Caged!

by Yolanda Celbridge

  ‘Clever Ghislaine!’ she cried. ‘She can stay under for minutes.’

  ‘We have a plain ducking stool at Pinkarse, in Teddington,’ murmured Marcus, ‘which I shall refine.’

  Canes quivered in frustration over the churning water submerging the girl’s body; the slags jumped in surprise as Ghislaine rose in a froth out of the water but without ascending to safety. She hung, dangling from her anal plug and her tresses, with her buttocks clenched tight, to hold the arse-dildo inside her. Her face wore an expression of helpless pain as her body spun, to present her attackers with her bare buttocks, wet and spread.

  Vip! Vip! Vip! Vip! Vip!

  The five canes sliced Ghislaine’s buttocks in unison, the caning acquiring a fierce rhythm, as it seemed that Ghislaine, quivering and screaming as her bare bum crimsoned, was powerless to launch herself upwards, away from whopping. Canes sliced her perineum, or full on the cunt flaps and pouch, spinning her, so that the canes could slap her bare breasts. Yet Ghislaine seemed never to stay still, unless it was her full buttocks presented to the canes, at which she stopped threshing; apart from a thorough beating of her croup, most of the canestrokes slipped, or missed. Miss Horsfall consulted her watch.

  ‘Nine minutes and twenty seconds!’ she murmured. ‘I think Ghislaine’s going to make the ten.’

  The trussed girl suddenly bounced upwards, to her attackers’ cries of dismay, as she opened her mouth and bit into the gibbet, gouging a chunk of wood but holding herself out of harm with her teeth. Canes flailed vainly, inches beneath her dangling bottom; the girls squealed as Ghislaine’s pee suddenly sprayed them, hard and hissing, followed by a flurry of pellets, as she stooled copiously over their faces.

  ‘Ten!’ cried Miss Horsfall. ‘Your canes, please, girls.’

  Sheepishly, the caners handed over their instruments, while Ghislaine was released from her bonds.

  ‘Well!’ said Miss Horsfall. ‘Quite a tally! How many do you think you took, Ghislaine?’

  ‘At least sixty, mum, I’m sure,’ panted the naked girl, rubbing her bright crimson bum. ‘Look!’

  Tamsin ran her fingernails through the ridges of Ghislaine’s caned arse.

  ‘Pretty,’ she said. ‘I’d go with sixty.’

  ‘The tally of strokes is more,’ said Miss Horsfall.

  ‘Ninety-four precisely. Which means that each of you slags take that number, on the bare, from Ghislaine.’

  ‘I’d like a go,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘Me, too,’ said Rollo. ‘I think that, for televisual purposes, we should stage a multiple beating: myself, Tamsin, Will and Marcus can join Ghislaine. Five canes, five bottoms.’

  The girls bent over in a sullen row, lowering their knickers to their knees, then forced into a crouch, with their titties and faces pushed firmly, one after the other, into the mud by Tamsin’s boot. Tamsin herself handed her coat to a cameragirl and, nude but for sussies, corset and stockings, lifted her cane over the first bare bum. Her breasts quivered, with nipples hard and the nipple rings jangling; she patted Ghislaine’s bottom, then her breasts and finally the open lips of her slit, as the caned wet girl, slimed with river mud, took position beside her. Ghislaine simpered, clamping Tamsin’s fingers between her thighs, the heel of her thumb squashing the dominatrix’s swollen clitty, glistening with come.

  VIP!

  The five canes cracked as one, on the shivering bare croups, which began to clench as their owners squealed.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Mm!’

  ‘Uhh!’

  ‘Ninety-three to go,’ panted Miss Horsfall, her thighs and croup trembling and with wetness visible at her cunt basin.

  ‘It’s not fair, Marcus!’ cried Bee. ‘Why can’t I take part, too?’

  ‘Ask your mistress,’ snapped her husband.

  The canes whistled: five bums wealed a vivid pink and squirmed as the girls sobbed in unison.

  ‘Go on,’ whined Bee. ‘Please…’

  ‘You are a pain in the arse, you little slut,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘Miss Horsfall…would it be imposing too much on your hospitality…might I be so bold…?’

  Miss Horsfall lifted her cane.

