Caged!

by Yolanda Celbridge

  ‘No!’ Angarad cried. But already the policewoman had pulled down her knickers to reveal Angarad’s full bare.

  ‘Well…!’ she hissed. ‘I think you might care to inspect the prisoner’s buttocks, ma’am.’

  Miss Dummett rose, smoothing down her skirt with fingers shiny and moist. She joined the officer behind Angarad’s croup. Angarad’s eyes closed, her face a blush of crimson, as the judge gasped.

  ‘You have been sparing with the truth, Miss Stark,’ she said drily. ‘Your surprise at an award of four strokes was not at my harshness, but at my leniency!’

  ‘Y…yes,’ Angarad sobbed, quivering as the older woman’s finger traced the ridges of her caned bottom.

  ‘Why, the little bitch!’ spat the policewoman.

  ‘You have been caned for pleasure, Miss Stark.’

  ‘Caned for pleasure, ma’am…?’

  ‘It is a vile perversion.’

  ‘I swear it’s not true!’

  ‘Don’t make matters worse, you slut! I trusted you…The arrangements are made and it is too late to adjust them. Miss Horsfall dislikes untidiness. You are up before me in two hours and I have other, honest miscreants to interview beforehand…’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am! I can explain…it’s just that I’ve been so unlucky, and — oh! — it’s all a misunderstanding!’

  ‘Miss Horsfall certainly dislikes misunderstandings!’ cried Miss Dummett. ‘How can I explain sending her a girl whose bare bottom is already a record of vicious pleasure?’

  ‘If I may suggest, ma’am?’ said WPC Joule. ‘Miss Horsfall will understand that the condition of the prisoner’s buttocks is due to over-zealous caning by the duty officer at this interview.’

  ‘But you’ve only given her four strokes, Constable!’

  ‘Four so far, ma’am.’

  Miss Dummett’s fingers probed and caressed the puffy welts from Angarad’s past canings, as well as the swellings from her four just taken.

  ‘The report could say that but it must be the truth.’

  Angarad shuddered as her knickers were ripped away, baring her bottom completely and revealing both her swollen quim lips, the pubic jungle soaked in sweat and come, and the tell-tale slick of moisture at her stocking tops. Miss Dummett gasped sharply. Angarad squealed as her wet knickers were stuffed into her mouth, gagging her, and again as Joule’s stubbed cigarette end sizzled on her come-soaked pubic forest.

  ‘You will make it the truth, Constable, for the slut’s own good: cane her a full judicial dusting, on the bare.’

  ‘A full dusting, ma’am?’ WPC Joule. ‘So, a good three dozen — perhaps four.’

  Her hand stroked the fresh welts laid by her cane on Angarad’s quivering bare bum.

  ‘There is an overlay of weals which I’ll have to cover for Miss Horsfall’s inspection,’ she said. ‘Best make it four dozen.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Miss Dummett. ‘Perhaps you should strap her down, Constable.’

  ‘No…please!’ Angarad begged. ‘I’ll take your punishment. You’re right, ma’am! I’ve been caned bare-bum before but I swear it was against my will!’

  ‘This kind of pervert takes pleasure from pain,’ said Miss Dummett. ‘To cure her, the perverse pleasure must be so intense that she comes to detest it. There are sex perverts everywhere, their obscenities mocking justice with rites of corporal punishment, sacred to justice. Cane her.’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Mm! Mm…!’

  Angarad’s panties gag stifled her scream, as three scalding cuts took her on the tender upper fesses.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Nnhh…!’

  Her bare bum clenched and began to wriggle; her knuckles were white, clutching the edges of the desk, and her spread legs and buttocks began to shake like jellies, as the constable delivered the strokes in sets of three.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘MMM!’

  Tears ran down Angarad’s cheeks, but the tops of her stockings were wet with drip from her cunt, which Miss Dummett touched, squealing: ‘The bitch is wet! Cane harder!’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Urr…Mm!’

  Angarad’s teeth were almost biting through her panties; she turned her tear-blurred eyes, pleading, to the judge standing behind the caner, and saw Miss Dummett’s hand beneath her raised maroon skirt, revealing her own lacy stocking tops — sussies but no knickers — a jungle of wet pubic hair garlanded with honeysuckle blossoms and her index finger and thumb firmly masturbating her erect clitoris between the distended red lips of her vulva. Miss Dummett’s eyelids were heavy, her eyes fixed on the squirming bare buttocks of the flogged girl.

