by Various
‘No, master. I’m afraid not.’
‘See? So drop it, Anna. On the floor.’
Anna’s hand trembled and opened and the flower fell to the floor. Bärengelt moved his right foot, the toe poised to descend on the flower.
‘Stand up, Anna. Strip. Boots and socks first. I will deal with you properly later.’
The toe descended, ground left right left right, and lifted to reveal a fifth smear against the floor. Anna was sitting on the floor, struggling to take the boots off. Bärengelt grunted with annoyance.
‘Lift your legs.’
The cane had vanished from his hand and as Anna lifted her legs he took hold of the soles of the boots, tugging harder, lifting Anna’s hips and arse off the floor, her lower back, leaving only her shoulders and arms still touching it. He tugged and Anna left the floor for a moment almost entirely, just the back of her head and forearms touching it, landing back on it hard with a suppressed cry of pain. Christ, he was strong. He tugged again and Anna bounced free and back to the floor. The boots were starting to slide off her feet. Slowly. Another tug, another bounce, and they suddenly slid an inch at a time, two inches, three.
Bärengelt let go of her and her arse and legs hit the floor with a thump, breath knocked from her lungs.
‘Get on with it. You can get them off yourself now.’
Anna sat up and tugged at the boots herself, absurd in her too large scarf and too small clothes. One came free with a pop and she put it to one side, tugging at the other. It came free too, pop, and she stood up, stooping to pull her stockings off, hopping on one foot, then the other.
‘Stockings. I want them. Give them to me. I don’t care about the scarf. Throw it to the floor. Hurry. Shirt next, then skirt and knickers and bra. Hurry.’
Anna handed him the stockings and he hung them over his left arm, white and moist, stretched with the weight of the sweat in them. Anna was unwinding the scarf, letting it fall to the floor. The last fold came free and she threw it aside, then began to undo the buttons of the white shirt with trembling fingers. Gwen was watching her with even brighter eyes now, her tongue passing along her lips. Like a hungry she-tiger watching a lamb. A fat white lamb.
‘Yes. Give it to me.’
Anna handed him the shirt and he hung it over his arm next to the stockings.
‘Hurry up. Faster.’
The zip came down and Anna stepped out of the skirt, picking it up and handing it to Bärengelt before beginning to pull the knickers down. With difficulty. They left red lines around her hips and on her buttocks, and her pubic hair was damp with sweat, plastered thinly against her mons Veneris and cunt. Bärengelt took them from her and she reached back to unclip the bra. The fastener clicked open and her breasts jerked and quivered, falling free from the bra’s double-fisted grip.
She peeled the cups from her skin and handed it over to him.
‘Thank you, Annalein.’
He hung it over his arm with the shirt and skirt and knickers. Anna was naked again, her face and body glistening with sweat, threads of it trickling downwards over her tits and arse, stomach and back, flanks and thighs, thicker threads dreckling downwards in her arsecleft and titcleft. Beth could smell it. Fresh Anna-sweat. Her cunt stirred again.
‘You enjoyed that, didn’t you, Gwen?’
Gwen blinked as though waking from sleep and looked towards him. The smile that had come over her lips as she watched Anna touched her lips again.
‘Yes, master.’
‘Good. As did I. But you are not here to enjoy yourself. Look at your little sister. She is deliciously drenched with sweat, is she not? Mädchenschweiß. Girl-sweat. I can savour her rich odour from here. So fresh, so strong. Heißer Mädchenschweiß. Hot girl-sweat. Delicious. To you, however, falls the privilege of licking her clean. You, Gwen. Every inch. Cunt, arse, tits. Every inch.’
Gwen blinked again.
‘Master?’
‘No, Gwen. No, no, no. No. I have spoken. You shall lick her clean. Every inch. But not now. She must ripen first. She must allow her sweat to lie upon her white skin and ripen. Dermal bacteria are multiplying in it even as I speak. Gorging on its salts and proteins. The musk-notes of that heady female bouquet will strengthen and deepen, acquiring subtle variations of timbre on different parts of her body. You will detect different flavours as your tongue passes over different regions of her. Different flavours on the globes and in the crinnies of her breasts. Around her nipples. On the white plain of her belly and in the bowl of her omphalos. Down her back and in the cleft of her gorgeous arse. On and in her cunt. Around her cunt. In her swiff-paved gluft. Do you not feel your mouth begin to water at the prospect of it?’
