Caged!

by Yolanda Celbridge

  Vip!

  Angarad’s buttocks clenched but her spread was too wide to shield her cleft; the cane drew a raw stripe right across the fesses, just above the exposed anal pucker.

  ‘Would you, miss?’

  Angarad was silent, her face red and her lips pressed shut.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  Three strokes took her on top buttock, just below the spinal nubbin where her skin was thinnest.

  ‘Uhh…!’

  Angarad’s bare fesses began to squirm, writhing in slow undulation, yet unable to meet in defence of her exposed holes, as her toes kept their lock on the iron bedpost.

  Vip!

  ‘Ah!’

  Isobel thrashed her anus bud. Vip! Vip! Vip! Vip!

  Four slices followed, two on each haunch, and pinking at once.

  ‘Oh! Oh, God, mum!’

  ‘You haven’t…’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ahh…!’

  The bare arse squirmed frantically, as the pink welts deepened to crimson, new slices landing in first weal.

  ‘…answered…’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘God, it hurts! Please, no…’

  Vip! Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ahh…ahh…!’

  Four more haunch-cuts made Angarad’s whole body jerk and shudder as though in spasm; her spine and legs writhed in unison; droplets of fluid welled at the tips of her pubic bush: lengthening, stretching into pearls of come, preparing to splatter the stone floor between her quivering thighs. Isobel’s face was as red as her victim’s; she, too, swallowed and her hand crept under her skirt, already moist at the crotch, to her panties’ gusset, where she began a slow frotting as she raised her cane.

  Vip! Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘AHH…!’

  ‘…my question!’

  Angarad’s entire body trembled; tears coursed down her cheeks, dropping to the tips of her erect nipples, as drips of come splashed beneath her juicing cunt, sliming the floor.

  Vip!

  ‘Would you…’

  Vip!

  ‘…enjoy it…’

  Vip!

  ‘…if I caned you…’

  Vip!

  ‘…on the bare?’

  At every stroke of her cane on Angarad’s threshing bare bum-flans, Isobel’s fingers pressed her clitoris, the panties thrust aside to bare her own bush and cunt lips to her masturbating fingers. Her stocking tops, garter straps and naked inner thighs were wet with her own come. Isobel gasped out loud and Angarad’s head twisted to look.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  Isobel’s response was furious, with three cuts across top buttock, the delicate skin already puffy and crimsoned.

  ‘Ahh…!’ Angarad screamed, sobbing bitterly. ‘It’s OK, mum. All the strokes wank off when they cane me…’

  ‘Cheeky bitch! Still not answering…’

  Vip!

  ‘…a simple…’

  Vip!

  ‘…question!’

  Come dripped copiously from Angarad’s cunt; her face, glowing as red as her caned arse, wrinkled tightly in a grimace, but her only sound was a soft, choking hiccup. Her body quivered, titties and arse-flans clenching like pairs of leather bellows. Hanging beneath her the nipples were so stiff and swollen; they seemed like big new dugs grown from her breasts.

  ‘Beating excites you, miss.’

  Vip! Vip!

  A pair of strokes on the haunches.

  ‘Ah…ah…’

  ‘Admit it!’

  Vip! Vip!

  Two, slanting on inner thighs, beneath the cunt lips.

  ‘OWW! Oh, mum…!’

  Vip! Isobel dealt an upender, right between the wet flaps of Angarad’s gash.

  ‘AHH!’

  Angarad’s scream filled her cell, yet the come trickled from between the lashed flaps in a steady flow of clear oily juice.

  ‘Your pouch speaks for you, miss,’ Isobel panted, her knuckles pummelling the wet walls of her own cunt. ‘You’d like me to wank you off, miss? Perhaps you’ll answer that question. Damn you, damn all submissives…!’

  Vip!

  Another upender took Angarad squarely on her distended bum pucker; she squealed and nodded, gasping harshly.

  ‘Ah! I need it for my shame. I need to be beaten, for the badness in me…’

  Isobel completed Angarad’s caning with a crisp three that had the girl gasping and her bum wincing, but now Isobel’s fingers were on Angarad’s cunt, wrenching at the swollen gash flaps and distended clitoris. Angarad’s come slopped on Isobel’s wrist as her fist penetrated the girl’s cunt, and Isobel laid down her cane on the bunk.

  ‘We are so alike,’ she gasped. ‘We could be twins. You could fit into my uniform and I…I could so well fit your submission…’

  Her thumb frotted Angarad’s swollen clitty, while her fingers clenched, spreading inside the girl’s gash. Isobel wanked off her own cunt, her panties, garter straps and stockings now a mess of oily come.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable on your bunk, miss,’ gasped Isobel. ‘I ask permission to join you.’

