Title Page

THE RELUCTANT STRIPPER

By

Lady Alice Mccloud

Publisher Information

Published in 2011 by

Cambridge House Publishing LLP

Digital Edition Converted and Distributed in 2011 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

Copyright 2007

This edition published2011

The right of Lady Alice McCloud to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 and 78 of the Copyright and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

All characters and events depicted are entirely fictitious; any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely coincidental

THIS IS FICTION. IN REAL LIFE ALWAYS PRACTISE SAFE SEX

Dedication

Dedicated to Michael,

For the loan of Godfrey Charles Hugh Quigley

London, the Quality Enclave, March 27th 2010

Prologue

Thrift bit her lip as a well lubricated finger was pushed in through her anus to investigate the chamber beyond. She lay face down, the central section of the couch adjusted to lift her hips and bring her bottom into full prominence, spreading her cheeks and allowing Dr Molloy easy access to the puckered pink hole between.

‘A trifle tight, perhaps,’ the doctor remarked, as casually as if he had been remarking on the adjustment of his cravat rather than the muscular condition of a girl’s anus.

Thrift stifled a sigh. She knew better than to ask why he considered her sphincter to be too tight. He wouldn’t know the details, while the implications were obvious. Something was to be inserted up her bottom.

‘A trifle congested also,’ Dr Molloy continued. ‘Yes, just a trifle, but still...’

He trailed off as he pushed his finger deeper in up Thrift’s bottom and began to hum the tune to a hymn as he rummaged in her rectum. Thrift closed her eyes, trying to think of anything but the sensation of her penetrated anus and praying that just for once she wouldn’t disgrace herself by growing aroused over what was being done to her. It was hopeless. Her quim had already begun to juice.

The doctor could hardly fail to notice, nor her chaperone, nor the nurse, adding to her embarrassment and consternation for what was being done to her and her own wanton reaction. It was hardly the first time she had been inspected, but she still found the entire procedure deeply humiliating and not only because she was unable to stop herself growing aroused. Her day dress covered every inch of her body from her neck to her toes, but for medical inspection she was invariably given a modesty gown so ridiculously inadequate that it failed to hold her breasts in, let alone cover her at the front, while the back was slit for its full length and tied with just two drawstrings, one at her waist and one at her neck. At the best of times her bottom stuck out, bare and round for all to see, but as she was upended and spread out on the couch the ludicrous garment might as well have been dispensed with altogether. If anything, she’d have felt rather more dignified in the nude.

Then there was the attitude of both her chaperone and the nurse, who remained polite and professional but quite clearly found Thrift’s plight amusing. They also, in her opinion, entirely failed to do their duty, both of them indifferent to the greatest humiliation of all, which was Dr Molloy’s attitude. He was outrageously familiar, enjoying her body as he inspected her and barely troubling to conceal his own pleasure. Indeed, he was now standing so close that she could feel the hard lump of his penis where it pressed through his clothes and against her thigh.

After what she was certain was an unnecessarily long time investigating the interior of her rectum he finally withdrew his finger and spoke up.

‘Yes, I think irrigation would be advantageous, so it would. Nurse, if you would be so kind?’

There was no mistaking the slight rise of excitement in his soft, Irish accent as he spoke, and yet there was nothing to be done. Resigned to her fate, Thrift settled her chin on her arms. The nurse came close, wheeling a curious assembly of tubes, nozzles and armatures, all of which linked to a disturbingly large reservoir made of deep red rubber and bulbous with water pressure.

‘The things we do for Empire, eh?’ Dr Molloy chuckled as he pulled off the glove of thin rubber he had worn to probe her. ‘One and one half inches, I think. Just relax.’

He had selected one of the fatter nozzles and Thrift did as she was told, closing her eyes as she let her ring go loose. She felt the nozzle, cold and hard against her sensitive anal flesh, then pushing in to spread her hole. She bit her lip, determined not to show reaction, only to let out a low gasp as her anus distended to take the thickest part of the nozzle. Dr Molloy gave her bottom a gentle pat before reaching up to turn on the spigot that controlled the flow of water. All Thrift felt was a mild chill at the mouth of her anus as the water began to run. Dr Molloy’s hands settled on her bottom cheeks, massaging her flesh.

‘This will help the flow,’ he explained, a statement Thrift felt certain was a lie as his cock was still pressed to her thigh and had begun to move position as it grew increasingly stiff.

She made to object, then thought better of it, knowing that he would not merely deny what he was up to but accuse her of wanton impertinence or some such fabrication, with which both the nurse and her chaperone were sure to agree. If anything her protest was likely to lead to a spanking, while it was impossible to deny the soothing effect of having her bottom cheeks squeezed and spread, for all her shame and indignity.

‘There, isn’t that just grand?’ Dr Molloy remarked as he began to rub his cock very gently on her leg. ‘Just grand it is, to be...’

He broke off with a tut of irritation as the telephone sounded from the adjoining room. The nurse went to answer it but quickly returned to say that he had an urgent call and Thrift was left to contemplate the indignity of her position as the water flowed slowly in up her bottom. She could already feel the weight inside her as her rectum began to swell, a sensation at once unsettling and urgent, making her want to run for the convenient facilities as much as it made her want a stiff penis thrust up her from behind.

The door was still open and she could hear Dr Molloy’s voice, as unctuous as it was grave, although to judge by what he was saying the person on the far end of the line was a severe hypochondriac rather than in genuine need of medical aid. The nurse seemed to have vanished altogether. Only Thrift’s chaperone remained while the volume of water in her rectum was growing rapidly uncomfortable.

‘Er... Miss Simms,’ Thrift managed, her voice thick with embarrassment. ‘Would you be so kind as to turn the spigot off, please?’

Miss Simms had been sitting at the far side of the room, prim and composed as she watched Thrift’s inspection, but now opened her mouth in surprise.

‘I... I really don’t think I should interfere, Miss Thrift,’ she said. ‘I don’t know...’

‘Just turn the little tap,’ Thrift urged.

‘But I...’

‘Miss Simms, turn the tap off, please!’

‘But Miss Thrift...’

‘For goodness sake, girl!’ Thrift exclaimed in rising frustration. ‘Dr Molloy, Dr Molloy!’

The doctor’s voice continued as before, soothing and patient, but addressed to whoever was on the far end of the telephone. Thrift could still feel the pressure growing, now to the point of pain, while she was having to squeeze her bottom hole and clench her cheeks to keep the nozzle in at all.

‘Dr Molloy!’ she yelled.

Finally he responded.

‘One moment, Miss Moncrieff, if you please.’

‘But... oh no, not that... not. Miss Simms, turn the tap off now!’

‘But Miss Thrift, I...’

‘Turn the tap off, Miss Simms, or I promise I’ll spank you the moment we’re done, bare bottom, and never mind who’s watching!’

Miss Simms finally responded, colouring as she got to her feet. Thrift had her teeth gritted against the pressure inside her, while her belly had grown to a distended ball, and relief flooded through her as Miss Simms reached out to turn the spigot, only to give way to horror as new water gushed out into her already straining rectum.

‘The other way!’ she screamed, too late.

The nozzle burst from her anus, followed by an explosion of water from between her open buttocks. A sob broke from her lips, of pain and misery but also of relief as the glistening jet squirted high behind her, reaching almost the full distance across the room to patter down on the floor. Miss Simms gave a gasp of shock and apology as she hastily turned the tap the other way, but it was a pointless gesture. The nozzle was hanging limp from its supporting armature, while the water it had delivered was spurting freely from Thrift’s anus, in gush after gush, each creating further mess on the floor until at last it dried to a trickle. Thrift was speechless, choking with shame as the last of the water bubbled out over her quim to soil her gown and form a rapidly spreading wet patch between her flesh and the couch.

‘You imbecile!’ she spat as she finally opened her eyes, only to find herself looking at the doctor. ‘Er... not you, Dr Molloy, but...’

‘Really, Thrift,’ he interrupted. ‘Can’t you control yourself for one minute? Nurse, clean this mess up. Now, where were we?’

Thrift was left boiling with indignation and shame as the nurse went to work, but also fury, her battered feelings somewhat soothed by the thought of what she would do to Miss Simms once the inspection was over. A simple bare bottom spanking in front of Dr Molloy and the nurse would not be enough, although it would certainly make a good start. There was sure to be a cane around somewhere, if only for the nurse’s discipline, and she would apply that to her chaperone’s bottom, maybe two or even three dozen times. After that she would make Miss Simms suck Dr Molloy’s penis, all the way, and swallow what came out, or even allow him to sodomise the stupid girl first, so she was sucking on a cock which had just been up her bottom.

Her plans for revenge had gone far, far beyond what propriety permitted, even allowing for Dr Molloy’s disgustingly over-familiar behaviour, but that didn’t make them any less satisfying. The spanking, at least, could be safely administered, and Thrift promised herself it would be long and hard, and all the longer and harder because of the sneaking suspicion at the back of Thrift’s mind that Miss Simms had turned the spigot the wrong way on purpose.

The nurse had finished cleaning up and gave Thrift a dirty look before leaving the room with her mop and bucket. Dr Molloy seemed inordinately pleased with himself, and had clearly enjoyed the sight of Thrift’s disgrace, as she now realised that he had come off the telephone and into the room while she was in the middle of expelling her enema. He’d begun to hum a tune again, and gave her bottom another intimate little pat as he spoke once more.

‘Accidents will happen, my dear, and believe me, I have seen it all before. You are at least thoroughly clean, or at least you will be presently.’

As he spoke he had pulled a number of wet wipes from a box. Thrift’s mouth came wide as he touched them to her quim, rubbing in exactly the same way as if he had been deliberately masturbating her. It felt almost irresistibly nice, filling her with the urge to stick her bottom up for more, but also hideously embarrassing. Not that he seemed to realise, or think that there was anything wrong in what he was doing, still humming to himself as he mopped up first her quim and then her anus, to leave her shaking with arousal and humiliation and not knowing if she wanted to punch him or beg for his cock up her ready hole. She did neither, but watched in mounting despair for her own reactions as he consulted his clipboard.

‘My, but that’s a big one!’

‘A big what?’ Thrift demanded, forgetting herself in her shock.

‘A big rectule,’ he replied, ‘which is a cylinder designed to hold documents and so forth. It fits within the subject’s rectum and...’

‘I know what a rectule is, Dr Molloy,’ Thrift interrupted. ‘I have used them before, and I assure you I am quite capable of accommodating them without...’

She broke off. He had lifted the cylinder from the lower part of his instrument tray. It was neither the standard model, a slender tube of hard black rubber, nor that obscene article the size and shape of a cock and designed to be mistaken for a dildo. Either one would have fitted inside her comfortably enough, but as the prospect of attempting to accommodate the thick, black monstrosity up her bottom sank in Thrift’s mouth came slowly open.

‘You were saying, my dear?’ Dr Molloy asked.

Thrift merely made a face as she once more settled her chin on her arms. The horrible thing was going up her bottom anyway, so there was no point in protesting, while she knew that the Department would not have ordered her to wear it without good reason. They never did anything without good reason, although there had been the unfortunate incident where she’d been given a full course of injections, inevitably administered to her bare bottom, but given only due to a mistake in the paperwork.

She closed her eyes as the doctor’s well lubricated finger was once more inserted into her back passage. He began to open her with practised skill, teasing her anus until a second finger slipped inside, then a third. By then Thrift had her eyes screwed up tight and her teeth clamped down hard on her lip, struggling to fight the sensation and wishing her quim wasn’t dribbling quite so copiously. Not that Dr Molloy seemed to notice, humming cheerfully to himself as usual even as he slipped the full bulk of his fist into Thrift’s rectum.

His hand felt enormous, stretching her anus to what she was certain was the very limit, and her eyes had begun to water even before he had began to ease his fist in and out. Her mouth came open, gaping as wide as her bottom hole as little spasms began to run through her belly and sex, like miniature orgasms but agonisingly short of the real thing.

‘Please hurry!’ she managed.

‘A job like this can’t be rushed,’ Dr Molloy chided, ‘but yes, I think that should be sufficient.’

He drew his hand out, leaving Thrift’s bottom hole a gaping pink tube into her body. She hung her head, panting, too far gone even to worry about the attention of Miss Simms and the nurse. Her anus was pulsing gently as Dr Molloy applied yet more lubricant to the fat cylinder, began to close, and came agape once more as she was penetrated with the rectule, every inch squeezing slowly in up her straining bottom hole. At last her sphincter closed on the tip, but the rectule felt huge, a great heavy lump in her gut, provoking a bloated, urgent sensation that had her wriggling her toes and shaking her head in helpless reaction.

‘There we are then,’ Dr Molloy said happily. ‘That wasn’t so very bad now, was it?’

Thrift could not bring herself to agree. Shaking and sweaty on the couch, the tears running freely down her cheeks as she gave in to her emotions, she was using what little remained of her concentration to stop herself from reaching down to play with her quim and make her disgrace complete. Dr Molloy was peeling off his gloves, and she began to wonder if it was all over, or if he too was close to edge of his self control and might simply whip his cock out and fuck her in front of both nurse and chaperone. He’d certainly been hard, his erection like an iron bar against her thigh while he opened her bottom, but there was no more than the usual trace of lewd amusement in his voice as he went on.

‘That just leaves your injections. The correct ones this time, I assure you. The French spectrum of antibiotics, please nurse, also the contraceptive.’

A hollow groan escaped Thrift’s lips. Having her bottom exposed and interfered with was almost more than she could bear, but having a dozen or so needles thrust into the soft, plump flesh of her cheeks was sure to bring her fully on heat, no less than a good spanking. Her shaking had grown uncontrollable, her vision was blurred with tears and her fists were clenched tight as an alcohol swab was applied to the crest of one plump bottom cheek, almost immediately followed by the sharp sting of the first needle as it was jabbed into her flesh.

‘Ouch!’

‘Now now, no need to be a baby, not a big girl like you,’ Dr Molloy chuckled. ‘Besides, you’ll need these, every one. Filthy fellows, the French.’

Thrift barely heard him, her head swimming with emotion. Her feet had begun to drum on the couch as the second needle was pushed home, and with the third she was sobbing audible. After that the sensations blended together, stab after stab puncturing her buttocks as the hard pole of Dr Molloy’s erection rubbed gently against her through his clothes, until suddenly his hand was on her quim, deliberately masturbating her even as the fluid from the tenth syringe was forced out into the meat of her bottom. Miss Simms gave a little gasp, but Dr Molloy’s voice was still calm as he spoke again.

‘Don’t worry, my dear, this is a purely medical procedure, designed to relax the patient.’

The nurse giggled, giving the lie to the doctor’s words, but Miss Simms stayed quiet, the final betrayal. Dr Molloy’s thumb slipped in up Thrift’s vagina, the rubbing grew harder and she had started to come, squirming and wriggling her open sex against the his hand. She squirted, as she often did when she came, the fluid spraying against Dr Molloy’s hand and spattering her thighs, and again as shock after shock of ecstasy ran through her even as she panted out her fury at his treatment of her body, calling him every rude name she could think of several times over. All her reserve was gone, her bottom bucking frantically up and down in her involuntary excitement, the mound of her sex splashing in the pool of fluid ejected from her cunt, her rectum squeezing on the fat cylinder. Finally his thumb pulled from her body, leaving her vagina a gaping hole that closed with a wet, soft farting sound, bringing her humiliation to a peak with her ecstasy. Dr Molloy has also come, his cock still a rigid bar beneath his clothes, but now with a warm, damp patch where the bulbous head pressed to Thrift’s hip.

London, the Foreign and Colonial Offices, March 27th 2010

The cylinder in Thrift’s rectum felt more curious than unpleasant, not so much as if she was being sodomised, but as if she had suffered an indignity she herself had inflicted on more than one maid and had a broomstick stuck up her bottom to improve her posture. It also felt unexpectedly heavy, pushing down on the inside of her anal ring so that despite her enema she found it impossible to shake the urge to run to the convenient facilities. That made her glad to be in her black rubber containment pants, while after being effectively nude for over two hours it was an immense relief to be dressed once more. She had even made a special effort, selecting a magnificent day dress of deep blue silk to match her auburn hair, with matching accessories and underwear, including an ankle length Cantlemere and Lucas corset in the very latest style. Not that anybody was likely to see her underwear, which added to her sense of relief. Whatever she might find herself obliged to do in the course of her duty it could be guaranteed that within the buildings of the Foreign and Colonial Office itself her body was sacrosanct and her status as a Lady of Quality would be respected.

Sure enough, her line man, Mr Warburton, was waiting on the steps and offered his arm as she reached him. Thrift took it gratefully, allowing him to support her as she rose with the tiny, precise steps that her corset permitted. They spoke quietly and of professional matters, Thrift complimenting Mr Warburton on his promotion to Senior Administrator with the South East-Asia Department and he in turn remarking on her achievements in both his own region and the North American colonies. As they reached the entrance hall Thrift turned a glance to the gigantic map that occupied one entire wall. It was a Bartholomew’s projection of the entire globe, with the continents picked out within strips of polished brass. Some half of the total landmass was done in pink marble: the continents of North America, Australasia and Antarctica in their entirety, also the Indian sub-continent, all but a tiny fraction of the continent of Africa, parts of Asia and a proportion of Europe. This represented the extent of the British Empire. Great Britain itself was tiny in comparison, smaller indeed than the irregular shape of deep blue that depicted France, and as always Thrift felt a swell of pride mingled with not a little astonishment that such a small country should have come to dominate the world.

Mr Warburton took no notice of his surroundings but continued to talk as he escorted Thrift up the grand staircase. Having had each cheek of her bottom punctured over half-a-dozen times while being inoculated with what Dr Molloy had referred to as the French spectrum of antibiotics, she was not surprised to be guided along the first floor corridor and through a dark oak door marked with the single word – European. No sooner had the one door closed behind them than Mr Warburton stopped outside a second, this time to her considerable surprise. A brand new plaque of shiny brass informed her that the office belonged to Sir Blenheim Finch, a departmental director and therefore a man scarcely less elevated than her own father.

A deep voice responded to Mr Warburton’s knock and they were admitted to a large, square room, comfortably furnished and looking out over Whitehall itself. Sir Blenheim Finch sat behind a keyhole desk of polished mahogany, a large man with a bluff, friendly countenance. Thrift recognised him from her childhood, although only as one of the many men who had attended dinners and other functions at the house. She gave a curtsey as appropriate from one member of the Quality to another while Mr Warburton began to make introductions.

‘May I present Miss Thrift Moncrieff? Miss Moncrieff...’

‘Don’t worry. Known her for years,’ Sir Blenheim interrupted. ‘Kincardine’s little girl, aren’t you? My but you’ve grown, and I hear you’ve been making a name for yourself in the service? Now then...’

He had picked up a file as he spoke, his plump features creasing as he inspected the contents. Thrift waited until he chose to continue.

‘I see that you were trained at Weathercote, where you placed second, and have been with South-East Asia for five years, saving a brief detachment to our North American colonies. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘No call for the sir, I think, not when I’ve seen you in nappies.’

Thrift felt herself start to colour.

‘Hainan Tao, Louisiana, Siam, Japan... all very commendable,’ Sir Blenheim went on. ‘You’ve never been with European?’

‘No.’

‘And you’ve been abroad more often than not, I see. You’re also said to have an excellent memory and, if I may speak frankly, to be more than a little wanton?’

Thrift’s blush deepened but she nodded, knowing full well that every detail of her disgrace at Diplomatic School and subsequent events would be down in the file, probably in more detail than even she could remember. Unusually, Sir Blenheim didn’t seem shocked, but smiled and shook his head as he read, then spoke once more.

‘Yes, you’ll do very nicely. Very well, Warburton, if you’d be so kind as to place Miss Moncrieff on detachment. You may go.’

Mr Warburton bowed and departed. Sir Blenheim waited until the door had closed before he spoke again.

‘Sound chap, Warburton, one of the best, but this is strictly hush hush. Does the name Godfrey Quigley mean anything to you?’

‘Sir Godfrey Quigley?’ Thrift queried. ‘I believed him to be Director of European, but...’

‘He was,’ Sir Blenheim broke in. ‘My old number one, only the wretched fellow has gone and defected to the French. Yes, you may well look astonished. So was I, believe you me. I mean to say, he always did have rather decadent tastes, but really! So there it is, and he knows a damned sight too much for comfort. Fortunately we know he’ll be after a comfortable retirement, so he won’t spill the beans immediately. He’ll bargain. Unfortunately, they know that and they know we know that, if you follow, and so they’ll expect us to attempt to deal with the blighter. That’s where you come in.’

Thrift had realised where the conversation was leading and merely nodded.

‘The French Bureau will be on the QV,’ he continued as he extracted a sheaf of notes from her file, ‘so they’ll be watching our regulars and we haven’t a rat in a kennel full of terriers chance of getting anyone else in by the usual channels. That’s why we’ve cooked up a little scheme to get you to Paris incognito. Everything you’ll need is here in these papers, for which I believe you have been fitted with a suitable receptacle?’

Thrift’s blush deepened to purple. He gave a soft chuckle.

‘Quite. Everything is there, so for the time being all you need to know is how we’re going to get you into France. Naturally you’ll have to be in disguise, so we’ve arranged for you to be taken into the employment of a wine merchant, Mr Fitzroper, or rather, of his wife, Mrs Paradise Fitzroper, as her maid.’

‘Her maid?’ Thrift echoed, aghast. ‘Naturally Mr and Mrs Fitzroper are aware of the situation and will treat me with due deference?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ he responded with genuine sympathy. ‘Secrecy is essential, and as far as they know you are simply their new maid, hired from their usual agency. You must of course act as if this were the case at all times up until you reach Épernay, where he is travelling in order to purchase Champagne. Once there you must detach yourself from the Fitzropers by whatever means seems best, perhaps by seeing that you get dismissed. Mrs Fitzroper is a woman of, shall we say, exacting standards, known for hiring and firing her maids at the drop of a hat, or merely because she happens to be in an ill temper, which she generally is apparently.’

Thrift swallowed hard, filled with chagrin at the thought of acting as maid to a woman of the Professional classes and what that was all too likely to entail, especially if she had to misbehave in order to get dismissed. At length she managed to find her voice.

‘I presume I am to travel from Épernay to Paris. Will I be able to contact anybody?’

‘A drop has been arranged,’ he assured her, ‘in the Champs de Mars, but I would rather you didn’t use it unless it proves absolutely essential. Everything is in your papers, including how to track down Quigley and to exploit his weakness.’

‘Which is?’ Thrift queried.

‘Tarts,’ Sir Blenheim responded.

Thrift felt the warmth in her cheeks grow once more as the full implications of what he had said sank in, to leave her speechless with indignation. He took no notice, either of her scarlet cheeks or her open mouth, still shuffling through her papers as he repeated himself.

‘Tarts, and preferably buxom tarts, while not even the French would put a Bureau man in the actual room while a chap’s performing, or at least I hope to God they wouldn’t. So that’s your task. Get to Paris, seduce the fellow, and when old Galloping Godfrey lets his guard down, which he will...’

He broke off, spreading his hands. Thrift lifted her chin, struggling to fight down both her overwhelming humiliation and the knot of fear in her stomach.

‘I shall do my best, Sir Blenheim, for King and for the Empire.’

‘I’m sure you will, my dear,’ he responded. ‘Oh, and while I would dearly love to see old Godfrey again, I appreciate that getting him back to England might not be practical, if you follow my drift.’

London, the Bayswater Professional Enclave, March 28th 2010

Thrift stood at Lancaster Gate, feeling distinctly uncomfortable, and only partially because of her rectule, which was now heavier than before since she had been obliged to fill it with her papers and other essentials in the convenient facilities of the Department. Yet she would happily have attempted to accommodate one twice the size in return to not being dressed as a maid. It had been bad enough at home, and dishing out a vigorous spanking to the maid who had helped her get changed had done little to help, or to stop the girl giggling. Then there had been the look on her father’s face when she came into the drawing room. As Sir Blenheim Finch’s superior he knew what was going on, but he had still had to look twice before he recognised his own daughter, and given her appearance as reflected in her bedroom mirror, Thrift was hardly surprised.

Being outdoors was far worse. Nobody was paying her the slightest attention, but that only made it worse, because if her uniform made her to all intents and purposes invisible it also left her feeling oddly exposed. She was in a dress of plain, black bombazine, covering her from neck to ankles and complemented with gloves, spats and a veiled bonnet to ensure that not so much as a square inch of her skin was on open display to the vulgar gaze. That was all very well, but with only loose, split-seam combinations and a single petticoat beneath a corset that barely came down over her hips she felt as if every slightest puff of wind was going to lift her heavy skirts, part her drawers and treat the riders and strollers of Hyde Park to a show of her bottom and quim, bare. It was all thoroughly undignified, although the corset at least was of good quality, made specially to order and reinforced with Sheffield steel to give her bosom and waist a line that, while no longer the height of fashion, was still elegant. Her hair had also been done, in a simple bun she could manage without assistance. She had been photographed and given a passport in the name of Mary Jones.

Plucking up her courage, she stepped through the gate and out of the park into the Bayswater Professional Enclave, where the Fitzropers lived at Forty-Nine Wessex Square. It was not an area she was familiar with, and she would have felt more at home attending the most formal of Japanese tea ceremonies or even in a New Orleans hotel. Nevertheless, there was no denying the variety of sights on offer: citymen in their bowler hats and pinstripes, merchants in suits entirely respectable save for being of coloured cloth, even engineers in stovepipe hats and elaborate waistcoats. The women were more colourful still, excepting only those whose simple cut dresses of plain black, blue or grey cloth betrayed them as menials, her fellow maids included. Even not in uniform they would have been easily recognised, simply by the deference and lack of confidence in their manner, which Thrift attempted to imitate.

Wessex Square was easy to find, the house itself no less so. Black painted railings fenced off an area to either side of steps leading up to a Grecian portico and a bright red door with the number painted to one side. Thrift composed herself, ascended the steps and rang the bell. The door came open almost immediately, revealing a tall man in a black suit set off by a yellow waistcoat. He had an impressive nose, now tilted upwards as he regarded her with an austere expression. Thrift curtsied.

‘Mr Fitzroper, I presume? I’m Mary Jones, the new lady’s maid.’

His expression shifted from austere to disdainful.

‘The servant’s entrance is in the basement.’

Blushing and curtseying, Thrift retreated. The door closed once more and she was left to find her way through a gate in the railings and down into the area, where a second door opened into a gloomy space beneath the steps. Again she knocked, but this time it took some while before the door was opened, again by the same tall man. Realising her mistake, Thrift bobbed another curtsey, less full this time.

‘Come in, you stupid girl,’ the man said. ‘Don’t you know better than to call at the front door of a respectable house?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Thrift answered, too flustered to pick her words carefully. ‘I... I forgot myself.’

‘So it seems,’ he answered, his tone now one of open astonishment, ‘and also in matters of correct address.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Thrift corrected herself hastily.

She had entered the main room of the basement, a large servants’ parlour painted a dull cream colour and equipped with plain but solid furniture. There were three people present in addition to the man she had now realised had to be the butler; a large, red-faced woman, presumably a cook or housekeeper, possibly both, and two girls of much her own age but in even cheaper clothes, evidently kitchen maids or tweenies. She curtsied to the older woman and smiled to the others.

‘I’m Mary Jones, the new lady’s maid,’ she said once more. ‘And yourselves?’

‘Hark at her!’ one of the maids giggled. ‘Ever so fancy, ain’t she?’

‘Be quiet, Agnes,’ the older woman snapped. ‘Speak when you are spoken to, and you also, Mary. Really, the very idea! I don’t know how things went where you where before, but this is a respectable house. You address Mr Winter as sir and myself as Mrs Melcher, always. This is Agnes, and this, Rachel. Now, do you have your things?’

Thrift held out the suitcase she had been given to hold her new possessions.

‘What do you expect me to do with that?’ Mrs Melcher said. ‘Take it upstairs, this minute!’

Thrift hastened to obey, scampering towards where a flight of stairs rose towards a door presumably connecting to the first floor only to realise her mistake, a moment too late.

‘The back stairs!’ Mrs Melcher exclaimed. ‘Really I...’

Mumbling an apology and more flustered than ever, Thrift ran for a door she assumed led to the rear of the house, tugging it wide to find herself in a tangle of mops, brooms, skylight poles and other domestic paraphernalia as it fell out of the cupboard she’d opened so suddenly. Behind her Agnes and Rachel dissolved into giggles, but Mrs Melcher gave a single, sour grunt and stood up. Thrift, all too familiar with domestic discipline, realised what was about to happen even before the big woman had reached her, and was babbling entreaties as her wrist was caught in an iron grip.

‘No, Mrs Melcher, please! That won’t be necessary. It was a mistake. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I’m...’

Her words broke to a squeal of shame and fear as she was hauled across the housekeeper’s lap and the other servants arranged themselves for the show. Mr Winter looked stern, but the maids didn’t even trouble to hide their amusement as the wriggling, protesting Thrift was prepared for punishment. Locked tight in spanking position, her skirts and petticoats were hauled high, her split seam drawers spread wide to expose the full, pink globe of her bottom with the lips of her quim sticking out from between her thighs.

Thrift was spanked hard, slap after slap applied until her cheeks were dancing and her legs kicking. She was squealing too, like a stuck pig, in both pain and indignation for what was being done to her, but far more for who it was being done by, a housekeeper she wouldn’t normally have bothered to acknowledge, and in front of, a butler and two giggling maids. It was too much. She’d burst into tears before the first sting of the spanking had even begun to give way to warmth.

It was at least mercifully brief, each cheek smacked perhaps two dozen times before she was released to tumble onto the floor, flushed and snivelling. Her bottom was so hot and sore that she was unable to resist giving herself a quick rub before covering up, and to her relief she was not sent into the corner, but left to tidy herself up and retrieve her suitcase as Mrs Melcher gave her a brief but pointed lecture on the consequences of incompetence. Rachel was now holding the correct door open and Thrift followed her through to a kitchen and the scullery beyond. Only when they had begun to ascend the servant’s stairs did she dare speak.

‘What a frightful old harpy! Is she always like that?’

‘No more than is necessary,’ Rachel answered, surprised. ‘If you think she’s bad, you should have met Mrs Brown, who I was with first. She’d of done you a sight harder, and then me and Agnes for getting the giggles. Old Squelcher’s not bad, so long as you don’t mind her having a feel of your bum now and then.’

Thrift felt her face grown hot once more. Mrs Melcher’s hand had rested on her bottom once or twice during her spanking, but she’d been too concerned with her pain and indignity to suspect anything.

‘Who were you with before then?’ Rachel carried, oblivious to Thrift’s blushes in the gloom of the staircase. ‘Soft on you, were they?’

Thrift’s references supported a hastily prepared cover story, making out that she had been a maid in her own household, so she was able to answer the question.

‘I was with Sir Kincardine and Lady Moncrieff.’

‘Ooh, nobs!’ Rachel replied, evidently impressed. ‘No wonder you’re all hoity-toity! Here’s your room.’

They had reached the top of the stairs, which opened to a short corridor of bare floorboards and cream painted walls. Part of the ceiling was angled, and the door Rachel had pushed open was also set at a slant, while the tiny room beyond appeared to have been made up from space under the eaves. Thrift had seen larger convenient facilities, while the ancient iron bedstead and what little furniture there was looked as if it might very well date from the reign of King Albert. Under the bed was a large, porcelain pot, the implications of which caused her to grimace in distaste.

‘Don’t we even have proper convenient facilities?’ she asked.

‘Proper convenient facilities?’ Rachel echoed, imitating Thrift’s accent. ‘Hark at you! Yes, Miss Mary, we do have proper convenient facilities, one on every floor, for the use of the household. You use the pot, just like the rest of us girls, and I’ll give you a hint, for free. Squelcher doesn’t like girls who give themselves airs and graces, and nor does Mrs Titsgroper.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Thrift demanded.

‘Titsgroper,’ Rachel repeated. ‘It’s what we call them, on account of what he’s like when he’s had a few. Don’t let him get you alone, that’s all. Right dirty one, he is.’

Thrift made a face but thanked Rachel for the advice as she sat down on the bed, which gave a rusty creak. Setting her suitcase down beside her, she opened the lid to reveal the contents, mainly cheap cotton underwear. Rachel gave a delighted gasp.

‘Ooh, what lovely lace, and ribbon and all. Aren’t they lovely? I know this is a cheek, but would you give me the lend of a set, only I’m seeing my young man tonight, and you know how it is.’

Thrift could imagine and gave a shrug of acquiescence, telling herself that any friend was worth having in the appalling house, even one so ill mannered she giggled while watching a fellow servant get spanked. Rachel helped herself, selecting the set of combinations with a wide lace trim and decorative pink ribbons which had taken her eye and holding them up to the window as she continued to chatter merrily.

‘I’ll be the toast of the town! Not that anyone’s going to see them, mind, except for my Alf, and perhaps old Squelcher if I get back late. Anyhow, you’d best go down and present yourself, unless you fancy another bum roasting. Say though, you ought to have seen yourself, the way you struggled, like she didn’t ought to be doing you, what a laugh!’

Rachel left, taking the combinations with her. Thrift hastened to follow what seemed like excellent advice, tidying herself in front of the tall, narrow mirror on her wardrobe door before hurrying back down the servants’ stair. The first and second doors she tried opened onto empty corridors, both far better appointed than the one in the servant’s quarters, the third to the rear of a grand staircase that led up from a hall floored in rose patterned tiles. A moment of cautious exploration and she had located the drawing room door, to which she applied a timid knock.

The door was opened by the butler, who had evidently been waiting and gave her a disapproving look for no obvious reason. Thrift stepped inside, glanced quickly around to take in the expensive but somewhat vulgar furnishings and gave her best curtsey to the couple who sat to either side of the fireplace and were evidently Mr and Mrs Fitzroper.

He was a small, plump man, round of head and belly, his suit black but of a flamboyant cut, his bulging waistcoat showing a pattern of purple grapes and golden vine leaves, his neck surrounded by a cravat of purple silk, neatly tied but more like a workman’s neckerchief than a proper tie. His hair had receded, leaving his head a round, pink dome, while a small, prim moustache and a monocle completed an image of such comic absurdity that Thrift found herself struggling to restrain a smile. His wife was, if anything, worse, also small and round, so that she appeared to have been built from a number of different sized balls, with a lorgnette in place of the monocle and an enormous quantity of thick, auburn hair done in a bouffant style. Her dress was a voluminous creation of purple silk embroidered with gold thread and apparently selected to complement her husband’s waistcoat, or possible vice-versa, while on the very top of her extravagant hairstyle sat a tiny hat shaped like a pork pie, made of purple silk and decorated with a bunch of golden grapes. It was this last, absurd detail that finally caused Thrift’s resolve to crack, and she was unable to prevent her mouth twitching up into a small smile.

Both turned as one, to inspect Thrift through their eyepieces, a gesture that brought to mind two animated dolls she had owned as a child and which so thoroughly resembled the Fitzropers that she was forced to bite her lip. The expression on Mrs Fitzroper’s face, at first merely haughty, immediately grew hard.

‘Is something amusing you, Jones?’ she demanded.

‘No, not at all, Ma’am,’ Thrift said hastily. ‘Sorry, Ma’am.’

Mrs Fitzroper gave her a doubtful look, but carried on in a marginally softer tone.

‘You come with excellent references in any event, so I trust you will not disappoint me. Now then, we leave for France in the morning, so you will need to have my things in readiness. I am most particular as to my wardrobe, and will... Tell me, Jones, do you suffer from some sort of twitch?’

As Mrs Fitzroper has been speaking, her husband had begun to nod his head in agreement with his wife’s remarks, again reminding Thrift of her comic dolls. She had been nervous from the start, while her spanking had left her unsettled and a little lightheaded, making it almost impossible to control her feelings.

‘No, Ma’am,’ she said.

‘No doubt the poor girl is merely suffering from nerves,’ Mr Fitzroper supplied, in a voice sympathetic but so implicitly lewd that Thrift found the muscles of her bottom and sex tightening in involuntary reaction. She remembered Rachel’s rude nickname, just as Mrs Fitzroper spoke up.

‘Well I’ve no time for nerves. Really, such affectations, in a maid! I trust that you won’t prove an inconvenience, Jones?’

‘No, Mrs Titsgroper,’ Thrift answered and froze as she realised what she had said.

There was a moment of appalled silence before Mrs Fitzroper found her voice.

‘What did you just say, Jones?’ she demanded, her voice so thick with disbelief that it gave Thrift hope that the awful woman might actually be unsure what had been said.

‘No, Mrs Fitzroper,’ she repeated.

‘I rather think you did not,’ Mrs Fitzroper replied, now in cold fury. ‘Winter, kindly summon Melcher. She will know what to do.’

‘But Mrs Fitzroper!’ Thrift blurted out in panic, again knowing exactly what was about to happen to her. ‘You can’t! I mean to say, you... you... oh God!’

‘Insolence, lying, and now you take the Lord’s name in vain?’ Mrs Fitzroper demanded. ‘Why, I’ve a good mind to deal with you myself. In fact, I think I will. Come here!’

Thrift had given in, her head hung in shamefaced acceptance of her fate as she crossed to where Mrs Fitzroper sat by the fireplace. For the second time in the space of minutes she was placed in spanking position, and for the second time in front of a man, only this time not Mr Winter but Mr Fitzroper. If the butler’s aloof indifference had been humiliating, the master’s manner was worse by far, a feeble attempt to appear disapproving given the lie by a hasty adjustment of his monocle in order to ensure a prime view as Thrift’s clothes were disarranged and her bottom put on show.

Mrs Fitzroper tried to spank hard, but she was too weak and her hand too plump and delicate to have much impact on Thrift’s meaty cheeks. That did nothing to lessen the humiliation of being punished bare over the ghastly woman’s lap, while what was missing in power was made up for in duration. In place of the two dozen or so hard swats the housekeeper had dished out, Mrs Fitzroper seemed happy to continue spanking Thrift indefinitely, and to lecture her on her behaviour while it was done.

The result was as inevitable as it was shameful. As her bottom gradually grew warm once again, so Thrift’s quim began to juice, a little at first but quickly increasing until she could feel the wet between her thighs. She began to sob, bitterly ashamed for the state she was in but still clinging to the hope that while Mr Fitzroper certainly had a fine view of her bottom he wouldn’t be able to see between her cheeks. With that the spanking stopped and Mrs Fitzroper spoke again.

‘That will do from me, I think. Now get up.’

Thrift rose, as astonished by what seem an unexpected act of mercy as she was relieved, only to find Mrs Melcher standing in the doorway. Her mouth came open, but she was unable to think of anything she could say that wouldn’t make things worse than they already were, and it seemed impossible to imagine that simply because she had already been spanked by Mrs Fitzroper she would be excused the same treatment from Mrs Melcher. Her fears were immediately confirmed.

‘Take Jones away, Melcher,’ Mrs Fitzroper ordered. ‘Spank her soundly and then send her up to my room to pack. Leave her bare. It does them good to think on their indignity. Now, where were me, my dear? Ah, yes, the Le Gros garden party. They’re French, of course, and so have absolutely no understanding of...’

Mrs Fitzroper didn’t even bother to glance around as Mrs Melcher took Thrift firmly by the arm and led her from the room. Downstairs, she was once more upended and stripped for spanking, her bottom exposed without thought for her modesty and smacked, this time both hard and long. Mr Winter had come back downstairs, but only to fetch a decanter of sherry, while neither Rachel nor Agnes paused from their work for more than a moment, as if the sight of Thrift’s bouncing cheeks and winking anus had become too familiar to be worthy of any attention whatsoever.

For Thrift it was a very different matter, every smack a stinging reminder of the hideously embarrassing situation she was in and every second her bottom was bare to the world a keen agony. She’d also started to cream freely, adding the blatant evidence of her wanton nature to her woes, while if what Rachel had said about Mrs Melcher’s tendency to fondle the girls’ bottoms during spankings was true the consequences seemed more or less inevitable.

