Althea lifted her cane over Isobel’s quivering bare bottom.
‘Better get it over with, Miss Coker, with a swift fifteen to the bare.’
‘We all have to bare up below sometimes,’ said Imogen Tandy, licking her lips.
‘If we can dish it out, we must be able to take it,’ said Amy Patel. ‘That’s reasonable, isn’t it…Isobel?’
Her hand stroked Isobel’s bare bottom.
‘It’s not as if you haven’t been caned before.’
‘But proper stingers, this time,’ added Belinda.
‘Only fifteen!’ said Imogen. ‘Come on, agree.’
Althea swished her cane, inches from the trembling bare flans of Isobel’s bum; Isobel’s buttocks clenched. Althea swished again, closer, but Isobel’s cleft remained open, showing her anus bud shut tight, but her gash swollen, open and dripping come from her tangled fronds of wet, underhanging pubic forest.
‘She’s juicing,’ murmured Belinda Garce. ‘There’s a seep from her cooze. She’s not scared of strokes.’
‘Perhaps fifteen isn’t enough, mum,’ said Amy.
‘No!’ said Isobel hoarsely. ‘I agree, damn you. I agree.’
Vip!
At once, Althea lashed her full across middle fesse, and the buttocks jerked as a pink stripe flamed the naked skin.
‘Uh!’ Isobel gasped, as her bottom squirmed.
Vip!
‘Uh!’
Vip!
‘Uhh…!’
‘The first five are the worst,’ said Belinda. ‘After those, it’s plain sailing.’
Isobel’s buttocks writhed, awaiting the next of the set, the weals now darkening, lying in a patchwork of stripes on the bare flesh.
Vip! Vip!
‘UHH…!’
The bare bum squirmed, clenching furiously at two strokes, laid backhand and forehand.
‘She is juicing,’ said Imogen Tandy, her fingers dabbling Isobel’s pendant cunt flaps.
Amy reached down Isobel’s pubic mound and her hand slid into Isobel’s cunt, right to her wrist.
‘What a monstrous box!’ she cried.
‘Let me have a grope!’ said Belinda, Amy withdrawing to permit her entrance to the slit.
Vip! Vip!
‘Uh!’
‘You’re right! What a cavern! And well juicy!’
Imogen took her turn; her fist penetrated Isobel’s gash and pressed her clitoris.
‘Big nubbin, too,’ she said. ‘She must wank off a lot.’
‘Quite a challenge for Oswald at the shop.’
‘Give our holes a rest.’
‘She’ll get all the snout she wants on credit, jammy bitch.’
‘But she doesn’t smoke.’
Vip!
‘Uhh…’
Buttocks writhing, Isobel moaned as her flow of come grew stronger, sliming her thighs. Each stroke of the whippy little cane slammed her breasts against the mirror, squashing her stiff nipples. Each girl in turn rubbed her distended clitty. Ghislaine’s face glistened with droplets of come, sprayed from Isobel’s quivering cunt.
‘All right, Miss Coker?’ said Althea pleasantly. ‘Nearly over.’
The tufts of russet hair, billowing at her armpits, dripped sweat down her tabard top.
‘Oh, mum,’ gasped Isobel. ‘It hurts so…you cane hard.’
Vip!
‘Ahh! Oh!’
‘I know. Next time, try making a little less noise.’
‘Next time, mum? I don’t understand.’
Vip!
‘Ah! Ah!’ Isobel sobbed. ‘Please, mum — may I know? — how many of you, how many wardens, were promoted from slags? Am I the only one —’
Vip!
‘OHH!’
‘That’s for us to know and you to find out, bitch,’ said Althea Tite coolly.
The girls giggled; they took turns frotting Isobel’s stiff clitty, while her bare bum writhed under the cane and the skin darkened to a crisscross of purpling weals. The mirror steamed with Isobel’s panting breath and in it were the blurred reflections of the three bottom strokes, each with a hand beneath her skirt and rubbing herself. Ghislaine, crouching, held Isobel’s shuddering legs; her head was beneath Althea’s skirt, bobbing at her crotch.
Vip! Vip!
‘Please…’ Isobel moaned, her lips pressing the glass. ‘Please…’
Fists punched her gash and thumbs flicked her stiff nubbin, while come gushed from her twitching cunt flaps.
Vip!
‘Uhh…yes…Oh! Oh! I’m coming!’ Isobel cried, her belly knotting in her spasm of climax, her come-gush a torrent of oily juice.
