‘Modesty?’ she said. ‘You might as well go naked. I expect you will, soon.’
‘There’s nobody in the labyrinth to see you,’ said Belinda. ‘That’s what we’re supposed to say.’
‘So, now we’ve told you,’ added Amy, ‘but you’re not supposed to believe us. Remember, it’s the far door that’s open, so you can’t stay here. Lots of luck.’
The labyrinth door clanged shut behind the two laughing girls, leaving Angarad alone in the fetid dungeon. She stood still, heart pounding and accustoming her eyes to the darkness. Slowly, the cavern walls began to take gloomy, ghostly shape: the labyrinth was not completely without light. Angarad put out her hands and touched the wall, slimed with damp mould; gingerly, she began to make her way forward, the passage twisting almost at her every step, sometimes so narrow that she had to squeeze, or so low that she must crouch. She let her shame dress slide down her thighs, then her ankles, then stepped out of it and kicked it away. Nude, the trapped girl prowled deeper into her labyrinth. The black shadows grew grey, then to a faint glimmer, until Angarad rounded a corner, after edging forward several minutes, to find the tunnel broadened into an atrium. She halted and drew back behind the rock wall. A cage hung from the cavern’s roof, lit by giant slow-burning candles.
Within the cage, the nude figure of Sarah Bunn hung by ropes binding her hair and her clamped nipples, the breasts wrenched upwards, with her wrists, behind her back, tied to her ankles bent behind her. Judon Oates held a rubber cat-o’-nine-tails, which had striped Sarah’s bare buttocks to a patchwork of deep crimson welts. Below Sarah’s cunt gleamed a pile of her stools, floating in a pond of golden pee. Kneeling before the bound girl was Imogen Tandy, forcing an unskinned branch into her anus, while holding a candle, dripping hot wax on to the girl’s exposed clitoris. Her gash was already fattened with hardened wax. Sarah’s eyes were closed, her face twisted in an ecstatic smile. Angarad waited for the stroke of the raised whip to fall, yet it did not. She peered, moved into the open and saw that the figures were all wax sculptures. Shuddering, she moved past the cage, into the shadows of the tunnel.
For over half an hour, she made tortuous way forward in the near-blackout, until the shadows began to glimmer once again and she entered a second atrium. Angarad concealed herself but less boldly than before. The cage suspended before her contained the nude bodies of Edra Forge, Belinda Garce and Amy Patel. Angarad strode forward, to confirm that the figures were dummies. Amy’s face was contorted in a scream, while she hung suspended in a cross from the cage corners by real hempen ropes, taut on her ankles and wrists. One door of the cage was open, permitting Belinda’s wax figurine to flog her with a waxen bullwhip, with Amy’s brown back and buttocks, from haunch to underfesse, livid with welts. Edra squatted in the cage before Amy’s body and fucked her anally and in cunt with a dildo of black, scaly rubber, like twin serpents, while her teeth fastened on Amy’s left nipple, as if to tear it from her breast. Amy’s nipples were pierced; from one, hung a copper ring the girth of a fist, which Edra tugged downwards, and the other, ringless, held a lighted cigarette, clamped in Edra’s teeth between folds of brown nipple skin, with the simulated ember glowing at Amy’s bare nipple. Cunt clamps held the flaps of Amy’s gash wide and a pin pierced her swollen, exposed clitoris. Thin chains stretched taut around her buttocks, attaching the cunt apparatus to pins pierced at each lip of her arse bud, so that any clenching of her buttocks under punishment must jerk her nubbin and cunt flaps, with excruciating pain. Belinda and Edra grinned, while Amy’s mouth, frozen in a scream, belied her joyful bright eyes.
Angarad plunged once more into darkness and shivered as a new glimmer lightened the tunnel. Her nude body was dripping with sweat, befouled by the mould and fungus that dampened the tunnel walls; her sweat increased, as the atrium ahead seemed to radiate heat as well as light. Within the cage was the naked body of Ghislaine Bassin, cased entirely in hardened wax — a human candle. She hung, suspended by splayed, roped wrists, with her legs bent beneath her, heels held inside her cunt and bum-cleft by twine, binding her ankles and thighs. Her bare buttocks were dark with marks of recent thrashing. All of her, except for her face, was closed in the foot-thick coating of wax, as though it was the live Ghislaine inside, and not wax within wax; her eyes and mouth smiled at Angarad.