Sure enough, before too long the spanking slowed and stopped, leaving Mrs Melcher’s hand cupping one hot cheek, only as if to check the heat of Thrift’s flesh to see if she needed further spanking, at least the first time. Another volley of hard smacks and again the big woman’s hand came to rest on Thrift’s bare bottom, this time to squeeze gently. Thrift, her head upside down and her view restricted to a small area of the kitchen floor, could only manage a resentful grimace, not daring to speak up and trying to tell herself that it made sense to let Mrs Melcher have a feel if it meant a break in the spanking.

It was a lie, her body responding despite her anger and shame, so that as the gentle touches grew more intrusive it was all she could do not to stick her bottom up for more. Not that Mrs Melcher seemed to care, enjoying the feel of Thrift’s hot flesh for quite a while before suddenly delivering another set of smacks, treating herself to another feel and than once more recommencing the punishment. Thrift had been gasping and panting her way through the spanking, but she was struggling to stop the noises becoming moans as the pain began to give way to an urgent need for more.

Determined not to betray her secret, Thrift shut her eyes and clenched her teeth, trying to concentrate on anything but the warm, needy sensation in her quim and the way she was exposed, which had now become exciting. Even the knowledge that the two other maids could see now brought arousal as well as shame, and she found herself wishing they’d pay her a little more attention, at least enjoying the view but preferably coming over to take their turns with her bare cheeks, maybe hold her down while she was beaten properly with a wooden spoon or a cane, even push something up her quim as a final humiliation and leave her on the floor, spanked and penetrated...

She shook her head, fighting the awful thoughts, but it was no good. Mrs Melcher’s smacks had moved lower, away from the crests of Thrift’s bottom to where her cheeks tucked down to meet her thighs. Every slap now worked to jam the rectule in up Thrift’s bottom, making her feel as if she was being sodomised with short, sharp pushes, save only that her anus was still closed tight rather than agape on the shaft of a cock or dildo. With that thought she found herself wishing it had really happened, her bottom well spanked before the three women held her down over the kitchen table for Mr Winter to give her a good buggering. It was all too easy to imagine, first his cock rubbed in her face as she was ordered to suck it and spanked until she complied, then swelling in her mouth as the girls laughed for her plight and Mrs Melcher opened up her anus with a lard smeared finger, finally forced in deep up her slippery bottom hole.

Thrift screamed as she came, unable to stop herself for her dirty thoughts and the continuous fondling and spanking of her bottom. Her muscles went tight, her hips jerked as her cunt went into contraction and a spray of white fluid erupted from between the lips of her quim, splashing on the floor and soiling her clothes. She was already apologising as Mrs Melcher gave a gasp of shock and disgust, but the fluid wouldn’t stop, squirting out in jet after jet, into her drawers and down her petticoats, over the floor and onto the leg of the table beside which she was being spanked.

Aboard the airship, Lord Charles Howard, March 29th 2010

A glance in the mirror showed Thrift’s face every bit as tired and sulky as she felt. It had not been a good night. Spanked three times until she had completely disgraced herself by squirting all over the floor, she had then been made to clear up, scrubbing the tiles on her hands and knees with her wet skirts pinned up at the back in order to show off her red bottom and keep her in mind of her behaviour. It had also been made very plain that had it not been for the departure the next day and the impossibility of Mrs Fitzroper travelling without a maid she would have been dismissed on the spot. Her task done, she had been sent upstairs to see to Mrs Fitzroper’s packing, still with her dress pinned up and with no drawers or petticoat underneath, her skirt still damp from her efforts to clean herself up. It had been long after midnight before she was finished, and when she had finally been permitted to return to her room she had discovered her suitcase open on the bed and her remaining set of underwear gone, either borrowed or simply stolen. Too tired to pursue Rachel and wary of complaining to Mrs Melcher in case she somehow managed to earn herself a fourth spanking, she had collapsed into bed.

It had seemed only an instant later that Rachel had pulled the bedclothes away to expose Thrift to the predawn chill, since when she had been engaged in frantic preparations for the journey. There had been no time to worry about her missing underwear, and so she had remained bare under her skirt, leaving her feeling intensely vulnerable as she helped to load trunks and suitcases into the small van hired to transport the luggage to the airship terminus in Hyde Park. She rode with the driver, a slab faced man of uncertain age who spent so much time admiring the swell of her chest that she feared for their safety, while the Fitzropers had gone ahead in a taximeter.

At the Empire Mast she had found her employers already aloft and herself with sole responsibility for loading their belongings. There were porters to do the heavy work, but they treated her with the same casual disrespect as had the driver, while the fresh breeze was fluttering her skirts with enough force to keep her constantly in fear of having herself exposed to the world. With everything finally stowed in the great service lift she had ridden up seated on a trunk, exhausted and relieved to be out of the wind. She stood up as the doors began to open, only to have a freezing blast hit her like a hammer, whisking her skirts high and revealing her bare belly and bottom to the porters, a brace of engineers and several of the airship crew. Some laughed, others made crude comments on the shape of her body, leaving her blushing furiously as she covered herself.

The lift head opened to the cargo hold of the airship via a walkway of steel lattice, through which the wind whistled with far greater force than at ground level. She stepped carefully across, determined not to look at the two thousand foot drop beneath her, but was unable to resist a glance that left her feeling sick and dizzy as she reached the hold. The porters were indifferent, swapping jokes and throwing her lewd, smiling glances as they loaded. Too flustered to worry about how the Fitzropers’ luggage was stowed, Thrift had gone to the tiny convenient facility set aside for the use of servants.

Only by telling herself that her suffering was in the cause of the Empire did she manage to carry on, adjusting herself in the mirror before moving forward to find the Professional Lounge, where the Fitzroys would presumably be travelling. The airship was huge, a new design, larger and more luxurious than any other and capable of reaching any part of the vast British Empire without touching down, and of circling the globe. She wasn’t even sure where she was in relation to the bow, stern, or the four great Collins Engines that powered the monster, but eventually managed to find her way forward. Mr and Mrs Fitzroy were standing at the window, admiring the view over London. They had chosen to wear black and yellow, so that they looked for all the world like two large, round bumble bees straining for the light, but Thrift quickly pushed the amusing comparison away as she curtsied.

‘There you are, Jones,’ Mrs Fitzroper snapped. ‘Whatever have you been doing, and where is my small valise? Really, you are the most stupid, wayward girl I have ever had in my employ. No wonder the Moncreiffs got rid of you. Now hurry along.’

Thrift went back the way she had come, muttering a few of the curses she had picked up in the Far East under her breath as she went. Now that she was aboard the airship she could not fail to reach France, where the Lord Charles Howard touched at Amiens and then Reims before continuing on her grand tour of the old European cities. It was tempting to find herself a snug place somewhere in the servants’ area and try to catch up on her sleep, perhaps even worth the inevitable spanking. She would then be sacked and replaced with a French maid, which was part of her plan, but not until they were safely on the ground. To act too soon might mean she found herself forced to return to England from Amiens, which would be disastrous.

A faint jolt signalled that the airship was no longer attached to the mast, and by the time Thrift reached the cargo area it was to find a locked gate with a burly porter stationed on guard. He flatly refused to move, entirely unimpressed by Mrs Fitzroper’s status, and Thrift was left to return to the Professional Lounge empty handed, fully expecting her fourth spanking since entering the family’s employ. Sure enough, no sooner had she once more announced herself to Mrs Fitzroper than she was told to come close to the large, round table at which her employers were now seated with a group of other passengers and to lift her skirt. Blushing hot, she obeyed, but while the men cast only sly glances towards her, none of the women took the least notice, save for Mrs Fitzroper herself, whose voice was raised in annoyance and also surprise as Thrift’s bare legs and bottom came on show.

‘Why do you have no underwear, Jones?’

‘I... I left it behind,’ Thrift stammered, unwilling to attempt a full explanation of the circumstances.

‘You are a stupid, slovenly, wanton girl,’ Mrs Fitzroper responded. ‘Imagine, going about with nothing on beneath your skirt, the very idea!’

‘I’m sorry, Ma’am,’ Thrift mumbled.

‘I should think you are! Now, stand still, with your skirts well up and push yourself out a little.’

Thrift obeyed, adopting the humiliating position so that her cheeks could be slapped with brisk, upwards motions that made her flesh bounce and jiggle. The sight of a mere maid being spanked was evidently too commonplace for the passengers even to interrupt their conversation, and as Thrift’s bottom warmed to the slaps a portly matron in blue was enlarging on her opinion of the peoples of Europe.

‘There is no race more detestable than the French,’ she was saying. ‘Throughout history they have been jealous of our achievements, and since they were obliged to surrender their colonies in order to pay off their war loans, they have been worse than ever. Why they should even be permitted into the country I can not imagine.’

Her companions nodding agreement, Mrs Fitzroper included. Thrift’s chagrin redoubled, not for her punishment, which she could hardly deny was just, but for their indifference to her. To be spanked was bad enough, but for her spanking to be regarded as so utterly inconsequential was worse by far. By the time it was over her resentment had risen to boiling point, but her bottom was warm enough to trigger her wanton feelings, leaving her feeling both mildly aroused and thoroughly sorry for herself as she was sent to sit out of the way where her presence would not inconvenience the Professional passengers but she could be called upon if needed.

With stewards from the airship company on call she found herself left to her own devices, with nothing better to do than stare out of the window. They had risen high and come well south of London, with the landscape below now a patchwork of verdant green fields and darker woods, with here and there the irregular shapes of towns and villages and the long, pale ribbons of the roads. The Channel was already visible, a sheet of distant silver in the bright sunlight, with the French coast a faint line on the horizon.

Her thoughts turned to her mission and what was likely to be necessary in Paris, prostituting herself for one man at the very least and possibly many more. The prospect put a lump in her throat and made her stomach churn, but it also made the warm feeling in her quim grow abruptly stronger. When Mrs Fitzroper had called her a wanton it had been meant to humiliate her, and it had. Yet it was also true, and the cause of her disgrace at Diplomatic School and subsequent entry into the Service. She was easily aroused, and once aroused had great difficulty controlling herself, but that did nothing to abate the shame of her behaviour, rather the opposite.

‘Jones. Jones! Jones, will you pay attention, you stupid girl!’

Thrift sat up sharply, having only realised the command was intended for her on the third use of the unfamiliar name. She came quickly to the table, curtsying once more as she spoke.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Fitzroper. I was daydreaming.’

‘You really are beyond the limit,’ Mrs Fitzroper replied, ‘something I intend to deal with properly once we have touched down, with a cane.’

There was a murmur of approval from the other passengers. Thrift’s cheeks tightened at the prospect of the beating but she hung her head meekly, repeating her apology while privately promising herself that she would leave the Fitzroy’s employment the instant her feet touched French soil. Spanking was one thing, the cane quite another, especially as she was sure to be made to touch her toes and it was likely to be done in front of the lecherous Mr Fitzroper. The Professional classes seemed to have no concept whatsoever of propriety.

‘You are to go to the Maisly-Smyth’s stateroom and collect the small valise you will find on the bed. It really is ever so kind of you, Mrs Maisly-Smyth. Jones is an absolute featherbrain, but good staff are so hard to find nowadays...’

Mrs Fitzroper’s voice faded as Thrift made her way across the lounge. A helpful steward revealed that the cabin she wanted was No104 on the deck above and she quickly found it, and the small, pink valise on the bed. Taking it up, she turned to find Mr Fitzroper coming in at the door, his bowling ball head split by a grin so blatantly lewd that Thrift found herself instinctively clutching the valise to her chest.

‘A word with you, my dear,’ he stated. ‘Do sit down.’

‘I, er... I need to get back to the lounge,’ Thrift protested. ‘Mrs Fitzroper will be expecting me, and if... if I’m not quick...’

‘You are likely to have that fat little bottom of yours smacked again,’ he supplied as Thrift trail off in embarrassment, ‘but that’s not really so very awful, is it? Not beside a dozen cuts of the cane?’

‘No,’ Thrift admitted, wondering if he was threatening her or about to try and bribe her into some indiscretion.

‘I am master in my own house,’ he stated, against the evidence Thrift had so far seen, ‘and you may find that by being nice to me you spend rather less time with a sore bottom than might otherwise be the case.’

‘What do you want?’ Thrift sighed.

‘Ah, ha!’ he responded, his grin growing wider still. ‘I see you are not without experience. Let us say then, that if you were to grant me certain little favours – nothing exceptional, just the sort of thing girls like you do for your sweethearts all the time – then I can at least reduce the number of punishments you suffer, although it must be said that in your case you do rather seem to bring it on yourself. Still, at the very least I think I can promise to have you let off that whacking, should you so wish?’

He stopped talking and slowly closed one eye in what was presumably meant to be a conspiratorial wink. Thrift hesitated, telling herself that she had no desire whatsoever to attend to the dirty little man’s penis and that the only reason she was considering giving in to his demand was for the advantages she might gain. Not only might she be excused her caning but once they were safely in France she could go to Mrs Fitzroper in a fit of supposed guilt and confess all, thus ensuring she was dismissed on the spot while gaining revenge on both the wine merchant and his ghastly wife. It was hardly a noble thought, she realised, but too satisfying to resist.

‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What’s it to be, a little fun, or to have that saucy pink bottom of yours thrashed? It will be well thrashed too, let me assure you of that. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to France, a common little thing like you, but they’re not the same as us, oh no! They think nothing of young girls going bare in public, and they’re in want of money too, most of them. For a few francs, which are worth a shilling or so each, Paradise can have you stripped naked in the centre of Reims, horsed up by one labourer and thrashed by another. How would that feel, eh? She might even give you to them afterwards, who knows? It’s not the same in France, oh no, and once our respectable companions are out of the way, well, who knows? Who knows, eh, Mary Jones, you plump little baggage, you!?’

He had been growing increasingly excited as he spoke, clearly enjoying the picture of Thrift’s public thrashing, and his hand had strayed to what was already a conspicuous bulge at the front of his trousers. She glanced down, still reluctant, but telling herself it was for the best, especially as for all she knew his description of the fate that awaited her in Reims might be accurate. At the very least she could play for time.

‘I suppose I had better,’ she said. ‘Yes, when we have time alone, I will...’

‘Oh no you don’t!’ he interrupted. ‘I know your game, you little tease, all promises and then no action, so you can enjoy the thought of poor Kingdom Fitzroper all in a sweat over you while you give your favours to the coal boy or some apprentice from the shops. Come on, show willing, damn you!’

As he spoke he had unbuttoned his fly, to pull a thick, brownish penis and a fat set of balls from within his longjohns.

‘Mr Fitzroper!’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me!’ he snapped back. ‘I know what you girls are like, all coy and precious, but right little wantons underneath. Do you know how to pull on a man’s pego? I suspect you do, and more, so sit yourself down on the bed and get busy.’

‘But I must get back to Mrs Fitzroper,’ Thrift objected, but she had done as she was told, seating herself on the bed. ‘Oh, very well, but you must be quick.’

‘How am I to be quick if you take that attitude?’ he demanded. ‘Come along, titties out at the very least, and I’ll want a feel, but if you want me to hurry with the job you’d better pop me in that pretty mouth of yours.’

‘You are an absolute beast, Mr Fitzroper,’ Thrift told him as her hands went to the catches of her dress.

‘You may call be Kingdom, I think, as we’re to be friends,’ he said, and began to masturbate.

It was no easy matter for Thrift to expose herself, with more than a dozen fastenings to be undone and her corset adjusted before she could lift her breasts free of her dress. He watched every motion, drinking in the gradual revelation of her chest and smacking his lips in delight when both plump pink globes were finally bare. By then his cock was already half stiff, the glossy red tip of his helmet poking out from the meat of his foreskin with every tug.

‘My but you’ve got big ones,’ he drawled. ‘Get to work then, while I have a feel.’

Thrift gave a last, forlorn sigh and reached out to take his penis in her hand. He was quite big, not particularly long, but thick, like his body. Her hand barely closed around his shaft, and it was impossible not to imagine how it would feel to have the same fat rod stretching out the mouth of her vagina or even pushing in and out of her bottom hole. She told herself it wasn’t going to happen, but she was already pulling on his shaft, unable to hold back her need, while he had taken her breasts in his hands and was rubbing his thumbs over her nipples.

To her relief he had stopped talking, his mouth now pursed and his eyes closed in bliss as he fondled her. His cock was growing swiftly in her hand, the helmet now fully out, shiny with pressure. Thrift found herself wanting to take it in her mouth, but held back, determined to preserve what little dignity was left to her while making him come as quickly as possible. She began to pull harder, and to tease his balls with her free hand, tickling underneath where the fat sack of his scrotum bulged from his fly and squeezing them too. He gave a sigh of appreciation and moved in a step closer so that his erection now reared up over Thrift’s bare chest.

She could smell his cock, pungent and masculine, filling her with disgust but making the urge to take it in her mouth all the stronger. He pushed closer still, to lift her breasts and fold them around his erection to fuck in her cleavage as she let go. His cock felt hot against the cool skin of her breasts, while the motion of his rubbing was making his trousers brush on her now painfully stiff nipples. She gave in, telling herself that it made no difference whether she lost her dignity in front of him or not. After all, to him she was just a common maid. Her skirt came up and her hand had found her quim, rubbing urgently as she opened her mouth to signal that she was ready to be made to suck on his cock.

‘That’s better,’ he groaned, ‘but no nonsense now.’

He had taken her by the hair as he lifted his cock from her cleavage and pushed it at her face. Thrift took him in, her senses swimming with both shame and ecstasy as she began to suck on his penis. She had found the little bump between her sex lips, masturbating openly with her thighs spread wide and already fighting the urge to lie back on the bed and beg him to fuck her. Not that she had the choice, with his hand twisted tight into her hair and his cock now pushing deep into her throat with every thrust.She began to gag and tried to pull back a little, but he merely tightened his grip.

‘No you don’t, you little tart,’ he grunted. ‘You swallow.’

With that he came, the spunk ejaculating down Thrift’s throat to make her jerk and retch, her muscles in spasm where the head of his cock was jammed down her gullet. He cried out in ecstasy, holding himself deep as spurt after spurt erupted from his cock, until finally her body revolted and she went into a violent coughing fit. A mixture of spunk and mucus exploded from her nose, all over his trousers, then more, gushing out from around her lips as he finally pulled back a little. She was left gasping for breath as he stepped away, cursing at the state of his clothes, but Thrift was too far gone to care. A moment to recover her breath and she had laid back on the bed, masturbating freely in full view of the man who’d just used her, until she too reached orgasm.

Épernay, France, March 30th 2010

Thrift let her breath out in a long, heartfelt sigh. She stood in the Avenue de Champagne, a broad street lined with the great, decaying mansions that housed the famous Champagne firms. The Fitzropers had gone into the nearest of these, the gate of which showed the name Arcens et Ay, with which she had been familiar with since childhood and was occasionally seen even in the Far East. As a mere maid she had not been invited inside, but instructed to wait in the street until the tasting her employers’ were attending was over.

It promised to be a long wait, and the temptation to simply slip away was considerable. Unfortunately she knew that her disappearance was likely to be investigated, which might lead to later difficulties, making it essential that she stick to her original plan, which had proved less easy to implement than she had expected. Mr Fitzroper had been as good as his word and talked his wife out of administering a caning when they touched down in Reims. Thrift had been spanked instead, bare bottom as always and with what seemed like half the population of the city present in the arrivals lounge beneath the Joffre Tower where the Lord Charles Howard had moored. It had been her fourth spanking of the day, following another given standing after her late return with Mrs Maisly-Smyth’s valise and a session over Mrs Fitzroper’s knee for spilling tea into a saucer as they left Amiens Tower.

She had fully expected to be dismissed at Reims, given that the city was certainly large enough to provide a French maid in her place, but again Mr Fitzroper had spoken up on her behalf, pointing out that no French girl could possibly be expected to cope with the complexities of his wife’s toilette. Next had been her attempt to hire a van to transport their luggage to Épernay, which had been successful save that the driver had assumed that Thrift and the employers would ride along with the luggage, leading to furious indignation from Mrs Fitzroper and a fifth spanking. Her sixth had come in the lobby of the hotel, given for no better reason than that the journey had put Mrs Fitzroper in a foul temper, and her seventh also, for no apparent reason at all.

Finally alone and badly in need of a little comfort and personal indulgence, she looked about for some pleasant way of passing the time. She had plenty of money, but it was in her rectule, which she could hardly extract from her bottom hole in the middle of a busy street, while she had already been horrified to discover that the French concept of a public convenient facility offered little concealment from passers-by and non from other users. Yet there did seem to be one possibility. A little way down the street a signboard stood outside one of the lesser Champagne houses and people could be seen filing inside without apparently having to pay.

Thrift gave a cautious glance towards the ornate door of dark, polished wood and inscribed glass through which the Fitzropers had disappeared before starting down the street. As she had hoped, the sign board advertised a free tasting of Champagne, while the rather good looking young man at the gates ushered her inside with no more than a mildly doubtful look at her dress. She responded with a smile, entering the premises to where a long, cloth covered trestle table had been set up in the courtyard of a domain far less grand than Arcens et Ay but with the same air of rotting grandeur that seemed to characterise so many of France’s more prestigious buildings.

Another young man offered her a glass of Champagne, which she accepted gratefully. The first sip was bliss, cool and fresh and clean, so good that with the second she shut her eyes in order to fully savour the pleasure, a gesture appreciated by the young man. He suggested that she should try the Extra Brut, stating that it was especially popular in the British Empire. Again Thrift accepted with pleasure, enjoying the Champagne far more than she would have done normally. She had drunk only water on the airship and at the hotel, taking the frugal meals provided by the Fitzropers alone while they enjoyed the best of the menu washed down by a series of fine wines.

The company was also charming. She was no stranger to male attention, but her position with the Diplomatic Service and her fall from grace meant that British men of her social class treated her either with lofty contempt or lecherous fascination, often both, while the lower orders were frequently downright rude and all the more so since she had taken up her position as Mrs Fitzroper’s maid. The young Frenchmen were very different, full of charm and wit, while apparently indifferent to her lack of status. Indeed, they were most attentive, especially Jean-Claude, who was pouring the wines, although Xavier, on the gate, also made a special effort to be pleasant, even attempting to address her in English.

By the time she had tried the Rosé and two different vintages all the stress and strain of the previous day had melted away. She felt fully alive and wonderfully happy, the pretence of being a maid now an exciting subterfuge, the ten spankings she had been given in the space of thirty-six hours merely comic and even something to be proud of, especially as every single one had been taken bare and most had been in front of an audience. Better still, she’d avoided a caning by attending to Mr Fitzroper’s cock for him, something very few girls would have had the courage to do, although it had occurred to her that his description of her public thrashing had probably been exaggerated. Swallowing the last of her glass, she turned to Jean-Claude.

‘Delicious, yes. May I try the red one? I’ve never seen red Champagne.’

‘No, no,’ he chided her, ‘not yet. The red must be tasted last, and with a little cheese. Try the Demi-Sec.’

‘Thank you,’ Thrift answered, accepting yet another glass. ‘May I ask you a question, please, Jean-Claude?’

‘But of course.’

‘Um... if, for example, a rich woman, the wife of a merchant maybe, if she wanted to punish her maid and decided to beat her in public, with a cane, would that happen?’

Jean-Claude looked puzzled, but only for a moment. Thrift apologised for her clumsy French but he assured her he had understood.

‘No, you speak very well, but this would be very peculiar. I have never seen such a thing.’

‘But could it happen?’ Thrift pressed.

Jean-Claude shrugged.

‘I think, maybe, but we French, we are not like you English, obsessed with the smacking of bottoms.’

‘We’re not obsessed!’ Thrift protested.

Again he shrugged.

‘But you are. Here in France a naughty girl might be spanked, certainly, and girls are often spanked in brothels, or given the cane, but only when needed. You English, you are always at it, and for the least thing. I work here, and we have many English customers. Always the women spank their maids, even their daughters on occasion. One little mistake and it is smack, smack, smack.’

‘I suppose that’s true,’ Thrift admitted, ‘and you don’t stop it happening?’

‘No. In France we believe in the freedom of the individual, so yes, if a girl is to be spanked, what of it? Maybe a girl could also be beaten as you describe.’

‘And would she be bare?’ Thrift asked, in an embarrassed whisper and trying to sound indignant, but delighting in the naughtiness of her words. ‘Bare bottom, or even naked.’

‘But naturally,’ he responded. ‘How else to spank a girl, but on her bare bottom, or yes, maybe naked.’

His words sent a little shiver through Thrift at the thought of her exposure, by no means unpleasant.

‘Will this happen to you?’ he carried on, his voice sympathetic but not without a hint of curiosity.

‘No!’ Thrift answered hastily. ‘I was just interested, that’s all. It was something somebody said on the airship, and... but anyway what do you do if a girl’s naughty?’

‘Possibly,’ he grinned, ‘we smack her bottom, if she is English.’

‘Seriously?’ Thrift asked, wondering what sort of treatment she could expect for any misdemeanours while in Paris.

‘To do some unpleasant task is normal,’ he responded, ‘and useful also, or to be tied for a while, and yes, sometimes to have her bottom smacked, but not every time, not like you English. Still, I think you like it, do you not, at least a little?’

Thrift coloured and giggled, making him laugh just as Xavier approached.

‘What is amusing you?’ he asked.

‘She is worried her mistress will whip her if she gets too drunk,’ Jean-Claude told him, ‘and if it will be in public.’

‘I didn’t...,’ Thrift began but they merely laughed.

‘Not now, surely, there would be no time to do it properly before lunch,’ Xavier joked, ‘and speaking of lunch, there is a café we know, down by the river, perhaps...’

He left his sentence unfinished, but with a meaningful gesture to the far side of the street, where a narrow alley led away between two of the great mansions.

‘I really shouldn’t...,’ Thrift began, but they had already taken her arms, Jean-Claude also collecting a half-empty magnum from the table as they steered her towards the gate.

Thrift let it happen, enjoying herself too much to care for the consequences and reasoning that it was an excellent way to get herself dismissed in any event. They entered the alley, which descended towards the river by twists and turns, with slants alternating with short flights of worn stone steps. Just as she had expected they soon stopped, Jean-Claude taking a swallow from the bottle as Xavier put his arms around her and pressed his lips to hers. She responded, drunk and aroused, revelling in their attention. Jean-Claude came close and she was quickly and efficiently stripped down, her dress hauled high to expose her quim and unfastened to spill out her breasts. Eager fingers found her sex, penetrating her to leave her gasping with pleasure as she struggled to share her favours evenly between them. Not that they seemed to care, happy to act in concert and quite uninhibited as they pulled their cocks out to have her suck them with Thrift on her knees and a penis in either hand.

She soon had two full erections to cope with, sucking them turn and turn about and masturbating them into her mouth as they grinned down at her in-between gulps of Champagne. When they passed the bottle to her she took a gulp, holding it in her mouth to let the cold wine engulf Xavier’s cock as she took him back in. Jean-Claude immediately demanded the same treatment, which they repeated several times, leaving Thrift in fits of giggles with Champagne running down her face and breasts.

Dr Molloy’s treatment had left her safe from conceiving for six months, so she gave no resistance as they made her take a firm grip on the railings beside the path and once more threw up her skirts. Xavier entered her first, holding her breasts in his hands as he pumped into her from behind and Jean-Claude stood by watching and playing with his cock. Thrift gaped wide to show she wanted to suck and he put it in, fucking her mouth while his friend attended to her cunt. The last of the Champagne was poured out over her face and hair as they picked up their rhythm, fucking her hard and fast until she was dizzy with ecstasy and entirely surrendered to their will.

The men swapped places, Xavier now with his back to the wall and his cock in Thrift’s mouth as Jean-Claude pumped into her, his lean hips slamming into her buttocks with ever thrust to set her tits swinging and force his friend’s erection ever deeper into her throat. She wanted to come, her quim urgent for the touch of her fingers, but she had no choice but to keep her grip on the railings or risk collapsing onto the ground. Jean-Claude seemed to read her mind, slipping his cock from her hole to rub it between the lips of her cunt, the fat helmet bumping over her clitoris.

It took seconds, her muscles immediately starting to contract to the delicious feeling and the thoughts of how dirty she was being, and as she started to come, so did Xavier. The first gout of spunk went into her mouth, the second over her face as he pulled back to tug furiously at his shaft, soiling her cheeks and nose, closing one eye and decorating her hair with a thick streamer of sticky white stuff. Lost in her own ecstasy, Thrift took him back in her mouth, sucking up what was left in his cock and swallowing it as wave after wave of pleasure swept through her and little jets of fluid erupted from her cunt.

Her orgasm finally began to fade, but she stayed as she was, allowing Jean-Claude to enjoy her bottom as he finished himself off in his hand, spurting the full contents of his balls all over her upturned cheeks before using his cock to wipe his spunk into her skin and smear her still twitching anus. Only when he finally stepped away did she stand up, filthy but happy as she retrieved the handkerchief that had dropped to the ground when her dress was unfastened.

They helped her clean up, laughing together for the state she was in before linking arms and continuing on their way. The café they had suggested proved to be further than she had imagined, across both the Rue de Verdun and the railway, while they treated her to a generous lunch, ordering up a bottle of the red Champagne she’d missed during the tasting and using it to wash down bread and cheese and paté. By the time they were finished the two men had just minutes to go before they were due back at work, and Thrift let them run ahead, reaching the Avenue de Champagne alone.

It was several hours since she’d been left on the pavement outside Arcens et Ay, while she was supposed to have waited until the tasting and the subsequent lunch were finished, then accompany Mrs Fitzroper into town to carry parcels. Given the time the French seemed to take over lunch she wasn’t even sure that she was late, and so dawdled back towards where she was supposed to be, admiring the great houses and wondering idly whether she would be spanked again before she was dismissed. She decided that she would be, almost certainly, and that actually it would be rather nice to be sent on her way with a warm bottom, which meant that there was no obstacle whatsoever in the way of her telling Mrs Fitzroper a few home truths beforehand.

There was nobody on the pavement outside Arcens et Ay, while the great doors were closed and the courtyard empty. After waiting a few minutes Thrift gave an irritable glance at her timepiece, wondering just how long it was possible to draw out a lunch and considering how bored she’d have been had she not gone to the tasting. She thought of how she treated her family maids, but while she was sure they grumbled occasionally neither she nor her parents would have dreamt of leaving a servant standing in a hot street for hours without so much as a glass of water or a bite of bread.

Again she glanced at her timepiece, although less than a minute had passed. She began to walk up and down the street, admiring the great buildings and trying to work out how so much that was French managed to seem fine and shabby at the same time. Still there was no sign of the Fitzropers, and before long she had begun to get sticky and sore, while as the effects of the Champagne wore off she was beginning to feel ashamed of herself for her wanton behaviour, and to make matters worse, she wasn’t sure that she’d got all the spunk out of her hair. A long, hot bath was becoming an urgent priority, so much so that she’d quickly decided to forgo both the tirade at Mrs Fitzroper’s expense and the subsequent spanking, which no longer seemed so appealing.

Finally Mrs Fitzroper appeared, not from the premises of Arcens et Ay, but around a distant corner, at speed and looking more than ever like an angry bee. Thrift stayed where she was, now determined to give as good as she got, get her dismissal over with as soon as possible and then retire to some suitable hotel to clean up.

‘There you are, you useless, ungrateful little tyke!’ Mrs Fitzroper snapped as she came close. ‘Where have you been? What have you been doing? How dare you wander away like that! I gave you a specific instruction, did I not? That was to wait in the street until my husband and I had concluded our business, and...’

‘Oh, do be quiet,’ Thrift sighed. ‘I was bored. I went drinking with some French boys.’

‘What!? You hussy! You sloven! I shall have you caned, whipped, put in the pillory! Never have I heard such insolence, and from a maid! Why, I do believe that you are quite the rudest person I have ever had the misfortune to encounter!’

‘Yes, I am rude,’ Thrift told her, ‘but you, you are a pompous old bag of wind, a vulgar, spiteful old harridan with no sense whatsoever of duty towards those you employ, while the ridiculous airs you give yourself in an attempt to imitate your betters remind me of nothing so much as a cartload of chimpanzees dressed up in castoffs to take tea at the zoological gardens. Meanwhile...’

Thrift had meant to continue, but Mrs Fitzroper had gone purple and was making odd motions with her mouth, not unlike those of a goldfish removed from water. When she finally found her voice the words came as a screech, and in English.

‘I want her whipped!’ she yelled at two passing Frenchmen, who merely looked puzzled. ‘I want her stripped naked and whipped until she faints, now, in the street! You, you there, with the cart!’

She was addressing a man on the far side of the road, the driver of a horse and cart loaded with manure for the roses of one of the Champagne Houses. He looked up, as puzzled as the rest of the people gathering to see what all the fuss was about, then in rising astonishment as Mrs Fitzroper finally remembered to speak his language.

‘Yes, you. You have a whip. Take this girl, strip her naked, put her in the dung, face down, and whip her until she bleeds! Do you here me!?’

He shrugged, glancing to Thrift and then to the wide circle of onlookers. Mrs Fitzroper began to dig furiously into her bag, finally pulling out a handful of change, which she thrust back in with a look of annoyance.

‘I cannot pay you at present, but my husband will deal with you fairly in due course. Now, come along, and you, and you, you are to assist, and I want her well whipped, do you understand?’

One of the men made to answer, but broke off as Thrift approached. It was too much. She was used to spankings, and always prepared to suffer in the line of duty, but to be stripped in the street, thrown over the back of a dung cart with her face and chest in a load of manure while she was beaten with a horse whip was intolerable. Shooting out one hand, she grabbed Mrs Fitzroper by the wrist, twisting it with one practised motion to render the small woman helpless, if not silent.

Mrs Fitzroper gave a shriek of indignation and jerked hard. Thrift held her grip, to frogmarch her captive towards an ornamental iron bollard of a size and shape ideal for her purpose. Mrs Fitzroper continued to fight, ordering Thrift to release her and screaming at the onlookers to come to her aid. Neither took any notice, but it was only when Thrift sat herself down on the bollard that Mrs Fitzroper realised her fate.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Thrift said calmly. ‘I am going to spank you.’

The screech of raw fury that left Mrs Fitzroper’s throat at Thrift’s words put all her previous efforts to shame. Her struggles grew frantic, her little feet kicking at the pavement and at Thrift’s legs in their boots, her one free hand snatching and clawing in ever more desperate attempts to get at her tormentor. Thrift ignored it all, her thick dress proof against even the most determined assault, while she was far stronger than Mrs Fitzroper, for all the other’s incandescent rage. As Mrs Fitzroper fought, she uttered one word again and again ; ‘Impossible!’

‘No,’ Thrift corrected her calmly. ‘It is not impossible. You are to be spanked, and it’s no more impossible for you than it is for any other stuck-up brat, whatever your age and however highly you happen to think of yourself.’

As she spoke she had gone about the business to exposing her target. Mrs Fitzroper was fully dressed, and stripping her bottom was no easy matter. Beneath her skirt were the traditional three petticoats, of taffeta, cotton and wool in order, each of which had to be hauled up and tucked into place without letting go, and with each layer Mrs Fitzroper’s struggles grew more furious still. The crowd watched in fascination, both amused and amazed. Several comments were passed on the elaboration of Mrs Fitzroper’s underwear, especially as Thrift revealed the knee length panel back corset. Now thoroughly enjoying herself, Thrift began to explain.

‘It’s really quite an ordinary garment, good enough quality for a woman of her class, but not from one of the best houses. These catches are cleaver though, quite flat, but just a little push and they come open, you see?’

Mrs Fitzroper was struggling with every ounce of her strength as Thrift popped open the corset catches, one by one, finally allowing herself to open the panel and reveal the drawers beneath. These were heavy, cream coloured silk and fastened with a dozen minute mother-of-pearl buttons which she began to tweak open in turn. There was now more horror than anger in Mrs Fitzroper’s tone as she once more found her voice.

‘Jones, no! You cannot! It is impossible, simply impossible! Have you no sense of decency!? Jones!’

‘What was it you said to me?’ Thrift remarked, still working on the tiny buttons. ‘Ah, yes, that was it - “leave her bare. It does them good to think on their indignity.” – when you made me do your packing with my skirts pinned up, and I know you believe in spanking on the bare bottom, a valuable lesson which I have been at pains to learn.’

Mrs Fitzroper began to answer, her tone now pleading, only for her voice to break to a howl of anguish as the last of the buttons came loose and Thrift twitched away the panel to expose a pair of small but decidedly plump bottom cheeks to the audience. Thrift lifted one knee to bring her victim’s rear into greater prominence. Laughing, she began the spanking, not hard at all, but with little playful slaps delivered with the tips of her fingers, what were known as nursery pats. The significance was not lost on Mrs Fitzroper, who went berserk, once more fighting with all her strength, so that it was all Thrift could do to keep her seat as she continued to smack the squirming, jiggling bottom cheeks now thrust high in a frame of lace and satin like two fat pink jellies in a nest of doilies.

‘Now, now, do keep still, Paradise,’ Thrift chided, in English. ‘You are making a frightful display of yourself, and in front of foreigners. You do know your bottom hole shows when you wriggle about like that, don’t you? And your quim.’

It was true, Mrs Fitzroper’s frantic bucking was making her cheeks part to show off the tight pinkish-brown dimple between, along with a pair of plump, well furred cunt lips. Yet she was clearly past caring, writhing in an agony of shame as Thrift continued with the spanking, harder now in order to bring a flush to the fat little cheeks. The crowd was getting thicker too, with both men and women looking on and swapping remarks. As Thrift spanked she thought of all the times it had been Mrs Fitzroper dishing it out and her on the receiving end, bare bottomed and blushing in front of any number of onlookers as she was punished. With that thought she began to spank harder still, her anger rising once more, and when one of the women in the crowd offered her a small, silver backed hairbrush she took it gratefully.

With the application of the hairbrush to her already scarlet bottom, Mrs Fitzroper finally gave in, the anger of her protests and the determination of her struggles giving way to cries of pain and a pathetic, futile wriggling motion as she tried in vain to escape the slaps. That was the moment Thrift had been waiting for, and one she was sure would come, so she delivered a last two dozen hard smacks and let go. Mrs Fitzroper tumbled to the ground, lay for a moment with her thighs wide and her cunt spread to the gaping crowd, then scrambled hastily to her feet and fled, her bare bottom jiggling behind her as she attempted to untangle her skirts and petticoats from the middle of her back.

‘I imagine,’ Thrift called out, ‘that I am dismissed?’

Thrift walked slowly along the bank of the Marne, intent on finding somewhere sufficiently private to allow her to remove her rectule and extract some money. It was an awkward and embarrassing process even in the privacy of a convenient facility, let along in the open, but with no luggage at all and only the clothes she stood up in there was little choice. She also needed to relieve herself, making her search increasingly urgent.

A clump of hawthorn some way ahead looked promising, thick enough to shield her from both the river and the railway that ran alongside it, both of which seemed to carry an extraordinary amount of traffic. Sure enough, once she had pushed through the outer screen of greenery she found herself in a damp, shady space just big enough for what she had to do. Hauling her dress up, she stuck out her bottom, put one hand back between her cheeks and pushed. Her mouth came open in a soft, involuntary sigh as she felt her anus spread to the pressure within and a sharp, naughty thrill ran through her as the tip of the rectule began to protrude.

Smiling for her own wantonness, she shut her eyes, imagining that some giant of a man was slowly withdrawing his cock from her bottom hole, and that he would shortly be thrusting it back up. It was a nice thought, and a nice feeling, tempting her to masturbate while the rectule was still half up her bottom, stretching her anus and thick between her cheeks. Her smile grew broader as she gave in to her need, slipping her spare hand between her thighs to rub at the taut bump of her clitoris while she eased the now slippery rectule gently in and out of her bottom hole. In her mind she had been followed along the bank, caught being rude with herself in the bushes and talked into accepting a buggering. The man of her imagination was a giant, seven foot of muscle and sinew with a cock to match, a cock she’d be made to suck to erection, on her knees among the litter of leaves at his feet. With his erection a monstrous, rock hard pole she’d be allowed to stop sucking, only to be made to get down on all fours with her bottom stuck up in the air. He’d rip her dress wide, spilling out her breasts, tug up her skirt to bare her bottom, fuck her briefly and then force his monster cock slowly in up her back passage, filling her rectum until she felt she would split.