Althea delivered the final strokes with her eyes screwed shut, her face scarlet and her own loins writhing as Ghislaine tongued her.
‘Yes!’ moaned Belinda.
‘Mmm…’ cried Amy.
‘A fair bum!’ gasped Imogen, licking Isobel’s cunt juice from her slimy fingers as she wanked her own cunt.
Isobel’s flogged buttocks continued to writhe, long after her beating was complete. She arose, shaking, her face red and her voice a choking sob. The other wardens and the detainee Ghislaine faced her, standing to attention, drawing on lit rollies. When Isobel struggled back into her underthings, stained with come, and smoothed down her uniform, they patted her on the shoulders.
‘Good girl,’ said Belinda Garce.
She proffered her half-smoked rollie.
‘Want a smoke? You can pay me back when you get yourself sorted for snout.’
Isobel Coker took the cigarette with trembling fingers, put it between her lips, inhaled, then exhaled a strong plume of blue smoke. She repeated the operation at once, taking her time exhaling, this time with a sigh of relief.
‘Thanks, Belinda,’ she said.
* * *
From the outside, the white prison van was no more than a tradesman’s vehicle, except that the narrow portholes were covered in fine wire mesh. Inside were seating cubicles for a dozen prisoners, each one a toilet: journeys in HMP vans could last a long time. Angarad’s trip from London had taken several hours of darkness, during which she was obliged to sleep, leaning on the wall of her cubicle. Food and drink were passed through a slot by Officer Joule, without facial contact. Her feet were enclosed in a wooden hobble bar but her hands were free. After a while, Angarad did not bother with lowering and raising her underthings to pee, but sat slumped, with her knickers at her ankles, peeing and stooling in dribbles, although at times she rose to rub her itchy bottom. Dawn broke and a chill Yorkshire air blew. She woke with a shiver; sensing commotion, and an imminent arrival, she peed, fastened her underthings and smoothed down her skirt.
The van stopped. Doors slanged and WPC Joule unlocked the door of her cubicle. She freed Angarad from her hobble bar, then handcuffed her wrists behind her back before leading her to the door at the van’s rear. Angarad stumbled going down the step and a buxom girl in prison officer’s uniform caught her, preventing her from falling. WPC Joule descended and saluted the prison officer.
‘WPC Joule, delivering prisoner Stark, Angarad,’ she snapped.
‘Junior Warden Coker, accepting delivery,’ said the officer, returning the salute. ‘You may remove her handcuffs, officer. No need for them here.’
Her voice had a soft northern lilt and her eyes smiled at Angarad. WPC Joule shivered and looked round at the snow-covered scrubland. She accepted the delivery note which Isobel had signed and returned in a hurry to the thrumming warmth of the vehicle. Angarad watched her home for the past ten hours retreating into the light dawn snowfall. It was scarcely past dawn and already the prison was busy. In the distance trudged a work party, carrying pickaxes and, obscured by snowflakes, clad in bras and panties. Other detainees wore uniform prison garb, while some were barefoot and wrapped in grey blankets. She rubbed her eyes.
‘Don’t be frightened, love,’ said the prison officer.
‘You’ll adapt soon enough. I’m a warden and you are a detainee, and you call ward
ens “mum”. Just remember that, and you’ll be OK. We’ll get you fed, scrubbed up, medically examined and kitted out, then you can met Miss Horsfall, our governess. I’m a bit of a new girl myself. I was posted here last week.’
‘I’m going to be here for a year,’ said Angarad bitterly, as Isobel steered her towards the central block with her cane swinging from her black belt as naturally as a purse.
Isobel saluted a senior officer, tall, coltish and blond of tress, who grinned and saluted back; unlike Isobel, her uniform shirt was merely a tabard top, which left her arms wholly bare, with huge bushes of hair under the armpits.
‘May I ask a question?’ Angarad said.
‘Of course.’
‘Why are some of the girls wearing blankets?’
‘Stinkers — new detainees are issued only with bra and panties,’ said Isobel, ‘and, of course, a blanket. You have to earn your uniform here at the Scrubs, and that includes stockings and suspenders. If you play up well, then you’ll be proud of your Scrubs uniform.’
‘And if I don’t?’ murmured Angarad.
‘Don’t be a smart arse, miss,’ Isobel retorted, her Durham accent making the words ‘smott oss’. ‘You know full well that our regime allows strict corporal punishment. You aren’t scared of strokes or you wouldn’t be here. Try to enjoy it.’
Her voice sank to a whisper.