The human candle burned with two wicks, the topmost being her tresses coiled in a rope and the second, her luxuriant pube-hair, braided into spikes, extruded from her waxed body and sputtering like fireworks. Fragrant smoke, like the incense she had smelled in Oswald’s shop, filled Angarad’s nostrils; she panted, wiping sweat from her body. Her hand brushed her own cunt hair, soaked with sweat, then the lips below; they were swollen and Angarad gasped aloud as she touched her clitoris, fully stiffened. A seep of come trickled down her thighs, joining the rivulets of sweat. She squatted and pissed before the caged candle of Ghislaine Bassin, touching her clitoris as she peed, shuddering at the shock of pleasure, then removing her probing hand, but at once brushing it the length of her bum-cleft, to feel her coruscated cane welts adorning her bare croup. Ghislaine’s eyes blinked in merriment.
‘No…!’ she moaned, hurrying on.
Yet the next display of waxen torment was not far; nor the next and the next. Cage after cage held slags she recognised: wrestling nude in biting contests, the fighters urged on by rubber-clad wardens, with canes poised in mid-air; caned while bound, gagged, branked and hogtied;
‘whippled’ — the prison practice of whipping on nipples alone; thrashed nude, limbs writhing together, as dog-muzzled slags competed in masturbating contests, with crouching girls, mouths open like sparrows, drinking the come or pee of the girls wanking off; all the faces, whippers or humiliants, bathed in a waxen glow. June Thorbeck, wrists bound and constricted in a rubber punishment corset, crouched before the nude body of Emma Beare, swaddled in ropes of honeysuckle with her cunt wadded in the flowers. June’s mouth brimmed with honeysuckle as she chewed Emma free. At each spectacle, Angarad’s bare breasts heaved, the nipples hardening; she twined her cunt-hairs in her fingers, but wincing, and slapping her wrist or bum if they strayed to her cunt or clitty.
Yet Ghislaine had been real…hadn’t she?
Two girls hung from the ceiling of their cage, by a single rope wound tightly around their waists. Their arms and legs were bent backwards, with wrists and ankles secured at their spinal nubbins and their cunt basins thrust forward. Apart from the suspending rope, their bodies were woven with tightly knotted cords, biting so hard into naked flesh that the skin was puffy with bruises from rope burn alone. Each girl was impaled by an anal plug of tree bark, peeping from her distended arse bud, and secured by her string embroidery. One girl was small and wiry, the other full-breasted and robust: Ingrid Fage and Clare Cubitt. The girls were inverted, lying on their sides, so that to maintain equilibrium, each girl had to cling with her teeth to the other’s cunt flaps. Angarad gasped, pressing her face to the bars of the cage and gazing at the cane-scarred back and wealed arse muscles of Ingrid, whose back was to her, and the erect strawberry nipples of Clare. Both girls’ faces were fierce with pleasure. Her eyes blurred by sweat, Angarad did not peer to see if the figures were wax.
‘No…!’ she gasped. ‘Please, no…’
Her fingers crept to her juicing pouch and, in seconds, she was masturbating hard. She squatted, as though to stool, and pinched her clitty in her fingernails, tears springing from her eyes and her cunt flowing with heavy come. Moaning, she thrust three fingers into her wet pouch, reaming the sides as she frotted her throbbing clitty. Piss dribbled uncontrolled from her gash flaps in spurts until her belly began to heave; she gasped, then squealed. As she looked on the trussed girls cunt-biting, with her own thighs and cunt bush soaking with juice and her clitty pulsing at sopping wet cunt, Angarad orgasmed. The cries of her climax ebbed. She quivered in surprise: in the near distance, there was another woman’s cry and a male’s grunt of triumphant pleasure. Angarad stood, trembling, and
ventured further into the maze: there was nowhere to go except forward, towards a woman screaming.