Thrift came over her dirty thoughts, mouth wide in ecstasy as she felt her quim go tight and the straining ring of her anus pulse on the fat cylinder within. At the very peak of her orgasm she pushed it back up, almost all the way, and as the pleasure began to fade she drew it slowly back out, still lost in her filthy fantasy and now imagining that the giant would complete her degradation by finishing off in her mouth after he had been up her bottom. It was an exquisitely dirty thought, which made her shiver with mischievous delight as she stood up, now holding the rectule and pondering how best to clean up.

She was about to step out from cover when a noise caught her attention, then movement beyond the bushes. The next instant the foliage was being thrust aside as a dark figure came at her, lunging at her belly even as she struck out with the rectule. She felt the impact, like a punch to her stomach, and again, this time with her face staring directly into hers, lean, hawk features beneath the brim of a hat, grinning, then distorted as the rectule struck home. A third time she hit him, and a fourth, lashing out in blind panic but accurately enough. He slumped to his knees, a slender knife falling from his fingers, then toppled over as Thrift brought a fifth blow down directly on top of his head. His hat fell away and Thrift landed two more hard blows on his unprotected temple before stepping away.

Her breath was coming in ragged gasps and she couldn’t stop shaking, nor clutching the ragged slashes in her dress where his knife had gone in. The steel of her corset had held, as she knew full well it was supposed to, but that did little to calm her feelings and her fist remained gripped tight on the rectule, ready to strike again if he so much as twitched. He didn’t, battered unconscious with a thin trickle of blood running from his ear, and for a moment Thrift wondered if he was dead.

The thought finally roused her to action, although she was left shaking and with a sick feeling in her stomach as she checked his pulse. He was alive, and she kept the rectule to hand as she quickly went through his pockets. There was little of consequence, exactly as she had expected, because it was beyond reasonable coincidence that he was anything but an agent from the French Bureau. No lone maniac would have been so fast, so efficient, but he would have gloated, and no doubt expected to despoil her first. The quiet, unassuming dress and the neat but deadly little knife all suggested the same conclusion.

As she pulled coins from her rectule with trembling fingers her mind was already crowding with the implications of what had happened. She had either been followed or betrayed. Either way, the Bureau knew a great deal more about her than she had supposed. Not only that, but he might have a companion and would be expected to report to his superiors in any case, which meant she had to get clear of Épernay as fast as she could and not by any of the obvious routes. The railway was out of the question, also returning to Reims to catch an airship, which left two options, the roads or the river.

After one quick glance along the river bank to make sure that nobody was coming, Thrift rolled the man deeper into the bushes, took what money he had and scattered the rest of the contents of his wallet about so that if anybody found him they would assume he’d been robbed. With her dress torn she looked less respectable than ever, while it would evidently be to her advantage to change as soon as possible.

Leaving the shelter of the bushes, she made her way back along the bank of the Marne, forcing herself to walk slowly and casually but with her heart thumping in her chest. The river was as busy as before and a train was just pulling into the distant station, but the bank was empty. Evidently the assassin had been working alone, or at the least his partner was elsewhere, and Thrift’s hopes began to rise. There even seemed to be a possibility of escape, on one of the big, black iron barges moving out on the broad channel of the river. After all, the bargees were French, and even their English counterparts were notoriously crude and lacking in morals. No doubt it would mean being roundly used all the way to Paris, but that was an easy fate to accept beside what was sure to happen if she remained in Épernay.

On the Marne, France, April 2nd 2010

Thrift’s mouth moved smoothly up and down the bargee’s penis. He was big, unpleasantly fleshy and tasted of coal dust, but still she did her best to stimulate him with her tongue and lips, resigned to sucking cock in return for her safety and transport to Paris. She was half naked, her dress turned down to allow her heavy breasts to loll forward, swinging slowly to the motion of her sucking, but going topless was also part of the price she had agreed to pay. Her choice made sense, she knew, but that did little to dilute her shame as she worked on the fat erection in her mouth, or her consternation at what was about to happen. Already he was getting urgent, grunting with pleasure and pushing himself deep into her mouth. Soon he would come, and he had a particularly dirty habit, of doing it in her face and rubbing the spunk in with the head of his cock, which the time before had left her with her hair stuck to her skin and her eyes glued shut.

His name was Christian and he owned the barge, running cargoes of coal from the northern mines to customers along the network of rivers and canals. Aside from his filthy behaviour and insisting she pay the full terms of what they had agreed he was friendly enough, if a little gruff at times, such as when his efforts to make Thrift do the cooking had resulted in a small fire in the galley. Yet for all his sharp words she had been spared punishment, to her surprise, although she had been made to scrub up the mess on her hands and knees.

There were two other crew members, Édouard, who manned the ridiculously inefficient steam engine that powered the barge, and Sébastien, the boy. Édouard was lean, dark and voluble, invariably covered in grease and various exudations from the engine, and always insisted on having his large and dirty scrotum sucked as well as his cock. Sébastien was especially friendly, even sympathetic, seemed curiously relieved to have Thrift aboard and was invariably apologetic when his turn came to use her mouth.

For three days the barge, the Saint Mihiel, had been moving slowly down the Marne, making frequent deliveries and stopping each night. At first Thrift had been concerned for pursuit, either by the local police, or other men from the Bureau. Nothing had happened and she had gradually allowed herself to relax, and to congratulate herself on her bold decision in hailing the barge. A few more days and she would be in Paris, undetected and with her funds still intact, if not her dignity.

‘I am ready, my little one,’ Christian grunted.

Thrift sucked him deep into her throat, hoping the sudden motion would make him come and let her swallow down his spunk instead of having it rubbed in her face. He grunted in pleasure, but immediately tightened the grip he had held in her hair since she’d first taken his cock into her mouth. Thrift gave a weak protest as her head was pulled back, but he took no notice, grabbing his cock to tug furiously up and down on the shaft as he mumbled obscenities. Another grunt and he’d come, full in her face, most of it pooling in her still open mouth, save for the first thick streamer, which landed across one hastily closed eye and the cheek below, and the last few drops, which he squeezed out to wipe on her nose.

‘Ah, so beautiful,’ he sighed, ‘and you suck so well. Now, let me give you the gift of Adam, which is good for your skin. Did you know that in Paris Ma’amoiselle la Musigny, the mistress of the President himself, every evening she has two footmen discharge in her face to make a mask, with which she sleeps to ensure the perfection of her skin.’

As he spoke he had been rubbing his spunk into Thrift’s face, using the still bloated head of his cock to smear it over her eyes and nose, her cheeks and lips. She waited patiently, resigned to his bizarre behaviour and wondering if what he was saying was actually true, about the effect of spunk if not the actual story. After all, a great many men had come in her face and her complexion was perfect, which in turned seemed to tempt them to come in her face.

At length he was finished and Thrift was able to grope her way to the galley and unstick her eyes, although it was plainly pointless to clean up properly when she still had both Édouard and Sébastien to suck off before her time was her own. Both had passed by while she was down on Christian, and she knew they’d be ready, although the stoker had disappeared into the tiny engine room at the stern of the vessel, while the boy was up on deck.

‘We are approaching the cut at Meaux,’ Christian informed her. ‘You must wait until we are through before attending to Édouard and Sébastien. Tell me, do you like cheese?’

It seemed a curious question to ask, and somewhat worrying in relation to sucking Édouard and Sébastien‘s cocks, so Thrift responded with a cautious nod.

‘Excellent,’ he responded, ‘then you may hop off as we come to the dock, where there is sure to be a queue. You will see a shop across the road, where you are to purchase three or four of the local cheeses, Brie, which many think the finest of all. Buy one ripe, the others less so. Here is money.’

Thrift did as she was told, accepting the crumpled notes offered by Christian and adjusting her dress to cover her breasts as the barge slid into place alongside the quay. The shop was as he had described, the purchase simple, so that when she left the Saint Mihiel was as before, one of several barges waiting their turn to go into the lock. Another shop had caught her eye, the window showing a variety of female undergarments in an unashamed display unthinkable in England, and she paused see if it would be possible to purchase something suitable.

Her first impression was that she had stumbled on a specialist in underwear designed for brothels and the disreputable theatres and restaurants for which France was notorious. Everything on display was not only tiny in comparison to what she was used to, but seemed to be designed to reveal as much of the wearer’s body as it concealed. Even when a middle aged woman accompanied by a much younger girl approached Thrift wondered if the pair might not be Madam and trollop rather than mother and daughter, but the similarity in their faces was unmistakable and they showed not a trace of shame or even embarrassment as they entered the shop.

Still Thrift hesitated, but there was no denying that the garments were pretty, even if they did seem to be composed mainly of lace panels strategically placed to hint at what was beneath. They also seemed to be of at least moderately good quality, not the heavy skills she was used to, but light, fine cotton and decorated with the most delicate lace she had ever seen. It was the lace that decided her, and after a brief glance to make sure that nobody was looking she pushed inside.

The two women who had entered before her were at the counter, the girl holding up a pair of scandalously brief drawers that not only would plainly have failed to cover her bottom properly but had neither a split nor a panel, implying that they would have to be pulled down in order to use the convenient facility. Even the sight of so indecent a garment would have had Thrift’s mother calling for smelling salts, but the older woman actually seemed to approve of her daughter’s choice, asking the shopkeeper if the drawers were available in a range of colours.

Thrift waited until the purchase was complete before approaching the counter, all the while trying to work out how to ask for intimate garments in French, something her education had omitted. Finally she settled on the word culottes and managed to make it clear that she needed a design with a split seam or preferably a buttoned panel. The shopkeeper immediately smiled and winked, then disappeared into the back of the premises, emerging moments later with a large, black box.

‘I have just the thing for M’selle,’ she said, opening the box, ‘as worn in all the best establishments.’

She had opened the box as she spoke, to display a garment considerably more modest than that purchased by the girl, although outrageous by English standards, a pair of reasonably full drawers, more lace than silk and entirely black save for bows of gold ribbon at either hip. They were beautiful and evidently expensive, but while there was a rear panel, fastened with just five small buttons of polished jet, it was made of openwork lace, so that it wouldn’t so much cover her bottom as put it on teasing display. To be caught wearing such a garment in England would mean a whole regime of spanking punishments and probably being put back in the rubber containment pants she had been forced to wear until the age of twenty-one and still was on occasion, but in France she could presumably get away with it.

‘They are quite the latest thing,’ the shopkeeper assured her, ‘and based on a design first worn by Mimi Caze at Baudelaire’s.’

Thrift gave a vague nod, unsure why the fact that another girl had worn a similar garment at what was presumably a literary salon should be put forward as an advantage but no longer surprised by the peculiar and scandalous habits of the French.

‘Perhaps M’selle would prefer pantalettes?’ the shopkeeper suggested, pulling another box close and opening the lid.

Within was another pair of drawers, but so tiny that they would plainly leave more of a girl’s bottom on show than they covered, including her slit, as the opening at the back didn’t even seem to be designed to close properly. They were also heavily flounced and made of some shiny red material.

‘No thank you,’ Thrift said hastily, ‘but do you have a chemise to match the black?’

‘Certainly M’selle,’ the shopkeeper replied and a moment later had produced the garment.

It was equally lovely and if anything even more indecent, cut not to give the smooth, unparted bosom fashionable in England, but to support each breast separately, while again panels of openwork lace ensured that she would be showing more than she concealed. Entranced, Thrift gave a happy nod.

‘I’ll take them please, also some plain combinations, two sets, three petticoats to match, a nightie, half-a-dozen pairs of stockings and one of these garters, why not.’

She was feeling thoroughly pleased with herself as the goods were assembled, the more so for the thought that her new finery would be paid for mainly with money taken from the Bureau agent who had tried to kill her. The only annoyance was that the shop sold underwear but no actual dresses, but no doubt an opportunity to replace the tattered remains of her maid’s uniform would come in Paris, if not sooner.

‘Three-hundred and twelve Francs,’ the shopkeeper announced.

Thrift blanched slightly but paid over the money with good grace. The shopkeeper seemed impressed, her voice polite as she continued.

‘May I presume that M’selle is going to Paris?’

‘Yes,’ Thrift admitted.

‘May I enquire if M’selle has employment?’

‘No,’ Thrift confessed.

‘Then I would like to recommend my cousin’s establishment in the Rue des Branleuses. Ask for Mademoiselle Laroche. Here is her card.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ Thrift responded, taking the card somewhat doubtfully but not without gratitude.

As she walked back towards the barge she considered the advantages and disadvantages of working in a shop. Her time would be restricted but it would make an excellent cover, especially if the Rue des Branleuses proved to be in the same quarter in which Quigley had established himself. All she would have to do was change her appearance to ensure she wasn’t picked up by another Bureau agent and she could work freely and with confidence, although the changes would have to be dramatic.

The Saint Mihiel was now in the lock and Thrift found herself obliged to wait until it emerged at the far side, where she jumped aboard and stowed her parcels under the hammock in which she slept before joining Christian on the foredeck. He was grinning cheerfully as he examined the cheeses Thrift had purchased and sniffed each in turn before pronouncing judgement.

‘Excellent, in quality, but two are fully ready. Take this one to Édouard in the engine room, with bread, and wine. Maybe, if you are lucky, he will let you suck his cock while he takes his lunch.’

He finished with a soft chuckle for his attempt at humour, and as Thrift made to turn away reached out to tug her bodice down, spilling out her breasts in full view of half-a-dozen people on the quay, none of whom gave her more than an amused glance. Blushing hot, she hurried below, through the main cabin and deeper still, down to the engine room. As she opened the door a waft of hot air caught her in the face, bearing the scents of hot oil, grease and unwashed man. She wrinkled her nose as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her to find Édouard thoughtfully regarding a gauge on the flank of the engine.

‘I’ve brought your lunch,’ Thrift told him, proffering the bread and wine she had picked up in the cabin along with the cheese.

‘Brie?’ he queried, lifting a nose like the prow of a battleship in order to draw air into two cavernous nostrils. ‘Good. But aren’t you forgetting something?’

‘Er... I don’t think so,’ Thrift responded.

‘My blow job,’ he responded petulantly. ‘You are supposed to be ready. That is what was agreed.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Thrift replied. ‘Christian said to wait until we were through the locks.’

‘But he has had his pleasure, I am sure,’ Édouard grumbled. ‘So, you can lick my arsehole to make up for your tardiness.’

Thrift’s mouth came wide in shock and disgust, but no words came out. He had begun to unfasten his greasy blue overalls as he spoke, and pushed them down, exposing a wiry chest beneath an old string vest, greying underpants and long, stringy legs. Thrift swallowed as her eyes went to the fat bulge at his crotch, where the outline of his cock and balls showed clearly through the threadbare cotton.

‘Yes, you can lick my arsehole,’ he repeated and he had pushed down his pants.

Again Thrift swallowed, but she was already going to her knees as he sat down, his scrawny legs well parted to show off the heavy, dark brown genitals between. An inch of bottom slit showed beneath his massive balls, rank with hair, his anus just visible as a fleshy, dark brown star. Thrift’s stomach went tight at the thought of pushing her tongue in between his buttocks to lick the sweaty, greasy hole and she shook her head in a feeble attempt at denial.

He ignored her, busy with his lunch, which he had put down on a folding shelf beside his chair. Thrift hesitated, her eyes fixed on the bulging, hairy mass between his thighs, drew a heavy sigh and set to work. He smelt and tasted of grease and man in roughly equal proportions, while the shaft of his cock and his scrotum were smeared with dirty marks where he had touched himself. Thrift did her best to ignore the smell and the taste as she took his flaccid cock into her mouth, telling herself that the better she behaved the sooner it would be over. He made no comment, taking her best efforts as his due and still sorting out his lunch as she began to mouth on his penis, rubbing her tongue underneath his thick, meaty foreskin and teasing his balls with her fingertips as she sucked.

He’d soon begun to grow stiff, his cock swelling in her mouth, the shaft growing thicker and the foreskin pulling back to expose the fat, pink head within. As soon as she had enough length Thrift took him in her hand, masturbating him into her mouth as she teased his knob and the underside of his foreskin with her tongue tip. At last he responded, with a pleased sigh before popping the first piece of bread and cheese into his mouth and washing it down with a swallow of wine.

Thrift took hold of his balls, squeezing them gently as she took his now stiff shaft deep into her throat. He’d got hard very quickly, and she was hoping she could make him come before he carried out his threat to make her lick his anus, perhaps even before he decided he needed his balls sucked. A mouthful of spunk and she’d be done, leaving her with only Sébastien to pleasure, and he was by far the easiest of the three.

‘Did you eat?’ Édouard asked unexpectedly.

Surprised by his solicitude, Thrift shook her head on her mouthful of cock.

‘But you should, a young girl like you,’ he went on, ‘and besides, I do not need a whole Brie. Come up.’

Thrift lifted her head, expecting to be fed some bread and cheese, maybe made to nuzzle it out of his hand, but nothing worse. Instead he took a quarter of the cut Brie, which he speared on his cock, to leave his shaft sticking through, the fat head and meaty foreskin smeared with thick, creamy yellow cheese. Thrift watched, open mouthed, mesmerised by the sight of his filthy erection, and in particular by the way the end of the cheese slice had begun to sage and spread, slowly coating his balls with ripe Brie.

‘Eat up!’ he chuckled.

‘I... I’m not hungry, thank you,’ Thrift managed.

‘Eat it up,’ he told her, his voice now harsh.

Thrift made a face but leant forward, telling herself that the Brie could hardly taste worse than he did. Her mouth came open once more, to take his cock in and suck on the cheese-smeared shaft. He laughed and took her by the hair, pulling her head down abruptly to jam his erection down her throat and squash her face against the cheese. She felt the rind burst, thick, slimy cheese spreading out across her features, over her nose and eyes as her face was rubbed well in.

‘When I tell you to eat, you eat,’ he said. ‘Now, clean up my balls.’

Her head was pulled up, his grip still tight in her hair as he adjusted his position, sliding forward a little to present his scrotum to her mouth. With her head held firmly in place, Thrift had little option but to do as she was told, using her lips to kiss up little bits of cheese crust and her tongue to lick at the runny centre. She swallowed what she ate, sure that if she didn’t she’d end up being made to lick it off the floor, which was thick with grease and dirt. He watched in between sips of wine, adjusting the position of her head to make her clean up his scrotum and the shaft of his cock before suddenly tightening his grip and pushing her down.

‘Now my arsehole,’ he ordered.

Thrift shook her head, but she couldn’t stop herself as her face was pulled firmly against his scrotum, the fat, slippery balls squashing out across her cheeks, her mouth directly over his anus. To her horror her tongue had poked out of its own accord and she had begun to lick. Some cheese had run down between his cheeks, clogging the slit of his bottom and blocking his anus. She ate it, lapping it up and swallowing twice before her tongue found the fleshy little star she had been told to lick. Her tongue touched, sending a shudder of revulsion through her body, but there was no denying the rising heat between her thighs. With her shame burning hot in her head she began to lick at the stoker’s anus.

‘Good girl, that’s the way,’ he sighed. ‘Not so bad, is it?’

Thrift couldn’t have answered had she wanted too, her face still held firmly in place between his thighs, her nose pressed to the greasy bulk of his scrotum, her mouth open around his anus, scarcely able to breath as she lapped at the now slack little hole, let alone talk. It felt impossibly dirty, bringing on her a sense of wantonness as she had known it would all along. Yet she was still making excuses for herself in her head, telling herself that she had to do as she was told for fear of being thrown off the barge, that it was an essential part of her pose as a sacked lady’s maid to be subservient, even that she was being forced. Some of it was true, at least in part, but that didn’t stop her hands sneaking onto her breasts, taking each plump, bare globe in hand to squeeze at them and stroke her nipples as her lust began to get the better of her.

Édouard didn’t even seem to notice, let alone care, content just so long as his anus was being licked, which made it that much easier for Thrift to give in to her feelings. Her tongue began to push further out, poking in up his hole to lick out the last of the cheese, which she swallowed. She began to rub her face against his balls and take turns to lick and kiss them too. One hand went to his cock, wanking him as she licked, one finger curling over and over onto the sensitive flesh of his knob. The hand other slipped between her thighs to find her quim and she had given in completely, masturbating as she used her mouth on the stoker’s anus and ball sac, her pleasure rising for all her shame, to beyond the point at which she could control herself. On the edge of orgasm, she jammed her tongue up as deep into the slippery, gaping cavity of his anus as it would go, revelling in her own degradation. It was going to happen, her body going tight, just as a fountain of thick, white spunk erupted from his cock to splash into her hair and over her already filthy face.

‘Stop!’ Édouard gasped, pulling Thrift back. ‘Enough. It is too sensitive, too much. But you are good, almost as good as a French girl.’

Thrift sat back on her heels, gasping for breath, her orgasm broken. Her face was a filthy mess of cheese and spunk, her breasts red and shiny with sweat from the heat of the engine room and her own saliva, her fingers sticky with her own juice as well as the Brie. Édouard gave a dry chuckle to see the state she was in, but reached to pass her the bottle of wine. Thrift took a grateful swallow, then another, keen to clear her mouth of a taste compounded of over ripe cheese, grease, sweat and worse.

‘A little bread?’ Édouard offered.

Thrift shook her head. She had swallowed a lot of cheese while giving her blow job and was feeling slightly sick, and the wine hadn’t really helped. The most important thing was to escape the hot, smelly air of the engine room, first to get some fresh air, then to clean up, and then to find somewhere private to bring herself to a badly needed climax. She got to her feet and made for the door, leaving Édouard to finish his lunch, his overalls and pants still around his ankles and his now limp cock dribbling spunk down one leg.

‘Filthy pig,’ she muttered as the door closed behind her, only to immediately wonder if the description wasn’t better suited to herself than the stoker.

She reached the top of the companionway and stopped. Sébastien was there, sat in the middle of the moth-eaten old sofa. His boyish face was split into a wide grin and in his hand he held his cock, long, thin, pink and very, very hard.

‘I saw what you did,’ he said. ‘I was watching through the pane in the door. Now it’s my turn!’

‘Look, I...’ Thrift began, meaning to tell him he’d have to wait but then changing her mind. ‘Oh, very well, if I must!’

He nodded eagerly, holding his cock out as Thrift knelt down once more. He’d obviously been masturbating while he watched her suck the stoker off, and so would probably be finished in seconds, so it was much easier for her to get it over and done with than have him pestering her until she gave in. Besides, he was less trouble than the two older men, always grateful for her attention and never especially demanding.

She held his balls as she had for Édouard, squeezing them and using one finger to tickle his anus as she sucked at his knob and tossed him into her mouth. It was a sure fire technique, guaranteed to make him spunk in moments, but she’d no sooner got the feel of his cock in her mouth and hand than her dirty feelings rose up again. She tried to push them back, telling herself not to be such a slut, but there was no denying that her orgasm would be so much nicer with a cock to suck on while she took it, kneeling in her shame and sucking penis instead of merely thinking the same.

Changing her grip, she made a ring of finger and thumb, pushing down on the base of Sébastien‘s cock to make him longer and harder. No longer sucking, she pushed her head down, taking his cock as deep into her throat as she could bear, determined to make herself as fully aware of what she had in her mouth as possible. Slipping her other hand between her thighs, she began to stroke herself, quickly finding her clitoris and starting the little circling motions that gave her the best chance of reaching orgasm before he spunked in her mouth.

‘What are you doing?’ Sébastien demanded. ‘Suck me properly. Please, I was nearly there!’

Thrift ignored him, concentrating on the shame of her position, kneeling with a cock in her mouth as she masturbated, her face and breasts filthy with cheese and spunk, her bottom thrust out behind, her fingers busy with her eager cunt. It was all unspeakable dirty, just what she needed for orgasm after years of having her opulent body and wanton mind taken advantage of, just the sort of exquisite degradation she had come to enjoy best.

‘Do it, please!’ Sébastien begged, and he had taken her by the hair, starting to fuck in her throat even as Thrift’s muscles began to contract in orgasm.

She rubbed harder, determined to make it, her need for climax now desperate. It was going to work, for all that the muscles of her throat had begun to go into spasm on the boy’s cock as he jammed himself deeper and deeper still. She felt her stomach lurch, but she was there, everything that she’d been made to do coming together to bring her to ecstasy, sucking on the stoker’s cock, eating the cheese from his balls and licking his anus clean, and then, when she’d thought she was finished, being put straight back on another’s man’s cock, a man who was now choking her as he fucked in her throat.

Sébastien came, grunting in ecstasy as his spunk erupted deep in Thrift’s gullet, and with that her body revolted. Her stomach lurched again, more violently this time. A mixture of spunk, wine and saliva exploded from her nose, all over Sébastien‘s front. He pulled back with an exclamation of disgust, his cock whipping free to squirt yet more spunk high into the air, soiling his own face and his shirt.

Thrift threw up, emptying the contents of her stomach over Sébastien‘s cock and balls and down her own breasts, but even that didn’t stop the busy motion of her fingers in the slit of her cunt. She was coming, any filthy detail merely an extra thrill to the raging shame in her head. She rocked back on her heels, her mouth wide, mess dribbling from the corners and from her nose as she hit the top of her orgasm, her entire body shaking with violent contractions.

Sébastien watched in horrified fascination, his own spunk still dribbling slowly down his face, his mouth wide in astonishment. His reaction only encouraged Thrift, who continued to play with herself even as her first orgasm subsided. Cupping her tits in her hands, she deliberately showed off to him, playing with her nipples and sucking her fingers, smearing the filth into her belly and face, until her cunt once more began to pulse. She closed her eyes, slapped a handful of filth between her thighs and began to rub it in, masturbating in her own mess as she watched the boy who’d made her throw up on his cock.

This time it was slow, a gradually rising sense of filthy ecstasy as she played with her tits and cunt, deliberately soiling herself as she thanked Sébastien for not letting her go, for making her suck his cock, for fucking her head and spunking up down her throat. When she came it was long and tight, taking her higher still, in fresh contractions that set fluid squirting from her sex and continued until at last she slumped exhausted to the deck.

Her shame hit her immediately, stronger than ever, but before she could give in to her feelings she was roused by a none too gentle kick to her hip, one of the few parts of her body that remained unsoiled. She looked up to find Christian standing over her, his muscular arms folded across his chest and his face set in a disapproving scowl.

‘You can clean that up, now,’ he ordered. ‘Women, in God’s name, they have no self control!’

Paris, April 5th 2010

Three days later the Saint Mihiel reached Collier’s Quay in Charenton, to the south and east of the city of Paris. Thrift said her goodbyes to the three men with mixed feelings, gratitude for her deliverance but with more than a touch of resentment for the way they had extracted every last ounce of pleasure from her in return. Not that she could very well deny her own responses, but it seemed that however often she gave in to her wanton feelings her sense of shame would never go, and she was extremely grateful that nobody was ever likely to find out just how debauched she had been on the barge. By the end she had taken to going naked, not merely below decks but above, once it had been made plain to her that in France nobody would care whether a bargee’s slut had any clothes on or not.

She now wore a plain blue dress over cheap cotton underwear, garments Sébastien had procured for her, ostensibly from a shop, but, she suspected, actually pinched from a washing line while the money she had given him had gone into his pocket. It was a useful disguise in any case, ensuring her precious anonymity. Her maid’s uniform had been ruined, torn and soiled beyond the aid of any laundry. With her hair worn lose and no hat, she felt sure that only those who knew her face intimately could possibly have hoped to recognise her, while she seemed to have successfully eluded the attentions of the French Bureau.

Nevertheless, her sense of vulnerability grew as she walked away from the quay and into the maze of small streets behind. For all their faults, the men on the barge had made her feel protected, Christian especially. Now she was alone, with only the contents of her rectule to support her, that and the address in the Rue des Branleuses. It seemed as good a starting point as any, although as Paris was clearly very nearly as large as London itself the first problem would be actually finding the place. A tabac caught her eye, offering the possibility of a map.

The stand by the door held a display of postcards, including several showing girls with their dresses turned down over bare breasts, exhibiting their bottoms or even fully nude. Even the mildest would have been unthinkable in Britain, and she was shaking her head in astonishment as she went inside. Here was further evidence of depravity, magazines with large, colourful pictures of naked or half naked girls on the cover, most of them in blatantly lewd poses. It was hard not to stare, and despite having been in a similar state herself for most of her time on the barge she found herself blushing as she approached the man behind the counter. He was refilling a display case with cigars and barely bothered to glance up from his work as she approached the counter.

‘Excuse me,’ she asked, ‘but do you sell maps? Or possibly you could direct me to the Rue des Branleuses?’

He turned, his thick, somewhat moth-eaten eyebrows rising.

‘You wish to visit the Rue des Branleuses?’

‘Yes. I have employment there.’

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and his gaze shifted lower, to the swell of her breasts.

‘Well you might,’ he remarked, then glanced towards where an open door led into the rear premises of the shop before continuing in a hoarse whisper. ‘I will take you there myself, in my car, in return for the pleasure of your mouth.’

Thrift wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Her mouth tasted of spunk, but at least the shopkeeper had been quick and reasonably clean, simply stopping in a convenient alley halfway to their destination, pulling his cock and balls from his fly demanding that she suck him off. She had already agreed, too used to having Frenchmen seek to take advantage of her to bother to resist, and went down willingly, sucking him and wanking him until she was given a mouthful, which she had dutifully swallowed.

It still struck her as peculiar that every single man she had met since her arrival automatically seemed to assume that she was available for sex, but she put it down to the French character and reflected that she had at least reached the Rue des Branleuses with the minimum of fuss. That was just as well, as it was a considerable distance across the city, in the 16th Arrondisement. It was also grander than she had expected, straight and wide, with fine, tall buildings to either side and an avenue of ancient plane trees that softened the appearance of decay which marked every part of France she had yet visited.

Some of the buildings were evidently theatres of one sort or another, resplendent with scarlet, rich blue, gold and other gaudy colours. Others were more discreet, possibly embassies to judge by the flags and shields displayed above the doors, or even private residences. There were very few shops, and the only two nearby by sold extravagantly fashioned boots and what appeared to be equestrian and safari supplies, with the entire window taken up with an impressive display of whips.

The address Thrift had been given was decorated with high, golden letters that spelt out the words Salon L’Huître Rose, and so seemed to be one of the smaller theatres, but a glance at the card showed the number was right. She approached, puzzled, to where an enormously fat man in a plum coloured jacket stood beside a revolving door. He greeted her with an encouraging smile, but she gave her card a last, doubtful glance before speaking.

‘Is this the establishment of Mademoiselle Laroche?’

His smile broadened to a knowing grin.

‘You must be the English girl? We have been expecting you.’

As he spoke he had stood aside, sweeping out one massive arm to indicate that Thrift should go inside. There seemed little to be gained by holding back, so she gave him a polite nod and stepped within, assisted by a familiar pat to the seat of her dress. She jumped only slightly, now resigned to the rude attention to her body that Frenchmen seemed to consider normal behaviour.

Beyond the door was a large foyer, carpeted in crimson and heavily decorated with gilt, although both paint and furnishings had seen better days. The place was clearly a theatre of some kind, not a clothes shop at all, but Thrift gave an inner shrug, reasoning that one cover was as good as the next and work as an usherette or perhaps selling tickets no more demeaning that being a seamstress.

Nobody was about, and she moved deeper into the building, through a pair of tall, gilt painted doors. Beyond was the theatre itself, with perhaps three hundred seats and half-a-dozen boxes facing a stage currently concealed behind crimson curtains. Everything was in semi darkness, illuminated only by two dim globes set high on either wall and a chink of bright light showing through an open door to one side. Thrift could also hear voices, one sharp and high, the other an apologetic mumble. She made for the door, rehearsing what she would say and struggling to decide what name she should use, only to stop abruptly at the sound of a slap and a squeal of pain. Evidently a spanking was in progress beyond the door, and she hesitated, wondering if she should wait until whatever punishment was being meted out had been completed.

Another slap was followed by a sob and a staccato bark of French so rapid Thrift failed to follow the words. Silence followed, eventually broken by a curious wet sound and a soft, broken sob. Thrift waited a moment more before curiosity got the better of her, while the spanking seemed to have finished, and if it was perhaps impolite to interrupt then it was also tempting to get a glimpse of the victim’s smacked bottom before she was allowed to cover up. Rather gingerly, Thrift knocked on the door, then eased it open.

Within was what seemed to be the end of a corridor, or perhaps an emergency exit. Like everywhere else in the theatre the decor was crimson and gold, but more dilapidated than ever. To one side was a single chair, and on the chair sat a woman of middling size and age but great elegance, her back straight and her somewhat sharp face poised and haughty, giving her a dignity somewhat spoiled by her open dress, from the front of which one firm, pointed breast stuck out, supported in her hand as she fed her nipple into the mouth of a second girl. The other girl was younger, equally slim and pert, and stark naked. What were evidently her clothes lay to one side in an unruly heap, while both her bottom and face had been slapped pink and a small, enamelled hairbrush protruded from between her buttocks, her kneeling position making the spread of her anal star around the handle plainly and obscenely visible. Thinking that she had stumbled on some piece of lesbian depravity, Thrift began to stammer an apology as the blood rushed to her face, but when the older woman spoke after just an instant of surprise her voice was quite calm.

‘Yes?’

‘Um... I, er...,’ Thrift stammered. ‘That is, I...’

‘Do speak clearly,’ the woman snapped, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was breastfeeding a naked and beaten girl. ‘Who are you, what is it you want?’

‘I... I’ve come to see Mademoiselle Laroche,’ Thrift finally managed. ‘I was recommended for employment by...’

‘Ah, the English girl,’ the woman interrupted. ‘I myself am M’selle Laroche and we have been expecting you. And your name?’

‘Chastity White,’ Thrift answered, improvising hastily.

‘As good as any, I suppose,’ M’selle Laroche responded. ‘But pray excuse me one moment. Zara, that will suffice, and there is no need to cry so over a little spanking. Do that again though and you will be getting worse on stage, or perhaps paying a visit to the Ruelle des Sanglots, where they will give you every reason to cry. Now get up.’

The girl obeyed, snivelling faintly as she got to her feet. She had been stripped naked, even her stockings lying on the untidy pile of her clothes, her face was streaked with tears and the cheeks of both her face and bottom red from the slaps, yet she kissed her tormentor before going to her clothes. Picking them up, she disappeared down the corridor at a run, her little red bottom cheeks jiggling behind her, the brush still sticking out between.

‘That was Zara,’ M’selle Laroche explained, ‘but I will introduce you properly at a more suitable moment.’

‘What had she done?’ Thrift asked cautiously, now fairly sure that what she had witnessed had indeed been a punishment.

‘I caught her with her fingers in the till,’ M’selle Laroche explained, ‘but it was the first time and she was properly contrite, so I was gentle with her.’

Thrift nodded, wondering if she herself might not end up stark naked across the woman’s knee at some point, a prospect that brought her apprehension but also a curious sense of relief. Being spanked for misbehaviour was, after all, a familiar practise, while if Zara seemed to have been handled rather lightly for theft, leniently even, save perhaps for having the brush used to smack her stuck up her bottom afterwards.

M’selle Laroche stood up to adjust her dress, which was a rich purple and strikingly cut in an exaggerated and somehow sexual version of high fashion. Once the front was closed her bosom was thrust out as a single full curve, her waist reduced to a wasp-like constriction and her back pulled into an elegant concavity. She also wore gloves and a neat hat with a wisp of net attached, an ensemble sufficiently smart to make Thrift conscious of her own shabby attire. The same thought had evidently occurred to M’selle Laroche.

‘Do you have nothing better to wear?’

‘I have the underwear I bought, and a few other items,’ Thrift responded, holding up her bag, ‘but I am in need of a new dress.’

‘So I see,’ M’selle Laroche continued, reaching out to take Thrift by the chin and turn her head to one side, then the other. ‘That can be rectified, and you are certainly pretty enough, which is what matters, unusually full at the bosom too, which will appeal to our less refined clients. Open your dress and chemise.’

‘Open my dress?’ Thrift echoed. ‘Um...’

‘How typically English,’ M’selle Laroche sighed. ‘I do hope you are not going to be difficult?’

‘No,’ Thrift assured her, thinking of the hairbrush in the other girl’s bottom hole, ‘but...’

She stopped. M’selle Laroche had put her hands to Thrift’s dress and was undoing the buttons, working each open in a casual fashion while her face remained as stern and impassive as before. Thrift’s blush began to grow once more, but she did nothing to prevent her exposure as first her dress and then the cheap cotton chemise beneath were opened and her breasts lifted from the cups of her corset.

‘Yes,’ M’selle Laroche remarked, holding up one plump globe, ‘very full, also firm, and such good reaction.’

As she spoke she had brushed Thrift’s nipple with one gloved finger, causing the little bud of flesh to stiffen. Thrift was unable to stifle a low gasp at the sensation, and again as her other breast was lifted and her nipple stroked quickly to erection.

‘Yes, I believe you will do very nicely,’ M’selle Laroche continued, still casually fondling Thrift’s breasts. ‘You have a good waist as well, and your hips seem promising. Lift your skirts.’

Thrift obeyed, sure it would be done for her in any case. Equally sure that M’selle Laroche didn’t merely want to admire her petticoat, she pulled that up too, to stand with the full mass bunched up around her waist and her drawers on show. M’selle Laroche gave a thoughtful nod then ducked down to pull open the front of Thrift’s splitters. Thrift swallowed hard, her blushes hot as her quim was inspected.

‘A trifle fleshy, perhaps,’ M’selle Laroche said, ‘and I see you have been shaved. Here in France we prefer our girls in their natural condition. Show me your bottom.’

Thrift shuffled around, now burning with both curiosity and apprehension as to why it was necessary that she be given such an intimate inspection. That a girl working in a French theatre might be expected to have a pretty face and full breasts she could understand, as she was sure to draw attention, but the inspection of her quim and bottom implied that both would be on show, and that maybe the girls worked in just their corsets and stockings, even stark naked. She squeaked as M’selle Laroche took a pinch of her bottom.

‘Again, rather fleshy perhaps, but firm and well formed. Yes, you will do very well, perhaps with your hair straightened. Now, as to wages, you will receive forty francs each week, along with your share of tips. Accommodation and meals are provided, while you may select anything you wish from the wardrobes, although with your big English body I fear there will be only a few items that fit. You may also use whatever props you see fit, unless I give you specific instructions. Do come along!’

Her last words had been spoken sharply, as she had already started down the corridor, leaving Thrift fumbling with the fastenings of her chemise as she hurried to cover herself up. Mumbling apologies, Thrift hurried to catch up as M’selle Laroche continued to talk.

‘You will go out just briefly tonight, so the audience can see there’s to be a new girl, and we’ll start you properly tomorrow. Perhaps I should have some posters done, if Delage will come around later. For now, take your things up to the dormitory, where you will meet the other girls. They can be a little cruel to newcomers sometimes, by the way, but it’s just high spirits and they know what will happen if they overstep the mark.’

Thrift responded with an apprehensive nod, all too familiar with the way a group of girls could behave towards an outsider. M’selle Laroche had stopped to open a door, this time revealing not faded red and gold, but a worn staircase of plain wood that rose in a steep spiral. Faint, feminine laughter could be heard from somewhere far above.

‘Up you go,’ M’selle Laroche instructed and Thrift was left to climb the stair.

As she went she wondered what she could say to ingratiate herself with the other girls. Zara would presumably be there, and a word of sympathy for her punishment seemed like a good idea, and they might even respond sympathetically to her outrage at the way M’selle Laroche had made her expose herself and handled her breasts and bottom so rudely. It made sense, after all, as the older woman was plainly responsible for the girls’ discipline and so would presumably be resented at least a little.