‘But Beth. I have been neglecting you. I shall now make it up to you. Knickers.’
The cane had moved up and lifted the knickers as they lay on his outstretched left arm. He flicked them to her and she caught them as they flew towards her. They were heavier now. Heavier with Anna’s sweat. The thin cloth was warm and moist under her fingers as she held them.
‘Put them on. Hurry up.’
She opened them and bent to step into them, drawing them up her legs with a shiver, feeling them smearing her legs with sweat as they dragged upwards against the skin. She had to tug hard to get them up her legs, to settle them around her hips and cunt, feeling Anna’s moist, warm sweat kiss her into her. Cunnilingue her. They were tight, too tight, cutting into her crotch, pressing hard but insubstantially against her cunt and gluft, climbing uncomfortably into her arsecleft. She shifted from foot to foot, wanting to finger them loose, but enjoying the heat and moisture that were in them, heaviest around the crotch, where Anna had sweated as she ran to fetch the flowers.
‘Bra.’
She caught the white flutter of cloth as it flew towards her. A bra. Filmy silk and lace. An expensive schoolgirl’s bra. Warm and moist with Anna’s effort and sweat. She held it open wonderingly, worried that it would tear if she pulled at it too hard.
‘Put it on.’
She fitted the cups over her tits, shivering with pleasure at the odd mixture of warmth and moistness in them. Warm, sweaty bra and knickers, freshly stripped from Anna. She held the straps behind her back, her fingers struggling with the fastening of the bra, its cups tight and cruel on her breasts, barely covering them, its delicate cloth cutting into her shoulders and back. Nearly. Nearly. Then the fastening snapped shut and she tugged at the edge of the cups, adjusting them on her breasts.
‘Shirt.’
She caught it as it billowed towards her. Warm, sweaty shirt. Silk too. A white sports-shirt. Too small for Anna, far too small for her. Schoolgirl’s again. Soaked under the armpits. Almost wringing wet. She slipped her hand into a sleeve and drew it up her arm, then slipped her other hand into the other sleeve, beginning to draw it up her arm. It stretched taut across her back and the cuffs only reached as far as her forearms, riding higher as she tugged the shirt inadequately into place and began to button it up. Began trying to button it up. Too small. Far too small. And it was missing a button. A white pearl button. Third from the top. Where the schoolgirl’s shirt strained over Anna’s adult breasts.
‘Roll the sleeves up.’
She gave up on the top two buttons and began to roll the left sleeve up carefully.
‘Not like that. Not carefully. Carelessly. Verisimilitude, Betchen.’
She frowned a little, rolling the sleeve down, rolling it up again, carefully careless. For verisimilitude. What did he mean? Now the right sleeve. Carefully careless.
‘Good. Skirt.’
She caught it. Light purple wool. Lamb’s wool. With a crest in gold thread. Anactoria. Christ. She was starting to understand now. Light silver zip. She stepped into it and tried to zip it up. Too tight again. A schoolgirl’s sports-skirt. She had to tug it higher, up over her thighs, before the zip began to work. Zzzzz. Zzzz. Like a sleepy bumblebee, testing its wings in spring. Zzzzzz. Zzzzp. And it was up, straining the skirt against her thighs and arse.<
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‘Stockings.’
He tossed them to her one by one. White stockings. Not just moist: damp. Wet. Wringing. She shook them loose. Long white sports-stockings. Socks for Anna. Socks for her. She had to sit down on the floor to put the first on, pulling hard, already sweating into the sweaty clothes. The silk of the stocking slid hard against her skin as she pulled on it. Pulled hard. She adjusted the hem where it lay just above her knee. What a pervert Bärengelt was. Though not just a pervert. An Über-pervert. Not just making her wear a schoolgirl’s sports uniform, but a schoolgirl’s sports uniform her little sister had sweated into. Heavily. She put her other foot into the other stocking and started tugging it up her leg.
‘No. Leave it rolled down. Around your shins. Yes … And loosen the other one. Not so well-adjusted … OK … Good. Now, go and get that.’