  ‘I think a birching might be more appropriate for such an appalling show of manners,’ said Tamsin. ‘Happily, our crew is provided with sheaves. Bee, you slut, crouch with your face in the mud, knickers right off, skirt up and bum bare. If you wouldn’t mind, Miss Horsfall…’

  ‘Ninety-four, with the birch, on bare?’ said Miss Horsfall, the damp at her crotch now gleaming wet. ‘I shall be delighted!’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Tamsin, lifting her cane. ‘I fear you are too kind. These submissive sluts are just too demanding. Spread your arse cheeks for the tickler, bitch!’

  ‘Yes, Mistress,’ pouted Bee and sullenly obeyed.

  ‘I agree,’ said Miss Horsfall, lifting the sheaf of pickled birch twigs. ‘As, I am sure, does Ghislaine Bassin…’

  ‘We all hate submissives, mum,’ said Ghislaine gravely.

  ‘Dirty tykes!’

  Vip!

  The five caned bares shivered and squirmed.

  Swish!

  ‘Ouch!’

  The birch twigs crackled on Bee’s exposed and uplifted buttocks, laying a spider’s web of tiny pink welts. Her bare bum quivered, clenching under the crackling sheaf of rods, and her sulky face brightened into radiance as her eyes and cunt moistened in harmony.

  Swish!

  Bee’s bare bum jerked; her cunt juiced copiously, with drips of come glistening on her trembling thighs.

  ‘Yes,’ she moaned. ‘Yes…’

  * * *

  ‘My, you’ve certainly put this slag through the mangle,’ said Miss Maclaren, lighting a rollie and sucking deep smoke. ‘But whoever she is, she can’t be Angarad Stark. She looks alike but that slut is just tidying her things — she’s right as rain after her little bout of snuffles and I’ve given her a hot eucalyptus enema to make sure. I had to spank her bum, to make her take double tube in her rectum, so she’ll walk a bit awkwardly. Angarad Stark!’

  Angarad appeared at the bathroom door, clutching a towel to her nude body, wiping tears from her eyes and hobbling, while rubbing her stiffly parted arse-cheeks.

  ‘Please — surely not more, mum?’

  Her eyes fell on Habren’s smutted and whipped nude body.

  ‘What…’

  Habren stared.

  ‘So — that is Angarad Stark,’ she said to her three tormentors, who fidgeted nervously. ‘I am Habren Gaunt.’

  ‘There’s been a misunderstanding, mum,’ said Ignoge, curtsying to Miss Maclaren, then to Habren. ‘You see —’

  ‘Go about your duties, wardens!’ ordered the nurse.

  ‘Misunderstandings are the fault of the misunderstood.’

  When Ignoge, Goiswinth and Althea had left, Miss Maclaren invited Habren to explain herself. Habren blurted her story, including her suspicion that she might, somewhere, have a twin. When she had finished, Miss Maclaren smiled and said she supposed that she would have to call Habren ‘mum’, as her new owner.

  ‘You are going to make the phone call, I expect,’ she added softly. ‘To the male with the tireless black tool…’

  ‘Assuredly, Miss Maclaren,’ Habren said. ‘But there is a more pressing question.’

  Her eyes did not leave Angarad’s, nor Angarad’s hers. Angarad let fall her towel and stood naked before her lookalike. Miss Maclaren inspected both bodies and began to feel and pummel each one, chopping collar-bones, tugging hair, both mane and pubic, pinching belly-buttons, nipples and labia, but ignored by the two girls, lost in each other’s gaze. She fired questions — yes, both were foster-children, both of blood group A, both ignorant of their biological parents…

  ‘Are we identical twins, mum?’ said Angarad.

  ‘Monozygotic, the girl means,’ said Habren.

  ‘I know what I mean!’ Angarad cried. />
  ‘I should need a blood sample to see if you have the same haptoglobin,’ said Miss Maclaren. ‘You have the same blood group and sex, and that’s the third thing. You also,’ she added drily, ‘seem both to be submissive sluts.’

  Habren opened her mouth to protest but Angarad slapped her nipples, and her protest turned to an ‘ooh!’

  ‘What’s haptoglobin?’ said both girls in unison.

  ‘It’s what carries haemoglobin,’ said Miss Maclaren drily. ‘However, that test would have to go to a lab. There is a practical test that I can do here, if you like.’

  ‘You will please do it,’ Habren commanded.

  ‘Very well. It may be rather uncomfortable.’