  Angarad slumped, stretching her nude body belly down, with her glowing arse raised, her head at the foot of her bunk and her bare feet on the pillow. Isobel lowered her own head within inches of Angarad’s feet, while her cunt danced before the girl’s face.

  ‘Yes, mum,’ sobbed Angarad. ‘To all your questions.’

  Shafts of moonlight streaked the darkness of the cell, where two female bodies, one in prison officer’s uniform, the other gooseflesh-naked, writhed in tribadic embrace. The uniformed girl’s head was plunged between the open naked thighs, her nose and mouth frotting wet cunt, while the naked girl moaned, her head beneath black skirt, and tongue flickering on a fleshy red nubbin, standing stiff amid swollen cunt folds and damp forest of pubic curls.

  ‘I have this…’ one whispered and the other giggled, her giggle freezing to a gasp, as a dry corn cob easily penetrated her gushing wet cunt.

  ‘Oh, yes…’ she moaned. ‘Oh, fuck me there…you use it to wank?’

  ‘I must,’ whispered the second tribadist, nude, her fingers expertly manoeuvring the makeshift dildo under the uniform skirt panties, rhythmically, in and out of the wriggling girl’s pouch. ‘I’m…I’m too big. Feel for yourself.’

  Isobel, nude, manipulated Angarad’s fingers into her own gushing slit, then the cavern of her vulva.

  ‘Wank me,’ she pleaded. ‘Fist-fuck me.’

  Angarad lifted her head and licked her lips, drooled with Isobel’s cunt-slime. She replaced her tongue with her balled fist, sliding it easily into the naked warden’s cunt.

  ‘It is nice to be warm at night,’ she whispered, as she masturbated nude, writhing Isobel, whose own mouth, clamped on the wet blond pubic jungle, continued to lap the flow of Angarad’s come. ‘They give you a nightie and a blanket, just enough to stop you freezing but not enough to be cosy.’

  ‘It’s part of your discipline,’ gasped Isobel, as Angarad’s fist slammed the neck of her womb and the girl’s forearm plunged two inches into her cunt. ‘God, a hot fist is better than a cob.’

  ‘Ohh…’ Angarad moaned, as the corn cob fucked her own flowing cunt. ‘That’s good…it is funny, but nice, to be wearing your clothes. But why, mum?’

  ‘Call me Isobel!’

  ‘You can’t make me, mum!’ said Angarad, pausing in her gamahuche of her squirming partner. ‘I don’t trust you, or anybody.’

  ‘I can make you,’ Isobel hissed. ‘I’ve read your file.’

  Isobel suddenly plucked the cob from Angarad’s cunt, straddled her and forced her buttocks apart. The cob, oiled from Angarad’s gash, slid into her anus smoothly to a depth of three inches, with Angarad squirming violently; then conquered as the anal elastic gave way.

  ‘Ohh…’ Angarad squealed, her anus gripping the dildo, ‘yes…!’

  ‘You are a pervert,’ Isobel continued.

  ‘And you aren’t?’

  ‘OOH!’
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br />   Angarad shrieked as Isobel slammed the dildo hard on her anal root. Her fingers rubbed her nubbin, masturbating vigorously, as she writhed under the corn cob’s buggery.

  ‘Oh! I’m coming,’ Angarad blurted.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes…’ gasped Isobel.

  There was silence as two faces sank back on to open cunts, teeth and lips kissing swollen nubbins, as come slopped from their writhing cunt flaps and they panted together in orgasm.

  ‘I have seduced you,’ whispered Isobel, as a chilly grey dawn broke through the cell window. ‘You took forty strokes from my cane, on the bare, without cause. Now you must punish me.’

  ‘Since when does a stroke need cause —’ Angarad began.

  ‘You must punish me! Take my cane and give me forty strokes on the bare, stinker!’

  Angarad rose from the bunk, smoothed down her stroke’s uniform and lifted the cane. She laid it in Isobel’s bum-cleft, across the cunt and anus bud; Isobel shivered, then brushed back her blond mane before spreading her thighs and gripping the bunk ends with her hands.

  ‘I’ve never — I’ve never caned a girl’s bare before,’ said Angarad, then blurted: ‘What’s in it for me, mum?’

  ‘You’ve heard of the snout run,’ said Isobel hoarsely. ‘I want you to go, dressed in my uniform.’

  ‘Cycling to Oswald’s shop in the village, for tobacco?’ said Angarad drily. ‘I hear he’s well built…fit to service a box like yours, mum.’

