Caged!

by Yolanda Celbridge

  ‘She has got a fair bumhole,’ said Clare. ‘Well!’

  ‘I’m going to come,’ gasped Ingrid.

  ‘Me, too,’ said Clare, squirming on Angarad’s pinioned back. ‘How’s her tongue?’

  ‘Agile,’ was Ingrid’s panted reply.

  ‘She’s a perve, a real Vandal,’ said Clare. ‘Needs it up the bum for her to come. Caning would get her off, but not just spanks.’

  Smack! Smack! Smack!

  ‘Mmm…!’

  Angarad’s scarlet bare bum had taken over seventy spanks when Clare withdrew her fist from the dripping pouch and plugged Angarad’s anus with her forefinger, poking and widening the aperture until she had two, three and then four fingers plunged into the anal elastic. Angarad’s moans grew to shrieks, muffled by Ingrid’s dank wet cunt hairs, as Clare began to finger-fuck Angarad’s squirming anal hole while maintaining the vigour of her spanks. After each set of three spanks, she paused to wank her own distended clitty, pressing the nubbin between fingernail and Angarad’s shuddering spine.

  ‘I think her bumhole would take fist,’ said Clare. ‘It’s well slack.’

  ‘Do it!’ cried Ingrid. ‘Dirty little perve.’

  ‘Fucking Vandal.’

  ‘Mm! Mm! Mm!’ squealed Angarad, furiously shaking her head against Ingrid’s pubis.

  ‘Yes…’ hissed Ingrid, her belly beginning to heave in spasm. ‘Oh! Oh! Ohh…!’

  ‘Cunt’s tight, though,’ said Clare, climbing down from her saddled position. ‘She’s in for a rough ride with Oswald…there!’

  Angarad howled, her tears mingling with Ingrid’s gushing come; Clare’s fist was fully plunged in her anus. Clare began to fist the bumhole, buggering the squirming, squealing girl with rapid jabs to her anal root and continuing to spank her blotched bare bottom.

  Smack! Smack! Smack!

  ‘Ahh…!’ screamed Angarad. ‘Ah! Ah! Ahh…’

  Her belly began to writhe against the table.

  ‘The slut’s coming!’ panted Clare, as she fisted Angarad’s gaping bumhole, stretched several times the normal pucker. ‘She will make a good Vandal.’

  ‘And Oswald should be pleased…especially if she’s cycled to the village on a Vandal bike.’

  Both girls giggled.

  ‘That’s one without a saddle, see,’ said Ingrid. ‘Oswald likes his arseholes good and raw.’

  ‘Oh…’ Angarad sobbed, slumping, as her belly ceased to flutter in spasm. ‘God! I’m so ashamed!’

  ‘The A word!’ said Clare. ‘We don’t use that much at the Scrubs. Oswald does, though. He loves it when you’re ashamed, riding his…cock doesn’t do the monster justice.’

  ‘Despite our absolute longing for justice,’ said Ingrid.

  Clare withdrew her fist, took Angarad’s bare foot and applied it to her own cunt, wanking herself to a swift orgasm with the girl’s big toe, as Isobel Coker’s steps were heard returning to the cleansing room. When the bottom stroke arrived, she found the nude Angarad wrapped in a grey blanket.

  ‘All done and dusted, mum,’ said Clare, ‘and ready for Miss Maclaren.’

  ‘Good,’ said Isobel Coker, shifting her thighs under a skirt gleaming with fluid at her crotch. ‘Let me just have a last look at…’

  She lifted Angarad’s blanket and gazed at her croup.

  ‘Clean enough. She had a hard judicial interview in London, I believe,’ she said, stroking Angarad’s freshly spanked bottom. ‘I only tickled her — you saw, ladies! — but those pervert’s welts will take a long time to…to…’

  ‘Fade, mum?’ said Ingrid.

  Isobel blushed.

  ‘Yes,’ she snapped.

  ‘If they ever do, mum,’ said Clare.

  ‘Men are such beasts,’ said Isobel Coker.