  15

  Pollecutt’s Box

  Angarad and Habren sat opposite each other in surgical chairs with their legs raised on supports and thighs fully parted, to expose genitals and anus. They were strapped at their ankles and mid-thigh. Miss Maclaren told them not to be shocked, then instructed both girls to masturbate. Each looked at the other without a blush and kept their eyes on the other’s nude body as she reached to her open quim and began to rub her clitoris. The nurse fastened each anus wide open with a four-pronged surgical speculum that stretched the anal tissue nearly three inches.

  ‘I want your come for a lubricant, as part of the first test,’ said Miss Maclaren. ‘You are both juicing well.’

  Without a word, Angrad and Habren exchanged fingers, each now wanking off the other, with fingers deep inside wet, slimy cunts, copiously dripping come. Both girls sighed, purring, and their bellies began to quiver. Miss Maclaren dipped her fingers in Angarad’s bum-cleft, just beneath her dripping cunt, and palmed a portion of fluid, which she soaked in a sponge. She wrapped the sponge around a metal rod and swabbed the inside of Angarad’s anus, pushing the swab right to the root, until Angarad’s bumhole dripped with her own come. The nurse applied the same procedure to Habren, as both the girls wanked off more and more vigorously and groaned aloud, shifting their buttocks, as their bellies contracted and shuddered. Miss Maclaren lit a bunsen burner and allowed a sheaf of candles to melt into a dish, while she used pincers to hold an oven-glass clyster tube over the flame. The tube was over three inches wide, over a foot long and equipped with a plunger, like a monstrous syringe. When the candle wax was bubbling, she poured it quickly into each tube and, as the girls continued to stare at each other’s nude and pulsing bodies, pushed the two tubes into each stretched anus. Both girls screamed and their buttocks and cunts jerked, yet they did not cease their frottage, their fingers now bathed in gushing, slimy cunt juice.

  ‘Ohh…!’

  Miss Maclaren pushed until the tubes had almost disappeared between the girls’ squirming buttocks. She pushed the plungers of each tube at once, injecting the cooled but still pliable wax into each girl’s anus, and gradually withdrawing the tubes, as the liquid was deposited in the anal chamber.

  ‘Ahh…!’

  ‘Ohh…!’

  Both girls wriggled, their faces beetroot-red and their tears pouring; yet their fingers continued to masturbate each other’s juicing cunts. Their legs kicked, jerking against the rubber straps buckled tightly around their skin and leaving bruises where the thongs bit.

  ‘Oh! God, mum!’

  ‘What the fuck…AHH!’

  ‘Hold still, both of you!’ rapped the nurse as she withdrew the plungers from the squirming bumholes and unclipped the speculums. ‘Now, hold the wax inside until it has solidified.’

  The girls wanked off, sobbing, as their cunts flowed with come and their arse puckers tightened, with only tiny dribbles of wax escaping from the anus bud.

  ‘Mm…’

  ‘Ahh…’

  Their shrieks subsided and they began to squirm in earnest, the slippery thighs jerking beneath the wanked cunts, while Miss Maclaren looked at her watch. Several minutes elapsed, while the girls continued their bare-cunt frottage.

  ‘Now,’ the nurse said, ‘I want you to push, as if stooling, and expel the wax from your holes.’

  Both girls strained. A sliver, then a cylinder, of shiny solid wax protruded from each girl’s bumhole, growing thicker and deeper as she pushed it into the air. The wax was slimy with arse-grease but curved and hard, spiralling out faster and faster, in the shape of each rectum. Angarad and Habren smiled, wanking off harder, as they stooled their wax likenesses. Miss Maclaren seized each waxwork as it plopped from the girls’ bumholes and held them up.

  ‘Identical,’ she said.

  Habren snatched Angarad’s wax rectum and placed it at the lips of her anus, then gripped her own likeness and pushed it two inches into Angarad’s bumhole. Each girl pushed her waxen anal form into the other’s bumhole, wanking her clitty at the same time. The girls swayed, with cooing gasps, as their cunts poured with come, lathering their pube forests and creaming their inner thighs. The two wax tubes went all the way inside the two bumshafts, which closed over them. Habren and Angarad smiled.

  ‘You fit me, slut,’ whispered Angarad, ‘perfectly.’

  ‘And you fit me, bitch,’ replied Habren.