  ‘It’s my turn but I’m scared,’ Isobel whimpered. ‘He won’t fuck me where I want — need it — in my pouch. He likes it only in a girl’s bumhole — his tastes are yours, Angarad — he is a confirmed pervert, a…a bugger.’

  ‘You cheeky fucking bitch!’ Angarad blurted. ‘Right! I’ll do the snout run, for a half ounce for me…’

  ‘Yes! Agreed!’

  ‘And I’ll cane you till you beg for mercy, bitch!’

  ‘Oh! Yes…!’

  ‘Forty on the bare, Isobel,’ Angarad hissed, her hand trembling as much as the bare girl’s buttocks that lay under her whistling cane.

  * * *

  Sunrise was only a faint gleam in the cloud mass, as Angarad pedalled, standing up, along the bank of the River Wrigley: five miles to the bridge, another five across the moors to the village. It was an air chill enough to bite the bones. Her bicycle skidded in the slush but only with reluctance did she permit herself the comfort of sitting: the bike, all that she could borrow — steal! — from the wardens’ shed, had a saddle that was almost no saddle at all, but a simple steel tube tilting upwards, in the dimension of an outsize phallus. To sit meant a constant shifting of the buttocks to avoid the prong from penetrating either of her nether holes; at best, it stuck awkwardly against her spinal nubbin, leaving her perched, with her long legs stretched to the full to reach the pedals.

  A moss-covered stone bridge, steeply arched, led over the Wrigley’s pebbly stream and Angarad dismounted to cross it. On the other bank, a wall of scrub obscured the road, with broad undulating dale stretching to the prison, now a specked cluster, and the village, faintly visible through the misty air. She remounted the cycle, forgetting the oddly formed saddle and gasped as the tube penetrated her cleft and pushed her loinstring into her vulva to a depth of three inches. Angarad began to rise, got the hem of her warden’s raincoat caught in the chain and, with a curse, sank back on to the saddle to free herself. There was a snap of knicker-cloth; this time, the prong penetrated her cunt, right to Angarad’s wombneck.

  Swallowing hard, Angarad adjusted her raincoat and sat astride the cycle, with her feet on the roadway, before hoisting them once more to the pedals and pushing on, a faint grin playing on her lips, as her thighs pumped and the prong slid rhythmically in and out of her gash. A seep of vulval fluid moistened the tops of her stockings and she leaned, so that the prong thrust against her naked clitoris. Her face reddened as she progressed beside open, rolling dales, and her grin turned to a frown. She stopped, shook her head, gulped and raised her buttocks a few inches, replacing them at once on the saddle — but now so that the come-slimed prong plunged into her anal cavity. She wriggled, getting the tool well inside her anus, gasped, then pedalled on. As her buttocks worked the cylinder further and further to her anal root, her cunt continued to seep heavy come, over her thighs and wet stockings.

  After a mile, the mist became a fog and the village, nestling in its valley, disappeared. A tinkling of cowbells filled the air; Angarad pedalled further, gasping as the saddle anally tooled her and her vehicle veering as the pumping of her thighs drove the tube hard against her arse-root. Above the cowbells, whips cracked and female voices yelped. Rounding a bend in the road, Angarad faced a flat heath, bordered by scrubs that concealed her from view. She did not dismount but propped the cycle with her feet and crouched low over the handlebars, keeping her arse-slit on the saddle and her bare buttocks, shrouded by her raincoat, moving gently up and down on the oily dildo. She fished in Isobel’s raincoat pocket, found a plastic tobacco pouch with two half-rollies and a matchbox and, with trembling hands, lit a cigarette, careful to blow smoke away from the spectacle on the snow-drifted heath. It was a chariot race.

  The chariots were crudely crafted boxes of wood, on spokeless wheels, made of planks nailed crosswise, bound in metal strips, and rounded. Each of the two chariots was drawn by girls in harness, whipped on by its driver, a girl in fur, that parted at each whipstroke to reveal bare legs and breasts. The drivers were Ignoge Brand and Althea Tite: the steeds were pairs of nude girls, in bits, hobbled in horse-shoes and strapped tightly in rubber harnesses. Under Ignoge, Clare Cubitt was teamed with Emma Beare and under Althea, Ingrid Fage with June Thorbeck. Each chariot flew a pennant: Goths versus Franks.