  9

  Womancart

  Filming had ceased for the day and Habren was bathing. Pink light slanted through the open window-turrets, as two of her cast, wearing crotchless harem pantaloons, sponged her, and poured pails of hot water and scented unguents. She lay in the hot tub, gazing upwards at her nude reflection in her ceiling mirror. She parted her thighs and watched her hand squeeze first one engorged nipple, then the other; slide across her belly in a caress, to the jungle of pubic hair, within which gleamed the ruby wet lips of her open cunt. She placed finger and thumb between the pouch flaps and parted them, to reveal the gleaming red cavern of her cunt. Two, then three fingers penetrated her gash and her thumb rubbed her swollen clitoris, while her free hand crept into her bum-cleft and with two fingers she penetrated her anus, right to the knuckle. Slowly, with a smile of pleasure at her reflected self, Habren masturbated to a climax, her moans soft and mewling, and the gush of come from her wanked cunt spiralling in the water like fronds of anemones. The two girls silently aided her masturbation with a rolling pressure on her nipples, while wanking their own cunts through the open pantaloons and pressing come-slimed finger-kisses to Habren’s lips. As Habren’s breath of orgasm ebbed, Aggar knocked on the stone wall and brushed aside the door hangings. He apologised gravely for interrupting his mistress’s most sacred daily ritual, at which Habren smiled and replied that her rite of masturbating to her own image was complete.

  He had come to advise her a vehicle was approaching the fort. Habren dismissed her girls, now mutually masturbating and, still frotting, they retreated, heads bowed, and backwards from her presence. Habren rose from her bath without bothering to cover her nudity and padded, dripping, to the slit window. Wreathed in dust, a vehicle was slowly descending the mountainside. Habren donned a cotton robe, fastening it loosely at the waist, and descended barefoot to meet the newcomers. The cast and crew were busy at their evening meal or else lounging by the oasis pool, where Joss squatted, wearing his white suit and observing the naked girls comparing the day’s whipmarks, highlighted by the crimson rays of the sunset.

  The vehicle loosed its brakes and speeded as it reached flatland; wreathed in dust, it was a primitive cart, with wooden unspoked wheels and a creature between the shafts drawing it, while the driver stood in the cart itself holding a map. Habren licked her lips and whistled: the yoked draught animal was a human female. The cart drew to a halt; from the swirl of dust emerged a young man and woman, both tall, blond and alike. They wore desert boots and socks, khaki shorts and check headcloths; beneath the girl’s, lush blond tresses strayed. The male was shirtless, the female had her khaki shirt knotted under her huge breasts, with only a single button of the garment fastened. She was drenched in sweat. Habren eyed both before addressing the young man with her eyes and her lips.

  ‘This is private property,’ she said.

  ‘Of course — we beg merely some shelter for the night, and will pay, of course,’ said the male, with a slight accent.

  ‘There is no question of payment,’ said Habren. ‘Please refresh yourselves, then go. This is a film set, you see, and our proceedings are…discreet.’

  The girl’s eye had fastened on the nude girls bathing in the oasis and their mottled skins. She smiled at Habren, first shyly, then with a wide, sunny beam, exposing bright white teeth against her thick red lips and tan face. She shifted in her sweat-drenched shirt, so that her full, heavy breasts were squeezed together, and the hard damsons of her nipples pressed, braless, against the cloth. The full pears of her croup clung to the wet, tiny shorts, revealing no panty line, above long, coltish, thigh and calf muscles that glistened, rippling and tense, in the red sunlight.

  ‘I am Truud Wegener,’ she said, ‘and this is my twin brother, Jan. Our vehicle’s axles require adjustment — simple maintenance, but will need perhaps a night. Thus, we should not disturb your film-making. I assume you do not film at night. By the way, we are very…wide-minded. We, too, are making a film, of our journey and its strange phenomena.’

  Habren pursed her lips, glancing behind her at her girls, who made no attempt to conceal their whipmarked nudity. She placed her hand on Truud’s shoulder, let it slide down her spine, with her fingernails
grating, and rested her palm on the girl’s buttocks. Truud shivered and her bottom trembled, as Habren’s fingers brushed her cleft.

  ‘My, you do need a bath,’ she said, ‘but uninvited guests should make no assumptions, especially when interrupting a lady’s toilette. It’s broad-minded, by the way.’

  ‘Oh! I’m sorry,’ cried Truud, seeming genuinely alarmed.

  ‘I have made an error.’

  Jan smiled.

  ‘I prefer open-minded, but the point is moot,’ he said. ‘Truud is very Frisian. She does not like to make mistakes.’

  ‘What about you?’ asked Habren.