  ‘Harder…’ she gasped.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Mmm…!’

  Angarad’s fesses were crimson with bruises from the policewoman’s cane; suddenly she wailed, as a hissing jet of pee sprayed from her cunt, drenching her stockinged thighs. Angarad was dancing on tiptoe, her long coltish legs shuddering at each welt to her helpless bare arse, as the judge masturbated, faster and faster.

  ‘The dirty slut…’ gasped Miss Dummett, wanking off vigorously. ‘Stripe her, Constable! Hurt her mid-arse! I don’t want her to sit for a week…’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Mm! Mm!’

  Come flowed from Angarad’s own swollen cunt, as her slit lips writhed and gaped at each lash of the wood on her naked skin.

  ‘Yes…yes…’ Miss Dummett moaned, as the rod descended. ‘Yes…!’

  Angarad turned again, to see the policewoman herself masturbating as she caned; her black uniform skirt was pulled up and her hand plunged into her black knickers, which shone moist with her seeping come. Angarad’s pubis jolted against the edge of the desk at each stroke; she began to press her clitoris against the wood, her cunt a squelching envelope of swollen wet flesh, using the desk to wank herself off. Angarad’s face was deep scarlet, the judge’s and constable’s growing redder as they masturbated. At the fortieth stroke, Miss Dummett’s moans grew to sharp, whinnying gasps; come flowed copiously from her gushing cunt as her belly contracted in her spasm of climax. WPC Joule took Angarad to the full forty-eight, then, still masturbating, with her skirt up to show her own buttocks, turned to the whimpering judge.

  ‘Seems there’s more than one slut here,’ she snarled.

  ‘Wanking off, ma’am? Scarcely a good example…’

  ‘Please, Joule, don’t be hard on me,’ wailed Faith Dummett. ‘Look how tempting that bum of hers is…’

  The policewoman pushed the quivering woman to the floor to crouch with her buttocks upraised, and her face on Joule’s left boot, the right one pinioning her neck.

  ‘No knickers, judge?’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  Angarad’s eyes widened, as, still holding her flogging position, she witnessed three stingers stripe the broad firm melons of Miss Dummett’s bare arse.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘You dirty whore…!’

  ‘Oh! Oh! I can’t take it!’ whimpered the woman.

  ‘Not like your friend Horsfall,’ sneered Joule.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ahh…!’

  Angarad freed a hand which plunged directly between her own throbbing cunt lips. While the poicewoman was distracted by her caning of Miss Dummett and vigorously wanking off, Angarad masturbated the inside of her pouch and her pulsing stiff clitty. Joule caned the woman’s bare to scarlet; Angarad’s left fingers wanked her cunt while her right hand fingered the deep welts, seared raw on her bare buttocks. Her left palm filled with her come and the liquid flowed down her wrist. At Miss Dummett’s fifteenth canestroke, Angarad squealed in climax and Joule turned, as if only just noticing her.

  ‘On your knees, slut!’ she cried. ‘Lick the monkey!’

  Whimpering, Angarad fell to a crouch before the constable’s exposed wet cunt, and moaned as her panties were ripped from her mouth while Angarad’s face was pressed and held against the policewoman’s massive wet cunt bush an
d the quivering glands of her vulva. As WPC Joule continued to cane Miss Dummett’s bare croup, she rubbed Angarad’s head up and down between her thighs, where the panties were fully lowered, baring her taut muscled croup and the pubic mound in its damp forest of curls. Her come deluged Angarad’s face and the choking girl drank oily cunt juice. Her tongue found Joule’s clitoris, a hard wet button which she took between her teeth, and began to chew and suck. Joule moaned. Angarad’s fingers plunged again into her own sopping cunt and as she gamahuched the gushing quim of the policewoman, she thumbed and pinched her her own stiffened nubbin, with her knuckles squelching between her wet gash flaps. She moaned, drinking Joule’s come, as the love juice became a torrent of acrid pee; the policewoman pissed long and hard in Angarad’s face and, as Angarad swallowed, choking on the hot mixture of pee and come, she masturbated again to a climax that made her shudder, and she bit the policewoman’s cunt lips to steady herself. The policewoman howled.

  Vip! Vip! Vip! Vip!

  A flurry of canestrokes striped Miss Dummett’s quivering naked arse-flans.

  ‘Oh! I can’t take it…!’ she yelped. ‘Oh, God! Joule, you brute! What if Adelaide…?’

