobel unhooked her bra, letting her bare breasts spring free. The bra fell into the manure-flecked straw. She began to wriggle out of her panties.

  ‘You’ll have to untie me,’ she said, ‘or I can’t get them off.’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Cragg. ‘Rollo likes the panties at the ankles. It is so fetchingly helpless. But you haven’t answered! How do you masturbate, girl? Thumb and fingers, or some phallic toy?’

  ‘A corn cob,’ Isobel wailed.

  ‘And you do masturbate a lot.’

  ‘Every day,’ whimpered the gym mistress. ‘I can’t help it! I just need to…oh! I don’t know!’

  ‘Do you think of girls’ bare bums, red from spanking, and squirming, while you wank off?’

  ‘No! I mean, yes, I do…oh, please!’

  Isobel squirmed until the panties clung to her roped ankles. Rollo, nude but for his boots, placed a heel on her neck and forced her face down into the muck.

  Vip!

  ‘Ahh!’

  Isobel screamed as the crop took her full across the bare buttocks.

  ‘Please, don’t!’

  ‘To take a horseman’s cock, you must be thrashed like a filly,’ said Mrs Cragg. ‘Look, Isobel!’

  She thrust her naked buttocks, framed by satin sussies and sheer stocking-tops, into Isobel’s upturned face. Isobel gasped, sobbing, but unable to avert her gaze from the crisscross of weals etched into the headmistress’s bare buttocks.

  ‘We are the sort of people you read about in the Sunday newspapers,’ she said. ‘Rollo beats me two dozen with the crop after his breakfast, and three dozen after supper, every day, with an extra four dozen at Sunday teatime. We call ourselves the scene, and there are more of us than you’d think, devoted to practising what most only dream of.’

  ‘Caned to three or four dozen?’ Isobel cried.

  ‘To twelve, on special occasions,’ said the male. ‘Rise, Isobel, and help rope my wife to the post, and then you may witness how you should take your own beating.’

  ‘Don’t tickle her,’ said Mrs Cragg. ‘Thrash her properly. She’s spanked plenty of girls, and masturbated thinking of their bums, so this is her due initiation.’

  ‘I’m scared!’ Isobel sobbed.

  Vip!

  The crop lashed her naked breasts, full on her erect nipples.

  ‘Ah! God…!’

  Hobbled, she staggered to her feet and roped each of the nude headmistress’s wrists to a vertical pole. Mrs Cragg’s waist was bent on a rail, which thrust her buttocks up and left her toes dangling inches from the ground, with her back slanted at a forty-five-degree angle. When his wife was bound to his satisfaction, Rollo tied Isobel’s own wrists at the small of her back and kicked her on to the dirt, where she lay, trussed and sobbing.

  ‘A small price to pay, for your first proper fuck,’ sneered the trussed headmistress of Wearbridge Girls’ Grammar.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ahh…yes!’ she sighed, her face creased in a rictus of delight. ‘Harder, Rollo…’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  Her naked bottom danced, slashed by the crop, with new pink weals blossoming on older growths.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ouch! God, I need that!’

  Th
e headmistress’s flogging continued, until her bare, clenching buttocks were striped and bruised with livid purple welts. Rollo panted, his monstrous cock swaying with each lash of the crop on his wife’s bottom. Isobel gazed, squashed in the muck by his boot, as the flogged woman’s bum-jellies shivered.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ohh!’ Mrs Cragg squealed. ‘They’re getting tight, Rollo. Save your strength for the bitch! You see, Isobel, I wouldn’t have enlisted you quite so soon, if you hadn’t lost your temper with Helen Dummett this afternoon. She’s threatened me with social services, the newspapers…her family has influence on Wearside. I’m afraid you’ll have to be sacrificed, for the good of the school — a discreet departure, Isobel.’

  After forty-eight strokes to his wife’s bare arse, Rollo laid aside his crop and lifted Isobel by her belly. He thrust a metal pole between the lips of her dripping cunt, and set the rail’s ends on two standing T brackets, six feet apart. Isobel was balanced on the pole in her cunt, with her roped torso squashed to the rail and her legs dangling underneath her. She squealed, as the pole bit into her gash. Her feet wriggled, helpless to find a foothold. Rollo untied his wife, who held Isobel’s head down by twisted tresses, while her husband commenced the girl’s bare-bum thrashing. As the crop hovered above her trembling fesses, Mrs Cragg poked a square of brocade cloth into Isobel’s anus, where it lodged like a pennant.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ahh!’ Isobel screamed, as the crop lashed the pale melons of her buttocks, clenching and squirming, as her supporting rod bit into her cunt. ‘No, please!’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ah! Ah! Ah! Oh, God…’

  Rollo paused, and moved to place his erect cock before her face, as his wife pulled her head up by the hair.

  ‘Only four dozen, slut, and then you get that in you! Isn’t that what you’ve dreamed of? Isn’t it worth any pain?’

  ‘No! No!…’

  The erect cock danced before her eyes, like a python.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  Her bare bum reddened, clenching and squirming on the rail poking between her cunt flaps, and wet with her come.

  ‘Ahh!’

  ‘I believe she’s juicing,’ said Mrs Cragg, and thrust her hand inside Isobel’s pouch. ‘Yes, the slut’s wet!’

 

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