The stairs rose so high that by the time she reached the top Thrift was sure she was at the very top of the building. Like the staircase, the short corridor at the top had bare floorboards and was lit by naked bulbs, while an open door at the far end showed an old green carpet covering the middle of the floor and an iron bedstead with flaking, cream coloured paint. The girls’ voices had been growing louder as she climbed the stair, but stopped abruptly as she entered what was evidently the dormitory. Six faces turned to look at her, six girls, all young, all beautiful, and all in various states of undress, except for Zara who was still stark naked as she showed off the flushed skin of her recently smacked bottom to her friends. Thrift bobbed a curtsey as she spoke, doing her best to keep her voice friendly yet firm.

‘Good morning. I am Chastity. I am sorry about your spanking, Zara. Did it hurt very much?’

Zara merely made a face, but one of the other girls stepped forward. She was the tallest of the six, very slim, and dressed in nothing but exaggeratedly high heels, lace topped stockings, heavily flounced pantalettes and a corset that not only left the tight V between her thighs exposed but ended below two tiny, firm breasts. Her heels lifted her above Thrift’s own height, so that she was looking down as she came close.

‘So you are the English girl,’ she said. ‘We had heard you might be coming. I am Georgette. Zara you have met. This is Yseult, this Apolline. Narcisse is the beautiful one, Coco the little trollop sat on the bed. And you, you are...’

She paused. As she had been making the introductions she had been walking around Thrift in a slow circle, an inspection less intrusive than that given by M’selle Laroche, but no less intimidating.

‘Chastity,’ Thrift reminded them.

‘No,’ Georgette replied. ‘I do not think so. On stage, perhaps, if M’selle Laroche thinks the name suitable, but with us you are... you are...’

‘Fatso,’ the tiny girl who had been addressed as Coco suggested, raising a giggle from her friends.

‘Don’t be silly, Coco,’ Georgette chided. ‘She is overweight, it is true, but then English girls usually are, and it is really only her breasts and bottom we can truly call fat, especially her breasts. So, we shall call her the cow... no, Udders. We shall call her Udders.’

The other girls clapped and laughed. Thrift made a face, not daring to challenge Georgette’s authority and so resigned to the humiliating nickname. Instead she smiled and shrugged, looking around to appraise the other girls as they in turned looked her over. Georgette was clearly the leader among them, the tallest, probably the oldest, if not by much, and the most slender of all. Zara was similar, perhaps a couple of inches shorter, but with the same straight, dark hair and pert figure, if perhaps with a trifle more flesh on her bottom.

Yseult and Apolline were clearly sisters, perhaps even twins, equally slim and pert, with sharp, almost elfin faces topped by tumbles of dense black curls. They also wore corsets of identical design, Yseult’s scarlet, Apolline’s emerald green, but both cut to leave their breasts bare and do more to display their bottoms, bellies and hips than to conceal. Yseult was bare legged, Apolline is a pair of knee length woollen stockings the same bright colour as her corset.

Narcisse was dark, her skin a warm chocolate colour, while she certainly deserved to be called beautiful even beside her friends. She also carried an air of easy languor, and swayed as she walked up to join Georgette in a slow inspection of Thrift’s figure and face. Her skin smelt of some exotic preparation and her hair was decorated with a single, large bloom of a vivid yellow colour. She wore a set of combinations, plain and loose, the rear panel undone to show two tiny, hard, black bottom cheeks within.

Coco was much the smallest of the girls, less than five feet tall, the only blonde and the only one with full breasts, at least by comparison with the others and relative to her tiny frame. She was full of energy and mischief, bouncing up from the bed on which she’d been lying, stark naked but for a pair of red and green striped stockings, first walking behind Narcisse for a pace to mock the dark girl’s languid movements, then to take a double handful of Thrift’s bottom cheeks and squeeze. Thrift squeaked in surprise and Coco jumped away, laughing.

‘Ignore her,’ Georgette advised. ‘She is an idiot. Or if you ask me very nicely, I might punish her for you.’

‘That’s alright, really,’ Thrift said quickly, sure that the offer would prove to be a trap and that she, not Coco, would be the one who ended up being spanked, or given whatever other treatment Georgette used as discipline for the other girls.

Georgette responded with a sly smile, then stood back to fold her arms across her chest and give Thrift a last look before speaking.

‘You are different, that is certain. Now look, we will get along very well as long as you know your place, which is at the bottom, at least for now. What have you got in your case?’

‘Just a few clothes,’ Thrift admitted.

‘Let me see.’

Thrift put her case down on the nearest bed and opened it as the girls clustered around. The beautiful garments she had bought in Meaux were on the top, each carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper. Georgette immediately pulled out the black silk drawers, holding them up for inspection.

‘Oh, you’ve even bought me a present, how very kind!’

‘Um...,’ Thrift managed, then stopped, knowing the inevitable result of any protest on her part.

‘How lovely!’ Georgette went on. ‘A little large, of course – which we’ll discuss presently – but ever so fine, and Madame Moreau can alter them to fit. Oh, and a chemise to match, and petticoats! I will look like Mimi Caze! Look, girls, she has new stockings too, six pairs, one for each of us. How thoughtful you are, Udders!’

Thrift drew a heavy sigh, watching as her beautiful new clothes were distributed among the girls. The slightest protest, she was sure, would lead to a spanking, or worse, and her clothes would be taken anyway. Yet at least the girls were not openly antagonistic to her, as she had half expected, and once they had finished pillaging the contents of her case she put a cautious question to Georgette.

‘You mentioned that my name might be suitable on stage. You are actresses, I presume, but I am to be an usherette, or on reception perhaps. Do you know?’

Georgette looked up from her inspection of her new underwear.

‘You will do your stint as usherette, yes, but you will be taking your turn like the rest of us, surely?’

‘My turn?’ Thrift queried.

‘On stage,’ Georgette told her, ‘stripping.’

Thrift stood at the centre of the stage at L’Huître Rose, bathed in light of lurid magenta. Never, in a life filled with humiliating incidents, had she felt so embarrassed. To be spanked, even in public, to be made to go in the nude, to suck men’s cocks or lick women’s cunts, even to offer her own sex for penetration, and her anus, all of it was essentially passive and required only her surrender. Now she had to strip, fully nude, deliberately teasing the audience with the gradual removal of her clothes until she stood stark naked before them, on parade to over two hundred people, men and women too, which was worse.

Worse still was that she was expected to dance, something she had never been good at, while both the girls who had already finished their acts had obviously been thoroughly trained. Georgette herself had gone on first, to perform a slow, elegant striptease that had held the audience spellbound and left them cheering and calling for more. Coco had followed, with a piece of comic burlesque as rude as it was funny, to set the audience laughing and leave them more aroused still.

They seemed to have no restraint whatsoever. In the front row was an middle-aged gentleman with a waxed moustache who was seated between two women, both very much younger and both with their dresses open to show off their bare breasts. Another woman was openly squeezing her partner’s crotch, while in the central box, M’selle Laroche actually appeared to be masturbating the two men sat to either side of her.

The music began and Thrift swallowed hard, completely at a loss for what to do, save that she had to remove her clothes. Dancing was out of the question, her muscles barely able to respond, while her fingers were shaking uncontrollably and her face was hot and red with a blush that went all the way down to her chest. She wore only her underwear, a mixture of garments cobbled together more or less at random from her own belongings and what she could find in the wardrobes and chests backstage; white stockings, a pair of ill matched petticoats, a plain white corset with a single suspender strap still in place, a pair of split seam drawers so tattered she wouldn’t have bothered to give them to the servants and a chemise far too small to hold in her ample breasts.

Somebody in the audience laughed, making Thrift’s blushes hotter still, but her hands had gone to the buttons of her chemise. She tweaked one open, her eyes closed to shut out the awful sight of the people watching her, her shame raging in her head for all that she had only put a little cleavage on show. Yet the button was open and her hands found the next automatically, slipping it loose to allow the strain on her chemise to pull it open. A third button and the chemise hung loose, held over her nipples only because the sides were tucked into her corset. One small motion and her breasts would be bare, but there was no going back, her fingers already on the scrap of lace that was all that separated her naked bosom from the lecherous gaze of so many eyes.

Unable to stop herself, she tugged the material free and let her chemise fall open, showing off the full, plump globes of her breasts. Her shaking had grown worse, so strong in her jaw that she could no longer close her mouth, but her hands continued to work, fumbling at the fastenings of her underwear, the embarrassment of stopping to stand like a fool in front of so many people now worse than that of going naked.

Her corset came next, the laces tugged loose and the catches at the front opened until the sides came free to allow her to drop it to the floor and step away. For all that her chemise no longer concealed anything she found herself unable to take it off and instead began to unfasten the cords of her petticoats, her eyes fixed on the bare boards of the stage as one and then the next came open and fell to her feet, leaving her standing in a puddle of cheap cotton made coloured by the lights.

She hesitated, still reluctant to shrug off her chemise and yet painfully aware that her drawers were all that separated her from a yet more intimate exposure. It had to be done, but any delay could only be good and she found herself removing her stockings, each peeled clumsily down from beneath the legs of her drawers and discarded on stage. With just two articles remaining it had to be her chemise, which she peeled off down one arm at a time in what she knew was a pathetic imitation of one of Georgette’s moves.

That left her drawers, but she was unable to do it with her face to the audience, the display of her bottom bad enough but nothing to the prospect of exposing her cunt. She turned her back, her fingers shaking so badly that for a moment she found herself unable to get a grip on the drawstrings that held her splitters closed. Then the knot was loose, her drawers supported only by the shape of her hips, then falling slowly down to expose the full, split globe of her bare bottom to the audience.

She was shaking terribly, with tears of shame and failure coursing down her face, both for her nudity and what she knew was a truly wretched performance in comparison to the other girls. Yet the audience had begun to clap and cheer, calling out their approval and whistling in merriment and pleasure. She turned her head, astonished, to find more people than not on their feet in appreciation, and for all her misgivings a smile spread slowly across her face. One of the single men near the front threw a rose onto the stage, then another. Thrift turned round, giving them the display of her belly and the light fuzz of hair on her quim, amazed by their response. Even M’selle Laroche was on her feet, flanked by two gentlemen, one fat, one thin, but each with an engorged cock and a set of balls protruding from the fly of his evening dress, and as she caught Thrift’s eye she gave an approving nod.

Thrift curtsied, gathered up her discarded underwear and fled, ignoring the calls for her to come back on stage. The backs were cool and dim after the heat and glare of the stage, but she found her body prickling with sweat and her head dizzy for her experience. An old fashioned porcelain basin stood against one wall, from which she splashed water onto her face, looking up to find Georgette beside her, still naked but for ankle length black boots and a pair of stockings. The tall girl’s gaze was anything but friendly.

‘Roses!?’ Georgette spat. ‘On your first night? You’ll pay for that, Udders!’

‘I didn’t mean...,’ Thrift began, only to break off with a gasp of shock and pain as Georgette caught her across the face with an open handed slap.

‘You didn’t mean to, indeed!’ Georgette mocked. ‘Oh, of course not! I suppose that was all real. Do you think I’m naive? Do you think I’m stupid? Seven years I’ve been stripping, and believe me I’ve seen it all, every little trick. Oh you’re good, that’s for sure, with your oh-so-shy manner and your reluctance and your hangdog expression. I can see why M’selle took you on, but that’s not going to save you, believe me. What about poor Narcisse, who has to go on next? How is she supposed to follow that?’

‘Narcisse is beautiful,’ Thrift managed, still rubbing at her cheek.

‘Beauty they take for granted,’ Georgette answered her. ‘What they really like is to see a girl make a fool of herself, which is why Coco is so good, or better still, a girl who doesn’t really want to strip, and what better than some snotty, self-absorbed, English bitch!’

Her voice had risen as she spoke and Thrift threw her hands up to shield her face, only to catch not one slap but two, delivered in quick succession across her naked breasts, then a third across her face as she instinctively shielded her chest. Georgette laughed and turned away, ignoring Thrift as she opened a chest of drawers to select a brilliant blue corset and a pair of pantalettes in the same colour.

With Georgette gone, Thrift was left shaking and confused, biting her lip against the stinging pain of the slaps and wondering what was going to happen to her later. If Georgette’s behaviour was anything to go by it was sure to be harsh, but while going to M’selle Laroche might postpone her fate it was also likely to make it worse in the long run, especially if Georgette got spanked.

Telling herself that it could hardly be worse than the sort of things she’d had done to her by the other girls at training college, she splashed more water on her face and chest, dried herself and clambered back into her underwear. There were plenty of dresses in the wardrobes, and although most were vulgar to a degree she eventually managed to find something in green satin that if hardly respectable did at least cover her up.

She was hungry, and knew she was entitled to help herself from a buffet set out in the little restaurant that joined onto the foyer. In return she was expected to mingle with those patrons who had paid for the privilege, with the implication that should she so desire she could accept what M’selle Laroche had referred to as tips, evidently in return for sexual favours. With no need of money, and not wishing to prostitute herself unless it were absolutely necessary, Thrift had meant to go upstairs after the show instead, but now reasoned that the audience would be watching Narcisse strip, allowing her to grab a bite to eat and a glass of something without being accosted.

Not many people were about backstage, and Thrift was soon in the restaurant, a glass of Champagne in one hand as she wolfed down meat pastries and little sweet tarts decorated with preserved fruit. As she had hoped, she had the room to herself, and had soon managed to fill her belly with delicacies and pour a second glass of Champagne. At the sound of applause she hastened to leave, only to find her retreat cut off by M’selle Laroche herself, along with the two gentlemen who’d been sharing her box.

‘Ah, Chastity, there you are,’ M’selle Laroche began as Thrift bobbed a curtsey. ‘You performed very prettily tonight. These two gentlemen are Monsieur Brochon and Monsieur Corgoloin. Both are directors and shareholders, very important people who I am sure you would wish to please.’

Thrift gave another curtsey, despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. Monsieur Brochon took a glass of red wine, Monsieur Corgoloin a measure of absinthe, before turning their attention to Thrift. Both were beaming at her, Monsieur Brochon from among the sweaty folds of a face the shape of a pumpkin and not dissimilar in colour, Monsieur Corgoloin in the manner of an underfed ghoul eyeing its prey. Even before the start of Thrift’s striptease they had both had their cocks out, and as they began to make conversation she found herself hoping that M’selle Laroche had managed to bring both off in her hands.

M’selle Laroche quickly excused herself as the room began to fill up, and Thrift found herself alone with the two men. Both were attentive, but didn’t seem in any great urgency to molest her, and she gradually relaxed. A third glass of Champagne and she was even congratulating herself. She was now secure, safely ensconced in L’Huître Rose as a stripper, surely not something the French Bureau were likely to suspect, and yet just the sort of place Godfrey Quigley might frequent.

She had memorised his face from the photographs in her rectule, and found herself looking around to see if he was among those taking their refreshment and talking to the girls, five of who were now in the restaurant. There was no sign of him, but Monsieur Brochon noticed that her attention has begun to wander.

‘It seems that our little English rosebud has matters other than food and drink on her mind, Albert,’ he remarked to his companion, chuckling. ‘Note how she eyes the men, no doubt wondering which are stallions and which are geldings. Perhaps it is time we showed her that we ourselves are not short of mettle, eh?’

‘I didn’t mean to be rude,’ Thrift said hastily.

‘Not at all, my rosebud,’ Monsieur Brochon assured her, with Monsieur Corgoloin nodding agreement. ‘A young thing like you is sure to have a good appetite for Adam’s arsenal, and you might well be forgiven for thinking that Albert and I are past our best. In fact, I think you’ll find we know a trick or two that the young bucks won’t, while Fleurette has given us both quite an appetite.’

Thrift blushed, thinking of their erect cocks protruding from their evening clothes. Evidently M’selle Laroche hadn’t finished them off, presumably on purpose. She swallowed and threw another glance around the room, seeking escape. This time her eyes met those of Georgette, who returned a vindictive glare. Evidently her choice lay between pleasuring the two men and submitting herself to the girls. Neither choice was ideal, but while the first filled her with disgust and shame for her inevitable response the outcome was at least predictable, while the second was frightening, for all that the prospect of what they might do made her sex tighten and her nipples grow stiff.

‘She is intrigued, you see,’ Monsieur Brochon chuckled.

The blush on Thrift’s face grew abruptly hotter as she realised that he had noticed the sudden and involuntary erection of her nipples, drawing the obvious conclusion, but also the wrong one. She stammered something about the warmth of the room, but he merely laughed, even Monsieur Corgoloin giving a dry cluck that presumably indicated amusement. Monsieur Brochon swallowed most of his wine at a gulp, then spoke again.

‘Come, Albert. She has my dander up, shy little thing that she is. Let’s have our sport.’

He extended one chubby arm, a gesture immediately copied by Monsieur Corgoloin. Neither man seemed to have even considered the possibility that Thrift might refuse their company, but she accepted their arms anyway, burning with consternation for her predicament but not daring to refuse the offer when the alternative was probably a spanking from M’selle Laroche and definitely both pain and humiliation at the hands of the other girls.

As she was led from the room she reflected that the two men would no doubt expect to sleep with her, perhaps even take her to some apartment or townhouse where she could be used at leisure. That way she would escape the girls and ingratiate herself with M’selle Laroche, thus gaining a stay of execution at the very least, perhaps better if one man or the other were to take her as his lover. She forced a smile, which grew brighter if even less convincing as they encounter M’selle Laroche in the foyer.

‘Ah, Fleurette,’ Monsieur Brochon declared. ‘There you are. We are taking Chastity upstairs for a while, just to see if she lives up to her name, which I suspect she does not.’

He favoured Thrift with an oily wink as he spoke.

‘Enjoy yourselves,’ M’selle Laroche responded, ‘and I shall have refreshments ordered to my box for when you are done.’

‘Splendid,’ Monsieur Brochon answered, ‘and after all, we wouldn’t want to miss the rest of the show.’

‘The rest of the show?’ Thrift queried.

‘Certainly,’ M’selle Laroche said in surprise. ‘This is the interval, my dear. As I was saying, gentlemen, this is her first night.’

‘Then we shall make it one for her to remember!’ Monsieur Brochon declared. ‘You, girl, a bottle of Champagne to the director’s suite, and be quick about it.’

The girl he had spoken to was Georgette, who was nearby with her back turned to them, sipping at a glass of Champagne. When she failed to respond Monsieur Brochon followed up his order with a stinging slap to her rump, laughed when she spilt her drink down the front of the pretty blue corset that was her only garment beside stockings and tiny, bright blue pantalettes, then repeated the order. Georgette smiled, apologised, bobbed a curtsey and shot Thrift a brief but very meaningful glance before hurrying away.

‘Off we go!’ Monsieur Brochon said happily and Thrift found herself led away.

She was taken upstairs by the main staircase, to a large, well appointed set of rooms on the second floor, directly above the entrance and looking out over the Rue des Branleuses. The men seemed in no great hurry, settling themselves into armchairs and sipping their drinks as Thrift stood awkwardly to one side, awaiting instructions. A small cedar wood box stood on the table beside Monsieur Brochon and he opened it, revealing a double row of fat, brown cigars.

‘Ah ha, Habanas! Just the thing,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Chastity, can you do the cigar trick?’

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ Thrift admitted.

‘You must know it, surely?’ he answered her. ‘But being English, perhaps not. You smoke a cigar in your cunt. Ah, but here’s little Georgette, she’ll show you how it’s done.’

Georgette had arrived, an ice bucket and glasses in her hands, bumping the door open with her bottom. She’d heard what had been said and quickly put the ice bucket down, curtsied to the two men and made to leave.

‘I must attend to our guests,’ she said.

‘Nonsense!’ Monsieur Brochon boomed. ‘It will only take a moment, so come along, down on all fours with you and let’s have those pretty pantalettes apart.’

Georgette gave Thrift yet another filthy look but did as she was told, getting down on the floor in a crawling position and sticking up her bottom towards the two men. Even when she was standing the frilly slit at the back of her pantalettes had hinted at the soft pink curves within, but in her new position it was fully open, showing off the crease of her bottom in every detail, with the pouted rear lips of her cunt on full display and the tight, brown star of her anus winking between her cheeks. Monsieur Brochon gave an approving nod at the sight before selecting a cigar from the box, only to stop at a word from Monsieur Corgoloin.

‘The Champagne, Gustave.’

‘Naturally,’ Monsieur Brochon replied. ‘Chastity, if you would be so kind as to serve. Don’t worry, Georgette can wait.’

Thrift hastened to serve the Champagne, fumbling at the wire cage and struggling with the cork, all the while with Georgette still in place, her pert bottom stuck high and spread to the room with every rude detail on display. When the cork did finally give way a gout of wine erupted from the bottle, splashing Georgette’s hair and wetting the carpet. Thrift was mumbling apologies as she poured but Monsieur Brochon waved them aside as he began to explain the trick.

‘The art is to draw the smoke in up your cunt, but it does need to be well lit. Now watch.’

With slow, methodical motions he clipped and lit the cigar, drawing deep to set the tip glowing red hot and puffing out a smoke ring before turning his attention to Georgette. She was already wet, and the base of the cigar slid in easily up her cunt, but the expression on her face suggested that however aroused she might be physically, this was not the way she had intended to spend her evening. Nevertheless, she did as she had been told, contracting the muscles of her cunt to suck in smoke before reaching back to extract the fat, brown cylinder. Again she squeezed her cunt, to emit a perfect ring of thick, grey smoke accompanied by a soft farting noise as her hole closed.

‘Excellent!’ Monsieur Brochon declared, clapping his hand. ‘Now you try it, Chastity. Georgette will help.’

Thrift got slowly to her knees, numb with embarrassment for what she was about being made to do. Positioning herself in the same rude crawling stance Georgette had adopted, she reached back to flip her dress and petticoats onto her back, then to part her drawers and put her bottom on display.

‘Stick it up,’ Georgette ordered. ‘I need to get at your cunt.’

Closing her eyes in a vain effort to fight down her shame, Thrift obeyed, putting her face to the carpet and tucking her back in to make her bottom lift and spread. Her cheeks came open, showing off her quim and anus to her audience. She felt Georgette’s hand on her flesh, spreading the mouth of her cunt, then the cigar, firm and warm as it was eased in up her ready hole.

‘Now squeeze,’ Georgette instructed.

Thrift did her best, tightening the muscles of her sex, once, and then again as the cigar was pulled free. Like Georgette, the air in her hole came out with a soft, wet farting noise, adding to her shame and misery, although she had no idea if she had successful blown smoke out or not.

‘Not bad,’ Monsieur Brochon chuckled, ‘for a beginner. Once more, girls, and then I think you had both better attend to our cocks. The show starts again in a minute and it would not do to disappoint Fleurette.’

Thrift was made to go through the humiliating little routine a second time, and when she turned around it was to find Monsieur Brochon with his cock already out of his trousers. Monsieur Corgoloin was in the act of unzipping himself, while Georgette stood to one side, looking sulky and hesitant.

‘I should really be...’ she began.

‘Nonsense!’ Monsieur Brochon interrupted. ‘What’s the matter with you tonight, Georgette? You’re usually one of the gayest little trollops I know.’

‘I... I’d prefer not to do it in front of her,’ Georgette responded, jerking a thumb towards Thrift. ‘I am senior girl, and...’

‘Oh what magnificent conceit!’ Monsieur Brochon laughed. ‘Oh what airs you girls do give yourselves, eh Albert! Now come along, down you go, unless you’d prefer those saucy little pantalettes pulled down and you tail smacked first?’

His voice had hardened as he threatened the spanking and Georgette was down on her knees in an instant, to crawl quickly across and flop his cock into her mouth. As she began to suck her eyes gave Thrift one last, furious glance, then closed. Monsieur Corgoloin beckoned to Thrift and indicated his own cock, where it lay semi-flaccid on his taut, wrinkly scrotum. Like Georgette, Thrift crawled across and took him in her mouth.

‘Now that,’ Monsieur Brochon announced as he retrieved his cigar, ‘is a wonderful sight, two fine young tarts in nothing but their underwear, down on their knees with cocks in their mouths, just as it should be. Hmm, that’s rather good you know, the cigar. Cunt imparts a certain something to the flavour.’

He continued to puff away as his cock grew in Georgette’s mouth. Her eyes were still closed but the expression on her face suggested that she was sucking on a lemon, and a mouldy one at that. Thrift could not help but feel sympathy, with resentment for her own humiliating situation boiling in her head as Monsieur Corgoloin’s cock began to swell and stiffen, while the fact that she felt ready for penetration only made it worse. Yet being obliged to suck a man off was the least of her worries, as with the show only half way through it was obvious that giving into sex did not hold out the opportunity for escape from the other girls that she had hoped in would. Instead, she had merely ensured that Georgette would be yet more vindictive.

Her only chance seemed to lie in pleasing one or other of the men so thoroughly that he decided to take her home with him, and so as she mouthed on Monsieur Corgoloin’s erection she used every trick she knew to make the experience pleasurable for him, while also giving full rein to her own arousal. Once he was stiff she pulled back, fixing her eyes to his harsh, impassive face as she slowly unfastened her dress and the chemise beneath, to allow her to lift out her breasts and cup them in her hands, showing off as she used her thumbs to get her nipples erect. He merely raised his eyebrows a trifle, but Monsieur Brochon was less reticent.

‘By Heaven she’s big, like a pair of Provençal melons! I’d love those rubbed around my cock.’

‘Let us exchange girls, by all means,’ Monsieur Corgoloin replied courteously. ‘Little Georgette has always been a favourite of mine, for all that she lacks Chastity’s impressive bosom.’

‘Much obliged, Albert,’ Monsieur Brochon replied. ‘Come on, girls, turn and turn about.’

Thrift began to shuffle towards Monsieur Brochon, catching another ferocious glare from Georgette as they passed in the middle of the carpet, at which point Monsieur Brochon spoke up once more.

‘That’s a thought. Georgette, give Chastity’s titties a suckle. I’d like to see that.’

Georgette stopped, her face scarlet.

‘But, Monsieur...’

‘Do you actually want that spanking, Georgette?’ Monsieur Brochon warned.

‘No,’ she replied hastily, ‘but... but please understand what you ask, Monsieur!’

‘I want to see one pretty girl sucking on another’s titties,’ he responded. ‘What’s so unusually about that? Dammit, I’ve watched you do it with Fleurette often enough.’

‘With M’selle Laroche, yes,’ Georgette answered, more flustered than ever, ‘but that is how she mothers us... how she comforts us after a spanking! I... I cannot, not with Chastity!’

‘Fair enough,’ Monsieur Brochon said easily. ‘I shall give you a choice. Let Chastity suckle you, or you can take a spanking, from her.’

Georgette’s mouth came slowly open, then closed abruptly and with a single, petulant mumble she had bent forward to take Thrift’s nipple in her mouth, sucking so hard it hurt. Monsieur Brochon laughed, and even Monsieur Corgoloin managed a light chuckle as his companion spoke.

‘Gently, Georgette, gently. This is an act of love, not of war. Lay your head against her chest, in the crook of her arm and suck sweetly, as if you were feeding on her milk.’

Georgette responded with an inarticulate grunt but did as she was told, twisting her body to allow Thrift to support her as a mother might support her baby, mouth to teat as she went back to sucking. There was no denying that it felt nice, and Georgette had closed her eyes against her own feelings, while both men were pulling on their cocks in open arousal.

‘Stroke her other breast, Georgette,’ Monsieur Brochon demanded, his voice thick with passion, ‘and Chastity, stroke her hair and cunt.’

Thrift hesitated, but Georgette had put a hand to her breast, squeezing gently, while Monsieur Brochon looked as if he were on the verge of apoplexy. Hoping that it might even be possible to win Georgette’s sympathy, she bent low to whisper an apology into the other girl’s ear, then did as she had been ordered. Georgette gave a weak sob as Thrift began to caress her, one hand stroking at her long, dark hair, the other kneading the moist, swollen flesh of her sex. Monsieur Brochon grunted and a fountain of thick, white spunk erupted from his cock to soil his hand and trousers.

‘Damn!’ he swore. ‘And I meant to fuck her tits!’

‘Perhaps later?’ Thrift suggested, forcing the words out.

‘Can’t be done, my dear,’ he answered her. ‘We must be back to our wives, eh Albert?’

‘Indeed we must,’ Monsieur Corgoloin responded, ‘but for the moment, come here, both of you, on your knees. As I have the virtue of patience, it is I who shall fuck in Chastity’s cleavage.’

Thrift crawled to him, her bare breasts swinging beneath her chest, to fold them around his engorged cock. He immediately began to fuck in the soft, fleshy slide she had made, the head of his cock popping in and out. Georgette had come close, as ordered, and sat watching until he beckoned her.

‘Make a cunt of your lips, Georgette.’

She grimaced but did as she was told, moving in close to purse her mouth against Thrift’s cleavage so that with each push of his cock Monsieur Corgoloin penetrated the seal of her lips. He sighed in pleasure and began to move faster, jamming his erection up and down between Thrift’s breasts and into Georgette’s mouth. Monsieur Brochon looked on with envy but also approval, absently wiping his cock and trousers with a handkerchief as his friend used the two girls.

Georgette’s spittle had begun to run down into Thrift’s cleavage, making the flesh of her breasts slippery around Monsieur Corgoloin’s pumping cock. He grunted, spunk erupted into Georgette’s mouth, exploded from around her lips and the slit between Thrift’s breasts had grown more slippery still. He grabbed his cock, to finish himself off over Thrift’s chest and in Georgette’s face as both girls rocked back on their heels, then relaxed with a sigh.

Thrift was breathing heavily, her chest heaving, her belly tight with excitement. She wondered if they would want her to masturbate in front of them, perhaps even have her lick Georgette and vice versa, but Monsieur Brochon gave a quiet cough as he glanced at his watch.

‘Fleurette will be expecting us, Albert, but as a final treat, Georgette, you may lick Chastity’s breasts clean. And no nonsense.’

Georgette had been about to speak, but closed her mouth, leaving her spunk streaked face set in deep consternation as she lent forward. Thrift obliged by lifting her breasts to make it easier for Georgette to lap up the spunk, still hoping to create a bond between them. Georgette took no notice, her sharp pink tongue flicking in and out to lick up bits of spunk until Thrift’s breasts were glossy with saliva but otherwise moderately clean. She also did it so that the men could see, performing for them despite her fury at what she was being made to do, and when she finally pulled back she was smiling.

‘Good girl,’ Monsieur Brochon said, and reached out to pay Georgette on the head. ‘There, that was all quite fun really, wasn’t it?’

All he got in return for his question was a shrug, the meaning unclear although Georgette was still smiling. He laughed and stood up to adjust his trousers, checking his watch again as he started for the door.

‘Come, Albert, the performance will have started, while these two, if I know what tarts are like, will want to be alone together.’

Monsieur Corgoloin responded with a knowing chuckle and the two men walked from the room, taking the Champagne with them and leaving Thrift and Georgette still kneeling on the carpet. Thrift hung her head, fighting her emotions as she spoke in a barely audible whisper.

‘If... if you want to do anything nasty to me, do it now.’

Georgette lifted one delicate eyebrow.

‘Oh, it’s like that is it? I suspected as much. No. I want to take it out on you, but I want the other girls to join in, especially poor Narcisse. She was close to tears when she came off.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Thrift mumbled.

‘You will be,’ Georgette assured her, ‘but for now, get that big bottom in the air. Come on, face on the carpet, bottom high, knees apart to show your cunt.’

Thrift obeyed, expecting to be spanked as she once more adopted the same position in which she had been made to smoke the cigar in her vagina. After what she’d done her apprehension was tempered by arousal, but that didn’t stop her bottom cheeks from twitching as she waited for her punishment.

‘It’s a shame they took the bottle,’ Georgette remarked. ‘I could have stuck it up your big fat bottom and given you a Champagne enema. Still, we must think of the carpet, or we’ll be scrubbing at it in the nude until midnight. Which gives me an idea, but for now...’

Her voice trailed of as she got to her feet, to give Thrift a single, resounding slap across her bare bottom. Thrift tensed, expecting more, but Georgette simply stepped out of her pantalettes and scrunched them into a ball. Walking across the room, the tall girl opened a cabinet and extracted a slender bottle of vivid green liquid, a small quantity of which she poured into her discarded drawers.

‘Absinthe,’ she explained, ‘not too much, as we don’t want you drunk, but enough to make you tipsy, and to sting.’

Thrift had already worked out where the pantalettes were going, and put on a resigned face as Georgette came back. The ball of soggy material was pressed to Thrift’s cunt and up, worked slowly in with Georgette’s fingers until the hole was straining wide but a good half of the garment still hung out. The absinthe immediately began to sting, leaving Thrift gasping and Georgette laughing as she once more slapped Thrift’s bottom.

‘There we are, half up you, half hanging out so that everybody can see what’s been done to you. Now, get up, and off with your clothes, all of them. Then we had better join the others.’

Thrift began to beg.

‘Not naked, Georgette, not like this!’

Georgette’s hand shot out, to catch Thrift a stinging blow across her cheek.

‘Strip!’ she ordered.

Thrift began to undress, letting her clothes fall in a puddle around her feet, even her corset. Georgette watched, near naked herself but still with a sneer of amusement and superiority on her face. When Thrift was stark naked she gathered up her clothes and followed Georgette from the room.

Thrift gave a long sigh as she sat down on the edge of the bed. She was drunk, exhausted and aroused all at once, her head full of conflicting emotions and her body of conflicting needs. It had been a long evening, watching the others girls strip and talking to the men, all the while stark naked and with Georgette’s bright blue pantalettes hanging between her thighs to make it blatantly obvious that she had had her cunt stuffed.

In the end she had managed to evade Georgette’s vigilance and sneak upstairs, to a quiet corner among the eves where she had applied hand cream to her anus and removed her rectule, just in case she was made to take something up her bottom. She had been tempted to remain hidden, but knew that she would have to come out eventually, and that if the girls were forced to search for her it would make matters that much worse when they eventually caught her.

As she returned to the dormitory she was still trying to tell herself that she was only doing the sensible thing in getting her punishment over as quickly as possible, but it was a lie. For one thing she knew full well that if matters got out of hand she could easily tackle any two or three of them, perhaps all six. Not only was she bigger and stronger, but well trained, and above all, British. Yet she had no intention of even trying to defend herself, because it would put her cover at risk, but also because she wanted what was coming to her, badly.

The dormitory had been empty when she arrived, tempting her to lie back on the bed and play with her quim and the soggy pantalettes in her hole. With luck they would catch her and make her masturbate in front of them before spanking her soundly and putting her on her knees to lick all six to orgasm, or maybe beat her with their hairbrushes for being so rude, while she squatted nude on the bed and fiddled with her well stuffed cunt.

She lay back, unable to hold off any longer, only to sit up again at the sound of laughter from the stairs. Her stomach went tight and she felt suddenly sick, fear welling up beside her arousal so that she was wide-eyed and trembling as she turned to the door. Coco appeared, her tiny body naked but for a tight-laced corset of gold coloured leather that pinched in her waist but did nothing to conceal her breasts or sex. She laughed to see Thrift on the bed, then called out over her shoulder.

‘She’s here, girls! We’ve been looking everywhere for you, Udders. We thought you were hiding.’

Thrift shook her head, unable to find words. The other girls appeared, pushing eagerly into the dormitory, all naked or near naked, all flushed with drink and merriment, Zara with her nipples and cunt rouged, the twins with their arms around one another, Narcisse holding a magnum of Champagne, half-empty. Georgette came last, swaying slowly into the dormitory to stand at the end of the bed Thrift had sat down on.

‘Yes, here she is,’ she sneered, ‘you fat, English brat! Thanks to her I have been made to eat a man’s spunk off her breasts, and to suckle on her. I have been threatened with spanking. Me! What shall we do with her, girls?’

‘We should tie her up first,’ Zara suggested, ‘just in case she tries to make a run for it.’

‘Oh I don’t think she’ll do that,’ Georgette responded. ‘You see, she has a secret. She likes it, don’t you Udders?’

Thrift shook her head, but her face had gone red with blushes.

‘Yes, you do, don’t you?’ Georgette taunted. ‘So whatever are we to do with you?’

‘Let’s spank her fat bottom for her,’ Coco suggested. ‘That’s what dirty English girls like, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Coco,’ Georgette said patiently. ‘That is what dirty English girls like, to be spanked, which is precisely why we’re not going to spank this one.’

‘I want her to lick me,’ Zara put in.

‘All in good time,’ Georgette responded, ‘but for now, roll up the carpet.’

Zara did as she was told and Georgette strode to the centre of the dormitory, where she paused to tug off the fresh pantalettes she had put on for the salon. Bracing her feet apart, she put her hands on her hips and locked eyes with Thrift before her mouth came slowly open in pleasure as she began to pee on the floor, first a trickle, then a gush. The other girls jumped back, giggling as Georgette’s piddle splashed on the floor between her feet to form a rapidly expanding puddle on the bare wood.

‘Mop it up,’ she ordered Thrift, ‘and we want to see those big udders swinging while you work, so no slacking.’

The other girls were laughing as Thrift climbed from the bed, now full of chagrin as well as shame as she accepted a sponge, a scrubbing brush and a zinc pail half full of water from Zara. Going down on all fours, she began to clean up Georgette’s urine, a sight that delighted her audience and Georgette in particular. Yet it was soon done, Georgette’s puddle reduced to a mere damp patch on the polished boards, at which point Thrift sat back on her haunches, looking up at the other girls in mingled anticipation and apprehension for what might come next. Georgette came forward.

‘That’s right, Chastity, just as it should be, down on your knees on the floor, mopping up my pee, but even the dirtiest little scrubber ought to take pride in her work, and be punished if she doesn’t do it properly. What do you think, girls, has she done a good job?’

‘But...,’ Thrift began, making a helpless gesture at the floor, only to have her voice drowned out by a chorus of laughing denial from the girls, not one of whom supported her.

‘I agree,’ Georgette said, ‘not nearly good enough. Do it again.’

‘But...,’ Thrift repeated, then hurriedly shut her mouth and also her eyes as she realised what was about to be done to her.

Georgette had picked up the bucket, which she poised over Thrift’s head for an instant before very slowly tipping the contents out. Thrift stayed kneeling, her head hung down, as the mixture of dirty water and Georgette’s piddle was poured over her head, to soak her hair and face, run down her back and over her bottom, a trickle even following the line of her shoulder to drip from one stiff nipple.

Again she began to scrub up, mopping at the increasingly grubby puddle and wringing the sponge out into the bucket, although she had a nasty suspicion that the moment she was finished the contents would be poured out over her head for a second time. The girls watched, giggling and chattering among themselves, plainly excited by Thrift’s degradation. The twins had their arms around each other, while Zara was cuddled up to Georgette, sharing kisses as they watched Thrift scrub at the floor. Yet it was Narcisse who suddenly mounted herself on Thrift’s back, her thighs well spread. She was laughing as she rubbed her cunt on the bumps of Thrift’s spine and then she had let go, pissing on Thrift’s back into her hair.

‘Really, Narcisse,’ Georgette joked, ‘can’t you use the pot like everybody else?’

Thrift stayed as she was, with the black girl’s pee running down her back and between the cheeks of her bottom to form a new puddle on the floor. That too she moped up, with her cunt now dripping with another’s girl’s urine, then more as Coco in turn came to stand over her, holding the lips of her sex wide to show off as she deliberately urinated over Thrift’s upturned bottom.

The other girls had clustered close, laughing with delight for the state Thrift was in, each determined to take her turn. All of them had been drinking in the salon, their bladders full as one after another mounted up on Thrift’s back or stood over her to release her evening’s piddle. Zara directed her stream full against Thrift’s bottom, splashing in her crease and running down over her cunt and thighs. The twins did it together, seated face to face on Thrift’s back, kissing as the pee bubbling from their cunts and ran down into the now huge puddle beneath them. Even Georgette managed a little more, done over Thrift’s head and into her already dripping hair, but the moment she was finished she pulled one of the bedroom chairs out into the middle of the floor.

‘You can finish moping up later,’ she said, her voice now hoarse and urgent, ‘for now you can lick my cunt.’