She was not far. The woman, caged, was bound in a punishment corset of clinging black rubber, with garter straps extending from the base of the garment to mesh rubber stockings, studded with copper pins. Beneath the cage was a brazier, glowing with coals, and inches from her cunt and titties, with a smell of singed hair. Her limbs were full-bound in copper wire, casing her in foetal position, with her wrists and ankles cuffed beneath her thighs and the teats and cunt naked. Pink rubber balls, attached to the cuffs, pressed her cunt basin, as the base of a massive dildo impaling her pouch. The apparatus of cuffs and dildo was roped to the cage’s ceiling, so that her body’s weight was carried by the shaft in her cunt. A second rope around her belly was slack, but jerked at her haunches’ motion: her hips were held by the male who buggered her with fierce, punishing strokes. Her naked buttocks bore the weals of caning; her skull and eyes were closed in a rubber hood, while a copper ball between her teeth pressed down her tongue, gagging her, and fastened around her nape with a rubber thong. Her nipples were pierced and pinned, and likewise her top and bottom lip, each to a nipple, so that her screams wrenched at the nipple flesh and the bouncing of her breasts under buggery jerked her lips over her teeth. The woman was not wax; her tresses flowed, waving like fronds beneath her, and Angarad recognised Miss Horsfall. Numbed, she gazed, while the male grunted, buggering the governess faster and faster. He glanced round.
‘You, slut! I knew you’d want a second helping. Right, then! I’ll keep my spunk for your arsehole…’
‘No…!’ wailed Miss Horsfall, as he pulled his monstrous cock, shiny with arse-grease, from the embrace of her anus.
‘No!’ screamed Angarad, running into the darkness of the labyrinth beyond. ‘No, Oswald…!’
He lumbered after her, cracking a whip and huffing his leather bellows. Angarad slipped and fell, then rose, bruised, and stumbled on; the laughing male and his whip approaching nearer and nearer.
‘More than snout, this time, bitch!’ he chuckled. ‘Cage and straps and hot metal up your bumhole, before I spunk in you — the first time…then you can suck me hard again while I thrash your arse purple. That’s what you want, you filthy wanking bitch. Isn’t it? What all bitches want?’
‘No…no…!’ cried Angarad, her cry shrinking to a sob. ‘No, oh please, no…’
She stumbled again and did not get up, but lay sobbing and exhausted, still giddy from her wanked orgasm.
‘I’m coming to whip you…’ Oswald sang.
Crack!
‘I’m coming to strap you…’
Crack!
‘I’m coming to bugger you blue, girlie…’
Crack!
‘No…’ sobbed Angarad, laying her head on the rock floor. ‘Please…please, Oswald…’
The rock shifted under her head and made a squelching sound. She rose to a crouch and got her fingernails around the rim of the slab, managing to prise it up a few inches; then sobbed in dismay. Beneath the rock was slimy mud. Straining, she raised the rock higher and began to grope. When her hand was elbow deep in slime, her fingers touched the rim of a conduit, or sewer opening. She waggled her hand in the open mouth, her waist’s girth. Gulping, she lifted the rock up and slipped her legs into the mud. She dangled her feet until they found the opening, then inserted them, gasping, as her legs slid into the tube up to her thighs, then jammed. She wiggled her feet, managed to lower the rest of her body into the slime. When her head was completely immersed in mud, she replaced the covering rock over her and felt it shake, as Oswald passed overhead. Lungs bursting, she tried to lift the rock again, but could gain no leverage from her slippery foothold. The only way was down. Frantically, she clambered, slithered and fell, immersed in the oily muck, feeling the sides of the shaft undulate; it was curved and warped, seeming to adapt to the contour of her body and allowing her to fall in a sliding embrace, as though sculpted for her own nude body. Suddenly, the sides of the tube vanished and she fell in a pond of slime a few feet deep, with her head above the liquid’s surface, breathing air.
She lay, gasping, in the stinking ooze, for some minutes. Starlight penetrated the tiny grotto in which she lay; beyond a chink in the rock, just wide enough for a body to pass, flowed the River Wrigley. Above her head, on a ledge, lay a brass chest, covered in mould and locked with a massively solid brass lock, its opening not lock-shaped but whorled, and for a key more massive than the small chest should warrant. She tried to lift the chest but could not budge it; the box was anchored by brass plates embedded in the rock, a few feet above the river’s high water mark. She stuck a finger, then two, into the lock and felt the innards, which were too deep for her fingers, as though half the chest wall accommodated them. Shrugging, she turned away, as the first shaft of dawn penetrated the grotto, then looked back at the tiny plate above the lock. Property of Sir George Pollecutt, And His True Heirs, it read. Angarad looked down at her bruised, muddy body and shivered.
‘Well, you’re not going anywhere,’ she sighed. ‘I wonder if I ever shall.’
She squeezed through the chink in the rock, which fitted her body exactly.