  ‘I do not make mistakes,’ said Jan, staring blatantly at Habren’s half-fastened robe, which showed most of her belly, and the first thick sprays of her pubic bush.

  ‘There is the tradition of desert hospitality,’ said Habren, her eyes on Truud’s full, ripe arse-melons. ‘Since you’re here, we’ll put you up.’

  Truud’s smile was radiant as Habren’s arm circled her waist, allowing the inside of her wrist to brush the young woman’s full pubic mound. Habren’s nostrils flared; she breathed hard, scanning the girl’s tan breasts and taut, slightly trembling, buttocks, which she impishly patted, while stroking her own bum, as though in comparison. The male’s crotch stirred.

  ‘I am sure you are curious what you interrupted,’ she said coolly. ‘I have desert habits, and was masturbating in the bath, as I do every afternoon, looking at my reflection in the mirror. I dare say, Truud, you are familiar with the practice, especially on such a lonely trek.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Truud, blushing, ‘I admit that, once or twice, I may have…looked at my body.’

  ‘And masturbated in this sensuous heat. We all do.’

  ‘That is a very personal question! But yes, I masturbate, whenever I have privacy. Do not all girls? Once, when I was alone in the labyrinth of Oum El Hanch, I found a secret chamber, carved in erotic scuplture. No, not erotic — flagellant. Women in cages, or roped and bound, were whipped by males with…with erect appendages. Their bodies were depicted in a very lifelike manner and I could almost hear their screams and feel their pain as they were flogged, and squirm with them. The chamber filled me with strange joy, despite the sufferings of the whipped girls! Some of them bore the marks of whipping but had their bodies beneath the neck entirely cased in wax. The cage, and the dripping of hot beeswax or molten Baltic amber, were Vandal tortures so refined as to be cult rituals. I could not resist my urge — I stripped and masturbated, rubbing my clitoris on a stone dildo, carved on a male who appeared European. I admit, too, that…that I spanked myself on my bare buttocks as I masturbated. It was not painful compared to the agonies of the girls in the carvings, yet I wanted to share their joy, for…they were smiling. I took many photographs and think I may have found a sacred maze of Vandal flagellant worship, where the whipped girls were priestesses of the rod.’

  ‘Please use my bathtub, Truud, and relax,’ said Habren, ‘though there is not much room for self-flagellance, and it might be fun for us, if you are not too wide-minded.’

  Over supper, Jan and Truud explained their journey. They squatted on cushions on the stone floor, eating with their fingers, with Joss having abandoned his daytime suit for a silk dressing-gown, while Habren wore a tabard halter top, cut off just below her breasts, and billowing harem pants. The Dutch, or Frisians, as they insisted, had fresh kit, the same as they had worn on arrival.

  ‘We are on the trail of the Vandals, who we believe to be our ancestors,’ said Jan, ‘using their traditional method of transportation, across Europe and then across Africa, namely, the womancart. We are writing our joint doctoral thesis on the subject at the University of Leeuwaarden.’

  Vandals, from Germany, had migrated north, to Frisia, Denmark and northern England, or south, through Gaul and Spain, until, in the year 429, King Gaiseric took his entire nation of eighty thousand people across the Straits of Gibraltar to Africa. They established an African kingdom, which lasted a century, until their defeat by the Byzantine Empire. During that time, they occupied Sicily, Corsica and Sardinia, and even pillaged Rome.

  ‘Yet, after a lightning Byzantine conquest,’ said Jan, ‘the south Vandals disappeared. How? To where? Eighty thousand people, or more, do not disappear. We believe many migrated south and west, to the remote areas of Morocco and perhaps as far as the Gold Coast. Our purpose is to find settlements where Vandal artefacts, customs, perhaps the Vandal gene pool, survive, as in Friesland or Northumberland and Durham — even Yorkshire. Research was undertaken by Sir George Pollecutt, deputy governor of Tangier, when it belonged to the English crown in the reign of King Charles II. He wrote of blue-eyed Berbers and the legend of the sacred maze of Oum El Hanch, and added his own legend, that of Pollecutt’s box, containing the treasure of the Vandals. But it was not in the maze. I found this’ — she showed a square of pink brocade, foxed with age.

  ‘What and where is this box?’ Habren asked.