As she spoke she had sat down, spreading her thighs to show off the moist pink split of her sex, the flesh glistening with juice, the hole open in her arousal. Zara already had Thrift by the hair, dragging her forward to force her to put her face between Georgette’s thighs, but it wasn’t necessary. Thrift had given in completely to her feelings, more than happy to lick cunt as she knelt in a pool of urine done over her body by the girls who were tormenting her. It felt right, just how she wanted to be treated, save only that a good spanking beforehand would have added to her pleasure.

It took just moments to make Georgette come, but she was immediately replaced by Zara, while the other girls were squabbling over who should be next. Thrift simply did as she was told, lapping at Zara’s cunt until she too came and was replaced by Narcisse. By then she had one hand on her chest, stroking at the piss slick skin of her breasts and pinching at her nipples, with the other between her legs, her fingers squelching in her juice sodden cunt flesh as she masturbated openly in front of the six girls who had abused her so badly.

Yseult and Apolline had grown tired of waiting, retiring to one of the beds to lie side by side and head to toe, each with her head between her sister’s thighs, licking busily. Narcisse finished and was replaced by Coco, cunt spread to Thrift’s eager mouth. Already Thrift could feel her orgasm rising up, and she licked as hard as she could, eager to bring the little blonde girl off in her face as she herself came. It didn’t work, Coco crying out in ecstasy before Thrift had even got the rhythm of her licking matched with her busy fingers, but as she came the small girl had slid forward on the chair, allowing her trim cheeks to open and exposing her tiny, puckered bottom hole.

The sight of Coco’s anus was too much for Thrift to resist. With a last, despairing sob she let her head go lower, pursing her lips to kiss the tight pink ring as she rubbed frantically at her cunt, and as her orgasm finally came together in her head poking her tongue out to lap at the tiny hole. She came like that, in full view of the laughing, cheering girls, her muscles in violent contraction, one leg jerking to splash her knee in the puddle of urine beneath her, fluid squirting from her cunt, her tongue extended as far as it would go up Coco’s bottom hole.

Paris, April 12th 2010

Thrift stared into the mirror, her expression doubtful. Gone were her luxurious auburn curls, her hair now straight and dark, while her make-up made her eyes seem large and bright, her cheeks flushed and her mouth a scarlet purse simply awaiting the insertion of a man’s cock. Her breasts were bare and her nipples bright with rouge, something the French seemed to like, while what few clothes she wore did far more to reveal than to conceal. Her corset supported the undersides of her breasts without covering them at all, and was faced with brilliant scarlet satin to match her lips and nipples, also her tiny, flounced pantalettes, a ridiculous garment with a split so wide that the slightest movement allowed peeps of her bottom and quim, which was no doubt the idea. She was also in stockings of the same brilliant red and heels so high that she was obliged to take every step with exaggerated care.

The result was that she looked like a French tart. Indeed, to all practical intents she was a French tart, or at best an English tart in France. After all, she not only stripped for money, but made herself available for sex in exchange for tips, sucking several men’s cocks and twice allowing herself to be entered, once by Monsieur Brochon in the privacy of the director’s suite, with his huge belly squashing on her upturned bottom as she took him from behind, and once when the other girls had decided that the doorman, Pierre, deserved a treat. Like Monsieur Brochon he’d had her on all fours and from behind, only this time with the others girls watching and encouraging him as she was fucked.

She had also lost a little weight, and seemed likely to lose more owing to the humiliating regime of exercise imposed on her by M’selle Laroche, which was done in the nude beneath a small gallery from which men could pay to watch. Plenty had done so, and several of those had paid for the use of her mouth immediately afterwards, with her kneeling nude and sweaty at their feet until she was given her mouthful of spunk and had dutifully swallowed it down.

One thing was certain. Nobody was going to recognise her as Thrift Moncrieff, not even her own mother, and definitely not any members of the French Bureau who happened to be searching for her in the 16th Arrondissement. She therefore felt secure in moving on to locate Godfrey Quigley. The papers in her rectule stated that he was housed in an apartment on the Avenue Emile Zola, on the far side of the river in a district known for its theatres, although in the classic sense rather than the striptease houses and bordellos of the Rue des Branleuses. Not that the district was short of girls in her profession, but while she was fully entitled to go out whenever she wished, so long as she did not miss a performance, practice or an exercise period, M’selle Laroche had a strict rule about girls going out alone, more for fear of them being poached by a rival establishment than for their own safety. Making assignations without M’selle Laroche’s permission was also forbidden, while in any event she was expected to charge set rates and pay half to the house. To break M’selle Laroche’s rules meant a spanking, quite possibly the cane, and probably on stage, even a visit to the establishment in the Ruelle des Sanglots where recalcitrant girls were taken for formal and severe punishments. Thrift was happy to accept anything in the line of duty, but it made sense to take a companion who knew the city and whose presence would further reduce the suspicions of those Bureau agents presumably guarding Quigley. After some thought she had selected Coco, who was easy going, pleasant company and always game for mischief.

Making her way to the wardrobes, she chose a scarlet gown with gloves, a hat and a bag to match, dressing with care before once more inspecting herself in the mirror. Despite having covered up she still looked like the tart she was supposed to be, as did Coco, who was waiting for her in the foyer and had chosen a yellow ensemble set off by flowers in her hair and cleavage. She twirled for Thrift, evidently pleased with herself.

‘How much will you bet that I have been offered a hundred francs before we reach the river?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ Thrift responded. ‘I would be throwing my money away.’

Coco feigned a pout, but took Thrift’s arm and blew Pierre a kiss as they left L’Huître Rose. He responded with a pat to her rump and an obscene suggestion, which Thrift ignored while Coco gave a pleased giggle. Outside, the Rue des Branleuses was busy, the road itself thronged with vehicles of every sorts, the pavements crowded with people on their way to the afternoon shows, girls promenading in the hope of business and the men they sought to attract. Thrift and Coco walked swiftly, their chins lifted, taking care not to meet anybody’s eyes and responding to the occasional raised hat or bow with chilly nods. Even then they had been propositioned several times before reaching the Pont de Grenelle, where they paused to admire the Seine, with the recently rebuilt Tour Eiffel rising high above the scenery. A British airship was docked at the masthead, her fluttering Union Flag clearly visible, and Thrift was forced to bite down a pang of home sickness.

‘We could make a fortune together, you and I,’ Coco remarked as she pointedly adjusted her bodice to show off her ample cleavage. ‘Men like girls with a little on the balcony, and they would come by the dozen. An apartment with a good address, a stupid, faithful bully to see off the pimps, and in ten, maybe fifteen years we could buy our own establishment, preferably opposite L’Huître Rose.’

‘Perhaps,’ Thrift answered vaguely, ‘but for now I have my eye on a patron.’

‘Who?’ Coco demanded in instant excitement. ‘Is he rich? He must be. An English Lord? Has he enough for two, perhaps? But you know what M’selle Laroche will do if she catches us, don’t you? She’ll make our whipping the centrepiece of a show, with posters out all over Paris, and the twenty ugliest brutes from the audience allowed to use us as they please once we’re thoroughly beaten. Or she’ll invite every pervert in the city to watch us given enemas on stage, with Champagne, and made to drink it as it squirts from each other’s bumholes. Or she’ll have us dipped in blackberry jam and staked out for ants, then...’

‘Dipped in blackberry jam and staked out for ants?’ Thrift queried.

‘Maybe not,’ Coco admitted, ‘but she will punish us, badly. She made Yseult take a milk enema and Apolline drink it, on stage, just for arranging a private rendezvous without telling her, admittedly with the director of Le Ciel Bleu, but still!’

‘I would like to have seen that,’ Thrift admitted, thinking of how she’d been made to kiss the twins’ bottom holes that morning before being allowed into the washroom.

‘It was a picture,’ Coco laughed. ‘The look on Apolline’s face when Yseult’s anus stared to push out, priceless!’

Thrift laughed and once more linked arms with Coco, leading her on across the bridge. It was easy to share the tiny woman’s light-hearted enthusiasm, as Coco seemed to have an extraordinary knack of finding life comic no matter the circumstances and even when she herself was the victim. She had been spanked by Georgette a few days before, and had squealed like a pig while it was actually being done but been laughing and showing off her reddened bottom the moment she’d been let up.

Coco continued her gay chatter as they moved in among the houses on the far side of the river. The district was notably grander than the 16th Arrondissement, the buildings taller still and only a trifle shabby, the roads better maintained, and while they still drew attention there were fewer propositions and more looks of amusement or even contempt, especially from other women. Neither took any notice, Thrift deliberately, Coco apparently genuinely indifferent. At length they reached the Avenue Emile Zola, where Thrift stopped to check which direction they should turn.

‘Where does he live, this English Lord?’ Coco asked.

‘Number eighty-six, apartment seventeen,’ Thrift answered, not bothering to correct her friend’s perception of who she was seeking as it fitted well with the story she had begun to spin. ‘Now, I do not know him, except by reputation, so whatever happens, follow my lead. This way.’

Coco nodded her agreement. The apartment block was no great distance away and Thrift felt her pulse quicken as they continued down the road. Number eighty-six was soon apparent, a tall, grey-stone building much like its neighbours but faced by a high, black painted fence topped with nasty looking spikes, while two substantial young men in plain suits stood to either side of the door.

‘Very grand,’ Coco said quietly, and before Thrift could stop her she had addressed the nearer of the two men. ‘Please announce us to Apartment Seventeen. Here is a franc for your trouble.’

The man looked surprised. His companion grinned, but neither gave the girls more than a glance for their bosoms before the one Coco had tipped pressed a button beside the door. Unable to think of any way out of the situation that would not draw attention to herself, Thrift waited, praying that Quigley would either prove to be out or reject the idea of having too obvious tarts call on him in the middle of the afternoon. He was in and didn’t object. There were two brief, puzzled conversations, one between the first man and the communicator, the other between the two men, before the door was opened and the girls allowed inside to a square, marble floored hallway with an openwork lift of brass and iron to one side. Thrift did her best to remain poised, astonished that she had been admitted so easily and suspicious that all might not be as it seemed.

She had planned to wait until Quigley emerged, follow him and then arrange what seemed to be a chance encounter, allowing her to proposition him and so gain his acquaintance. As it was she seemed to have no way to avoid meeting him as a deliberate caller, and as they rode the lift up to the fifth floor she was desperately trying to think of an excuse for their visit. The only possibility seemed to be to say they had been sent for his entertainment, in which case it would certainly be unwise to admit she was English.

‘I am called, um... Georgette,’ she hissed at Coco. ‘Whatever happens, don’t admit I’m English.’

‘Why not?’ Coco asked.

‘Just do it, please!’ Thrift begged as she slid the lift doors open.

They were at the end of a corridor by the stairs, where a narrow landing looked out over the Avenue Emile Zola. Four doors of dark, polished wood opened to the sides. Number seventeen was the closest, already ajar. As they approached it swung wide, to reveal Godfrey Quigley himself, unmistakable despite being in a dressing gown of watered purple silk and having grown his moustache out and waxed the points.

‘My dears?’ he queried, puzzled but far from unfriendly, while his eyes had moved straight from their faces to their chests, as had those of every other man they had encountered.

‘Monsieur Quigley?’ Thrift asked, doing her best to disguise her accent. ‘I am Georgette, this is Coco. We have been sent for your pleasure.’

‘Have you, by Jove?’ he responded, his gaze moving down to their shoes and slowly back up. ‘Well, well, whatever will they think of next. Never mind, do come in and I shall worry about the Bureau in due time.’

He chuckled to himself as he stood aside to allow them into his apartment. Thrift glanced around, taking in the fine old furniture, the expensive carpet, the hangings and curtains, all of which were in rich, dark colours, creating an air of restrained opulence to which Quigley had added more than a hint of decadence with a collection of erotic prints in gilt frames. The nearest showed a girl being spanked in the classic pose, turned across an older woman’s knee, her skirts lifted and her drawers spread, her bare bottom exposed for punishment as she wriggled and squirmed in her pain and shame. Coco had also noticed the picture, and giggled, at which Quigley raised an eyebrow.

‘I wonder how you would feel were you to find yourself in the same position?’ he asked.

‘I bet you’d like to watch,’ Coco responded cheekily, but there was a catch to her voice.

‘I certainly would,’ Quigley chuckled, ‘and as you are here for my entertainment, perhaps we shall both have our curiosity satisfied. However, perhaps a glass of something first? Do sit down.’

He disappeared into the kitchen and Coco immediately turned to Thrift with an accusing glare.

‘He’s going to spank us, isn’t he? You might have told me!’

‘I didn’t know!’ Thrift hissed. ‘I didn’t even mean us to come up...’

She broke off as Quigley reappeared with a bottle, glasses and a corkscrew in his hands. He was humming to himself, Greenselves, provoking another jolt of homesickness in Thrift.

‘Chiroubles, well chilled,’ he said as he drew the cork. ‘Just the thing for a warm spring day, I always think.’

He poured the wine and handed glasses to the girls before taking his own and sitting down, watching them with frank appraisal.

‘I must say, I can’t fault the Bureau’s taste,’ he remarked after a moment. ‘Why Georgette, you might almost be mistaken for Mimi Caze, a younger sister but slightly more voluptuous sister, perhaps, and very nearly as well favoured.’

It was plain from the tone of his voice that he meant what he had said as a compliment, so Thrift ignored her instinctive pique and managed a smile. Quigley chuckled and then went on.

‘And I trust your bottoms are as well upholstered as your chests?’

Thrift found herself blushing, but didn’t realise the implications of what he’d said until Coco rose and turned to flip up her skirts and split her pantalettes. Coco’s bottom was small and sweetly plump, in keeping with her tiny, slender frame but fleshy enough to be thoroughly feminine. Quigley gave an appraising nod, then turned his gaze to Thrift. Blushing hot, but knowing she had little choice in what to do, Thrift followed Coco’s example, turning to lift her clothes and display her bare bottom. Again Quigley nodded, then sat back, taking a sip of his Beaujolais as he admired the view. The girls held their pose and at length he delivered his verdict.

‘Very fine indeed, both of you, but of course the Bureau knows my tastes. So, let me see, shall I spank you and send you back to your paymasters with hot bottoms? Shall I have you spank each other? Yes, that would be amusing. Which way around though? Hmm, yes... Georgette, put Coco across your knee.’

Coco made a face but no objection. Thrift covered herself up and sat down once more, to take Coco gently across her knee, tiny bottom lifted towards Quigley to allow him a clear view of not just her rounded little cheeks, but her quim and anus too. A quick adjustment to Coco’s pantalettes and she was fully ready, her bare bottom quivering ever so slightly as Thrift lifted one knee to bring it all into yet greater prominence.

‘I see you know what you’re doing,’ Quigley remarked. ‘Now, we’re going to play a little game. Spank her well, because if I don’t think it’s hard enough you’re going to have to swap places.’

Thrift nodded, familiar with the sadistic game and knowing full well that she was likely to end up across Coco’s knee whatever she did. Nevertheless, she clearly had to play along, so took a tight grip on Coco’s waist and laid in, spanking with all her force. Coco clearly hadn’t expected anything more than a few playful smacks and immediately went wild, kicking her legs up and down and thrashing in Thrift’s grip as her bottom bounced to the slaps, alternately begging for mercy and swearing revenge.

Quigley was smiling happily, and when Coco lost control of her anus and emitted a loud, rasping fart he slapped his thigh in merriment. Thrift carried on, easily holding the squealing, kicking Coco in place as the little round bottom cheeks grew first a rosy pink and then red. She was enjoying herself too, with her first opportunity to take revenge on one of the other girls from L’Huître Rose, and while Coco was not the worst of her tormentors she invariably displayed a cruel and impish humour. On the second night she had fisted Thrift and then peed in her cunt, just one of several incidents that made spanking her a thoroughly satisfying task.

‘And let that be a lesson to you, you little brat!’ she hissed into Coco’s ear as she finished, but she had immediately taken the sobbing girl into her arms, cuddling her and stroking her bottom as Quigley gave a pleased chuckle.

‘Now that’s how to spank a girl,’ he admitted, ‘or at least, one way to spank a girl, so I suppose it would be cruel of me to insist that you take your turn across her lap. Not quite playing the game, don’t you know? You may come over my knee instead, and Coco can watch.’

Thrift made a face, but she had already resigned herself to a spanking and went to him without resistance. He moved forward in his chair and patted his lap, over which Thrift bent herself in the classic spanking position, so familiar that she once again felt a stab of nostalgia even as her skirts were lifted and her tiny scarlet pantalettes adjusted to show off her bottom. She closed her eyes as Quigley’s hand settled across her cheeks, not a smack but a caress, feeling the texture of her flesh and stroking her skin. It was hard not to enjoy his touch and she found herself biting her lip as he continued his exploration of her bottom, fighting against her own feelings.

‘Now you see,’ he remarked, talking to Coco, ‘when I complimented Georgette on how well she spanked you, I should perhaps have said punished rather than spanked. I imagine that’s what you do among yourselves, is it not? But for myself I prefer to take it slowly and gently, enjoying my task and ensuring that I receive a suitable response.’

He had continued to caress Thrift’s bottom as he spoke, but now began to spank, gentle pats applied to the crests of her cheeks. Coco was watching, curled on the settee with her skirts up and her reddened bottom stuck out so that she could comfort herself. The expression on her face was distinctly resentful, save that one corner of her neat little mouth had begun to twitch into a smile, which grew broader as Thrift’s bottom began to bounce to the smacks.

‘Yes,’ Quigley continued, ‘I prefer my girls not merely compliant, but enthusiastic. That takes a little skill, because all but the most experienced and appreciative of girls is sure to resent having her bottom smacked, even when she knows it will make her aroused. That’s why I take my time, aside from the sheer joy of the thing, of course, because it can take quite a while to warm a girl’s bottom sufficiently for her to get over her natural resentment.’

Thrift shut had her eyes, struggling against the reactions of her body as her bottom grew warm, with her shame and resentment already giving way to arousal beneath Quigley’s skilled hand. He knew how to spank a girl, without question, mixing caresses with the slaps and aiming for the crests and tuck of her cheeks to send the heat to her quim. She’d been done the same way a hundred times, by men and women, young and old, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not, but always with the same result, a hot bottom and a wet, eager cunt.

Yet now it was worse. Thinking she was French and not used to frequent spankings, he was putting all his skill into what he was doing. Before her bottom was even properly warm she was dizzy with excitement and struggling not to stick it up for more. Only her pride made her hold back, and that was fading, until it was only the fact that Coco was watching which stopped her back from disgracing herself completely. Then the small girl spoke up.

‘May I have a go?’

Quigley hesitated only an instant.

‘Yes, why not, but why don’t you take off your dress first?’

Coco obeyed with hesitation, slipping the bright yellow gown down off her body and stepping free from the puddle of cloth at her feet. She was in a matching corset that left her breasts bare, along with tiny, yellow pantalettes, more or less the same outfit as Thrift and a style favoured by the strippers at L’Huître Rose.

‘Very pretty,’ Quigley remarked, ‘but I think we should have those pantalettes off, don’t you?’

Coco obliged, pushing down her pantalettes and tossing them casually aside to leave her bare, front and rear, red bottom cheeks showing as she came over to where Thrift was being held firmly in place across Quigley’s lap. She immediately applied a hard smack to Thrift’s bottom, high on her cheeks where the slit ended in a shallow V of flesh.

‘Aim lower,’ Quigley instructed. ‘One second.’

He adjusted his grip, tucking one foot around Thrift’s leg to spread her out across his knee, her quim now splayed out on his trouser leg, her cheeks spread wide to leave her anus on full show. Quigley began to spank her again, full across her cheeks, each smack sending a powerful jolt to her cunt, while her anus had begun to squeeze and twitch in involuntary reaction to what was being done to her.

‘Imagine her bottom hole as the bull’s-eye of a target,’ Quigley went on. ‘Aim most of your smacks directly across it, or even on her anus, if you like, but around the edge too. Yes, you can smack her thighs if you like. It stings rather more, but the effect is much the same.’

Coco had already laid one firm smack across the back of Thrift’s legs, and continued to do so, also peppering the tuck of her cheeks and between. Soon Thrift was gasping and shaking her head in reaction, now so thoroughly on heat that she could feel the wet of her cunt dribbling down her mound, something she knew would be obvious to both her tormentors.

‘Just two fingers, when you smack her anus,’ Quigley said, ‘or you can cup your hand to do her cunt.’

Thrift squeaked as Coco took up the offer, applying several firm smacks between Thrift’s open legs, to both cunt and anus.

‘Look at how her bottom hole winks,’ Quigley remarked, ‘always a good sign, although frankly, the way her cunt’s dripping we hardly need confirmation that she’s excited. Now we can spank her hard, a cheek each, I think.’

He’d begun even as he spoke, bringing down a powerful smack across one bare cheek. Coco immediately began to beat time on the other, hard, purposeful slaps delivered with full strength, to leave Thrift with her feet kicking and her fists beating on the carpet, gasping and sobbing in her pain, begging them to slow down. They laughed at her, both thoroughly enjoying her pain and also her helpless excitement, so that as Quigley’s hand slid between her thighs to cup the mound of her cunt all she could managed was a resigned sob.

She knew exactly what he was doing, but it was what she needed. The palm of his hand was pressed to her open sex, rubbing on her clitoris as they spanked her. Coco began to giggle as Quigley masturbated Thrift, still spanking as hard as she could, on both cheeks and thighs. Unable to hold back, Thrift pushed up her bottom, spreading herself to them as they amused themselves with her body. In just seconds she’d started to come, her red hot cheeks squeezing as her muscles went into contraction, her cunt pulsing to squeeze out gout after gout of thick white juice and her anus winking between her cheeks.

‘That was quick,’ Quigley remarked, surprised, ‘but just as well, really, because I am very definitely ready to take this to its natural conclusion. Off with your dress and pantalettes, my girl.’

He let go of Thrift, who tumbled from his lap. She knew what was coming, more or less, and stripped down to her corset, stockings and shoes as instructed while he unzipped his fly to pull out a thick, brownish penis. It went straight into her mouth, then Coco’s as the two girls got down side by side between his open knees, taking turns to suck on his cock and kiss and lick at his balls. Thrift had surrendered herself to the inevitable, her pride completely gone as she used her mouth to pleasure the man who had just spanked her bottom and masturbated her to orgasm with such skill.

His cock was already half hard, and quickly swelled up in their mouths, until they were handling a thick, dark erection, the head swollen with pressure, on which Thrift began to suck as Coco masturbated him into her mouth. He gave a low groan at the treatment and Thrift braced herself for a mouthful of spunk, but he pulled her gently from his cock, speaking as he did so.

‘Not just yet, my dear. I have plans for those delectable bottoms of yours.’

‘We’ve been spanked!’ Coco protested.

‘That wasn’t what I had in mind,’ he replied. ‘Now bend over the settee, both of you.’

Both girls obeyed, Coco now so wet that her cunt was dripping on the carpet as she crawled across to the settee. Thrift came beside her, lifting her bottom for rear entry as Coco cuddled up to her, their mouths meeting in an open kiss after only a moment’s reluctance. Quigley stood up, admiring the two girls as he removed his lower garments, in no hurry and breaking off occasionally to take a swallow of wine and to nurse his erection. Only when he was naked from the waist down but for socks held up with miniature suspenders did he come across to the two girls, kneeling behind Thrift.

She stuck her bottom up, submitting to penetration. His cock touched her flesh, rubbing in the wet of her cunt, then pressing to her hole and up, filling her with thick, hot meat. He took her by her hips and began to fuck her, sliding himself in and out with his eyes glued to her well spanked bottom and spread cheeks. The fucking lasted only a few moments, before he had turned his attention to Coco, entering her the same way, but his hand had stayed on Thrift’s bottom.

A finger penetrated her cunt, pushing deep to pull out juice and rub it on her anus. She gave a little sob against Coco’s mouth at the realisation that she was to be sodomised, but held her position as his fingers worked slowly in past the tight constriction of her anus and up her bottom. He was still fucking Coco as he fingered Thrift’s bottom, until she’d begun to wonder if he’d be unable to hold back, taking his orgasm up her friend’s cunt and sparing her a buggering.

‘And now,’ he grunted, ‘for my very favourite thing, after spanking, which is to fuck a young girl’s bottom. Hold your cheeks open for me, Georgette.’

Thrift obeyed, reaching back to spread her still warm bottom cheeks and stretch her now juicy anus. She relaxed and pushed, letting the little hole pout to his cock as he got behind her. He was hardly the first man to put his cock up her bottom, making it easy enough as his bloated helmet pushed to her anal ring. She felt herself open, her bottom hole spreading out around the head of his penis until she was fully agape. He’d already got her slippery with his finger and soon he was deep in, his pubic hair tickling between her bottom cheeks and his scrotum squashing to her empty cunt as she jammed the last inch of her erection up her bottom.

‘You can let go now,’ Quigley grunted, and Thrift’s buggering had begun.

Coco had sat up, watching in fascination as Thrift’s anus was penetrated, and giggling in delight as she watched the tight pink ring pull in and out on his cock shaft. Thrift was already panting for the sensation of his cock moving in her rectum, and had soon begun to grunt and gasp, unable to hold back her reactions. He began to smack at her cheeks as he sodomised her, and with every push his balls slapped against her cunt, a sensation too good to resist. Her hand went back, to find the wet slit of her sex and her vacant cunt hole, touching the junction between his cock shaft and her straining anus before she began to masturbate.

‘Good girl,’ Quigley sighed. ‘You do that. I want to feel your arsehole go tight on my cock.’

Thrift didn’t need telling, rubbing hard at her cunt as his pushes grew faster. His balls were now slapping on her busy fingers, while Coco had leant down once more, to kiss Thrift and play with her dangling breasts. With that she came, a long, glorious orgasm with her straining bumhole in contraction on his cock, her fingers working between her clitoris and her empty hole and her tongue as far down Coco’s throat as it would go.

As she came he continued to pump himself back and forth up her bottom, barely changing pace until her shudders had finally subsided. Only then did he speed up, and Thrift braced herself for the final, hard pushes, which she knew from long experience would hurt. They never came, his cock pulled suddenly from her bottom hole as he gave a grunted instruction.

‘I have to do you both. Lick her arse.’

Coco gave a plaintive squeak and began to protest, but her voice broke to a sigh as Thrift’s tongue found her anus. She reached out as she licked, her face smothered in her friend’s pert little bottom and her tongue well in up the hole as she took hold of Quigley’s cock. It felt good to have her tongue up Coco’s bottom, and also to think that the tiny hole would soon be stretched taut on the same fat erection she’d just had stuffed up her own rear hole. Soon Coco was ready, and Thrift pulled back, to guide Quigley’s erection to the wet pink star between her friend’s cheeks. He tried to insert his cock and Coco gasped as her ring pushed in, too tight to take him at all easily.

‘Push out,’ Thrift instructed, ‘as if you wanted the pot.’

Coco’s response was a weak sob, but she complied, pushing out her bottom hole to make the ring spread on the flesh of Quigley’s helmet. He pushed again and the head had gone inside, leaving Coco’s anus a taut ring of straining, glossy flesh. She was gasping and shaking her head, clearly struggling to accommodate his impressively large erection in her tiny bottom hole. Another inch went up as Quigley pushed once more, wringing a cry from Coco’s open lips.

‘Just pretend you need the pot,’ Thrift repeated.

‘That’s the trouble,’ Coco grunted. ‘I think I do!’

Quigley had pushed again as the girls spoke, jamming another inch of erection up Cock’s back passage to leave her now properly sodomised but still with a good half his length sticking out of her hole. He put his hands to her bottom, spreading her cheeks as he began to rock gently back and forth, her bottom hole now pulling in and out on his shaft. She took it gasping and panting, just as Thrift had done, but also whimpering deep in her throat, and before long tears had began to roll from her eyes, trickling slowly down her cheeks.

‘She really is too small,’ Quigley said with regret, ‘and rather full inside. Would you mind if I finished with you, Georgette?’

Thrift nodded, her own bottom hole still juicy and loose from her buggering, but as Quigley extracted his cock from Coco’s anus he had taken a firm grip in her hair.

‘Not in my...,’ she began, but too late, his cock already jammed deep into her mouth.

Her eyes went wide as her senses filled with the taste of Coco’s bottom, but there was nothing she could do, held firmly in place on his cock as he fucked her head and jerked at what little of his shaft remained free. It took just seconds before he’d come, spunk erupting down her throat, forcing her to swallow twice before he withdrew to finish himself off in her face and over Coco’s bottom. When he finally let go Thrift sank down, panting, but only long enough to get her breath back before making an urgent dash to the loo. Quigley’s voice followed her from the room.

‘There, now you run along to your paymasters and tell them that Godfrey Quigley is not so easily gulled. They’ll understand.’

Back at L’Huître Rose Thrift treated herself to a long, hot bath. She had successful located Godfrey Quigley and even made contact, which was well worth a sore bottom. He clearly assumed that she had been sent by the French Bureau, which was a little worrying but not unduly so when any claims or accusations made on either side would necessarily be suspect, if not actually disbelieved, at least if the French service operated at all like their British counterparts.

His assumption also implied that he had not yet struck a deal with them, or at very least that the deal was incomplete. Possibly he thought they had been sent to gather information, or as a bribe, perhaps as part of some more elaborate gambit. None of that mattered, only that she had now had access to him and would presumably be welcome to pay another visit. Certainly he had been friendly enough, even apologising for buggering them so hard and sending them back with fifty franc notes in their purses.

Coco had been delighted, at least once she’d applied cream to her bottom, speculating on how she should spend her generous tip and laughing at what Thrift had been made to do. One the way back they had stopped to eat ice-cream by the Seine, where Coco had sworn to keep the rendezvous a secret as long as Thrift promised in turn not to visit Quigley alone. Thrift had agreed, knowing that Coco’s presence improved her cover and content to worry about any possible consequences when the time came.

As she lay back in the hot water, idly soaping herself, she tried to work out what she should do. Sir Blenheim Finch had made it clear that it didn’t really matter if she didn’t bring Quigley back so long as he was unable to pass on what he knew to the French Bureau. That meant assassination, a thought that instantly set her stomach tight and her throat dry. Yet it was by far the simplest option. The two agents guarding the apartment block had not even bothered to check on the girls while they were there, and when they left had done no more than pass a few jocular remarks. Nor had they been searched. Had Coco not been there it would have been easy to slip poison into Quigley’s wine, even to stab him, and there was no reason to think things would be any different on another occasion. All she needed was a clever strategy for her escape, and there was no reason to think that would be particularly difficult. The difficult part was doing the deed.

She thought of the man in Épernay, whom she had left unconscious and might very easily have killed. Indeed, for all she knew he had never recovered. Yet that had been an instinctive response to a violent attack. To kill Quigley in cold blood would be another matter entirely. She thought of his cheerful, rosy face, smiling happily as he explained to Coco how he liked to give spankings, then that same face, twisted with pain and filled with accusation as the poison took hold or he lay bleeding on his luxurious carpet. The thought made her sick, and to make matters worse she’d accepted him in her body, willingly enough despite the circumstances, in her mouth, her anus, her cunt, something she’d never been able to do without creating feelings of intimacy. No, it would be impossible to assassinate Godfrey Quigley. She simply did not have it in herself to kill him.

Paris, Salon L’Huître Rose, April 17th 2010

Georgette stood in the centre of the dormitory. In her hand she held a slim, rattan cane, long and smooth, the shaft dark with the sweat of its wielders and victims, at the grip and where it had smacked down across numerous bare, female bottoms. It was late on a Monday morning, with their exercises completed and nothing to do until lunchtime, leaving them to their own devices.

‘This is the game,’ Georgette stated. ‘One of us bends over the end of her bed with a candle in each hole, both lit. The others then cane her, taking turns, three strokes at a time, and she must strike between the two candles. Any girl who misses the target must take a stroke, while if she puts a candle out, breaks it or knocks it out, she takes the victim’s place. The most junior girl must go first, so that is you, Udders.’

Thrift had already guessed that she would be the one to end up with candles stuck up her cunt and bottom hole, so merely made a face. The other girls grabbed her, laughing as they forced her down over the end of a bed. Her dress was pulled up and off, her petticoats lifted and her pantalettes pulled down, leaving her bare bottom sticking up in the air with her cheeks well parted. She began to protest, weakly, but had already stopped struggling as Narcisse took hold of her bottom and spread her cheeks, stretching her anus wide for the insertion of a candle Georgette was prodding into a tub of hand cream.

She felt it touch, the cream cool on her anal skin, then go in, her hole spreading easily to accommodate the slim shaft. A second followed, pushed up her cunt without the need for extra lubricant and she had been penetrated in both holes, her muscles twitching in her apprehension at the thought of Georgette’s cane and very likely hot wax as well.

‘Do keep still, Chastity,’ Georgette urged. ‘I don’t want to burn you.’

Thrift said nothing, but held herself absolutely still as she heard the rasp of a match being struck and felt the heat against the sensitive skin between her bottom cheeks.

‘There,’ Georgette said. ‘I shall go first with the cane, just to be fair.’

Georgette took up the wicked implement, laying it gently across Thrift’s bottom, between the two candles, the cold, hard wood pressing to the tuck of her cheeks only just above where they met her thighs. The pressure went, she tensed, heard the swish of the cane and felt it bite into the softness of her flesh.

‘One,’ Georgette said.

Thrift bit her lip. She could feel the welt across her bottom, a burning line laid perfectly between the two candles. The mark was going to show, no doubt amusing the audience when she had to strip that evening, and if all six girls gave her three strokes without hitting a candle her bottom was going to be a mess.

‘What about the show?’ she asked.

‘Shut up,’ Georgette answered her and brought the cane down for a second time.

Thrift cried out as her body jerked to the impact, a trifle higher this time, but still leaving both candles lit and firmly wedged in up her twin holes.

‘Two,’ Georgette said, ‘and... three.’

The third stroke had hit across the other two, leaving Thrift gasping and stamping her feet in her pain, which dislodged a trickle of wax, splashing between her bottom cheeks and into the hair of her cunt.

‘Ow!’ she sobbed. ‘Georgette, I...’

‘I told you to shut up,’ Georgette answered and brought the cane down again, full across Thrift’s bottom, well above the candle in her anus.

‘You missed!’ Coco laughed.

‘That one doesn’t count,’ Georgette retorted. ‘It was just to make Udders stop whining.’

‘But you said...,’ Coco began, then broke off at the staccato click of heels from the stairs. ‘It’s M’selle!’

She ducked down to blow the candles out, but when M’selle Laroche appeared in the doorway Thrift was still trying to pull the second candle from her bottom hole. M’selle Laroche barely spared her a glance, but focussed on Georgette.

‘Come with me. You too, Coco.’

There was a hard edge to M’selle Laroche’s voice as she spoke, and both girls were quickly marched out of the dormitory and away down the stairs, leaving the others to speculate on their fate.

‘I’ve never seen her so furious!’ Zara declared.

‘But what have they done?’ Narcisse queried.

The girls exchanged glances, each hoping for enlightenment from the others, but received nothing but shrugs in response. Thrift said nothing, but she was biting her lip as she inspected the four cane marks that now decorated her bottom in the mirror. To the best of her knowledge Georgette had done nothing to warrant M’selle Laroche’s anger, but Coco had, as had Thrift, only she had called herself Georgette at the time. The implications were alarming to say the least, and not merely because her deception was bound to be exposed and so lead to punishment from both M’selle Laroche and Georgette. That she could cope with, but if M’selle Laroche knew what had happened in the Avenue Emile Zola, it surely had to mean that the information had come via the Bureau.

She tried to tell herself that if the Bureau had realised her identity it would not have been M’selle Laroche who walked in on her during her caning, but several agents, that or she would simply have been shot without warning the next time she left L’Huître Rose. It made sense, and while it did little to reassure her she forced herself to follow the train of logic. Unfortunately she knew very little, save that somehow news of her visit to Quigley had almost certainly reached M’selle Laroche. Plainly she had to learn more, and while she could hardly expect to get any useful information from Quigley, M’selle Laroche had no reason not to tell her what had happened, rather the opposite. That meant going to M’selle Laroche and confessing to having broken the rules, which in turn meant having to take some no doubt extremely painful and humiliating punishment. Yet that was likely to happen anyway, because even if Coco kept her promise of silence it wasn’t going to take a genius to work out that Thrift was responsible for the deception.

She drew a heavy sigh and made for the door. The others turned to watch her go, silent, and then in a babble of excited chatter as she started down the stairs. It was not far to M’selle Laroche’s office, and she could hear voices long before she reached the door, first M’selle Laroche herself, loud and angry, then Georgette, louder still and protesting her innocence with mounting fury. Thrift stopped with her hand on the doorknob, her stomach churning violently as she thought of the likely consequences of her actions, and it took all her willpower to go inside.

The first thing she saw was Georgette, who had been hoisted up onto the back of Pierre the doorman, her wrists gripped in his massive hands, her feet well clear of the ground and kicking in furious but futile protest. She was in nothing but a bright green corset and matching pantalettes, from the back of which her bare bottom stuck out, her cheeks squeezing as she struggled to break free. Coco stood nearby, her nose pressed into the corner of two walls, looking thoroughly sorry for herself, while M’selle Laroche was in the act of taking a long, wicked looking cane down from its place on the wall. She alone noticed Thrift’s entrance and looked up with an impatient expression.

‘Well, what is it, Chastity?’

‘I... I think it’s me you need to see, not Georgette,’ Thrift admitted.

‘I told you so!’ Georgette squealed. ‘Now let me down, you great pig!’

‘Stay as you are,’ M’selle Laroche ordered. ‘Chastity, explain yourself.’

‘If somebody came to tell you that Coco and another girl made an assignation behind your back,’ Thrift said carefully, ‘then the other girl wasn’t Georgette, it...’

‘It was you, wasn’t it, you little bitch!’ Georgette screamed, now thrashing so violently on Pierre’s back that he was struggling to keep his balance.

‘Be quiet, Georgette!’ M’selle Laroche snapped. ‘And do stop wriggling like that, or I shall cane you anyway.’

Georgette went still, but she had twisted her head around, to meet Thrift’s eyes with a murderous glare.

‘Well?’ M’selle Laroche demanded, addressing Thrift.

Thrift paused, wondering how best to avoid giving away her real reasons for using Georgette’s name and also to find out how the information had reached M’selle Laroche. Only one solution presented itself, and that far from ideal.

‘I... I pretended to be Georgette,’ she admitted, ‘to try and get her into trouble, but it was wrong, and I’m sorry, so I’ve come to you now. I was only playing about, really, because I didn’t expect that you’d find out.’

‘You little bitch!’ Georgette spat.

‘Georgette,’ M’selle Laroche warning, ‘that is your final warning. No, Chastity, I don’t imagine you did expect to get caught, or you wouldn’t have broken the rules. Girls seldom do, if ever. Unfortunately for you I have rather more friends than you might suppose. Very well, Pierre, you may put her down, but Georgette, in future, do try and show a little dignity.’

Georgette was lowered to the ground, still glaring at Thrift even as she adjusted her pantalettes to cover up her bottom. Thrift ignored her, with far more important matters to think about. M’selle Laroche’s manner was not that of a woman who had just received a visit from the notorious French Bureau, leaving Thrift more puzzled than ever. She decided on a direct question.

‘How did you find out, if I may ask?’

‘To tell you that would be to betray a confidence,’ M’selle Laroche responded, ‘but let us just say that your Mr Quigley was sufficiently impressed by your filthy little performance that he couldn’t resist boasting about it. The rest you may fill in for yourself.’

Thrift gave a single, miserable nod and hung her head, not from shame but in order to hide the relief flowing through her. Evidently Quigley had not reported the matter as suspicious, nor challenged the Bureau for sending two girls to subvert him, as she had supposed, but merely told a friend, perhaps a neighbour in the apartment block, or simply a café acquaintance. With the threat of exposure gone, or at least put back, nothing else seemed to matter, and she felt curiously serene as M’selle went on.

‘So, not only did you make an assignation without my permission or paying your cut, but you used Georgette’s name. Were you seeking a patron? Answer truthfully.’

‘No,’ Thrift mumbled, immediately echoed by echo.