She looked where the black cane was pointing and her mouth quirked with amusement. A hockey stick. And ball. A hockey stick leaning against the wall, its handle hidden in the leaves and flowers of an orchid. Red and white/gold flowers.
She walked over to the stick, feeling the sweat in her socks squelch against the floor, and picked it out of the orchid, smelling creamy sweetness and a tickle of pollen. Hockey stick. Cloth handle fitting snugly into her hand. Snugly and somehow … familiarly.
‘Juggle the ball.’
‘Master …?’
‘Juggle the ball. Bounce it up and down on the stick.’
‘Master, I can’t. I’ve never played hockey.’
‘Do it.’
She adjusted the stick in her hand and bent to pick up the ball. Squeezed it for a moment. Hard beneath her fingers but somehow … familiar. She tossed it into the air and tried to hit it up with the stick. Not that she could – she’d miss for sure, because she’d never pl–
‘Good. Very good.’
It was bouncing up and down on the blade of the stick. No, she was bouncing it up and down on the blade of the stick. Controlling it easily and smoothly. Which was mad. Because she’d never played hockey before. Never even touched a stick or ball. But here she was juggling a ball expertly with one. Just like … Emily. Emily McFadden.
‘Wunderbar. Wonderful. Now, boots. Come back over here.’
She turned (still juggling the ball) and walked towards him. He was holding a pair of boots in his left hand. By their laces. Hockey boots. She let the ball fall to the floor and trapped it dead with one crisp movement of the stick. How could she do this? She’d never touched a hockey stick before today. Before now.
She bent to put the stick on the floor beside the ball and stood up to take hold of the boots. He let go of the laces, letting them drop into her hands. They were too small too. Schoolgirl’s hockey boots. She sat on the floor, feeling the fading bruises in her arse re-awaken, and began to put the left boot on. Pull it on. Fucking tug and wrench it on.
She stopped and looked up at him.
‘Master, it’s too small. They’re too small.’
‘Put them on.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can. Or you will suffer more than you would do by putting them on.’
She looked at the black cane in his hand and bent back to the boot. Tugged again at it, sliding it up over her heel a fraction of an inch at a time. Stood up cautiously to stamp her foot into it, balancing on her other foot. As though she were hammering it on. Christ, she would cripple herself if she tried to move in them. Stamp. Stamp.
It was on. She sat down to put the right boot on. Pull it on. Tug and wrench it fucking-well on. Christ. If she could take her sock off it would be easier. She looked up again, mouth beginning to open, but his helmet was already swinging side to side. No. She tugged at it, sliding it up over her heel a fraction of an inch at a time, then cautiously lifting herself, kneeling on her left leg while she stamped with her right, forcing the boot on. Stamp. Stamp. Nearly. Stamp.
Yes. They were on and she didn’t like thinking about getting them off again. She tied the laces, her hands moving smoothly and expertly, looping the laces twice under the sole of the left boot, three times under the sole of the right boot (why?), and stood up slowly.
‘Take a few steps.’
She obeyed him. (Why? Because that was what Emily had done. For luck.) The studs clicked on the floor. She’d never heard that sound before but it was somehow … familiar. Again. Clashing studs on a hard surface. Sweating schoolgirls coming in off the hockey field.
‘Pick up the stick. Dribble the ball.’
She bent and picked up the stick and tapped at the ball. Tapped left, tapped right. Left right left right. Dribbling it. Expertly. Walking towards the wall and turning back again. In a body that wasn’t her body. It knew things that she didn’t know. That she’d never learned. She dribbled the ball towards him, trapped it, stood in front of him.
‘Very good, Beth. Now, do you think you can run in those boots?’
‘No, master.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes, master. Not on this floor. Especially not on this floor.’
‘OK. Take them off.’
Fuck it. She dropped her head as she sat down on the floor again, hiding a scowl. What the fuck was he playing at? She untied the laces of the right boot, hands and fingers moving smoothly and expertly again, and began to slide it off. Jesus. It wasn’t … coming. Oh, fuck. She strained again. No use.
‘Stop. Hold your foot up.’
She lifted her right foot. He walked to her, took hold of the boot, and tugged.