  ‘We shall not know until we find it,’ said Truud. ‘The Englishman was eccentric, in the English tradition we Dutch so admire. He was a…a lecher, of bizarre tendency. He established a series of whipping forts for his pleasure, where the tribal girls would be brought for chastisement if they erred. Many tribes adhere to his custom, after centuries, and permitted us to film their rites, in which girls are whipped naked, then hung in cages overnight. I was appalled, but fascinated, that the girls welcomed their chastisements, as the flogged female buttocks become enhanced, or sacred, when the entire croup and loins are enshrined in hot dripped wax, cooling to a solid case, and worn for a period of days after a whipping. The maze of Oum El Hanch is a clue to an ancient cult, either discovered, or imported, by Vandal migrants — then rediscovered by the, ah, lustful Englishman. In England, Pollecutt founded a club called…Pinkarse.’

  Truud blushed.

  ‘When I bathed in your tub, I did look at myself and masturbated,’ she whispered. ‘It was like having a twin.’

  ‘You mean you are not identical twins?’ Habren asked.

  ‘I overheard my foster-parents in Knutsford once, not clearly, but…I think I may have one, somewhere. It makes me dream…They were appallingly nouveau and quite amoral, but couldn’t tell me for sure.’

  ‘For practical purposes, we are twins,’ said Jan, ‘but being differently sexed, cannot be identical twins. Monozygotic twins, from a single egg, are identical in every detail of their genome, hence of the same sex. Only their fingerprints differ! Dizygotic twins like us are merely members of the same litter. However, we are very close…we have shared our lives, in and outside the womb.’

  Truud’s face reddened further.

  ‘What will you do with your discoveries?’ asked Joss.

  ‘The thrill of discovery is enough,’ said Truud.

  Joss blurted that if they needed money, his company logo would look nice on the sides of their cart.

  ‘Don’t be an ass, Joss,’ said Habren, without looking at him. ‘So — just the thrill of discovery?’

  ‘Perhaps discreet publication, for the discerning public,’ said Jan. Habren laughed.

  ‘Healthy exhibitionism,’ she said. ‘Not unlike my films. My girls are on a voyage of self-discovery and self-exposure, for a discerning public…’

  She explained crisply.

  ‘They are porno films?’ said Truud.

  ‘There is a sexual dimension, as in all things,’ said Habren. ‘The nerves of a girl’s arse are her most sensitive, apart from nipples or clitoris — so, a bare-bum spanking is both discipline and stimulus. More important are the roles of dominant and submissive, expressed through the lash. It is the pride that you can take it — and learn your true nature in doing so. The scene is world-wide and ageless, a cult of flagellance, teaching that the highest wisdom and pleasure are in the pain of whip on bare skin. My cast are girl submissives, who gain pleasure from their whippings and their exposing. I accept no one unless her dedication is real — that she is a real sub.
’

  ‘Proved by practical test?’ said Truud.

  ‘Exactly. I see my work as part of a flagellant tradition as old as humanity. Thus, we make our film Whipping Fort in a place which actually was a whipping fort.’

  ‘Sir George Pollecutt writes of such a cult,’ said Jan. ‘The goddess Flagella, or, in Old Vandalic, Rodd or Roden, and in Africa, Ishtar, harlot goddess of the date clusters…yet, it was the goddess who was whipped, by males. I believe Sir George added to the cult practice. He dealt in American sotweed, or tobacco, and Berbers still place rolled tobacco in the anal and vulval holes of caned women, to inhale the fumes of the burning leaves moistened by her fluids.’

  Truud swallowed nervously.

  ‘A woman has an instinct to submit to a male, but it must be dreadful to be whipped,’ she murmured, ‘though I did spank myself at Oum El Hanch, on the bare bottom, and also when I was masturbating in your bathtub. I pull our womancart — my duty, as the Vandal woman I believe myself to be — but I don’t need whipping, even though, in more unruly times, the males certainly whipped their women along and often caged them. Quite awful!’

  Truud shuddered, her breasts quivering like jellies.

  ‘No more awful than eating chilli peppers!’ Jan laughed. ‘And what about the flagellant sect of the Middle Ages? How can you, as a historian, be unaware?’

  ‘Jan,’ she said in English, ‘stop putting me down!’

  ‘Ignorance deserves to be put down!’ he snapped.

  ‘Ach! Varken!’

  ‘You sound more like man and wife than brother and sister,’ Habren murmured.