‘That I rather doubt,’ M’selle Laroche responded, ‘so you will be punished for lying as well as deception, both of you, on stage. However, I think it would be best if the two of you were somewhere else for a while, and the punishment will be administered when you return, which should give you ample time to reflect on your sins. By good fortune an opportunity has arisen. Mimi Caze has agreed to perform here, and as part of the arrangement I am to supply two girls for the same period...’

‘What!?’ Georgette interrupted. ‘This pair of little sluts get to perform at Baudelaire’s while I’m stuck here being pushed about by Mimi Caze!’

‘Enough!’ M’selle Laroche snapped. ‘Pierre, spank her, hard.’

Georgette gave a squeal of shock, but Pierre had reacted with impressive speed and already held her by one wrist. She tried to fight, kicking, scratching and even biting, but she was no match for a man so huge, nor so stolid. He simply ignored her efforts, seating himself on one of several straight backed chairs and pulling her firmly down across his knees. Her pantalettes were so brief that most of her bottom was already bulging from the opening, simply because she’d been turned over, but he pulled them down anyway, to leave her cheeks and the cleft between full exposed, the dark spot of her anus on clear view as well as the pouted, hairy lips of her cunt.

She was still wailing, swearing and fighting with all her strength as Pierre began to spank her, his huge hand rising and falling, to cup almost her entire bottom with every smack, and to send thick ripples through the softness of her flesh. Even as her bottom began to go red she wouldn’t give in, howling out her anguish and spitting threats, only aimed not at Pierre, nor at M’selle Laroche, but at Thrift.

‘You two may go,’ M’selle Laroche said to Thrift and Coco, ‘but you are to be in the foyer at three o’clock to greet M’selle Caze, without fail. Her escort will take you back to Baudelaire’s with him.’

Both girls nodded and they left together, walking away down the corridor in hangdog silence as Georgette’s screams and threats faded slowly behind them along with the fleshy smacks generated by Pierre’s hand landing on her bottom.

Paris, Baudelaire’s, April 22nd 2010

Thrift stood at the centre of the stage, stark naked, her clothes in an untidy pile around her feet, her face downcast in shame that was still only partially feigned. The audience at Baudelaire’s was three times the size of that at Salon L’Huître Rose, and quite evidently of a higher social status, although such matters were never easy to assess in France. There were also several foreigners; officials from the Germanic states in their elaborate and colourful uniforms, a group of Chinese merchants in their brilliant silks, even two who appeared to be Soviet commissars, but so far as she could see there was only one person from the British Empire. That person was Godfrey Quigley.

He had watched Thrift’s striptease in open fascination, occasionally passing a comment to the man beside him, possibly an agent from the Bureau, possibly the man who had tipped M’selle Laroche off about Thrift’s visit to the Avenue Emile Zola. It was a dangerous situation, but one she might just possibly be able to take advantage of, and as the music came to an end she threw him a single, shy glance from beneath her fringe. As she ducked to gather up her clothes, scooping them together as hurriedly as she could in her confusion and embarrassment, she forced herself to turn a little, ensuring that Quigley, and others, were rewarded with a briefly but hopefully tantalising glimpse of the rear view of her sex lips and her anus.

As she fled the stage she was thinking fast. Quigley would presumably be at the reception afterwards, allowing her to talk to him, possibly to make a second assignation. With luck and skill she might be able to get him alone on the streets of Paris, although she had no clear plan for what to do with him if she did. She already knew she was incapable of killing him in cold blood, while to render him unconscious was easy enough save that she would then have to get him clear of the city and back to England, a formidable problem.

Baudelaire’s had private dressing rooms, allowing her to think clearly without interruption as she washed and dressed in what had become to her almost a uniform, an abbreviated corset and a pair of flounced pantalettes, in this case both a rich, deep red and with shoes and a garter belt to match, along with black stockings and a trim of black lace. A glance in the mirror showed that she certainly looked alluring, even by the standards of her fellow strippers, although there was still a quiet, British voice in the back of her head telling her that what she looked like was a disgraceful little slut who deserved an eternity of very hard, bare bottom spankings, preferably delivered in public as her appalling behaviour was read out to the crowd.

A large, red silk flower and new lipstick put the final touches to her look and she made her way out from the backstage area to the main salon. Everything was bigger than at L’Huître Rose, newer, gaudier and evidently more expensive, while there were at least twice as many girls, not all of whom she’d even had a chance to speak to since her arrival. Some she greeted by name, others with passing nods, but she made a point of ignoring the few men who had come out early, not wishing to be trapped into conversation when Quigley himself was sure to appear with the bulk of the audience. Sure enough, he was among the first few, his evening dress immaculate and thoroughly British despite his affected decadence, his face round and rosy as he favoured her with an avuncular smile.

‘Ah, Georgette, my dear,’ he greeted her, ‘or is it Chastity, as you were announced on stage? Anyway, I see you’ve come up in the world. Baudelaire’s, eh? Well done!’

He had come close as he spoke, and took a friendly squeeze of her bottom, at which Thrift managed a giggle, although there was nothing false about the heat of her blushes as she remembered how he’d handled her and Coco at his apartment.

‘I am using Chastity as a stage name,’ she quickly explained, ‘to suit my routine. I am on an exchange for Mimi Caze.’

‘Ah, the divine M’selle Caze!’ he answered. ‘Now there is a young lady I would like to give the treatment you and your little blonde friend so enjoyed. Champagne?’

He had fielded two glasses of the wine from a passing waiter and handed one to Thrift, sipping thoughtfully at the other with a faraway expression on his face. Thrift guessed that he was thinking of Mimi Caze, who every man she had met, from the bargees to Quigley himself seemed to regard as a nonpareil. It was impossible not to feel a touch of envy, and yet an idea had begun to form in her head.

‘I know M’selle Caze well,’ she lied. ‘She is lovely, isn’t she?’

‘Divine,’ he responded, ‘a true artist, with beauty, skill, enthusiasm, and something besides, that strange, vital spark which lifts the greats above the rest of us.’

From the way he was speaking it was plain he assumed Thrift would agree, and that the possibility that she would be jealous, or merely puzzled, had never entered his head.

‘Yes, indeed,’ she agreed, thinking furiously in an effort to work out how best to turn the situation to her advantage, ‘and you say you would like to enjoy her, to spank her, perhaps, and rather more?’

‘But naturally,’ he responded. ‘What man would turn down the pleasure of Mimi Caze? He would have to be mad. No, not mad, but dead, for not even a lunatic could fail to be stirred by her. And yet you seem to imply that such things might be possible?’

‘They might,’ Thrift said cautiously. ‘Yes. I think I can say that it is possible that I might be able to arrange an assignation with M’selle Caze, for a small consideration.’

Quigley’s eyebrows rose.

‘But what of Monsieur Mazoyères?

Thrift attempted a coy simper as she frantically tried to remember who Monsieur Mazoyères was before memory came to her rescue.

‘The Vice-President, is,’ she told him, ‘shall we say, overly presidential and insufficiently vicious for her tastes.’

‘He is?’ Quigley asked, evidently fascinated. ‘I had heard he rogers her senseless every evening?’

‘So he does,’ Thrift replied, extemporising frantically, ‘but she likes... other things, things he cannot provide.’

‘Such as? Tell me more!’

‘To be spanked, for one thing,’ Thrift responded, but his expression remained puzzled and she was forced to continue to rising desperation, ‘and... and I really should not say this, but to enjoy her most private delight, which is... which is to treated like a baby, er... to be put in towelling... a nappy, that is, and changed, and... and spanked when she piddles herself.’

Just saying the words had left her blushing crimson, but Quigley no longer looked puzzled. Instead he was nodding thoughtfully, while the edges of his mouth had curved up into a faint, knowing smile.

‘Ah, ha, I see,’ he said, ‘and you felt that I, perhaps, might be able to supply her needs?’

‘You spank so well,’ Thrift admitted, ‘and I thought, perhaps...’

She trailed off, leaving him to imagine what he might be able to do with Mimi Caze in nappies, turned across his knee. A vein in his temple had begun to throb before he replied to her.

‘Well, her tastes and mine are not entirely congruent, perhaps, but a gentleman should always do his best to accommodate a lady, and she will require a consideration, naturally. Shortly I hope to be a very rich man indeed, but, for the moment, might she be tempted by a thousand francs?’

‘If you answer her needs,’ Thrift told him.

‘Of that,’ he assured her, ‘you may be certain. Splendid, splendid, and you will make the arrangements?’

‘Yes,’ Thrift promised, ‘although naturally we will need to be discreet.’

‘You can rely on me,’ he promised.

‘No doubt,’ she said, ‘but when Coco and I entertained you in your apartment you must have mentioned what had happened to somebody. That somebody told M’selle Laroche at Salon L’Huître Rose.’

‘Ah,’ he replied, ‘but then I must point out that you had not asked me to keep the matter to myself. I do hope there were no unpleasant consequences?’

His tone suggested that he hoped exactly the opposite, but Thrift carried on anyway, hoping to prick his conscience.

‘We are going to be punished, Coco and I, quite severely, on stage in front of an audience.’

‘Spanked?’ he asked, not even bothering to hide his delight.

‘Perhaps, but probably not,’ Thrift admitted, blushing. ‘M’selle Laroche likes to give girls enemas.’

‘Indeed?’ he asked, a trifle disappointed but still with interest. ‘I am sorry.’

The tone of his voice was contrite enough, but his eyes suggested that he was anything but sorry.

‘Sometimes a girl is even made to expel her enema into another’s mouth,’ Thrift said, desperate to excite at least some sympathy.

He merely raised his eyebrows, then took a sudden gulp of Champagne, emptying his glass.

‘And we have to mop up afterwards,’ Thrift added, ‘still in the nude.’

‘The French have an obsession with menial tasks done naked,’ he responded, ‘but good heavens, you have given me quite an appetite. The rooms here are very well appointed, if perhaps...?’

He left the question unfinished, but he had extended an arm. Thrift took it, unsure of her real feelings but knowing it was best to play along. One of the senior girls was nearby, and Thrift quickly made arrangements, taking a ticket and a key in return for Quigley’s payment of a fifty franc note.For all her experiences she still felt intensely ashamed for prostituting herself so blatantly, and yet nobody else took the slightest notice of them as they left the salon, save for a few envious glances directed at Quigley by other men.

Thrift had already learnt the layout at Baudelaire’s, with which Quigley seemed to be familiar in any case, and they soon found themselves in a fine room looking out over the street from the third story. The brilliantly lit Tour Eiffel rose over the houses opposite, seeming to Thrift like a gigantic cock, an image that fitted perfectly with her experiences of France. It was also what she was going to be getting, very shortly, or at least, once her bottom had been warmed, because instead of going to the bed, as most men would have done, Quigley had sat down on a straight backed chair with his knees extended to make a lap.

‘I think you know what to do, my dear,’ he remarked, patting one leg.

She nodded, almost as familiar with the onset of the classic, British spanking routine as he was himself. Crossing to where he sat, she draped herself across his knees, her hands and feet braced apart on the floor, her head and breasts and hair dangling down, her bottom raised for spanking. He chuckled to find her so compliant and so well accustomed to the humiliating posture, his hand settling on the seat of her pantalettes.

‘So,’ he said as he began to fondle her bottom, ‘M’selle Caze. Do I dare to ask if you and she...?’

Again he left his question unfinished, but his voice was thick with lust and there was no mistaking his implication. Thrift hesitated, eager to lead him on but unsure what she could get away with when her acquaintance with Mimi Caze extended to having received a single, haughty nod in the foyer at L’Huître Rose. Yet it was enough, at least for generalisation, especially when upended across her questioner’s knee.

‘She... she spanks me,’ Thrift tried, knowing it was what he wanted to hear.

‘Go on,’ he urged, still caressing Thrift’s bottom through her pantalettes.

‘She spanks me,’ Thrift repeated, desperately trying to get her thoughts in order and to ignore the touch of his hand and the gentle pats on her bottom. ‘Just to show me who’s boss, I think. She does it to the other girls too, in front of each other, but it’s usually me.’

‘On the bare?’ he asked and he had taken a grip of Thrift’s pantalettes.

‘Yes,’ she answered, now getting into her role, ‘always on the bare. She... she likes to take our pantalettes down herself, and...’

Thrift broke off as he gave her pantalettes a tug, pulling them away just far enough to show off the slit of her bottom, then further, the frilly crimson material eased down over the full globe of her cheeks and settled around her thighs to leave her bare behind.

‘Carry on,’ he told her as he once more began to stroke and smack at her cheeks.

‘She pulls our pantalettes down, always,’ Thrift went on, ‘and right off, at the end, and she won’t let us have them back, so we have to go around bare bottomed, so everyone can see we’ve been spanked, not just the other girls, but M’selle Laroche, and Pierre the doorman. She even made me suck his penis.’

She gave a low groan as she finished, unable to hold back her rising arousal any more. He was tracing patterns on her bottom with his fingers, moving ever closer to the sensitive slit between her cheeks and the bulge of her quim. She could feel the shape of his cock through his trousers, pressing to her thigh, while her own sex felt wet and ready.

‘Spank me,’ she whispered.

‘In good time,’ he replied. ‘So, if M’selle Caze is such a martinette with you and the other girls, who spanks her, and how is it that you know she likes it, and being put in a nappy.’

‘M’selle Laroche spanks her,’ Thrift answered automatically. ‘She owns L’Huître Rose. She spanks us all. She puts Mimi in her nappy too, sometimes, and me.’

It was the only excuse she could think of, blurted out on the spur of the moment, but Quigley showed no surprise at all.

‘I thought as much,’ he said, ‘so, let me see, a little spanking first.’

As he spoke he had began to smack Thrift’s bottom, hard enough to make her gasp and set her legs kicking as she fought to cope with the sudden, stinging pain. He had taken a grip on her waist as well, holding her firmly in position as he spanked her, peppering her bottom with increasingly hard blows until she was wriggling in his grip and begging him to slow down. In the end he did, but at exactly the wrong moment for her, just when her pain had begun to give way to full blown arousal and her pleas had grown hoarse and changed in tone, asking not for less, but more.

‘Now,’ he said, applying a final hard slap to her burning pink bottom, ‘into the bathroom with you and fetch a towel, a big one.’

Thrift made a face as she realised that she herself was to be put into an improvised nappy, her lower lip pushing out into a pout of resignation. Yet there was nothing she could do but obey, walking into the bathroom to find the biggest towel she could, a white one as soft and fluffy as any real nappy. Returning to the bedroom, she held it up for his inspection. He nodded.

‘That should do, but whoever heard of a baby in such exotic drawers, to say nothing of a corset and stockings. Strip, naked, but you may leave the flower in your hair.’

Reluctantly, Thrift began to strip out of her finery, all the while trying to console herself that at least, for once, she was the architect of her own humiliation and that in a sense she deserved her fate. At the very least it was ironic that she should pretend that Mimi Caze liked to be put in nappies only to end up in one herself, but that knowledge did nothing to reduce her shame and sense of foolishness as she went nude.

‘Now put it on,’ Quigley instructed, his voice thick with lust but also amusement.

Thrift responded with a rueful nod and began to arrange the towel around her hips, pulling it tight up between her legs and tying off one side and then the other to create a huge but convincing nappy. The towelling bulged over her quim and around the tuck of her bottom, concealing everything but leaving her feeling both ridiculous and vulnerable, far more so than when she had been merely naked.

‘Yes, that is a look I can enjoy,’ Quigley remarked, struggling not to laugh. ‘Now come back over my knee, as I know you like to be spanked in your nappies.’

Back in spanking position, Thrift obediently lifted her bottom and braced her feet and hands on the carpet, once more allowing him to attend to her rear and confidently expecting her nappy to be pulled down, perhaps after a brief grope. Instead he took hold of the back and pulled it tight up between her thighs, baring the sides of her cheeks and forcing her to spread her legs. He then began to spank, applying sharp slaps to both her bottom and the insides of her thighs to quickly leave her gasping and kicking once more.

Her heat had faded, but quickly returned as the smacks grew harder, with the added humiliation of being in nappies making her reaction stronger still. In no time she was pushing up her bottom to the slaps and moaning with pleasure, while her cunt felt ready for cock. He carried on, as patient as the first time he’d had her, making a thorough job of her bottom, all the while with her nappy pulled up tight before he at last slid a hand in under the towelling to let his fingers delve into the her slit.

Thrift let out a sob of mingled shame and pleasure as one thick fingertip found her anus, pushing in at the mouth of the sweaty little hole to penetrate her. She remembered how he’d buggered her, and wondered if she was going to get the same treatment once more, only with her improvised nappy still on as he worked his cock in her bottom hole from behind. It seemed likely, his finger working deeper into her rectum as he began to spank her once more with his free hand. She pushed her bottom higher still in response, lost to all sense of decency. He responded by sticking a second finger up her now gaping bottom hole, making her gasp and wriggle herself against him.

‘I shall do this to Mimi,’ he sighed, still delving in Thrift’s rectum, ‘perhaps to the two of you, side by side. Yes, I shall have you strip and put in nappies. I shall let you drink Champagne until you can take no more and wet yourselves. I shall take off your wet nappies and powder your bottoms. I shall spank you both well and I shall put my cock up your delightful bottoms, one at a time as I did with you and little Coco, only this time it will be your bottom I use last, Chastity my darling, and the mouth I shall spunk in shall be that of Mimi Caze... Mimi Caze...’

He finished with a grunt and before Thrift had time to get up she had been tumbled from his knee. She landed hard on her bottom, squeaking in shock, but he was tearing at his fly and before she could protest at his treatment he had thrust his erection into her mouth. Twisting around to her knees, she did her best to suck him, although he seemed to have lost all restraint, thrusting himself into her mouth and muttering Mimi’s name over and over.

Thrift wanted to come, her bottom warm, her cunt hot and ready, the feel of a man’s cock in her mouth a nice touch, especially as he had just spanked her. Only her chagrin at his obvious preference for Mimi Caze damped her ardour, but not enough to prevent her slipping a hand down the front of her nappy to play with herself. Her other hand found one heavy breast, she let her thoughts move to the humiliating situation she was in, on her knees, naked but for a big, towelling nappy and sucking cock for a man who had just spanked her bottom.

It would have worked, but even as her muscles began to contract in the onset of orgasm he suddenly jerked his cock free of her mouth, to grab her by the hair, twist her around and force her face into the carpet. Her bottom was now stuck high, red cheeks spilling from the sides of her nappy, and then to all intents and purposes bare as the towelling was pulled roughly aside. His cock touched her anus, pushing easily in up the already wet hole and thrust deep until she felt his balls squash to her empty cunt.

Thrift was panting as he began to bugger her, still with her fingers between her legs, working in her slippery cunt as her anus pulled in and out to the thrusts of his cock. It was perfect, the final humiliating touch to her abuse, stripped and made to go in nappies, spanked and molested, made to suck cock and finally sodomised. She began to come almost immediately, but he was no less urgent, thrusting into her as hard as he could with his fingers locked in the flesh of her hips. He came first, with a loud grunt and a final exclamation of Mimi’s name, holding himself deep as the spunk pumped into Thrift’s rectum and her anus began to squeeze on his shaft with the onset of her own orgasm.

She cried out in perfect ecstasy, even the insult of knowing he was thinking of another women as he sodomised her now an added thrill, and her fingers were snatching furiously at her cunt as she rode her orgasm, now slippery with the spunk oozing from her well buggered anus as he rocked back to let his cock slip from her body.

Paris, Salon L’Huître Rose, April 24th 2010

Thrift paused as she turned into the Rue des Branleuses. When she had set out from Baudelaire’s, climbing down a fire escape to avoid detection, the streets had been busy with people spilling out from the theatres, while the seats outside the restaurants, cafés and bars had been almost universally occupied. The crowds had thinned as she walked, chin high and ignoring all offers, until now only a few stragglers remained. Most of the lights of L’Huître Rose were still burning, including those in the foyer, salon and the director’s suite.

She could guess what would be going on, most of the audience now gone, one or two of the girls entertaining men in the private rooms, the remainder relaxing over a final drink in the salon or already upstairs in the dormitory. Pierre remained at his post, his bulky figure clearly visible against the yellow light as he glanced at his watch. He would lock up when he went to bed, which meant she would have to get in at the back but that was no great difficulty. The problem was to find Mimi Caze without being caught, then to persuade the notoriously highly-strung and capricious striptease star to accept an assignation with Godfrey Quigley.

It seemed reasonable to assume that Mimi Caze had been given a suite of her own, perhaps even the director’s, but unless she was entertaining her lover she would almost certainly sleep alone. If Monsieur Mazoyères was in attendance then the plan would have to be postponed, but when a dozen other things might go wrong in any event it was a risk she had to take. At the very least it was worth finding out where the starlet was sleeping for future reference.

Moving out from the shadows of one alley mouth, Thrift slipped across the street to another. Pierre remained as before, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in his boredom and no doubt thinking of bed, perhaps with his favourite, Zara, to warm it for him if she were not otherwise engaged. The alley led between L’Huître Rose and the next building, allowing Thrift to merge with the near darkness until she reached where the fire escape came down, the ladder now poised six feet above her head.

As she stripped off her tawdry scarlet dress she had begun to feel more alive than at any time since she had fought the Bureau agent by the banks of the Marne. This was what she was trained to do, acting with silence and skill as she unwound a coil of rope from around her waist. All she wore was a black leather catsuit, skin tight and decorated with whiskers and a turned up nose. It was designed for striptease, but functioned equally well to keep her concealed as she threw up her rope, made it fast to the bottom of the fire escape and swarmed up.

Nobody had seen, and she was quickly on the roof, from where a skylight allowed her to climb down into a darkened corridor. The girls’ dormitory was on the opposite side of the building, but she was near the space under the eaves which she had made her own. She had left her rectule there, safely concealed, reasoning that as her job involved being sodomised on frequent but unpredictable occasions it was best not to have to keep taking the thing in and out. Extracting a dozen gold one hundred franc pieces, she slipped them into a small, black velvet bag and moved on, taking every step with caution as she descended the stairs.

Very few people were about, and with the hood of her cat suit in place it was not at all obvious who she was. M’selle Laroche would have recognised her, or one of the other girls, but to any passing customer she was simply one more pretty doll and while she might well expect to have her bottom slapped or her breasts squeezed, she was not about to be asked what she was doing.

Nevertheless she was taking a risk, and her heart was pounding in her chest by the time she reached the director’s suite. The passage was empty, but she could hear voices from within, feminine giggles and a hoarse, lust-filled baritone singing a song about stealing girls’ pantalettes from washing lines. Thrift was fairly sure that the female voice belonged to Narcisse, but could not be certain. Kneeling down, she pressed her face to the keyhole, to be rewarded by the sight of Monsieur Brochon’s enormous, flabby buttocks as he stood in the centre of the room, marking time to his song with an empty Champagne bottle and masturbating into the black girl’s face as she kissed and licked at his cock and balls.

Thrift withdrew, content that Mimi Caze was not in the director’s suite. The two rooms to either side had been dark when she checked from the street, but she entered both to make sure they were indeed unoccupied. There was no sign of Mimi Caze, nor her belongings. M’selle Laroche had her own quarters on the floor above, and it seemed unlikely that the great Mimi Caze had been put in one of the rooms reserved for girls and their clients. That left the dormitory, even more unlikely, and the possibility that Mimi Caze wasn’t at L’Huître Rose at all, but had been put up in a hotel. If so, then the girls would presumably know, but Thrift had hoped to avoid them.

She moved into the doorway of an empty room as she considered her options. Georgette would undoubtedly report her to M’selle Laroche, which would mean having to explain herself and probably further punishment, both at L’Huître Rose and Baudelaire’s. Zara in turn was fiercely loyal to Georgette, while Narcisse was not only unpredictable but currently busy. Coco was at Baudelaire’s, which left the twins, who were truly loyal only to each other and also greedy for money. Fifty francs each and the promise of more would buy their silence.

Yseult and Apolline were usually the first to leave the salon, both far preferring each other’s company to that of anybody else, although it was well known that they were more than willing to play together and so it was common for a client to take both upstairs. Nevertheless there was a fair chance that they were alone in the dormitory and Thrift was already moving for the stairs as she reached her decision.

The corridors were empty, although low moans of pleasure and once a sharp cry issued from behind the doors of various rooms, and Thrift reached the dormitory stair without incident. Above, all was silence, and she mounted quickly, pausing again in the corridor to listen. A faint, moist sound caught her ears, then a low sigh, and she was blushing as she moved forward.

As she had hoped, Yseult and Apolline were in the dormitory, curled together on a bed, each sister’s thighs cocked wide around the other’s head as they licked cunt in mutual ecstasy. Thrift waited, feeling it impolite to disturb them, and before long both cried out in unison as they came beneath each others’ tongues. Ignoring the sudden need between her own thighs, Thrift stepped forward.

‘Yseult, Apolline. It’s me, Chastity. Do you care to earn a hundred francs each?’

‘A hundred francs?’ Yseult replied as Apolline wiped a smear of her sister’s juice from her nose.

‘A hundred francs,’ Thrift repeated, extending one of the gold coins. ‘I need to know where Mimi Caze is sleeping, but neither of you must tell anybody I was here. Do you promise?’

‘We promise,’ the twins assured her and Apolline went on. ‘The little bitch is sleeping with M’selle Laroche, and Monsieur Mazoyères also. They are together now, I would imagine, no doubt sharing his cock...’

‘...or licking each other for his amusement,’ Yseult added.

‘Will they be together all night?’ Thrift asked.

‘Not Mazoyères,’ Apolline replied. ‘He will go back to his wife when he has spent his load. Caze will stay with M’selle Laroche.’

‘And in the day?’ Thrift queried. ‘I need to speak to M’selle Caze.’

The twins shrugged as one.

‘They are having a grand affair,’ Apolline stated, ‘but I suppose you might catch Caze when she comes off stage, or perhaps in her dressing room before a show. But why would you want to speak to her?’

‘She is a vicious little bitch,’ Yseult added, ‘and most likely to have you whipped for impertinence, even flushed out.’

‘If you so much as speak to her,’ Apolline went on, ‘at least, not without bowing and scraping and grovelling. She had Pierre spank us both...’

‘...in the foyer...’

‘...merely for addressing Monsieur Mazoyères as Eugène.’

‘We were overly familiar, she said...’

‘...and needed to be spanked.’

‘But then,’ Yseult pointed out, ‘you are to be punished anyway, by her. Apparently you failed to curtsey properly when she arrived.’

‘Although the truth is that she is jealous of your popularity,’ Apolline added, ‘and no doubt wishes to take her spite out on you.’

‘Oh,’ Thrift responded.

Paris, Salon L’Huître Rose, April 27th 2010

Quickening her pace, Thrift managed to use the bulk of Monsieur Brochon to shield herself as she slipped in at the door of L’Huître Rose. He failed to see her, his pale, puffy face set in its usual expression of solemn detachment as people filed in, like a stuffed frog. In the foyer, Thrift quickly moved to the wings and beyond the area where the public were permitted. The curtain was due to go up in a quarter of an hour, which presumably meant that M’selle Laroche would be busy greeting the more important members of the night’s audience while Mimi Caze would be getting ready in her dressing room.

That allowed her to avoid M’selle Laroche, but there seemed to be no way of avoiding the other girls, who were equally certain to be backstage. All she could do was try her best and accept the consequences if things went wrong, but then if things went to plan she would be far away before the time came for her punishment in any case.

She was soon backstage, where the twins were getting into Pierrot costumes for the slapstick striptease they often used to open the show. Zara was also there, but with her back to Thrift as she sewed the seam of a peacock green bustle designed to stick out above her bare bottom without actually concealing anything at all. Thrift hushed the twins to silence and moved quickly on, scanning the dressing rooms doors until she saw one on which a new sign had been affixed. It read simply Caze.

Without hesitation she pushed in, to find Mimi Caze sat at her dressing table, already fully dressed in the style of an empress from the Grand Siècle, when France rather than Great Britain had dominated the world. She looked around, startled, and was about to call out when Thrift hushed her with a carefully chosen introduction.

‘A moment, M’selle Caze. I have an offer for you, an assignation, worth one million francs.’

‘One million francs?’ Mimi Caze demanded. ‘Who are you? What is this?’

‘I am Chastity,’ Thrift told her, ‘one of the girls on exchange at Baudelaire’s. We met briefly, but never mind that. I have an offer, from an English Lord, a very wealthy man. One million francs.’

‘One million?’ Mimi Caze repeated incredulously. ‘For a single assignation?’

‘He expects there to be more, I would suppose,’ Thrift responded, ‘but he will pay if it is one time only, that is his promise.’

‘Extraordinary,’ Mimi said, ‘but then, perhaps not so very extraordinary. Lola Montez was made a queen.’

She went quiet, drumming her fingernails gently on her dressing table, her face creased in thought. Thrift waited, watching and trying to divine what it was about Mimi Caze that aroused such extravagant desires in men. She was beautiful, certainly, with full, exotic features in a heart shaped face, a full chest and tiny waist currently exaggerated by her dress. Her bottom was also said to represent perfection and her legs to be the longest in proportion to her body of any woman. Both claims seemed unlikely, the first as it was inherently subjective, the second statistically. Besides, there was a quality about Mimi that was more than physical, a radiance that seemed ethereal and yet earthy, filling Thrift with desire and envy all at once. Only then, at the thought of what it would be like to go to bed together did Thrift realise the truth. Mimi Caze exuded sex, as strongly and as naturally as a lion did power.

‘What shall I say?’ she asked.

‘I must be sure,’ Mimi responded. ‘Attempt to play me for a fool and both he and you will regret your own birth. First I must see the money...’

‘I have here one thousand francs, in gold, as a surety for my client’s faith.’

‘A thousand only?’ Mimi queried, but the took the velvet bag from Thrift, smiling as she inspected the contents. ‘Very well, but I must see the million, in full, and it is to be held in keeping by my own man.’

‘Would you not prefer to keep matters to yourself?’ Thrift queried. ‘What if your man told Monsieur Mazoyères, or sought to blackmail you?’

‘Bruno is loyal,’ Mimi answered. ‘I am to punish you, am I not, next week at La Fête du Muguet?

‘Yes,’ Thrift admitted with a sudden sinking feeling.

‘Arrange the assignation for that same evening. I will be expected to whisper little cruelties into your ear while you are on the guillotine...’

‘The guillotine!?’

Mimi laughed.

‘It is what Fleurette calls her clysopomp, you foolish little thing. We are not going to execute you on stage!’

‘And what is a clysopomp?’

‘A machine for giving girls enemas. Are you really so naive?’

‘A little, perhaps.’

‘Very, I would say, which will make giving you your punishment all the more pleasurable. So yes, that night. The house will be full, which will keep Fleurette busy.’

And Monsieur Mazoyères?

Eugène? He is like a puppy at my heel, as all men are.

‘Very well, I will make the arrangements.’

‘Do so. Now get out. I am on stage as soon as those two little idiots have finished pouring custard over each other.’

Thrift curtsied and left, peering cautiously from the door before closing it behind her. Nobody was about, but the audience could be heard applauding vigorously and she risked a glance from the wings onto the stage. Yseult and Apolline were on all fours, both in the torn remnants of their Pierrot costumes, bottoms and breasts fully bare, scrubbing at a mixture of what appeared to be chocolate flavoured custard and fruit. They seemed to have been fighting each other, both their bodies filthy with custard, their beautiful hair matted and dripping, while what little of their bottom flesh showed at all clearly was red from spanking. Yseult had an orange in her vagina, Apolline an apple, both fruit showing in the stretched pink holes.

Knowing that Mimi would shortly be coming out on stage, which presumably meant the corridors would be empty save perhaps for other girls, Thrift withdrew. Pierre was sure to be on the door, making it inadvisable to exit via the foyer, so she used the same route she had before, mulling over her conversation with Mimi Caze as she climbed to the attics. She had hoped to escape the punishment ordained for her by M’selle Laroche, which now seemed unavoidable. Yet while the thought of being given a public enema on some nightmare machine made her stomach lurch and her anus tighten it was something she knew she would have to accept in the line of duty.

More problematic was the presence of Mimi’s bodyguard, Bruno, who she had met when he escorted her from L’Huître Rose to Baudelaire’s. He was a giant of a man, far too large for her to hope to overcome physically, for all her training, while she knew that it would be foolish to assume that he did not take precautions against such elementary tactics as a kick in the balls. Nor, she suspected, would she have the heart to kill him by knife or poison, which in any event would create new problems. Some more subtle device would be required.

Then there was Quigley, who expected to pay a thousand francs and would no doubt baulk at the prospect of paying out a million, even if he had access to such a sum. Yet Mimi Caze wanted to see the money before she surrendered herself, and even if she could overcome the problem there were sure to be difficulties when Quigley suggested a spanking, to say nothing of putting the haughty, self-satisfied M’selle Caze in nappies. Fortunately, Thrift reflected as she tucked her dress into her pantalettes in order to negotiate the fire escape, she had no need to take matters to the point at which Godfrey Quigley got to indulge himself with Mimi Caze.

Paris, Baudelaire’s, April 30th 2010

Thrift gave a little wiggle as she settled her bottom onto Godfrey Quigley’s lap. Her time at Baudelaire’s was almost at an end and her sense of apprehension at the prospect of putting her plan into operation had grown so strong it occupied her every waking moment. It took all her art to continue to play her part, both when stripping on stage each night and afterwards in the salon when she came out to entertain the men. With Quigley she had become a firm favourite, taken upstairs to be spanked and sodomised for three nights running, also fucked, put in nappies for a second time and made to suck his penis, and others, so often that she now felt something was missing when she didn’t have her mouth agape on the shaft of a cock. Despite repeated questions she had refused to tell Quigley the details until she had arranged every aspect of the plan in as much detail as she could.

That was now done, and rather more. During the afternoon she had made a trip to her drop, a litter bin in the Champs de Mars, and delivered a message, then walked to an ordinary post office and sent a letter to her father. Events in Épernay strongly suggested that she had been betrayed to the Bureau, but he at least she could trust. A great deal still remained in the hands of fate, or outside her control, far more than she would have liked, but she now needed to take matters forward.

‘All is arranged,’ she said, bending close to kiss Quigley and then whisper into his ear, ‘take me upstairs and I will tell you.’

‘My pleasure,’ he responded.

With the usual arrangements made, Thrift was led up to a private room. He was eager, not even bothering to have her strip or pour him a drink before demanding to know what she had arranged.

‘It is to be tomorrow,’ she told him, ‘on the first of May, at La Fête du Muguet? It is the day I am to be punished on stage, by M’selle Caze herself. Your assignation is arranged for later that evening.’

‘Splendid!’ he chuckled. ‘And there’s nothing like a good show to whet the old carnal appetite, especially a punishment, with all due sympathy to you of course, my dear, but you no doubt understand the delight a man cannot help but take in seeing a woman physically chastised, let alone in such an erotic fashion?’

‘I think I am beginning to understand,’ Thrift told him, ‘but that is how it will be, by request of M’selle Caze herself, who no doubt knows you will enjoy what is done to me, while she too seems to see my punishment as if it were an appetiser.’

‘A most apt analogy,’ Quigley answered her. ‘Is it to be at LHuître Rose then? A trifle incautious, I would have thought, if we are to avoid the jealous attentions of Monsieur Mazoyères?

‘No,’ Thrift told him. ‘I will introduce you to M’selle Caze at LHuître Rose, but you will leave separately. I will escort you myself, to where she will meet you, on a barge.’

‘A barge?’ he queried.

‘A barge,’ Thrift confirmed. ‘What could be safer, or more amicable? The two of you will be alone on the Seine, save for myself...’

‘Who will be operating the barge?’

‘I will.’

‘You can operate a barge?’

‘It is no great matter. My brother is a bargee.’

‘I see. So then, alone with the delectable Mimi Caze on a Seine pleasure barge. What a delight! And the accessories are ready? Nappies, powder, cream?’

‘Already aboard, although you must pay another two-hundred and fifty francs to cover expenses.’

Quigley dismissed the demand with an airy gesture then lay back on the bed with a long, wistful sigh.

‘The money?’ Thrift enquired.

‘You don’t expect me to pay it now, do you?’ he responded. ‘What, and then find the entire thing has been an elaborate confidence trick? Oh no, my dear, you shall have your money, rest assured, but not until that gorgeous little minx Caze has been over my knee. Speaking of which, come along, it is high time you were spanked, and just in case you have been trying to trick me, it will be extra hard tonight, with a hairbrush.’

He had produced the item from the pocket of his coat as he spoke, a wooden hairbrush with a flat back and a handle, short but perfectly serviceable as a spanking implement, as Thrift new from innumerable encounters with similar articles. She swallowed hard and began to protest, but then thought better of it, knowing that while the beating would hurt a great deal more than a hand spanking she would soon be warm and willing. In the end he would make her come. He always did, and besides, in the circumstances it seemed unnecessarily cruel to deny him the pleasure of her bottom. Pushing down her pantalettes, she draped herself across Quigley’s knee for what she imagined would be her last spanking for quite a while, also the last spanking he got to dish out, perhaps forever.

Paris, Salon L’Huître Rose, May 1st 2010

Nodding to Pierre at the door, Thrift entered the Salon L’Huître Rose. Everything was much as always, save that the foyer, instead of being merely crowded, was packed. She already knew that every seat in the house was sold out, and that the prospect of she and Coco being punished by Mimi Caze had drawn an audience of a calibre that would have been unusual at Baudelaire’s. They recognised her too, her entrance provoking a buzz of excited conversation as heads turned. All eyes were on her as she crossed the foyer, the men lustful and amused, the women no less so but with here and there a trace of sympathy. Some made remarks, others offers, joking or serious, of money to have her provide later entertainment, to come up on stage while she was being punished, or simply to cream her bottom when it was all over. She walked on, doing her best to remain calm despite the frantic fluttering of her heart. M’selle Laroche was by the theatre doors and turned to Thrift with a cool nod as she approached.

‘So you didn’t take the chance to run? I knew you wouldn’t. You are a born whore and you know it, don’t you?’

Thrift merely hung her head, accepting the verdict. M’selle Laroche took her arm, leading her to the corner of the foyer before she continued.

‘As you know, you are to be given enemas, yourself and Coco. This is being done to you as a punishment, also to teach you to obey my rules, but it is more than that. It is a performance, and one which a great many important people have paid to see. You must perform, and with skill, a skill I know you have from your performances, but to which you now need to give full rein. Do not attempt to take your punishment stoically, which will bore the audience. Do not over react, crying and screaming at the least little thing, or they will realise that you are faking. Let your emotions show, your fear and disgust in particular, which always goes down well, but most especially your arousal, and do not try to pretend you will not grow excited. I have spoken with Georgette, who has told me how the girls piddled on you and made you mop it up but you were playing with your cunt while they made you lick them. Is that clear?’

Thrift gave a miserable nod, unable to deny the accusation.

‘Good,’ M’selle Laroche went on, ‘because there is nothing men enjoy more than to see a women grow aroused over her own degradation, believe me.’

Again Thrift nodded, ignoring the temptation to remark that many women were no better.

‘As an added amusement,’ M’selle Laroche continued, ‘one suggested by Georgette as it happens, you will have your hands tied before the performance, allowing our patrons to enjoy your breasts, and perhaps rather more. Put them behind your back, crossed.’

Reluctantly, Thrift obeyed, telling herself that as just about everybody at L’Huître Rose seemed to feel that they had a right to touch her breasts and bottom as they pleased it would make very little difference whether her hands were tied or not. That didn’t prevent the blood rushing to her face as her bodice was tugged down and her chemise pulled wide to bare her breasts, nor her feelings of vulnerability to rise steeply as her hands were lashed behind her back with a ribbon.

With Thrift securely bound, M’selle Laroche walked away, responding to a greeting by an elderly man with the face of a hungry vulture whom Thrift recognised as Vice-President Mazoyères himself. Left to her own devices, she looked around, hoping to locate Godfrey Quigley and Mimi Caze in order to make the promised introduction. Conditions were perfect. If Godfrey Quigley spoke to Mimi Caze in private and the sum of a million francs was mentioned it would be disastrous, but with each believing in the assignation and too many people about to risk being overheard there was every chance that Thrift’s duplicity would go undetected.