‘I have to…’
After breakfast of tea and porridge, Angarad was escorted to the cleansing room, a normal bathroom but equipped with a set of brushes like a carwash, and amid them a cage of steel hoops, open on its hinges, and with an eyeless, mouthless metal face-plate. The cage was in the form of a human body, with the arms and legs parted like a gingerbread man. Two girls in prison issue bra and g-string panties stood by the device. Isobel ordered Angarad to strip naked and enter the cleaning hoop, which would then be buckled around her nude body. Angarad flinched.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Isobel. ‘You must be fully scrubbed and deloused before the surgical nurse, Miss Maclaren, gives you your medical. Clare and Ingrid are trusties.’
Sighing, Angarad stripped and watched the warden place her clothes in a laundry bag, tagged with her name. Everything, including her watch, went into the bag. Nude and shivering, she stepped into the cage of steel hoops. The door clanged shut and was locked, its hoops constricting her breasts, belly, thighs and ankles, with a vertical hoop biting into her vulva, and fastened to the metal plate snapped around her head, covering the face but leaving her mane free. The wire cleansing brushes began to whir and Angarad shrieked as jets of ice-cold water sprayed her.
The hoop cage held Angarad’s legs parted, her vulva defenceless against the powerful sluice of disinfectant fluid and the wire cleansing brushes that followed. The fluid penetrated her cunt and bum-cleft, with vertical rotor-brushes whirring between her parted thighs, while side brushes scraped her flanks, belly, breasts and armpits. The brushes sliced her scalp and penetrated the exposed folds of her vulva, and the wrenched pucker of the anus bud. She shuddered, sobbing, as the rotors attacked those parts again and again, roaring as they scraped her protective face-mask.
The machine stopped; Angarad was released, gasping and shivering, and made to lie belly up on a metal frame table, with cuffs and straps at each corner and a buckled rubber corset at its waist. The girls began to examine Angarad’s soaked hair with tweezers, one at her head and the other at her pubis. Eventually, after extracting several pube-hairs by the roots, they pronounced her clean. Isobel held a hosepipe and rinsed Angarad’s upper body of the cleansing fluid, directing the jet generously between her legs and to the stiffening nipples; her titties trembled under the spray, which lashed her like a whip.
‘You’re hairy, miss,’ said Isobel. ‘Rules are that detainees must shave the body completely every day, except for the pubic bush, which you must leave completely untouched.’
Angarad began to cry as her naked body was attacked by the two girls with wire pads and razors probing every crevice of her body — arse-cleft, armpits and navel — while leaving the pubic bush standing, a blond curly forest amid an expanse of belly and thigh-skin, bared of golden down.
‘If you like, I can strap you,’ said Isobel gently. ‘But I dare say you’d prefer not, so early on.’
Angarad sobbed that she could take it. At last, she was ordered to turn over and lie on her belly for the cleansing and shaving to be repeated on her hindquarters. As she shifted, to expose her bare bum, all three females gasped.
‘You have taken it,’ said Isobel, ‘haven’t you?’
Her palm stroked Angarad’s wet buttocks.
‘Yes, I’ve been caned — and worse! Laugh all you want,’ sobbed Angarad.
‘When was the last time?’
‘My…my judicial interview, before my court appearance.’
Vip!
‘Oh!’
Isobel’s cane sliced Angarad a cut on her wet buttocks.
‘My court appearance, mum,’ said Isobel, sighing. ‘You’ll have to learn decorum, girl, the hard way, or…’
‘Or, mum?’ Angarad sobbed. ‘Is there another?’
‘Not really,’ said Isobel. ‘But…you’ve been caned frequently, miss — I’d say, on the bare.’
‘Yes.’
Vip!
‘Ouch! Yes, mum!’
‘That’s better.’
The soapy wire wool penetrated Angarad’s vulva, making her wince. The girl scrubbed vigorously, covering Angarad’s inner and outer cunt lips, her clit, perineum and her whole cleft, including the anus pucker.
‘God! — I mean, mum, that hurts,’ Angarad sobbed.
‘Your arse is used to pain,’ said Isobel drily. ‘Your file has a pink sticker, meaning that you are a pervert.’
‘What?’
Vip!
‘What, mum!’
‘What…mum?’ Angared sobbed, her teeth a rictus, as a fresh pink weal glowed on her bare bum.
‘One who takes pleasure in corporal punishment,’ said Isobel, with the slightest of tremors in her voice. ‘Who likes being caned on…on her bare bottom.’