  Each opened her anus a sliver, to allow a fragment of wax to reappear. Habren fastened Angarad’s arse-dildo with her fingernails and manipulated it, thrusting it into her anus like a cock, with Angarad doing the same to her twin. As the girls wanked their cunts, they buggered each other vigorously with the waxen tools. Their moans and gasps grew deeper and the bumholes relaxed and opened more and more, to squeeze the dildos, as their thrusts became harder, the wax shining with arse-grease, until both girls shrieked, convulsing in climax, twisting, to squash nipples and kiss each other on the lips.

  ‘Twin slags,’ Angarad gasped.

  ‘Twin sluts,’ Habren moaned.

  They shrieked as Miss Maclaren plucked the hard wax tools from their bumholes. When the girls were finally freed from their surgical chairs, they went to the showers. Each soaped the other’s body in the shower, rinsed, then licked her clean with her tongue. Tongue lingered long at wet cunt, until Miss Maclaren cracked her cane smartly across both pairs of naked fesses.

  ‘I’ll make some phone calls and we may find out your origins,’ Miss Maclaren said, ‘but meanwhile, there is a prison to run and it seems that you, Mrs Gaunt, are to run it. Remember that your — ah — sister is still serving her sentence.’

  ‘You called me a submissive slut,’ said Habren.

  ‘Well, your sister has a pink ticket — she undoubtedly has tendencies —’

  ‘Then I must have the same. Submissives are selfish, greedy and demanding, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Maclaren.

  ‘Then, she can be Mrs Habren Gaunt for a while. Let her run the prison and deal with Horsfall, while I shall be Angarad Stark.’

  Habren pouted and made a threatening moue.

  ‘This is a bit irregular —’ Miss Maclaren began.

  ‘Would four ounces of snout make it less irregular?’ asked Habren.

  ‘Eight,’ said Miss Maclaren.

  ‘Six,’ said Habren.

  ‘Done,’ said Miss Maclaren.

  They dressed: Habren in slag’s uniform, Angarad in grey shantung silk. On Habren’s insistence, Miss Maclaren provided cords, which they looped round their necks, to suspend their waxen dildos between their breasts.

  ‘Now! Angarad, go and wipe the main wardens’ toilets clean with your pubic hair, then polish them with your panties, you scruffy little slut!’ barked Miss Maclaren.

  ‘Yes, mum,’ said Habren Gaunt.

  * * *

  Habren was writhing against the common girls’ urinal, an aluminium sluice with bum-dips two feet apart, cleaning the metal with her pubic hair. She wore only her sussies, stockings and top, having shed her knickers and shoes.

  ‘I did enjoy the tug of war,’ said Tamsin Pollecutt, as Rollo Cragg escorted her towards the refectory. ‘Girls pulling the rubber with their teeth — then that lovely crack as the Saracens let go, and the rubber whopped th
e Vandals’ titties. Shan’t be a mo, Rollo, I’ve just got to pee.’

  She ducked into the main toilets but Rollo followed her.

  ‘You won’t mind if I watch,’ he drawled.

  ‘And what if I do?’ said Tamsin, attempting to close her cubicle door, held open by Rollo’s knee. ‘There’s a girl out there!’

  ‘It’s only a slag on punishment duty. She’s there to obey orders, aren’t you, slag?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Habren answered meekly.

  ‘Then, see nothing.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Pervert,’ Tamsin said, giving him her pubic fur coat to hold and squatting to tinkle over the shiny clean porcelain.

  Rollo edged inside the cubicle and bolted the door. He kneeled at Tamsin’s crotch, sniffing her cunt, as she pissed.

  ‘I charge men to do that,’ she said in mock outrage.

  ‘Never pay for anything at Pinkarse,’ said Rollo.

  ‘What do you know? Pinkarse is for females these days. Men are there to serve and suffer.’

  ‘I know more than you, missy. Pinkarse goes back a long way and, when Pollecutt’s Box is found, there’ll be true reckoning, with the ladies in their rightful place.’

  ‘Piffle! I can tell you all about Pollecutt’s Box, Rollo…but I shan’t.’

  ‘I’m glad, for there’s something I think you’ve earned…’

  ‘Rollo! What…?’ Tamsin shrieked, as the male wrenched her arse from the toilet seat and, holding her by her wriggling hips, turned her upside down, with her head dangling over the bowl.

  Piss sprayed from her cunt, wetting her face and breasts and dribbling down her rubber corset.

  ‘Let me go, bastard! I haven’t finished! I want to stool!’

  ‘Now it’s my turn to say shan’t. Unless you tell me what you know about Pollecutt’s Box.’