It was impossible to make out who was or was not there among the dense throng, but a cluster of men at the far side of the room suggested the presence of Mimi Caze, while it seemed most likely that Quigley would be near the bar. She started forward, only to be brought up short as one elbow was taken in a firm grip. Turning, she found herself looking at Georgette, with Zara beyond her.

‘There you are,’ Georgette said. ‘I was hoping to find you in time. Come with us.’

‘I have to be on stage in...’ Thrift began as Zara took her other arm.

‘We know,’ Georgette assured her, ‘and believe me, we intend to enjoy the show, but as it won’t be either of us assisting M’selle Laroche we thought it might be fun to have a private performance first.’

As she spoke they had bustled Thrift out into the corridor. Narcisse followed, immediately pulling off her banana yellow pantalettes as Georgette and Zara tightened their grip on Thrift’s arms.

‘I really need to stay...,’ Thrift began, breaking off as Narcisse squeezed her face to force her mouth wide and jam in the pantalettes.

Thrift was still making muffled protests as she was urged down the corridor and up the narrow spiral staircase towards the dormitory. With her hands tied it was impossible to fight, and she realised that Georgette had evidently arranged it all in advance, suggesting Thrift’s hands be tied for her own purposes rather than for the benefit of the patrons. She was now helpless anyway, making acquiescence the most sensible course of action, so that the three girls could subject her to whatever torment they pleased and get it over with as speedily as possible. As they entered the dormitory she stood meekly on the old green carpet.

‘Strip her, girls,’ Georgette instructed, ‘stark naked, then pin her out on a bed.’

Zara and Narcisse moved forward as one, to grab Thrift. Her hands were untied and her dress hauled up over her head, her corset removed, her pantalettes pulled down and off, taking her shoes with them. Her stockings came last rolled off as she was spread her out on her own bed with her arms above her head and her legs well apart to leave her sex open and vulnerable. Narcisse and Zara held Thrift in place, one to either side of the bed as Georgette stepped close.

‘Good work,’ Georgette declared. ‘Now, Udders, this is what is going to happen. You are expected on stage in twenty minutes, give or take a few, which gives us just enough time to play a little game I’ve invented. It’s rather sweet of me, I think, because it will get you ready for what that bitch Caze and M’selle Laroche plan to do to you. Who knows, if you ask politely I might even spank that big fat bottom of yours so you’ll be nice and warm. Well?’

Thrift remained obstinately silent, knowing that all she could manage with Narcisse’s pantalettes stuffed in her mouth would be a feeble mumbling, which would not only amuse the girls but was sure to be taken for assent.

‘Well?’ Georgette repeated.

‘Go on, Georgette!’ Zara urged. ‘Roll her up and spank her bottom!’

As she spoke she had already hauled one of Thrift’s legs up, placing her in a ridiculous position, with one leg extended and one held up to twist the meat of her cunt and expose the underside of one bottom cheek.

‘She’s already been spanked, I see,’ Georgette remarked, ‘recently, and quite hard. Roll her up properly.’

Narcisse pulled up Thrift’s other leg, fully exposing her bottom with her anus stretched between her open cheeks and the bruises Quigley had inflicted with his hairbrush plainly visible.

‘My oh my, you must have been a naughty girl,’ Georgette remarked, ‘or did you ask for it? I bet you did, you little slut, but considering the state of your bottom I shall spare you further punishment, or at least, further spanking. Isn’t that nice of me? Now then...’

She had turned to the dormitory wash basket, and began to pull out discarded stockings, which she passed to the others. Thrift lay still, allowing them to secure her ankles to the bedstead, with one arm also stretched high above her head and lashed in place but the other still free. Georgette watched all this with a cool smile, speaking only when Thrift was fully secure

‘Are you quite comfortable? Then we can play, and there’s a little wager too, just to make it more fun. You may have guessed that we’ve left a hand free so you can masturbate that dirty little cunt, and that is what you’re going to do, unless you’d rather I took a cane to your tits?’

Thrift shook her head urgently.

‘No, I didn’t think even you would like that, but I do think you’ll like what I’m going to do to you, and that you’ll come, because you won’t be able to stop yourself. Narcisse thinks it’s going too far, and that you can’t be that dirty. If I’m right I get to spank her, but if she’s right she gets to spank Zara. Won’t that be fun?’

‘I get spanked?’ Zara queried. ‘But, Georgette...’

‘You get spanked,’ Georgette said firmly as she began to undress. ‘You hardly expect me to take it, would you?’

‘No, Georgette. Sorry, Georgette,’ Zara responded, pouting, but quickly happy again as she tugged Narcisse’s pantalettes from Thrift’s mouth. ‘Anyway, I’m sure she’ll like it!’

‘Like what?’ Thrift asked.

‘A drink,’ Georgette responded, tugging down her own pantalettes and tossing them aside.

The other girls immediately burst into excited giggles, making Thrift wonder what Georgette was talking about, but only for a moment. As the tall girl climbed onto the bed and threw one elegant leg across Thrift’s body her intentions became painfully obvious. Georgette’s cunt was directly over Thrift’s mouth, the bright pink slit moist with excitement, her scent thick in the air.

‘Not that, please, Georgette!’ Thrift begged between tight lips. ‘Please!’

‘Open your mouth,’ Georgette ordered.

Thrift shook her head, which was turned as far to one side as she could go.

‘There are worse things I can do,’ Georgette pointed out calmly. ‘Now open your mouth, Udders.’

‘Please, Georgette, at least not on my bed!’ Thrift pleaded, speaking between pressed lips and even then thinking to lie. ‘I have to sleep in it later!’

‘Yes, stupid,’ Georgette replied. ‘That’s part of your punishment, sleeping in a pissy bed. I know you’re going to enjoy having it done to you, you little slut. Now, open your mouth like a good girl, or it’s going to get a lot, lot worse, and there are three of us.’

‘Oh, all right,’ Thrift grumbled, ‘but you’re rotten pigs, all of you!’

She had turned her head as she spoke, and left her mouth open, gaping wide beneath Georgette’s open cunt. The others girls clustered close, giggling and whispering in excitement to watch Georgette urinate in Thrift’s mouth. It came, a little trickle running down between Georgette’s sex lips as her belly tensed, then a gush. Thrift’s mouth filled with hot, reeking urine in an instant, far more than she could possibly cope with. It began to bubble out at the sides, running down her face to wet the bed clothes beneath her. She began to choke and was forced to swallow, gulping down one mouthful of urine and then a second before the laughing Georgette moved a little, to direct the spray of her piss full in Thrift’s face. Some went up her nose, more in her eyes, and she was forced to turn her head away once more, gagging and spluttering on Georgette’s piss, which was still coming, filling Thrift’s ear and soaking her hair.

‘I needed that,’ Georgette sighed as the stream of her pee finally began to subside. ‘I’ve been saving it up for her for hours. Now you can lick me, Chastity, and if you do it well, and rub your cunt while you’re at it I might let you off having the others piss on you too.’

A chorus of disappointment answered her, but she ignored her friends, moving forward a little to press her quim to Thrift’s cheek.

‘Lick me,’ she ordered.

Thrift had already given in, and swallowed what was in her mouth before twisting her head back and pressing her mouth to Georgette’s cunt. She began to lick, trying not to look too eager for all that the state of her own sex made it blatantly obvious that she was turned on, her juice running so strongly it had begun to trickle down between her cheeks and wet her anus. Zara noticed and giggled, then gave Narcisse’s bottom a little slap. The black girl responded with a sulky look, but had soon reached out to stroke Georgette’s breasts and hair to help her on her way. Zara also joined in, kissing Georgette mouth to mouth and stroking her bottom.

It didn’t take long. Georgette was soon moaning and rubbing her cunt on Thrift’s mouth, her arms around Zara and Narcisse as they supported her. For a moment she moved forward, just far enough to spread her neat little bottom cheeks across Thrift’s mouth. Thrift knew what she was supposed to do and found herself unable to resist, puckering her lips to kiss Georgette’s anus before starting to lick cunt once more. A moment later and Georgette had come, full in Thrift’s face, gasping and moaning in her ecstasy with her cunt in tight contraction and little squirts of milky urine erupting from her pee hole over Thrift’s cheeks and up her nose.

Thrift was left panting for breath and dizzy with lack of air. Her face was a mess, plastered with urine and snot and Georgette’s juices, while her body was hot and prickling with sweat. She needed to come, desperate for attention to her cunt, but she stayed still as Georgette dismounted, still with just enough pride left to want to make Georgette lose her bet even when it was Zara who would get her bottom smacked.

‘She’s good,’ Georgette declared. ‘Experienced too, if I’m any judge. Just how many girls’ cunts have you licked, Udders? And why are you being stubborn? Go on, rub your cunt. We can all see how juicy you are.’

Thrift felt a stab of shame despite her arousal, but stayed silent.

‘Zara,’ Georgette ordered, ‘your turn.’

Zara reached out, to touch one of Thrift’s breasts, rubbing an already erect nipple between forefinger and thumb, then climbed on the bed, to throw her leg across Thrift’s head, bottom to face.

‘Have fun,’ Georgette said and Thrift’s light was cut out as Zara settled her bottom in place.

Thrift stuck her tongue out to lap at the wrinkled star of Zara’s anus. It felt good, increasing her need to play with herself, but still she held back, her fingers twitching where they lay on the bed clothes. Her sheets were wet, making her think of how Georgette was determined to have her sleep in a pissed-in bed, driving her humiliation and arousal higher still. Her hand moved to her belly, her fingers clutching at her soft, sweat slick flesh, still resisting, only to break as hot piddle erupted in her face as Zara let herself go.

With her tongue still up Zara’s bottom the pee was splashing out all over Thrift’s neck and breasts, splashing her belly too as she began to masturbate in it. Georgette gave a cry of triumph, Narcisse a little, angry gasp, but Thrift no longer cared. Her tongue was deep up Zara’s bottom, she was tied and naked and being pissed on, and that was all that mattered. In just seconds she came, a hard, sharp orgasm, still with hot piss running down her neck and over her breasts. More pee was running backwards too, between Zara’s bottom cheeks, to soil Thrift’s face. Her mouth was filling with piss as she licked urgently at Zara’s pouted anus, trying to get her tongue as far up as possible as wave after wave of pleasure ran through her, but even as her shudders began to fade she kept her hand between her thighs.

‘Slut!’ Narcisse said. ‘You must do me too then!’

‘I haven’t finished,’ Zara responded. ‘Lick it, Chastity, lick my cunt, and then you get to do Narcisse.’

Zara moved a little, smothering Thrift in wet, hot cunt flesh as the other girls pushed in, each determined to get her pleasure. Narcisse was cruel, taking her revenge for her spanking in advance as she bit and twisted at Thrift’s nipples before mounting up in her turn when Zara had come, her firm black bottom spread wide to have her anus licked before her cunt. Like the others she pissed on Thrift and made her drink it, but up on her knees so that she and the others could watch as the hot yellow liquid bubbled in her victim’s open mouth and ran out from the sides. All three of her tormentors were laughing as they watched Thrift gulp down Narcisse’s piddle, and as the bushy black cunt was pushed into her face again she had begun to masturbate once more.

The moment Narcisse was done both Georgette and Zara climbed back onto the bed, laughing as they mounted Thrift’s body once more. She did her best to respond, licking cunts and bumholes, happily swallowing more of Georgette’s urine when it was done in her mouth, her body hot and sore and soiled, the bed a mess of piss soaked sheets and blankets, her senses swamped with the taste of girl. Narcisse even wriggled herself in against Thrift’s belly, to urinate in her gaping cunt and set the other girls laughing as her piddle bubbled and squirted from the open pink hole.

Each of them came a second time, one by one, against Thrift’s mouth, riding her in turn while she licked, until her tongue was aching and her lips sore and red. They took their pleasure with each other too, while they waited their turn, using fingers and mouths to caress and probe, but all of them concentrating on the helpless, piss soaked, wriggling Thrift. All the while she was playing with her cunt, bringing herself to orgasm after orgasm until at last she could stand it no more and even then finding herself obliged to finished Georgette off one last time before the three girls finally let her be.

‘There,’ Georgette sighed, ‘and I bet that kept your mind off your punishment?’

Thrift nodded weakly and relaxed back onto her sodden bedclothes as they began to work on her bonds. Soon she was free, and she immediately scampered into the bathroom to wash, followed by Georgette’s voice, half mocking, half sympathetic.

‘While you’re in there, use the pot, if you don’t want to mess yourself on the clysopomp. Hurry up though, we took a bit longer than I’d expected.’

Thrift took Georgette’s advice, squatting down on the pot to clear her bowels before washing herself a second time. She felt oddly light headed, as if she wasn’t quite there, making it hard to concentrate as she dried, to think of what was about to happen or to concentrate on what she needed to do.

Out in the dormitory Narcisse was being spanked across Georgette’s knee, her bare black bottom lifted and spread to show off the pink slit of her cunt and the dark star of her anus. Thrift watched for a moment, enjoying the view and the sharp little cries Narcisse was making as Georgette’s hand smacked down across her cheeks, then pulled her dress on over her head, not bothering with her underwear as she knew it would be coming off again within minutes.

‘We’ll be down to watch,’ Georgette promised, ‘now run along.’

Thrift ran, the smacks and cries of the spanking receding as she hurried down the stairs. She could hear the audience as she reached the corridor, a low, excited hum that set her belly tight and her fingers shaking. Somewhere among them would be Godfrey Quigley, no doubt puzzled by her absence, but there was no time to seek him out, while it was certainly too late to introduce him to Mimi Caze in any event. Possibly the two had already spoken. Possibly her entire scheme was already ruined, but there was nothing to be done. The clock outside M’selle Laroche’s office showed that she had just minutes to go, but she arrived backstage to find Coco alone, sitting on an upturned packing case, wearing a glum expression but no clothes whatsoever.

‘Strip off,’ Coco advised immediately. ‘It’s easier that way, believe me, less messy.’

Thrift nodded, lifting the hem of her dress to show that she was nude beneath. As Coco spoke she had jerked a thumb to where thick curtains hid them from the stage. Thrift moved closer and peered through a gap. People were already beginning to fill the seats, men and women talking together in low voices with many an expectant glance towards the stage, where stood a large frame not wholly unlike the horrible guillotine the French used to execute the worst of their criminals.

After an instant of raw terror Thrift realised that the awful thing was not in fact a guillotine, although so similar that it might have been adapted from one, but the clysopomp. There was no blade, but the superstructure was hung with chains, each securely fastened to black iron eyes held fast by bolts driven clean through the wood. Smaller brass hooks supported two bulging rubber bags, and from each bag depended a long, transparent hose tipped with a nozzle and tap affair the purpose of which was all too obvious.

The lower part of the structure was no less ominous. The bench where the condemned would lie was padded, showing what struck Thrift as a curious, even bizarre, concern for their comfort, and also fringed with heavy leather straps, more chains and lengths of rope, far more than could possibly be needed to hold even the strongest of men in place, let alone a young girl. Sturdy legs supported the bench, and they, like the leather, were stained with some dark fluid. To one side a complicated device had been bolted to the frame, made of brass and with so many long rubber tubes protruding from the central bulb that it might have been modelled on an octopus. A bucket of water stood to one side, perfectly ordinary and yet no less sinister than the horrible machine the purpose of which she now realised was not only to give girls enemas but to ensure their complete exposure and humiliation at the same time.

‘It’s a clysopomp,’ Coco remarked as Thrift stepped back from the curtain.

‘I know,’ Thrift said, shuddering. ‘How will they put us on it?’

‘It’s best not to know,’ Coco assured her. ‘It would only make the apprehension worse, but there is a way to beat them.’

‘There is?’ Thrift asked.

Coco had stood up, and came to embrace Thrift, who responded gratefully, keen for any affection that might be offered. For a moment they clung tight, neither speaking, before Coco tilted her head up to kiss Thrift on the lips, once, then again. Thrift was surprised to find her friend’s sharp little tongue probing at her mouth, but gave in, allowing her lips to part and sharing a long, open mouthed kiss. It was Coco who broke away, but she kept her arms around Thrift’s waist as she spoke again, each hand resting on one bottom cheek.

‘You like it when we piss on you. Try and enjoy this too.’

Thrift managed a weak nod, fully aware of what Coco was saying but not sure if she could, especially not with several hundred men and women enjoying her shame and discomfort. Yet it was going to happen anyway, whether she liked it or not. The hum of noise from the theatre had begun to pick up in volume as Thrift started to undress. She was biting her lip as she stripped off her clothes, while her stomach was churning and her bladder felt weak. It occurred to her that another trip to the convenient facilities would be an extremely good idea, after all the piddle she had drunk, but at that moment M’selle Laroche spoke from directly behind her.

‘You are both here then, as I knew you would be. That is just as well, too, as had you not been I would have found myself obliged to use other girls in your places, innocent girls. We have almost a full house, so it wouldn’t do to disappoint the audience. Now then, your little excursion was your idea, was it not, Chastity?’

‘Yes, M’selle,’ Thrift admitted.

‘Then you are on the bench. Coco, you are on the tower.’

Thrift responded with a single, miserable nod. Coco merely hung her head. M’selle Laroche reached out to grasp the girls’ hands, leading them out from the wings. The theatre was now full, hundreds of faces showing as pale ovals beyond the bright lights that illuminated the stage and the machine at its centre, also Mimi Caze, who stood with her arms folded across her chest and her face set in a cruel smirk. She wore only a black rubber corset, stockings and gloves, skin tight to her beautiful body, while in one hand she carried a vicious little whip.

An excited buzz ran through the audience at the appearance of the two girls. Thrift found herself staring, every detail of her surroundings suddenly pin sharp, and yet her feelings oddly numb save for the churning in her stomach. She stepped forward, moving mechanically as she was led to the bench of the clysopomp. As she mounted it Mimi’s whip flicked out, landing a sharp, stinging cut across Thrift’s bottom to make her jump and release a fart. Somebody in the audience laughed.

Blushing and shaking, Thrift climbed onto the bench in a crawling position, and moved forward to lay her head into the half-moon shaped slot designed to take the victim’s neck, only to receive another cut from Mimi’s whip, this time delivered under her belly.

‘The other way up, stupid,’ Mimi ordered.

Puzzled, Thrift turned over, to lie herself down on the padded bench with the back of her neck in the slot. The superstructure of the clysopomp now rose high above her, and it was all too easy to imagine the guillotine blade hidden where the top showed faint in the shadows. She shut her eyes, struggling to control the shaking of her body and biting her lip against the growing pressure in her bladder. Her ankles were seized, her legs pushed up, forced her to spread herself as if waiting for a lover to mount her, with her cunt open and the tuck of her cheeks rolled up to expose her anus. Leather cuffs were attached to her ankles, others to her wrists, a thick strap placed across her belly, fixing her tightly in position. At a sound near her head she opened her eyes once more to find Mimi grinning down at her.

‘This is the lunette,’ Mimi whispered as she pushed a double layered structure with another half-moon cut out down across Thrift’s neck. ‘It holds your head in place when it gets chopped off.’

The last two words were spoken in harsh, clipped tones, evoking a sharp pang of terror in Thrift and setting her eyes searching the shadows above her for fear that there really was a blade. Mimi saw and laughed, then reached out to pinch Thrift’s cheek as she spoke again.

‘Don’t worry, little one. We’re not going to chop your silly head off, but we do need to keep you firmly in place, as you’ll see.’

She laughed again, then turned her attention to fixing the lunette into place, pushing home a bolt to ensure that it could not be lifted. Thrift was now completely trapped, spread out helpless on the bench of the clysopomp, her breasts thrust high, her thighs spread, her head fixed in position so securely that she could barely twist it to the side. Unable to see what Mimi and M’selle Laroche were doing, she could only lie still as further straps and chains were attached to her body, securing her arms and legs and torso. A gasp escaped her throat as a well lubricated finger was pushed in unexpectedly up her bottom hole, but she quickly realised who had invaded her as Mimi spoke once more.

‘She’s quite loose, and clean.’

‘A gauge three then,’ M’selle Laroche responded, her face just visible to Thrift as she went to the octopus like device at the side of the clysopomp.

‘Try a four,’ Mimi suggested. ‘I think she’ll take it.’

M’selle Laroche nodded, frowning as she selected one rubber tube tipped with a nozzle that looked quite big enough to fill a girl’s gaping mouth, never mind her anus. Thrift began to protest, but thought better of it, knowing that so show fear and distress would only amuse and excite her audience all the more, while her tormentors were hardly going to take any notice of her preferences anyway.

Instead she lay back, her eyes closed once more, forcing herself to relax as Mimi slipped a second finger in, then a third, to stretch Thrift’s anus wide open. Despite herself it felt nice, and she was unable to hold back her moans as yet another finger was inserted and finally the full bulk of Mimi’s fist.

‘Very loose. She must get sodomised regularly, and she’s been spanked,’ Mimi remarked, her entire hand now in Thrift’s rectum. ‘There, that should have her ready.’

Thrift gasped as Mimi’s fist was pulled from her bottom hole, which stayed open, wet and gaping, but only for a moment. The nozzle was put in place, once more stretching her anus, wider still, the little ring opening around the cold brass plug until she was panting and clutching at her straps in reaction. Even with it right up, her hole was left straining wide on the neck designed to keep it up her. She found herself fighting the urge to try and push the thing back out, which she knew would have disastrous consequences, although no worse than what was going to happen to her anyway. New straps were attached to her thighs and around her waist, fixing the enema nozzle in place up Thrift’s bottom.

‘Now her cunt,’ Mimi remarked, ‘and I don’t think you’re going to need the lubricant.’

‘She’s like that,’ M’selle Laroche responded. ‘However much she hates it she always gets wet, even when the other girls urinate on her or make her lick their bottoms, so I am told. She’s a natural whore.’

Mimi merely nodded, but paused to ease two fingers in up Thrift’s vagina before selecting a nozzle fatter even than the one before. Again Thrift did her best to relax as the fat brass plug was eased in up her cunt and tied off, leaving both her holes bloated and straining, while the urge to urinate was now close to unbearable.

‘Coco,’ M’selle Laroche instructed, ‘on the lunette.’

The small girl did as she was told, climbing onto the bench with her legs to either side of Thrift’s body before squatting down to sit on the lunette. The pose left her as if she were on the pot but with her bottom and sex poised not over a china receptacle, but directly above Thrift’s face. Only then did Thrift realise the full horror of her punishment, because Coco’s bare, open bottom was just inches above her face, the neatly turned little cunt lips above her chin, the tight pink anus aimed at her mouth. Mimi had seen the expression on Thrift’s face and slapped her thigh in delight.

‘Yes,’ she called, ‘that’s right, and you had better keep your mouth open, because if you don’t we’ll just keep on until you start to behave, and I’ll be giving you a little encouragement.’

She flicked her whip at Thrift’s thigh as she finished, then joined M’selle Laroche in fastening Coco into her straps. These were similar to the ones that bound Thrift in place, thick leather buckled with brass to hold ankles, wrists and waist, with more added. Soon Coco was barely able to move, let alone escape, and her bottom remained poised exactly over Thrift’s face, anus to mouth but with a gap sufficiently wide to ensure that the audience could see what was happening.

Thrift’s own view was more detailed still, Coco’s bottom hole just inches from her face as Mimi inserted on well lubricated finger. A nozzle followed, far smaller than the one up Thrift’s bottom and held in only by the small girl’s sphincter where it had closed on the narrow neck. Coco’s cunt was also plugged, and her mouth, both with fat brass nozzles held in place by leather straps. Beneath her, Thrift had begun to squirm with rising panic for what was about to be done to her, while the noise from the audience had risen to an excited babble.

M’selle Laroche begun to adjust the spigots on the water bags, first twisting wide the one that controlled the flow into Coco’s mouth. Forced to swallow, the small girl had quickly began to react, her flesh trembling and the cheeks of her bottom squeezing as her belly filled. Next came the spigot on the tube that led to Thrift’s cunt, at which her muscles started to twitch, her self control slipping away even before she felt the first cool trickle of water inside her. Soon she was jerking in her bonds as her cunt began to swell, the pressure rising fast with the excitement of the audience, until she finally lost control of her bladder. She cried out as a great arch of golden piddle erupted from her cunt to splash down on the boards of the stage and soak the leather of the clysopomp.

The crowd burst into applause and laughter to see Thrift wet herself, men and women both crying out in excitement and delight, some calling in bets, others responding with good natured curses. Broken and helpless, Thrift let it all come out, the urine gushing from her pee hole to mingle with the water now dribbling out of the overflow in her plug and running down between her bottom cheeks.

Mimi was laughing and showing off to the crowd, first holding up a large goblet for everyone to see and then placing it between Thrift’s thighs to catch a pint or so of urine. Thrift was made to drink it, gulping down her own piddle in full view of the audience as they cheered Mimi on for her wicked addition to the punishment. By then the next spigot had been turned, the one controlling the flow of water up Thrift’s bottom, and as she swallowed down the last of her pee she could already feel her rectum beginning to swell.

Another spigot was turned on and water began to ooze from around the plug in Coco’s cunt, slowly at first, until the overflow cut in to leave it dripping onto Thrift’s neck and chin. One last spigot and water was flowing in up Coco’s bottom as well, both girls now bloating with water until Thrift had once more began to wriggle and squirm in her bonds, while the flesh around the smaller girl’s anus had started to bulge. In no time the pressure in Thrift’s rectum had grown painful, setting her gasping for breath and begging M’selle Laroche for release. She was told to shut up, and a moment later the valve on the plug overflow cut in, to let water trickle slowly onto the bench beneath her.

‘She’s full,’ Mimi remarked, giving the plug in Thrift’s anus a thoughtful prod.

M’selle Laroche nodded and stood back, Mimi began to tug open the straps that held the plug in up Thrift’s bottom hole and the audience had gone suddenly quiet. Thrift shut her eyes tight, her whole body shaking. She had begun to cry, the tears running freely down her face, but still she tried to fight the pressure in her belly, determined at the very least to hold back for a few seconds before expelling her enema.

It was hopeless. The pressure was simply too great, and even as the fat brass plug popped free her bottom hole gave way, erupting a great gush of water all over the bench and the stage beyond. Fresh applause rang out, louder than before, the women crueller and more excited than the men to see their sister suffer, jeering and shouting as pulse after pulse of water squirted from Thrift’s gaping bottom hole. Her bladder also went, squirting fresh pee high into the air to splash down and mingle with the mess on the floor and running down the bench.

She cried out in an agony of emotion, her feelings far too strong to hold back, both the appalling humiliation for the state she was in and burning consternation for what was to come, but also intense relief as her cavities drained of fluid and the pressure reduced. The tube up her cunt was still flowing, keeping her bloated and dribbling, while her bottom hole had stayed open, her muscles no longer under her control. She let it all come out, liquid oozing from her cunt and anus until at last she was empty but for the nozzle straining out her cunt hole.

Both M’selle Laroche and Mimi had stood back, leaving Thrift to finish off, but as her gasps subsided to a weak panting and her cries to snivels they stepped forward once more. Mimi went to work, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she worked on Coco’s straps, then pulling the nozzles from the small girl’s mouth, cunt, and lastly, her anus. Thrift watched, at first dizzy with reaction to her enema, but with mounting horror, her muscles twitching in her straps as the wet, pink star of Coco’s anus began to pout.

‘No, please...,’ she begged, but it was already too late.

Coco’s bottom hole had already begun to dribble fluid, her pee hole too, hot drips landing on Thrift’s face as she turned it aside. Mimi laughed and lashed out with her whip, catching the back of Thrift’s legs.

‘Head up! Mouth open!’

Thrift obeyed, shaking violently, her eyes squeezed shut as tight as she could but her mouth open to the bulging ring of her friend’s anus.

‘I’m sorry,’ Coco sobbed. ‘I can’t hold it...’

Her words broke to a choking gasp as water exploded from her anus, full into Thrift’s mouth, filling the cavity in an instant and bubbling from the sides. She’d begun to pee too, a thick jet of hot urine spraying out to splash on the wood of the lunette and back into Thrift’s face. Clapping and laughter rang out from the crowd, louder than ever, along with calls for more and obscene suggestions for what should be done to the girls next. M’selle Laroche ignored them, stood back once more as she watched the contents of Coco’s rectum and bladder drain into Thrift mouth and run down her hair to pool on the floor and speaking only when it was finally done.

Thrift barely heard, her senses completely overwhelmed by what had been done to her. Her mouth was still full of liquid, her head spinning with reaction, her feelings too strong to be denied as she pulled up her head and began to lick at Coco’s anus. She had forgotten the advice she’d been given, but was simply too turned on to stop herself, her mind reacting to the abuse of her body the way it always did.

The crowd could see what she was doing, watching in awed silence as the punished girl gave in to her lust, lapping at her friend’s still dribbling bottom hole in full view. Mimi also saw and gave a cruel, knowing laugh, at which M’selle Laroche stopped talking and turned to see, just as Thrift had poked out her tongue to stick it as far up Coco’s bottom hole as it would go.

‘As you so rightly said,’ Mimi remarked, ‘a natural whore and an utter slut.’

M’selle Laroche nodded agreement, then spoke.

‘Whip her cunt.’

Mimi wasted no time, flicking her whip at Thrift’s thighs, then again, to catch the turn of her buttocks. A few quick adjustments and the nozzle had been pulled from Thrift’s hole, leaving her gaping and swollen, her sex lips puffy and red, her clitoris engorged. She was still licking at Coco’s anus and didn’t stop even as the whip began to smack at her bloated cunt flesh. It stung, but it felt nice, too good to resist, making her more eager still as she lapped and sucked at the wet hole between her friend’s bottom cheeks.

She was even hoping Coco would let go properly and soil her mouth, her thoughts ever more dirty and ever more urgent as her excitement rose with every smack of Mimi’s whip to the burning flesh of her cunt. Her face was buried between the trim little bottom cheeks as she started to come, her tongue pushed right out, her mouth agape. She could feel the muscular ring of Coco’s anus, tight on her intruding tongue as her own holes began to go into contraction, squeezing hard to push out what little was left of the fluid inside her in a series of bubbling little squirts.

Mimi was laughing, a sound of demented glee as she watched Thrift come under her whip, while the audience had gone quiet, watching the performance in silent awe. Thrift cried out, her face still smothered in Coco’s bottom as she hit a peak of unendurable shame and ecstasy all at once, a second, and a third, all the while with the tip of Mimi’s whip smacking down on her puffy, bloated cunt flesh, and with that it was finally over. She collapsed onto the bench, near to fainting, so far gone her mind was a blank.

Somebody threw a bucket of cold water over her body but she barely noticed. The second went in her face, finally pulling her back to reality as she was left spluttering and gasping. Mimi Caze and M’selle Laroche had left the stage, and it was other girls who came out to untie Thrift and Coco. Even Georgette was sympathetic, kissing Coco on the lips bending to do the same to Thrift before thinking better of it and patting her head instead.

All five girls were naked, while the twins carried pails of water, mops and scrubbing brushes. They cleaned up on all fours, to the delight of the audience, who were all too plainly aroused by the show. Perhaps one quarter were female, and most of those had at least one stiff cock in her hand, many of them two as they masturbated the men to either side of them. Others were bent down to suck at their men’s erections, some masturbating as they did it, or mounted up to be fucked while they watched the girls on stage. That still left a great many men unattended to, and although she knew M’selle Laroche had brought in extra help Thrift could see it was going to be a busy night for the girls.

She knew she was supposed to do her bit, regardless of the state she was in, which made it important to find Quigley as soon as possible. The moment she was free she took up one of the pails of water the twins were using to mop the floor, upending it over her own head. Laughter rang out from the audience, who had already begun to disperse, those who had come and a few intent on finishing their business in the private rooms or getting first choice of the girls.

The cold water cleared Thrift’s head a little more and she came to the front of the stage to curtsey to the audience, all the while scanning the dim lit faces for Quigley. He was there, near the end of the third row back, a position that Thrift realised would have given him a perfect view of her bottom during her punishment but also allowed him to see her face. She waved and blew him a kiss, an action that drew applause from the audience and not a few cries in praise of her courage and how well she’d coped. Jumping down from the stage, Thrift ran to Quigley, still dripping wet as she pushed along the row to seat herself on his lap, wriggling her bottom against the prominent bulge in his trousers before bending to whisper into his ear.

‘Come with me. We must be quick.’

His response was a low chuckle and to squeeze her bottom, then plant a firm slap on the wet flesh as she got up. As Mimi Caze had said nothing on stage, Thrift had already guessed that her plan remained sound and her hope was rising as she led Quigley by the hand, down the row and out into the private areas. He put his arms around her, squeezing and smacking at her bottom, his mouth pressing to hers briefly before he broke away.

‘I must reserve my passion for M’selle Caze, but you were glorious, and little Coco! So passionate, and such a sight!’

‘I had little choice,’ Thrift responded, ‘but we must hurry. The barge is moored on the Île des Cygnes. She is the Singe du Seine, with the carved monkey on her prow. You can’t miss her. Go down, and I will bring Mimi to you. Here is the key. Now hurry, this way, out of the side door.’

He kissed her once more, gave her bottom a final, resounding slap and left, pushing the bar of the side door down and vanishing into the night. Thrift drew in a deep breath. She had meant to collect Mimi Caze, take her to the barge and leave the two of them to get better acquainted over a bottle of Beaujolais laced with enough sleeping draught to leave both insensible for many hours. Quigley would have woken bound and gagged in the hold of the barge, Mimi Caze on the banks of the Seine some way down river, quite possibly naked and sporting a caned bottom after the way she had treated Thrift. Mimi’s insistence on seeing the money and bringing Bruno had forced Thrift to change to a simpler but riskier strategy, following Quigley and making some excuse for the delay while she herself served him the wine.

Before she could go she needed her rectule, while even in Paris a girl running naked through the streets was sure to cause comment. Hurrying up the stairs, she reached her secret hiding place under the eaves. Her anus was still slack, allowing her to insert the rectule without more than a few grunts and grimaces, after which she made for the dormitory. It was empty, the girls busy downstairs, and she had quickly retrieved her steel plated corset, along with Georgette’s best underwear. Footwear proved a problem, as her own was soaked with piss, along with her bed and most of her other belongings, and she was unable to find anything with less than three inches of heel. Finally she selected a pair of buttoned ankle boots belonging to Zara, then dressed quickly and threw on a hooded cape with a fur collar, purloined from Narcisse’s cupboard. All that remained was to reach that same side door through which Quigley had left, but as Thrift ran down the corridor the door of the office opened and she found herself forced to stop as M’selle Laroche’s stepped out, speaking immediately.

‘There you are, Chastity,’ she began, then took in Thrift’s street clothes. ‘No! I do not believe you have made an assignation outside the premises? You have, haven’t you, and immediately after such a punishment! I... I shall, think on this long and hard, but believe me, you shall not shrug off your next punishment so easily, after which you will be spending a day or more in the Ruelle des Sanglots, but for now, Monsieur Mazoyères you to entertain him the director’s suite.’

‘Then I must change,’ Thrift said quickly, but M’selle Laroche had already taken hold of her arm.

‘Oh no, you don’t, you little madam. I know your tricks...’

She broke off with a cry of pain and surprise as Thrift broke the grip and applied her own, twisting one arm high. Quickly, Thrift forced M’selle Laroche into her office, where she intended to lock her, only to give in to a sudden urge for vengeance. Forcing M’selle Laroche down across her own desk, Thrift flipped up the fine skirts of purple skill and the petticoats beneath, pulled down the matching pantalettes and applied half-a-dozen smacks to the bare, wriggling bottom beneath, delivered as hard as she could with a paddle designed for that very purpose and left on the desk for convenience when dealing with the girls.

M’selle Laroche had had little time to react, beyond a few indignant cries, and but started to fight with what Thrift had intended to be the final smack, kicking out violently. Her boot caught Thrift’s shin, and at the same instant she found her voice.

‘Release me this instant! Release me, you impudent little whore! Release me...’

Her voice had risen to a scream, thick with indignation for Thrift’s treatment of her bottom, but broke to a wordless cry, louder still, as the hairbrush was applied between her thighs, directly to the pouted rear lips of her cunt. For Thrift, being called a whore had finally released all the resentment that had been building up over the weeks, for every condescending word, every superior gesture, every striptease she had been made to perform, every cock she had been made to suck, every last humiliating detail, not least her enema, but most of all that she had been paid for it all.

She laid into M’selle Laroche’s bottom with all her force, spanking the little round cheeks and the cunt lips between, ignoring the screams and struggles and kicks. Pink skin turned to red and red had begun to give way to bruises before M’selle Laroche lost control of her bladder, urine spurting out to soak the carpet and spatter the wall behind her. Thrift applied a last, hard smack and stopped, panting, watching as the piddle ran out from the sobbing, shaking woman’s open cunt.

‘Now you know how it feels,’ she said, ‘and don’t you dare and try get up, or there’s more where that came from.’

All M’selle Laroche could manage in response was a weak sob, with the pee still dribbling from her sex as Thrift lashed her wrists into her own petticoat strings. She had wet her pantalettes, but that made no difference to Thrift, who pulled them off, stuffed them into her victim’s mouth and tied them in place, then bound her ankles together and tied her wrists off to the foot of the desk, leaving her sat helpless on the floor, her bare bottom in her own piss puddle.

‘No doubt somebody will find you presently,’ Thrift remarked. ‘Monsieur Mazoyères himself perhaps. Now that would be amusing.’

M’selle Laroche began to squirm and mumble through the pantalettes in her mouth, but Thrift merely blew her a farewell kiss and left, locking the door behind her. Her blood was singing in her veins as she dashed down the corridor, and she had begun to laugh, then stopped as she caught the edge of hysteria in the sound. A slap to her own face brought her back to her senses, but as she turned the corner of the corridor she was once again forced to stop. Mimi Caze and Bruno were standing by the door.

‘There you are,’ Mimi spoke immediately. ‘Let us leave.’

Bruno had already pushed the door open and Thrift found herself with no choice but to join them in the alley. Mimi Caze was clearly nervous, her voice high pitched and abrupt as she carried on.

‘Eugène was being persistent, she said as they set off. He wanted us together, and Fleurette as well, the greedy hog. Have you got the money?

‘Not with me,’ Thrift answered. ‘His Lordship has it, at the rendezvous.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To a private house in the Rue de l’Assomption,’ Thrift lied. ‘It belongs to a friend of his Lordship who is currently away.’

‘That will do, I dare say. At least you have had the sense not to use a hotel. I am recognised everywhere. Now attend. We will inspect the money, Bruno and I, after which Milord and I will wish to be alone, naturally. You and Bruno will remain downstairs, where you may entertain him, and not only in your mouth but in any way he asks.’

‘Yes, M’selle Caze,’ Thrift responded, at which Bruno gave a low growl.

They fell silent as they turned into the Rue des Branleuses, both women walking with their heads down and their hoods pulled forward, Bruno stalking behind. Thrift considered running, but decided against it, sure that in her tight, high heeled boots even the hulking Bruno would be able to outpace her. She thought of the drugged wine, wondering if she could somehow arrange for not only Mimi and Quigley to take a glass before the subject of money was raised, but also Bruno. It seemed unlikely, but gave her a new idea.

We have no Champagne! she said as they drew level with a café and bar. One moment.

‘Stupid girl,’ Mimi remarked, ‘and what does a little whore like you know of Champagne? I will choose.’

Thrift cursed silently under her breath as they entered the shop, her intention of leaving by the back now foiled. The shop was busy with revellers making purchases on their way home from the festival, but Bruno had stayed outside, making it impossible to slip back into the street and lose herself in the crowd either. Mimi made for the display of bottles to one side of the bar, then hesitated.

‘I must arrange myself,’ she said, and turned towards the convenient facilities.

‘I also,’ Thrift replied, sudden hope flaring inside her.