‘Ow,’ she said.
‘Did it loosen?’
‘Yes, master. A little bit.’
‘Lie back hard. Arms wide.’
She obeyed him.
‘Now, on the count of three, pull away as I tug. One … two … three!’
She pulled away as he tugged, her whole leg lifting into the air, her arms sliding on the marble as she swam them frantically, trying to keep herself from being lifted bodily into the air. Then she fell back, her arse hitting the floor hard, her bruises giving up pain like the juice from crushed grapes, and the boot was in his hand, off.
‘Thank you, master.’
He let the boot drop to the floor. It bounced and lay on its side. Five studs in an odd, irregular pattern.
‘A pleasure, Betchen.’
And it had been: he had an erection. She could see it bulging behind the black leather of his bodysuit, a thick white cudgel concealed behind a silver zip. She looked away and down at her left boot, unlacing it, setting her teeth and tugging at it. Hard. Hard.
‘No good?’
She gave up and let go.
‘No good, master.’
‘Raise your leg. As before, on the count of three.’
She lifted her leg, lying back against the floor, arms spread wide, and he took hold of the boot.
‘One … two … three!’
He tugged, she pulled, leg stretching upwards, arse leaving the floor, arms sprawling wide to hold her down, then thump, she’d fallen back, arse hitting the floor again, fresh pain pressed from the wine-purple and grape-yellow-and-green bruises beneath her tight white knickers, and the boot was in his hand, off.
‘Thank you, master.’
He dropped this boot too. It landed, bounced, but stayed upright on its sole next to the first. Left boot and right boot.
‘A pleasure again, Betchen.’
She glanced covertly at his crotch. The erection was still there.
‘Yes, Betchen. It’s time again.’
His hand dropped to his crotch, unzipped it, and helped his cock out, absently thumbing back the foreskin.
‘Take your socks off.’
She sat down on the floor, holding back a sigh, and pulled her socks down one by one, rolling each into a ball as it came off, taking them in her hand and standing up.
‘Here they are, master.’
‘No. Unroll one of them.’
She unrolled one of them. A silk sock, damp and warm with Anna’s sweat. And her sweat, now.<
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‘Here, master.’
He took them from her, dropping the one still rolled to the floor with the boots, then folding the other in half, in half again, and taking hold of an end in each hand.
‘Stand with your head up, mouth open.’
She was puzzled. What was he going to do? Whip her face? Her mouth?
‘Stick your tongue out.’
Whip her tongue? She stuck it out. No, not that. It wasn’t that. He held the twice-doubled sock over her mouth.
‘Drink. Drink it all.’
And he wrang it. Wrang it out over her mouth and protruding tongue so that a thin trickle of sweat fell from it. Straight on to her tongue. Straight into her mouth. Warm, salty sweat.
‘Mädchenschweiß, Betchen. Annaschweiß. Deinschweiß.’
It was still trickling into her mouth. Christ, his hands were strong, to twist the sock like that. Keep the sweat flowing from it. He shifted the sock suddenly, allowing the trickle of sweat to hit her lip, then her nostrils. She snorted and choked, not able to keep her mouth open any longer. He relaxed his hands on the sock and moved it away, holding it above his cock, twisting it again, hard, so a final trickle of sweat fell on to his cockhead.
‘Mädchenschweiß.’
He let go of one end of the sock and flicked it out, swinging it, his freed hand dropping on to his cockhead and rubbing Anna’s sweat into it. Her sweat into it. Making it gleam rich purple, like a huge heavy gem.
‘Knickers off, Betchen.’
CAGED!
Yolanda Celbridge
About the Author
Yolanda Celbridge has written the most novels for us of any of our authors, and her work has encompassed settings as diverse as a nineteenth-century English school, an SM fantasy island, the wide-open spaces of the USA, and a North African army unit of a very specialised nature! In Caged!, the novel excerpted here, Yolanda Celbridge turns up the satire and the Sadean torment. Though an anglophile (as you can tell from her early pastiches of Edwardian erotica!), Yolanda’s currently turning her attention to her native North America, with books such as The Taming of Trudi and Belle Submission. But in the following extract from Caged!, Lady Pollecutt gets a nasty shock …