  Her fingers were a blur as she wanked off anew; one by one, the soaked honeysuckle blossoms fell from her writhing pubis. Angarad hung on to the policewoman’s cunt lips, clamped between her teeth, as come poured copiously over her nose and lips and Joule grunted louder and louder in her own orgasm. Drinking the cunt juice that dribbled between her fastened teeth, Angarad gurgled, as a new climax flooded her wanked cunt. Miss Dummett’s caning was completed, with a thrash right to her slit; she, too, howled in the pain of new orgasm. Angarad sank to the floor, sobbing, hands covering her soaked crotch and piss-drenched face.

  ‘Why…?’ she moaned. ‘Why me…?’

  ‘Why not?’ said WPC Joule, rolling another cigarette.

  7

  A Fair Bum

  Angarad stood in the dock amidst the spartan furnishings of the magistrates court. There was only one person in the public gallery, a man. Faith Dummett sat with the other magistrates, ignoring the sobs that came from the defendant and her blush of shame. Shadwell and Dunton made brief statements, a guilty plea having already been entered: Shadwell painting the picture of a thoughtless but innocent slut, and Dunton, in a few cynical and disdainful remarks, contradicting his learned friend, with that of a wicked, deceitful temptress. Angarad silently prayed: They can’t all be against me…someone must believe the truth.

  ‘The prisoner will stand still!’ rapped Faith Dummett, as Angarad’s skirt rustled over her still-squirming fesses.

  The hypocrite…!

  WPC Joule smiled, winking at Angarad, who turned her face away. No…it couldn’t have happened!

  Ninety minutes before, in the judge’s chambers, she had looked up in shame and the agony of her whipped buttocks, to see Miss Dummett, with judicial robes covering her maroon suiting, and WPC Joule holding a pair of handcuffs.

  ‘This one’s a talker,’ the policewoman said.

  The cuffs snapped on Angarad’s wrists and the policewoman frog-marched her to a holding cell. There was no furniture on the board floor; WPC Joule did not remove Angarad’s handcuffs, but added to them a rope tied around her ankles and looped into the cuffs, so that Angarad could choose between standing up, in the bent-over position, or sitting on the floor, with her back and head stretched forward over her knees. Her panties wadded her mouth as a gag after the policewoman had wiped her own vulva dry with the garment and it dripped with fluid. Angarad was left for over an hour before Joule returned to take her to court.

  ‘I’ll take the cuffs off,’ she said, ungagging the girl, ‘as long as you promise that mum’s the word.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Angarad tonelessly without wiping her own come, drooled on her lips and chin.

  ‘You can say what you like at the Scrubs,’ said Joule.

  ‘No one will believe you — or rather, everybody will.’

  * * *

  Now, Angarad shut her eyes to stem her tears as the courtroom droned around her. She was jolted from her reverie by Joule’s hand clutching her arm.

  ‘…to twelve months’ firm penal servitude at Wrigley Scrubs special institution for female offenders,’ Miss Dummett pronounced, smiling coldly at Angarad.

  ‘Twelve! You said six…!’ Angarad cried, to be silenced by WPC Joule’s palm pressed over her mouth.

  ‘Take her down!’ snapped Miss Dummett. ‘Vile brat…!’

  The man in the public gallery smiled.

  * * *

  ‘We have one hundred and nine detainees, Isobel,’ said Miss Adelaide Horsfall, ‘and I expect you to know each one by name. It is our way.’

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ said Isobel Coker, staring out at the bleakness of Wrigley Scrubs, around the prison’s cluster of low brick cottages; beyond the scrub was the brown valley of Wrigleydale, its worn, denuded hills dusted with snow.

  Miss Horsfall smiled.

  ‘You address superiors as “mum”,’ she said, ‘the same way detainees must address you.’

  ‘Oh! I’m sorry…yes, mum.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, Isobel. Now, I dare say, at first sight Wrigley Scrubs wouldn’t strike you as a prison.’

  ‘No, mum. It looks like…a medieval manor, really.’

  Miss Horsfall clapped.

  ‘How splendid!’ she cried. ‘I must mention that to Faith — a dear friend of mine on the bench in London. Yes — a feudal manor, of female serfs and wardens, each with her rank, ties, bonds and duties! It was indeed a manor at one time when it was part of the Pollecutt estate. We have no security problems here, I assure you. Our wardens deal summarily with any little…misunderstandings, and our remoteness makes evasion not only impossible, but undesirable.’