‘Oh, mum, it’s not true!’ Angarad cried. ‘I can explain! If only someone would listen…!’
‘No names, no packdrill, miss,’ snapped Isobel. ‘You are here for correction, not gloating on past misdeeds.’
‘But…but I was wrongly —’
Vip!
‘Ahh!’
‘Enough!’ said Isobel, her face red. ‘I’ll be back in twenty minutes, and I expect you slags to have her presentable.’
‘Yes, mum,’ said the two girls in bras and panties.
When Isobel departed, they sniggered, the larger of the two twisting Angarad’s arms up her back in a half-nelson.
‘Twenty minutes! Plenty of time for the slut to wank off,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you see her quim damp? She’s as new as this stinker — not here a week and a slag already!’
‘And plenty of time for us,’ said the other.
‘Wait a minute —’ Angarad began, but was silenced: the smaller girl pulled aside the gusset of her panties and pushed her huge quim-bush into Angarad’s face.
‘Lick me, slut,’ she said.
‘Mm!’ squealed Angarad, as wet cunt lips squelched her mouth and her nose pressed a clitoris already throbbing. The girl’s hips swayed, grinding her pubis into Angarad’s face and sliming her with come.
‘Mm!’ she moaned, as her wrists and upper arms were swiftly roped together, the rope encircling her nipples and fixing her armlock, with her fingers pressed between her shoulder-blades.
The rubber corset was buckled over her back to its tightest notch, pinioning her to the table frame.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
The larger girl began to spank Angarad’s bared fesses, while her cunt flaps were prised open and two, then three, fingers thrust into her pouch, with a thumb pressing her clitty. The girl penetrated her cunt to the wrist and began to fist her, with jabs to her wombneck. Angarad sq
uealed and threshed but, as her mouth opened, the small girl’s swollen cunt-flaps pressed on her tongue, obliging her to lick them. The girl sighed and shifted, so that Angarad’s tongue was pushed against her stiff nubbin.
‘Nothing personal,’ she said. ‘Ohh…that’s nice. I’m Ingrid Fage, by the way, and she’s Clare Cubitt. All stinkers must be broken in.’
‘We were,’ said Clare.
Clare was tall, big-breasted and massively crouped, with auburn hair, thick at head and pubis; Ingrid, blonde and wiry, her breasts conic and her frame lean as a whippet’s, the narrow waist and ribcage billowing to a broad, taut croup and the crotch adorned with a jungle of cunt hairs that stretched almost from hip to hip, creeping up her flat, muscled belly to her navel, while its unkempt lower fronds wreathed long, swollen gash flaps of livid crimson.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
‘Mm! Mm!’
Angarad’s spanked bare buttocks writhed as her mouth and tongue were slammed against Ingrid’s dripping cunt. Her lips closed on the clitoris of the tribadist and her throat bobbed as she swallowed the girl’s come.
‘She’s not bad, for a stinker,’ gasped Ingrid. ‘I’m nearly off…’
‘You Goths wank off too much,’ grunted Clare.
‘Fucking Franks,’ responded Ingrid. ‘Pack of rug-munchers…’
‘You’ll have to join one tribe or the other to survive, stinker,’ Clare said, as she spanked Angarad’s bare. ‘Jails are run by inmates and this cage is no exception. There are four gangs, the Franks, Goths, Vandals and Saracens, and we all claim territories, like squares on a chessboard, and if a slag is caught in enemy territory, then she can be thrashed, or wanked, till she can’t take it. Problem is, the territories are always changing, and no one is ever quite sure who’s occupied what. It’s a good game.’
‘From your perve’s welts, I’d put you down as a Saracen or Vandal,’ said Ingrid. ‘We all wank off and cane bare, but Saracen canings are the juiciest. Vandals cane hard, too, but they have big bumholes because they like it best up the rear. Isn’t that soo filthy?’
Both slags laughed.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
‘Oh!’
Angarad’s bum quivered; Clare vigorously fisted Angarad’s gash, thumbing her clitty until the new girl’s slit lips dripped oil. Angarad’s cunt basin began to writhe in time with her fisting, her pouch drawing Clare’s knuckles into her wetness. Clare squatted at the small of Angarad’s back, her panties lowered to her thighs and her naked quim, with its wet tangle of cunt hair, rubbing against the spinal nubbin. Clare’s come tricked down Angarad’s bum-cleft, spilling on to her spanked buttocks, now mottled red. Each clenching of her fesses revealed Angarad’s anal pucker squirming and open.
Caged! Page 15