  Each nude girl had cowbells pinned through her nipples and cunt flaps and, at each thrash to their pumping bare buttocks, the bells jangled. Their harnesses clutched the ribcages, forcing the titties up, and circled the crotch, waist and buttocks. Each girl’s vulva was filled with a leather pizzle attached to her harness, that pumped in and out of her slimed cunt as she raced. The chariots were cumbersome and moved at a creaking pace, scarcely faster than a bicycle’s; yet both Ignoge and Althea, glaring furiously at each other and at their animals, whooped and threatened as though at a horserace.

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘Giddy-up, you bitches!’

  Vap! Vap! Vap!

  ‘Faster, sluts!’

  The wheels hissed in the slushy snow, as the long hide whips cracked on the striped backs and buttocks of the draft animals. Each whiplash across their naked flesh drew mewling cries from the pony-girls. All four were scarlet and panting, their faces streaked with tears, yet with copious cunt-slime oozing from their shafted pouches, trickling over their thighs and leaving hot droplets in the snow. Tracks circled the arena over a number of laps; the cries of both drivers suggested the finish was near. Both Althea and Ignoge were wild, with all modesty forgotten as they lashed their animals: their fur coats flew, revealing both girls nude beneath, with their discarded warden’s uniforms strapped to the backs of their carts. Unlike the hobbled pony-girls, they were barefoot, clinging with their toes to the sides of their vehicles.

  A knot of bottom strokes, in uniform, stood in the distance, holding flags to mark the finishing line. The chariots were neck and neck, their drivers’ whips a blur as they thrashed the livid, bruised bums and shoulders of the naked pony-girls. As their arms rose and fell, slabs of hair gleamed at their armpits. Seconds before the finishing line, Ignoge Brand turned and lashed Althea hard across her exposed bare breasts. Althea screamed, dropped her whip and almost toppled from her chariot.

  Unwhipped, Ingrid and June slackened their pace to a stumble and the Goth chariot cruised past them across the finishing line, to applause from the spectators. No sooner was Ignoge Brand surrounded by the cheering bottom strokes, than Althea leapt from her chariot and threw aside her fur coat. Her lariat flew, trapping Ignoge around her breasts and dragging her to the slu
shy ground. Althea forced her way through the throng, lifted Ignoge’s soaked fur over her head and sat on her face. She folded her whip in two and began to flog Ignoge on the bare bottom. Ignoge howled, writhing, as her arse-globes turned scarlet with the cuts from the double whip-thong, and the bottom strokes cheered her humiliance as they had her victory. Althea whipped Ignoge’s bare for twenty strokes, until the reddened arse-pears squirmed in the helpless rhythm of the flogged girl’s shrieks. Althea paused to acknowledge the cheers, permitting Ignoge to twist in the slush and topple her chastiser. In the tussle, Ignoge slipped from her fur and both girls grappled nude, clawing at hair, quim and breasts: until Ignoge drew back, feinted and landed a barefoot kick between the folds of Althea’s cunt.

  Althea screamed and doubled up, clutching her crotch; Ignoge followed with a kick to Althea’s pendant bare teats, toppling the taller girl. Ignoge pressed Althea’s face into the snow and picked up the whip. She began to flog her aggressor as hard as she herself had been flogged, to the same cheers. Several of the wardens rubbed their crotches under their raincoats or, blatantly, had the coats open and wanked off, with knuckles grinding beneath exposed knickers. The four steeds pawed the ground and snorted, like real ponies, but with smiles and gasps, as each pony-girl rubbed the buttocks and wanked the naked cunt of her partner. Belinda Garce and Amy Patel smiled, hands busy frotting beneath their panties, as each masturbated the other. Angarad moved her own buttocks in stealthy rhythm on the tubular saddle impaling her anus and her fingers fumbled beneath Isobel’s raincoat and skirt, meeting no resistance from the panties, already split by the saddle tube. She moaned softly, wanking off faster and faster, as she watched the helpless, wriggling buttocks of Althea turn red, then crimson, under the stronger girl’s whipstrokes.

  Ignoge flipped the screaming Althea over on to her back and began whipping her bare breasts, lashing hard on the nipples; then flogging the raw red gash between the cunt flaps, swollen and shiny with slime. Angarad fingered her swollen clitty, ramming the tube all the way to her anal root, again and again, with her legs stiff and shuddering, threatening to buckle, as waves of pleasure coursed through her belly and spine. Althea’s resistance ebbed and she opened her thighs wide to the whip, her own fingers masturbating her cunt. Watching her, Angarad let her belly heave; a gush of cunt oil signalled her onrush of climax and, fingers working her stiff nubbin as the metal tube buggered her, she began to gasp in orgasm. Droplets of her cunt slime, like flower petals, patterned the snow beneath her quivering thighs.