  ‘A place for every girl, and every girl in her place, mum. That’s the motto of Wearbridge,’ Isobel said.

  ‘Is it? I think you will do very well here, Isobel. Mrs Cragg has sent a positively blush-making report.’

  ‘Thank you, mum.’

  Adelaide Horsfall’s eyes sparkled under her flat-combed honey tresses. Pert conic breasts swooped to a pencil waist, which bulged wide at the hips, into long, coltish legs, broad, firm buttocks and generous thighs that quivered like a mare’s under her black cashmere suiting and hose. Her age was middle, not more than Mrs Cragg’s, with the body hard and lithe under the soft fabric. She looked Isobel up and down, as she stood, holding her raincoat and beret over her arm, and in a dark green pleated skirt with matching polo-neck sweater and stockings.

  ‘Ignoge Brand will be here shortly to get you kitted out and show you the ropes,’ Miss Horsfall said. ‘She is one of the three senior wardens, to be addressed as “mum”, and you are the seventh junior warden, to be addressed by your seniors as “miss”. If I may ask you a personal question…’

  ‘Please, mum.’

  ‘Are those proper stockings you have on? I mean, with a garter belt and straps? Or…pantyhose?’

  She made a moue of distaste and Isobel laughed.

  ‘They are proper stockings, mum. Force of habit — that was a Wearbridge rule.’

  ‘I am so glad. We are rather old-fashioned here, Isobel. Good habits prosper amongst us.’

  There was a rap on the door and Miss Horsfall bade entrance. The girl who came in looked at Isobel coolly. Slightly shorter than the governess, she flaunted a figure of hour-glass beauty, the ripe teats and bottom clinging inside black skirt, with a white tabard halter top, leaving her arms bare, and black epaulettes bearing a gold braid on crossed swords; black leather boots, mirror-shone, with nylon stockings. Her full red lips, framed by a mane of chestnut hair, curled in a half smile, half sneer. Under the armpits sprouted forests of untrimmed hair. Her warden’s uniform included a thick leather belt with a heavy buckle and from it dangled a two-foot long cane with its crook handle strapped in a leather holster. Around her belt buckle was coiled a rope, like a cowboy’s lariat.


  ‘This the new stroke, mum?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Horsfall. ‘Isobel Coker — Miss Ignoge Brand, senior warden, or, ah, colloquially, stroke. She’ll show you the ropes and I’ll leave you to her.’

  The girl tossed her chestnut tresses, beckoning Isobel into the stone corridor where her boots clacked noisily.

  ‘There are three of us top strokes,’ said Ignoge Brand, ‘and you’re the seventh bottom stroke. You’re to be gym stroke, aren’t you? The other bottoms will be glad you’re here, they’ve had to take turns moving the equipment and rebricking the labyrinth. I see you’re well muscled. Have to be, in this place. There’s lots we strokes must do ourselves, ’cos you can’t trust stinkers, or slags.’

  ‘There’s a lot I don’t undersand,’ said Isobel nervously.

  ‘That’s for sure!’ said Ignoge. ‘It would be pretty weird, otherwise. A stinker is a new slag, see? And a slag is a stinker who’s done over three months, or taken a special whopping. There’s a new stinker arriving tomorrow and you can help scrub her down. First, we’ll go to Chopper’s for your medical and your kit.’

  ‘Chopper?’

  ‘The surgical nurse, Miss Maclaren.’

  The lithe, petite surgical nurse, in a tight white doctor’s robe, invited Isobel to strip for examination. Ignoge made no attempt to leave or hide her curiosity, as Isobel nervously undressed. She looked at Ignoge’s cane and saw the surgeon possessed a similar one, hanging from a peg on the wall. She felt her scarred bottom, gulping, as she removed her garter belt, stockings and, finally, her pink cotton panties. Miss Maclaren prodded her with a stethoscope, squeezed her titties between finger and thumb, then made her lie face down on a surgical table, revealing, for the first time, her bare buttocks.

  ‘Spread your cheeks,’ said Miss Maclaren. ‘Well!’

  She donned rubber gloves, while Ignoge casually kneaded the bare, wealed melons of Angarad’s bottom.

  ‘Please, Ignoge,’ said Miss Maclaren mildly. ‘I must examine the anus and vulva.’

  ‘Of course, mum — it’s not often you see such a ripe arse, though. That would be a fine crop of welts, even on a slag.’