The slightest clothing and I’d be stuck — it seems to be made just for me, naked…
Angarad launched herself into the water, to swim back to her prison.
14
Meat for the Punishment
Smack! Smack! Smack! Despite the protection of thick cotton knickers, worn under flesh-coloured pantyhose, Isobel’s bottom clenched as Judon Oates spanked her. Isobel was bent over, with her skirt raised, and touching her toes. Her blond tresses, neatly knotted in a bun, bobbed at each spank. The five other bottom strokes, all in slags’ uniforms, stood, watching meekly, with their hands folded at their laps. Imogen Tandy and Amy Patel smiled broadly into the TV cameras.
‘Gosh, these knickers are horrid and itchy,’ whispered Belinda Garce to Edra Forge.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
‘Ouch! Gosh!’ said Isobel.
‘Be glad it’s not you being spanked,’ replied Edra.
‘I think I’d rather be spanked and wear a decent thong, to let some air round my bum,’ Belinda said.
‘That Max Ogule looks even slimier in the flesh than on TV,’ said Sarah Bunn. ‘He’s positively drooling.’
A middle-aged man with a garish toupee, standing beside Miss Horsfall, spoke to her for the camera.
‘Some of our viewers might find this scene a little distressing, Miss Horsfall,’ he said. ‘Would you care to explain why they shouldn’t?’
‘Of course,’ said Miss Horsfall, smiling for the camera.
‘It is no secret that Wrigley Scrubs is run on the lines of a traditional English public school, with a healthy dose of Victorian values. Those include plenty of physical education, spit and polish, and strict adherence to the code of rules, infractions of which are punished, without exception. Normally, a punishment might mean shovelling silt from the riverbed, refusal of exeat or just not getting any jam for tea.’
‘Har! Har!’ said Max Ogule.
‘I should add that, with or without jam, our detainees are fed a minimum of two thousand five hundred calories per day, according to the most modern dietary principles.’
‘Har! Har!’ said Max Ogule.
‘However — and this may distress some viewers — on rare occasions, old-fashioned corporal punishment is called for, and given, without hesitation.’
‘You mean, spanking, or even caning?’ prompted Max Ogule.
‘Yes,’ said the governess. ‘A cane is kept polished, but six of the best, taken wearing a flannel nightgown — and quite optional — is a rarity. Spanking is the normal method of chastisement, for grave offences. The number of spankings, as you witness here, averages about one per week. This girl, for example, was caught smoking.’
Smack! Smack! Smack!
‘Ouch! Ooh, mum!’ Isobel cried, dramatically wriggling her bum. ‘Gosh, I shan’t ever
smoke again!’
‘Girls with an exeat to visit the village are sometimes tempted by village boys with tobacco, or even alcoholic beverages,’ Miss Horsfall explained. ‘The maximum chastisement is a spanking of thirty smacks, taken on the knickers, and with the spanker’s hand not raised above waist level. The deterrent effect of spanking is not so much in the pain caused, which is not very great, but in the shame of the punishment’s being witnessed by others.’
Smack! Smack! Smack!
‘Well, that’s your tariff of two dozen, Coker!’ said Judon heartily, and also smiling for the camera. ‘Don’t be such a silly girl, in future!’
‘Ouch!’ said Isobel Coker, rubbing her knickered bottom, before replacing her uniform skirt, which she continued to rub. ‘I shan’t, mum. I was very stupid and I’ll never earn a spanking again, promise!’
Max Ogule swivelled to the camera.
‘So, there we have it, viewers,’ he intoned. ‘Wrigley Scrubs prison for young female minor offenders. A regime of strict Victorian discipline, cold showers, physical jerks, cross-country runs and, for naughty girls, no jam for tea — or a spanking! The short, sharp shock, with a recidivism rate of less than two per cent of detainees released. Barbarous, or enlightened? This is Max Ogule, for “Modern Age”, returning you to the studio.’
He turned to Miss Horsfall as the camera crew began to dismantle their equipment.
‘Super, Miss Horsfall,’ he said, ‘and, quite sincerely’ — turning to the girls — ‘I am touched by your genuine appreciation of the care being taken of you.’
‘Oh, it’s genuine, Mr Ogule,’ said Amy Patel, with a curtsy.
‘We all feel the same,’ said Sarah Bunn. ‘Whatever we’re here for — shoplifting or mindless vandalism, perhaps — Wrigley Scrubs has taught us our lesson.’
Caged! Page 23