As she followed Mimi through the door marked for the use of Ladies only, Thrift was already slipping loose the cord that tightened her cape at the throat. To her relief no other women were inside, and as Mimi turned to the basins Thrift struck. One well judged blow and Mimi was on the floor, a few moments of frantic work and her hands were tied behind her back and lashed to a pipe in one of the cubicles, with her pantalettes in her mouth. Thrift was grinning as she left, her sole regret that she had not had the time to give Mimi a good spanking before they parted. Bruno was outside as before and Thrift joined him, smiling as she touched his arm.

‘M’selle has a little indigestion. Would you purchase the Champagne? She wants the Arcens et Ay, Cuvée Marshal Foch, the Millennium vintage.’

Bruno merely grunted and went into the shop to search for a Champagne Thrift was confident would not be in stock as she had just made up the name of the cuvée. The instant the door had closed she moved away, walking fast, and the moment she had turned a corner breaking into a run. It was hard going in Zara’s heeled boots, but her spirits were high. There was immense satisfaction in her revenge on both M’selle Laroche and Mimi Caze. Only Quigley remained, and it was hard to see him not taking advantage of the bottle of Beaujolais so temptingly placed in the salon.

Nevertheless, she slowed as the reached the Pont de Grenelle, glancing at every shadow and pausing for a long time by the parapet to look down at the barges tied up alongside the Île des Cygnes. The Singe du Seine was plainly visible, the curtains drawn but a dim light showing in the salon. Everything was quiet, with nobody about who did not seem to have obvious business and no tell-tale movement among the shadows. At last she moved on, to slip quickly down the stairs to the quay. No sound at all came from the barge and she stepped board, clattering happily down the companionway just in case Quigley had resisted the wine and was waiting.

He was not there at all, or not visible, but as she started forward dark figures moved in from the shadows to either side of her, big, silent men in black suits, far too many to resist, calm and professional, leaving her no avenue of escape and quickly closing in to grip her arms and feet. Thrift fought, kicking and scratching, but it was hopeless. In seconds she had been pinned face down on the floor and her hands securely cuffed behind her back. Only then did Godfrey Quigley step out from behind the doors to the engine room. He was smiling as he spoke.

‘Did you really think me so easily gulled, Miss Moncrieff?’

Paris, the headquarters of the French Bureau, May 2nd 2010

Thrift struggled to control her fear. She sat in a bare room, naked and tied to a metal chair with her hands cuffed behind the back and her ankles shackled to the legs. The chair in turn was welded to an iron plate in the floor, while straps secured her belly and thighs. Save for her head, she could barely move. She knew she was in the Headquarters of the French Bureau, the infamous address in the Rue Lafayette, but little more. A sealed car had brought her there, with big, silent men holding her at either side despite her cuffed wrists. Inside she had been taken to a medical room, stripped, hosed down and held bent over a table while her cunt and anus were inspected. Her rectule had been taken out and now lay on a small table in front of her, open and with the contents laid out neatly beside it; money, her stiletto, vials of drugs and poisons, but no papers, which she had disposed of when she no longer needed them. Again and again she told herself to be brave, but when the door slammed back her body jerked in fear and a jet of urine escaped her cunt, to drip from the chair as the man who had entered came to stand in front of her. He was small, dapper, older than those Bureau men she had so far encountered, with a harsh, cold face that gave her no hope of mercy. When he spoke his voice was cold, clipped.

‘You are Thrift Moncrieff, of the British Foreign and Colonial Service.’

Thrift shook her head. He pointed to her rectule and its contents.

‘This suggests that you are.’

Again Thrift shook her head. He drew a sigh, carefully removed first one glove and then the other, put them together and smacked her hard across the face. Thrift yelped in pain, but once more shook her head. The gloves smacked into her face again, and a third time, to leave her shaking and gasping. He glanced down, to where his foot had made contact with the edge of the little puddle of urine she had made on the floor, then pulled back with a gesture of fastidious distaste before speaking again.

‘It is pointless to dissemble, Miss Moncrieff. We know more than you might think. You joined the Service directly from Diplomatic School and were trained at Weathercote House in Yorkshire. You have served in South-East Asia and the British colonies in North America, where you have earned several commendations. You entered France through Reims, arriving on the airship Lord Charles Howard. You were disguised as a lady’s maid. You then travelled to Paris and in due course made contact with Monsieur Quigley. Your intention was to bring him back to London, as tonight’s events demonstrate. Do you deny this?’

‘I am a stripper,’ Thrift protested. ‘I made an assignation...’

Her voice broke to another cry of pain as he lashed out with the gloves once more, catching her hard across the face several times before again stepping away to leave her whimpering and sobbing.

‘We know otherwise,’ he snapped. ‘Your message requesting a fast boat and three agents was intercepted, as you clearly expected it to be, and yet we are not as dull witted as you British like to suppose. Therefore we also took the precaution of warning Monsieur Quigley, and of having you watched. Your performance on the clysopomp was, incidentally, highly entertaining.’

Thrift raised her head. Her cheeks were burning, her hair plastered to her forehead with the sweat of her fear, but she forced herself to think. From what they knew it was obvious she had indeed been betrayed, although it was possible they had known about her drop anyway. The false trail she had tried to lay had seemed such a good idea at the time, but it had backfired, destroying her last chance of maintaining her pose as a stripper. Still she stayed silent, determined to give nothing away.

For a long while her interrogator watched her from cold, half-lidded eyes, waiting for her to speak, the gloves held negligently in one hand. At length he nodded, then replaced his gloves as slowly and carefully as he had removed them. Walking across the room he touched a finger to some unseen button, causing a panel to slide back and expose the dim interior of a cupboard hung with vague metallic shapes. Thrift’s stomach began to churn and a fresh spurt of urine escaped her cunt, and again as he extracted a curious object from the cupboard, what appeared to be a pear made of ridged metal but with an ornate key protruding from the top where the stalk would have been. His voice was still cool and level as he spoke once more, but touched with amusement.

‘As you are no doubt aware, there are many modern techniques that can be employed to extract truth from the reluctant, many of them painless. Some of us, however, prefer a more traditional approach. This interesting little object is a Poire d’Angoisser or Pear of Anguish, as used by the Inquisition, among others, to deal with heretics, blasphemers, homosexuals, women who had consorted with Satan, and so forth. As you have no doubt already deduced from the shape, it is interested into the appropriate orifice – mouth, anus or vagina according to the sin – and the key turned, like so, thus opening the four leaves of the pear.’

As he spoke he had demonstrated how the pear worked, turning the key to make the ridged iron leaves of the horrible device spread apart. Thrift’s muscles began to twitch with fear at the thought of having it put inside her and she lost what little control she had left of her bladder, urinating copiously over the floor. The edge of his mouth had begun to flicker into the tiniest of smiles as he went on, still twisting the key.

‘You understand, I see? In your own case, it would of course be inserted into your vagina. Not that I am suggesting you have consorted with Satan, so given your behaviour with your fellow whores at L’Huître Rose, perhaps it would be more appropriate to stick it up your bottom? Who knows, I might even let you choose. Whichever hole we select the effect will be much the same. At first, simply a rather full feeling, as if you are enjoying the attentions of a well endowed and exceptionally hard lover. Then, as your vaginal cavity or rectum starts to distend, pain, although perhaps no more than you experienced with a couple of litres of water up your bottom on the clysopomp. But then...’

As he trailed off he gave the key a series of sudden, rapid twists, spreading the leaves of the pear to their maximum extent, far beyond what she could hope to accommodate in either orifice. She screamed, her reason lost to fear, and began to writhe and jerk in her bonds, begging for mercy and for release. He merely watched, cool and amused, now turning the key of the pear in the opposite direction to slowly close the leaves in preparation for use. Thrift felt she would go mad, her limbs jerking uncontrollably, her throat tight and her stomach heaving with horror of what was to be done to her, but he merely placed the pear on the table then continued, his voice now light and easy.

‘But the Bureau does not entirely approve of me indulging my little hobby. They say it is unprofessional. Still, who knows, perhaps if you are recalcitrant they will make an exception? Or of course you could be very dull and simply tell me what I want to know without any encouragement. Ah, but I am forgetting my manners. A glass of water perhaps? Or something a little larger, perhaps, in the circumstances.’

Thrift had been sick down her front, soiling her breasts and belly. He left the room, quickly returning with a bucket of water, which he threw over her. It was freezing cold and left her wet and spluttering, little cleaner than before but clear headed enough to speak.

‘You already know everything I do!’ she managed, gasping.

‘Then you admit that you are Thrift Moncrieff?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that you came to France as I described?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you travel from Épernay to Paris?’

‘On a barge.’

‘And on arrival you signed on at L’Huître Rose as a stripper and part time whore, thus providing yourself with an excuse to contact Monsieur Quigley. I am impressed by your ingenuity, but it was not enough. What of other British agents in Paris? Who was to assist you?’

‘Nobody. I was working alone.’

‘Indeed? Then who was to collect your message from the drop?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Who are you to report to in London?’

Thrift stayed silent, biting her lip. His mouth once more flickered into a smile and his hand strayed towards the pear. Before he could touch it the door pushed open, admitting the tall, hawk-faced Monsieur Mazoyères. Thrift’s interrogator had reacted instantaneously, but the expression on his faced changed from anger to surprise as he realised the identity of his visitor.

‘Monsieur Mazoyères! I am honoured, but...’

‘What are you doing?’ Mazoyères demanded.

‘A standard routine, Vice-President.’

‘With a common prostitute!?’

‘Not at all, sir. She is a British agent, one Thrift Moncrieff, sent here in order to retrieve the defector Godfrey Quigley. She has admitted as much.’

‘That is hardly surprising!’ Mazoyères stormed as his eyes fell on the pear. ‘If you threatened to use that thing on her, no doubt she would admit to being Jean d’Arc. In all honesty, Odenas, you... One moment. Did you say Moncrieff? As in Lord Moncrieff, the British foreign secretary?’

‘Precisely, sir. She is his niece, and...’

‘And you intend to subject her to torture. Do you really think that wise?’

‘But sir, she is an agent...’

‘So she is, assuming of course that you have your facts straight and this girl is in fact Thrift Moncrieff and not merely some ambitious prostitute bent on a little blackmail, and how do you expect the British will react to your treatment of her? For the love of God, why do you think they chose her for this mission?’

‘She is experienced and yet little known in Europe. She is...’

‘She is the niece of the British foreign secretary, not to mention the daughter of Sir Kincardine Moncrieff, who ranks high in their civil service. She is also related to half the British élite. Can you imagine the consequences if the British were to discover that you had subjected her to torture? Sanctions and demands for reparation would be the least of it!’

He threw his hands up in the air and began to pace the room. Thrift said nothing, her fear tempered by relief but still strong, and at length the interrogator spoke again.

‘What is to be done with her then? She cannot be high in the service, at her age, but in her position no doubt there is much she knows which might be of value to us. The names of other agents in Europe perhaps?’

Mazoyères nodded.

‘No doubt, but we must avoid an incident at all costs.’

‘She is a woman, and young. I suspect she will respond well to a choice with an unpleasant alternative, not the pear, sadly, but an unfortunate accident, perhaps?

‘It is a possibility,’ Mazoyères admitted with a shrug. ‘We would need to be careful, naturally, to ensure the facts add up, perhaps to find some suitable scapegoat, certainly to ensure that an autopsy reveals only the facts as we have presented them.’

‘All this is well within our capabilities.’

‘That I do not doubt, and yet there is no question that she is more valuable alive, working for us.’

‘My thinking reflects your own, Vice-President.’

‘Let that be her choice then. She can work for the Bureau, or...’

He left the sentence unfinished and turned to Thrift.

Paris, May 14th 2010

Stretched out on a divan upholstered in purple velvet, Thrift toyed with a glass of deep red Rhône wine with one hand and a dildo with the other. She wore nothing but a diminutive corset, faced with black satin and edged with heavy lace, which did nothing to conceal her breasts, bottom or cunt, although she was in fishnet stockings held up by straining suspenders and smart, high-heeled black boots, both decorated with purple ribbons.

Her outfit was perfectly in keeping with the furnishings around her, plush and gilt, polished and lacquered wood, rich dark colours set off by highlights of crystal and silver, creating an atmosphere both sensual and decadent, also quintessentially French. Even the view from the window left no doubt whatsoever as to where she was, with all the implications that brought, the half closed curtains revealing the Tour Eiffel standing proud and erect above the city. Yet the two vast airships manoeuvring with stately precision above the mast were both British, their Union Flags clearly visible, also the name of the nearer of the two, Saint George.

Thrift turned away and took a swallow of wine in an effort to calm her feelings. The apartment belonged to Eugène Mazoyères, but the man on the couch opposite her, dressed only in his shirt tails and also sipping the same heady wine, was not the Vice-President but Godfrey Quigley. Having spanked her, fucked her and had her suck her own juice from his cock before spunking in her mouth he had suggested they relax over a bottle to restore their energies and was now expounding the virtues of France and the French way of life he, and now Thrift, had chosen to adopt.

‘I was here in Paris for many years before being promoted to Director of European, and well, I suppose the gay, free life became a habit. Have you any idea how difficult it is to get a whore in London, let alone in the Diplomatic Enclave? No, I don’t suppose you would, and besides, the real problem is not getting the occasional whore but maintaining one’s reputation while enjoying the occasional whore. They’re all so damned stiff necked, our fellow members of the Quality, that is, not the whores.’

He paused, seeming to reflect, took a swallow of his wine and then continued.

‘Spanking is another matter, of course. There are always plenty of opportunities to get pretty girls over the knee. Any excuse will do, really, and they expect to be laid bare and they expect to be dealt with hard, but you have no idea how frustrating it is when you can spank the little darlings but not finish them off with a good stiff cock up their bottoms, or even in their mouths or hands. It’s just not done, as you know.’

Thrift refrained from comment, thinking of the various men who’d spanked her and then taken advantage of her in all three ways Quigley described, sometimes one after the other. Yet there was something in what he was saying, in that in France a man could indulge himself in a whole range of vices and nobody seemed to mind, whereas in Britain secrecy was essential to avoid scandal and disgrace, especially for anybody of Quality.

‘Then there’s the question of accessories,’ Quigley continued. ‘It is true that there is nowhere to equal London when it comes to the supply of canes, whips, paddles and so forth, and we do of course make the finest spanking benches, stocks and pillories. Yet even I, a dyed-in-the-wool fanatic for the joys of spanking female bottoms accept that there is more to sex. What of dildos? In London? I wouldn’t know where to start, and if I did secure one no doubt it would be overpriced tat, but here in Paris! Gourdin’s in the Rue Barbette sells nothing else, and in every size, shape and colour imaginable, or at least practical. Speaking of which, has Eugène introduced you to his box of tricks?’

Thrift sighed and nodded, having spent much of the previous evening with an inflatable, penis shaped dildo up her cunt while Mazoyères sodomised her.

‘He has some remarkable toys,’ Quigley went on, rising from the couch, ‘and while I’m not quite fully recharged, so to speak, it might be nice to start to play again, just gently at first.’

‘If you like,’ Thrift acquiesced, ‘but my bottom’s still quite warm.’

Quigley merely chuckled as the opened the lid of the large, inlaid box in which Eugène Mazoyères kept his collection of erotic appurtenances, which ranged from things as simple as lengths of soft cord and spanking paddles to elaborate devices for stimulating nipples with static electricity and the monstrous inflatable dildo he had inserted in Thrift the evening before. During the week and a half since she had been transferred from the headquarters of the Bureau to the personal care of Eugène Mazoyères, Thrift had grown acquainted with just about every single item. Using any of them filled her with the inevitable shame for her wanton condition, but while some she couldn’t help but love, at least while they were being used on her, others she genuinely hated.

‘Let me see,’ she said hastily, scrambling over to kneel down beside Quigley as he began to search through the box.

‘Now that’s not the behaviour of a British lady, is it now?’ he chuckled and gave her a firm slap across her bottom.

Thrift squeaked and giggled, a response to the constant use of her body for pleasure.

‘Shall we play with the peacock feather ticklers?’ she suggested. ‘You could tie me up first.’

‘You would wet yourself,’ he pointed out. ‘We must think of Eugène’s carpet.’

‘In the bathroom, I was thinking,’ Thrift responded.

‘Perhaps then, in a while,’ he promised, ‘but tell me, have you ever had your breasts smacked?’

‘Once or twice,’ Thrift admitted.

‘It can be very stimulating,’ he went on as he extracted a small horsehair whip with an ivory handle from the box, ‘but it is only really effective if your hands are tied. Cross your wrists behind your back, if you would.’

Thrift obeyed, a little uncertain but knowing she would enjoy the treatment once her arousal got the better of her. Placing the whip on a nearby table, Quigley began to sort among the bundles of cord in the box, presently selecting one.

‘Purple, to match your ribbons,’ he stated. ‘I always think that if one is to tie a girl up the effect should be as aesthetically pleasing as possible, don’t you?’

Thrift didn’t respond, but turned a little, sticking her bottom out and lifting her wrists to make it easier for him to tie them together. He applied a few gentle smacks to her cheeks, ran one finger slowly between them to feel the moisture of her cunt and tickle her anus, then applied himself to the rope, binding her wrists and tying it off into a neat cinch.

‘There we are, such a simple knot, and yet you are to all intents and purposes helpless. Now, open wide, then into the bathroom with you, I think, just in case.’

As Thrift’s mouth came open he pushed in the handles of both the horsehair whip and the two peacock feathers ticklers, forcing her to hold them between her teeth. Just to show off, she jumped up and walked to the bathroom rather than crawled, an act to which he responded with his usual knowing chuckle. Eugène Mazoyères’ bathroom was a masterpiece of French opulence, or, as Thrift still couldn’t help thinking, vulgarity. The floor and walls were tiled in black and white check, but the towels, mats, the shower curtain and even the upholstery of two gilt chairs were a rich crimson, while the fittings were gold plated. Quigley gave a wry shake of his head as they entered, but immediately gave his attention to Thrift, using the tip of his shoe to pull a mat into the centre of the floor.

‘Kneel down, my dear,’ he instructed. ‘Bottom out, tits out, that’s my girl.’

Thrift had adopted the rude position, as much by instinct as request, making a display of her body and presenting her breasts for his attention. He wasted no time, pulling a chair close and giving her a gentle flick with the horsehair whip even as he sat down. It stung a little and also tickled, making Thrift wince and giggle at the same time, as well as bringing the nipple he had struck to instant erection.

‘You are remarkably responsive,’ he said as he flicked at her other nipple, ‘and so gloriously full.’

He set to work, whipping Thrift’s breasts with precise, evenly placed strokes that grew slowly harder. She closed her eyes, enjoying both the mild stinging sensation and tickling feeling, for all that it made her wriggle her toes and giggle helplessly. Yet her nipples were hard and sensitive, the skin of her breasts little less so, while her helplessness at being tied and her shame for her wanton behaviour only added to her arousal. Soon she was sighing in pleasure and wriggling her bottom, hoping Quigley would give her rear cheeks some attention as well as her breasts but content to let him lead the play without comment.

‘Isn’t this fine?’ he said after a while. ‘Kneeling all but bare in your little corset and stockings, enjoying the delights of your body without having to worry over who might find out and what the consequences will be? Your future life is going to be rather pleasant, isn’t it, as is mine, but that reminds me, while we are alone. Bargain hard, as I am doing myself. The Frogs will no doubt offer you a place as an ordinary agent with a salary to suit. Don’t accept. Demand more, the rank of Guardien at the very least, a state apartment, and most importantly, give up what you know only gradually, and at a good price. I will help, naturally, but enough shop. I see you’re getting urgent.’

She nodded and let her knees come a little open, showing him the mound of her sex. He shifted forward on the chair, to slip a hand between her thighs, masturbating her as he continued to whip her breasts. She knew he wouldn’t let her come. It was far too early in the game, but as he began to fiddle with her clitoris her mouth had come open in pleasure and she was soon gasping and wriggling herself onto his fingers.

‘Not yet, my darling,’ he said, his voice now hoarse as he withdrew his hand to pull down his zip.

Thrift had leant forward even before his cock was out, and took it immediately into her mouth, sucking eagerly as he turned his attention to her dangling breasts, squeezing them and pulling her erect nipples. He stiffened quickly, his cock swelling in her mouth as she sucked, the bulbous head soon free of his foreskin and pushing down her throat as she did her best to get him all in. His hands left her breasts, and for a moment he had taken her by the hair, easing her back a little so that he could watch himself masturbate into her mouth, before reaching for the two peacock feather ticklers.

She winced just to see them in his hands, and again, harder as they were applied to her breasts, tickling the sensitive flesh to make her giggle and shiver, struggling to concentrate on the full, fat erection now filling her mouth and hold the muscles of her belly and sex at the same time. It didn’t work. With her hands tied and no way to protect herself and her arousal too high to let her fight the feeling anyway, she had soon given in, wetting herself all over the bath mat.

Quigley laughed as he heard the hiss and splash of her urine and began to tickle harder still, making Thrift squirm and jerk. She’d begun to sob on her mouthful of cock as the hot pee ran out of her, soaking the mat and wetting her thighs Yet she was in ecstasy, thoroughly enjoying her own degradation, even that she had her hands tied behind her back to stop her getting at her cunt and bringing herself to a badly needed orgasm the instant her bladder was empty.

‘I said you’d wet yourself,’ he chuckled and put the ticklers aside, once more taking his cock in hand and starting to masturbate into her mouth, only to pause at the click of a key turning in the apartment door.

‘Ah, ha, has Eugène found time to take a break in his duties, do you suppose? But no...’

He had broken off at the sound of voices, very clearly female. Thrift had begun to drift into a state of erotic euphoria, but was jerked sharply out of it as she recognised the high, arrogant drawl of Mimi Caze.

‘It is Mimi and Fleurette! Untie me, quickly!’

‘Why?’ he queried. ‘With any luck they will want to join in, and if there’s one thing I regret about the failure of your little abduction plan it’s that I didn’t get the opportunity to be entertained by M’selle Caze.’

‘I...,’ Thrift began, only to stop as she realised it was best not to tell the truth. ‘They’ll be cruel with me, really cruel, they’re sure to!’

‘I’ll be here to look after you,’ he assured her, tousling her hair. ‘M’selle Caze! M’selle Laroche! I have a present for you.’

The girls had gone into the bedroom Mimi occasionally shared with Eugène Mazoyères, but quickly came back, opening the door to look in surprise at Quigley and the kneeling Thrift.

‘Monsieur Quigley, Chastity, or should I say Thrift, as is your real name, I believe?’ M’selle Laroche asked. ‘Eugène explained, but...’

She sounded puzzled, and distinctly gruff when addressing Thrift, who tried to wriggle away and turn at the same time, presenting her bound wrists to Quigley.

‘Godfrey, please!’ she begged.

‘No, no, leave her,’ Mimi put in. ‘Fleurette and I, we would very much like to speak with her.’

She had come into the bathroom, also M’selle Laroche, who still looked doubtful but with an increasingly firm set to her mouth.

‘Nothing too rough, girls,’ Quigley admonished, but both of them ignored him.

‘You spanked me,’ M’selle Laroche stated.

‘You hit me, Mimi Caze, and left me tied in a public lavatory!’ Mimi added.

‘You tied me too, and gagged me with my own pantalettes!’ Fleurette stormed.

‘As you did to me! Worse, you meant to have me put in nappies!’ Mimi screeched

‘She did what?’ Fleurette asked in astonishment.

‘It is true,’ Mimi carried on, her voice thick with indignation. ‘Eugène has told me. In order to lure Monsieur Quigley here to the barge in which she was to escape down the Seine she set up an assignation. She told me I was to be paid a million francs. She told him I liked to be put in nappies and spanked!’

Fleurette shook her head in apparent disbelief, then turned to Thrift.

‘If we were to put you on the clysopomp every night for a season, with each of the girls flushed into your face in turn, it would not be enough. As it is, it seems we must content ourselves with what retribution is available. Excuse me, Monsieur Quigley.’

‘Gently, gently,’ Quigley chided, but the girls had already dragged Thrift back into the middle of the floor.

‘Remember, Monsieur Quigley,’ Fleurette pointed out as she took a grip of Thrift’s hair, ‘you too have been wronged.’

‘Very true,’ Quigley responded, ‘and yet I do feel that we should take these things as part of the cut and thrust of an exciting life. The Great Game gets a trifle rough at times, after all, and...’

‘Just enjoy the show,’ Mimi interrupted him. ‘Who knows, perhaps I will even tug your cock for you while Fleurette tortures Thrift, maybe more...’

As she trailed off she opened her painted lips, just far enough to show the point of her tongue within her mouth. Quigley swallowed and put his hand to his cock as if by an irresistible impulse.

‘Godfrey!’ Thrift urged. ‘Help me!’

‘You’ll be fine, my dear,’ Quigley responded vaguely, then rallied a little. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t let them do anything really nasty to you, and you do enjoy a little humiliation, after all.’

‘Godfrey!’ Thrift repeated.

‘For the sake of Heaven, make her shut up!’ Mimi urged.

Fleurette responded by reaching up under her skirts to pull off her pantalettes, a heavily frilled blue pair, which she immediately pushed at Thrift’s mouth, while squeezing her cheeks to force her to open up. Thrift gave in, deciding it was best to let the girls have their fun and not risk antagonising them any further, while for all Quigley’s infatuation with Mimi Caze he was sure to prevent her receiving any lasting damage.

‘Good, and very appropriate,’ Mimi said as Fleurette forced the pantalettes deep into Thrift’s throat. ‘Indeed, let appropriate be our watchword. What she did to us, we shall do to her, and perhaps a little more.’

‘She has already wet herself,’ Fleurette pointed out.

‘So she has,’ Mimi replied. ‘On purpose, no doubt, the little slut.’

‘I was tickling her,’ Quigley explained.

‘She can mop it up later,’ Fleurette said, ignoring him. ‘First, her spanking.’

As she spoke she had regained her grip in Thrift’s hair, dragging her towards the toilet. Thrift gave in to the pressure, shuffling across the slippery floor on her knees until she reached the lavatory. Mimi lifted the seat, laughing.

‘Like this, Fleurette!’

Thrift was dragged into position, bent down across the lavatory, her breasts dangling into the bowl, her head hung down at the far side and her bottom stuck up in the air. Fleurette planted one stinging slap across Thrift’s wet cheeks, then stopped.

‘She used a hairbrush on me, if you would be so kind as to fetch one, Mimi? She even pussy whipped me, the little bitch! This is going to be a true pleasure, Chastity, or Thrift or whatever you are called, a true pleasure!’

Mimi had left the room, but Fleurette began to spank Thrift anyway, applying hard slaps to the crest of her bottom to set her wriggling and kicking her feet. Quigley stayed as he was, his eyes fixed on Thrift’s well spread bottom cheeks as she nursed his erection. She bit her lip, feeling cheated and above all, used, but she had been betrayed by her own body as much as by him, her cunt open and puffy with the juice running freely from her hole in her excitement.

‘Thank you,’ Fleurette said as she accepted a large, long-handled hairbrush from Mimi, ‘and now...’

She broke off as she applied the brush to Thrift’s bottom, raising a loud, wet smack immediately followed by her victim’s muffled yelp of shock and pain. Her hand closed on the cord binding Thrift’s wrists and she laid in, smack after smack applied to the dancing, jiggling bottom cheeks in front of her. Thrift was crazy with pain in an instant, writhing in her tormentor’s grip, kicking her feet and shaking her head in a wild, futile effort to fight the agonising bite of the heavy brush, with her fat breasts splashing in the water of the lavatory bowl, a detail she barely noticed. Mimi did, waiting until Thrift’s bottom was red all over before speaking in a voice high with sadistic delight, while her eyes glittered with wicked intent.

‘When I first used to dance,’ she said, ‘at the old Salon L’Écarlate, we used to dunk the new girls’ heads in their pots to teach them their place. Would that not be funny?’

‘This is a grand apartment,’ Fleurette pointed out, laughing. ‘We have no pot, but yes, something might be done!’

‘No, please!’ Thrift managed weakly as the pantalettes were tugged from her mouth, but she was already being dragged back and around, until instead of her breasts dangling into the lavatory bowl her face was directly above it, looking down at the water in which the tips of her hair were already floating.

The spanking had stopped, but it was little consolation and unlikely to be over, with her bottom already ablaze and the brush still in Fleurette’s hand, while what was about to be done to her might be painless but was even more humiliating. Already Fleurette’s hand was tight in her hair, ready to push her face down into the bowl, but Mimi raised a finger.

‘No, no, not yet! These things must be done properly, Fleurette, and remember, what she did to us, we must do to her. Pull her back.’

Thrift was dragged back by her hair, to leave her kneeling in front of the lavatory as Mimi began to tug up her skirts and Thrift gave a hollow groan as she realised her fate was to be worse still, yet she knew that her protests would only amuse the two women and stayed silent. Quigley made no move to intervene, still playing with his cock as Mimi bunched her skirts up around her waist, pushed her pantalettes to her ankles and settled herself above the lavatory bowl. Her sex was spread to Thrift, sweetly turned cunt lips busy with hair and pink in the middle, from where a gush of dark yellow piddle erupted, splashing in the lavatory bowl and staining the water. She let it all come out, finished with a mocking little wriggle of her hips, then pulled up her pantalettes and stepped away. Thrift looked down into the bowl and swallowed hard, but Mimi wasn’t finished.

‘There, that will give the water a little flavour, and remember, it is I, Mimi Caze, who has pissed in the bowl you are being washed in. You should be honoured. Now, you wanted me put in nappies, so you shall go in nappies yourself.’

She had taken a towel from the nearby rack as she spoke, and came behind Thrift, who shut her eyes in bitter humiliation as her nappy was put on, although it was impossible to deny the justice of what was being done to her. The towel felt heavy and fat around her hips and bottom, and was also rather too big, adding to the comedy of her appearance and setting both girls laughing in delight to see how she looked once it had been tied off. Even knowing that it was only a towel was no help, because she looked as if she was in nappies and felt as if she was in nappies, as was her tormentor’s intention.

‘Next,’ Mimi declared, ‘an extra little detail for the entertainment of Monsieur Quigley. Come, Monsieur.’

She had walked over to him, kissed him and taken a firm hold of his cock, on which she began to tug, masturbating him but also helping him to rise. He said nothing, his face set in ecstasy as he was led over to the lavatory bowl by his cock, to stand side on with his erection jutting out above Thrift’s head.

‘Stay there, Monsieur Quigley,’ Mimi instructed as she let go of his cock, ‘that she may suck you in-between dunkings, and then, when you have given her face a good coating of spunk we can put her head back in the bowl one last time to wash it off!’

‘Wonderful!’ Fleurette agreed, twisting her fist in Thrift’s hair to tighten her grip once more. ‘Come then, are you ready?’

She gave a sudden, hard push, forcing Thrift’s head well down into the toilet bowl, until her fringe was touching the water and her face only a matter of inches above it. Mimi was laughing and slapping at Thrift’s bottom and thighs, Quigley tugging at his cock as he held it ready for Thrift’s mouth, while M’selle Laroche had reached up to take hold of the chain that would flush the toilet.

‘And again,’ Fleurette said sweetly. ‘Are you ready? And one... and two... and three...’

‘No,’ Thrift managed, speaking at exactly the wrong moment, her mouth open as Fleurette pulled the chain, so that it immediately filled with a mixture of water and Mimi’s piddle.

The girls burst out laughing, a sound drowned out for Thrift by the roar of water around her head as it was flushed in the lavatory bowl, her mouth now firmly shut but still full of water and urine, her eyes shut tighter still. Her nose was under the swirling water too, and for one awful moment she couldn’t even breathe, before the level subsided and her head was pulled up, dripping water with her hair hanging down around her face in sodden rat’s tails. She began to gasp down air, only to have Quigley’s straining cock thrust deep into her open mouth.

‘Suck his cock, slut!’ Mimi ordered. ‘Remember, it’s not over until he has spunked in your face! And when the cistern is full again, you know what happens!’

Thrift tried desperately to oblige, sucking on Quigley’s erection as best she could, but already gagging where the bulbous head was jammed into her throat. Nor would Fleurette let her work, keeping her grip tight and encouraging him to fuck Thrift’s mouth instead of letting her suck. Spittle and mucus began to run from around her lips and from her nostrils, dripping into the bowl beneath her, but still her head was held firmly in place, while he had began to tug at what little of his cock remained free of her mouth. She was sure she would be sick at any moment, and that even that wouldn’t stop her from getting her head flushed in the lavatory a second time.

‘Again!’ Mimi crowed. ‘Flush her again, Fleurette, and give me that brush!’

On the instant Thrift’s head was pulled off Quigley’s cock and stuck back down the lavatory. A hand gripped the back of her nappy, pulling it tight up between her cheeks and the spanking began again, as hard as before, making her yelp and for the second time in a row get her mouth filled with lavatory water as Fleurette pulled the chain. She went into hysterics, unable to cope with what was being done to her, kicking and writhing in their grip as the water swirled around her head, but there was no mercy.

‘Don’t forget she spanked my cunt!’ Fleurette called out and Thrift’s nappy had been pulled aside to expose her sex even as her head was pulled up once more and Quigley’s cock thrust back in her mouth.

She didn’t even try to suck, her head held firmly as he once more began to fuck her throat. The hairbrush caught her between her thighs, a firm smack delivered to the meat of her cunt, then again and everything seemed to happen at once. She came, from nowhere, her body reacting in sudden violence to the smacks applied directly to her clitoris. Quigley also came, his spunk erupting down Thrift’s throat to explode from her nose in a sticky mixture of mucus and spittle and semen. More spurted from around her lips and as her head was pulled sharply back another gout caught her in one eye and across her nose. The next instant her head was back down the lavatory bowl, water once more swirling around her ears and filling her mouth as she was flushed, only now in the throes of orgasm with the hairbrush smacking hard down on her open cunt and her muscles in violent contraction.

‘It’s a lost cause,’ Fleurette said calmly as she finally let go of Thrift’s hair. ‘She is such a slut that she cannot be properly punished.’

‘I think not,’ Mimi responded. ‘For all her pleasure I think she is punished well and often, because that is what is in her head, and no more than she deserves, you may be sure.’

She applied a final smack to Thrift’s still pulsing cunt and let go of the towel. Thrift slumped to the floor, exhausted, defeated, gasping for breath and shaking with reaction. Quigley squeezed out the last drop of his come, into her hair, then stood back, smiling.

‘There we are, my dear, rather fun in the end, wasn’t it? Still, I think you’d better clear up. We are Eugène’s guests, after all.’

‘That’s right,’ Fleurette put in. ‘Clean up this mess, then you may serve us Champagne. Come, Mimi.’

She took Mimi’s arm and the two girls sauntered from the room. Quigley paused long enough top untie Thrift’s wrists and then followed. Thrift stayed on the floor for a long while, too far gone to care, but finally forced herself to her knees. She had been acting as housemaid for Eugène Mazoyères, and knew where the cleaning materials were, but she stripped first, to do it nude as she knew would be expected of her, for all that both Fleurette and Mimi seemed to have lost interest, chatting gaily in the salon while she scrubbed and mopped in the bathroom.

When she was done she went straight to the kitchen, peering briefly from the window before going to the refrigerator. The Saint George was now docked, the gantries joining her to the tower clearly visible, along with the tiny figures of the disembarking passengers. Thrift shook her head and took a deep breath. There was a bottle of cooking brandy to one side and she took a deep swallow, which burnt her throat but stopped her fingers from shaking and made it easier to focus on her task.

There were several bottles of Champagne in the refrigerator, one of which she selected. She placed three of Mazoyères’ elegant flutes on a tray, along with M’selle Laroche’s pantalettes, which she had retrieved, and she was ready. Stepping naked into the salon, she found Quigley seated at one end of a couch, teasing Mimi’s feet with one of the peacock feather tickler’s. M’selle Laroche sat the other end, stroking Mimi’s hair and feeding her grapes from a bowl on the table.

Thrift curtsied and set the tray down on the table, taking care to bend from the waist and so show off her bottom. Lifting the Champagne bottle, she took a firm grip on the neck and brought it down with every ounce of her strength on Quigley’s head. He toppled over without a sound, and before either of the girls could react Thrift was on them. Both tried to scramble away, shrieking with fright but still trying to kick and bite in an ineffectual defence she had no trouble at all in countering, hacking and punching with sudden, vicious blows that quickly left both in no condition to resist as she tied them into the strings of their own clothes and added further bonds from Mazoyères’ box of tricks.

After a glass of water in the face to bring them back to their senses, each girl’s pantalettes went into the other’s mouth, pushed deep and tied firmly in place. Both fought back, struggling and trying to bite Thrift’s fingers, also threatening dire retribution, but she took not notice beyond applying to occasional smack where it would do the most good, and before long both were completely helpless, tied back to back on the floor, their wrists, ankles and hair bound together, their dresses in a tangle around their waists, and in a final act of revenge she found herself unable to resist, an orange stuffed in up each well juiced cunt.

Quigley was still unconscious, but she tied him carefully, used a spherical gag with holes in it to ensure that he could breathe easily but not call for help and bound tape around his eyes to rob him of his sight as well. She then went to work with frantic speed, washing her soiled body and slapping at herself with a towel. Every detail of what she needed to do had been worked out during the days she had spent as Mistress and plaything to Eugène Mazoyères, even the order in which they needed to be done. Still naked, she collected the largest of his travelling trunks and dragged it into the salon. Getting Quigley inside was no easy task, as she first had to tie his legs high up to his chest, then lay the trunk on its side and roll him in. The exertion left her panting for breath and wet with sweat, but she paused only for a swallow of water before moving on, to the study where Mimi Caze kept her valuables and documents.

Having been made to work as Eugène’s maid, Thrift knew exactly where everything was and had quickly secured the papers she needed, also money. Next came clothes, a selection of Mimi’s finery, most of it a little small but fitting well enough. Fully dressed in an elegant dark green ensemble that included a veiled hat, she stuffed more clothing in around the still unconscious Quigley, checked his breathing and that the trunk would still admit air when closed, then shut it and secured the catches and lock.

It took some time to drag the trunk into the hall, and again left her hot and sweaty, with a rising sense of panic. Each room of the apartment boasted at least one clock, and all were in agreement, showing that she had plenty of time, and yet she had to fight to remain calm as she checked her things, adjusted her make-up and tightened the bonds that held M’selle Laroche and Mimi silent and helpless. Both squirmed in fury and made muffled threats through the pantalettes in their mouth but Thrift ignored them, contenting herself with taking a last swallow of wine before pouring out what remained in the bottle all over the two of them. A last, blown kiss and she left the salon, closing the door behind her.

Leaning from the hall window, she called down to the group of cabmen lounging below, waving a cluster of fifty franc bills and demanding their assistance. They came without hesitation and she forced herself to calm, greeting them at the door and ordering them to carrying the trunk downstairs. It took four men, puffing and grunting and snapping at each other, but the trunk was soon loaded onto a cab. Thrift paid off all four with generous tips, climbed into the cab and instructed the driver to make for the Tour Eiffel.

The journey seemed to take forever, the various pieces of bureaucracy at the tower longer still, with Thrift sure that she would either be discovered in her deception or caught by agents from the Bureau. Yet not one question was asked, each official accepting her identity as Mimi Caze without question, none asking her to lift her veil and one even asking for her autograph, to which she responded with a hasty scribble on an airline timetable. The British officials were easier still, treating her as simply another wealthy Frenchwoman, of no particular consequence one way or another. The lifts rose smoothly to the summit of the tower and her tickets and passport were again accepted on the gangway to the airship.

Thrift went straight to the Quality Salon, ignoring the curious stares and haughty sniffs for her opulent French clothing. Taking a seat by the window, she waited, staring out over the rooftops of Paris far below, outwardly still and composed but near to panic inside. The day was clear, the view exact, allowing her to see the very building she had just escaped in the Avenue Montaigne, also the Rue des Branleuses and the leaded roofs of Salon L’Huître Rose. The faint shudder of release came and at last her tension began to drain away. She was free, still above French territory but in a British airship and therefore safe.

Yet it was hard to take in her success, and as she watched the buildings of Paris grow slowly smaller far below her emotion were anything but simple; triumph blended with regret, joy with sadness, relief with a residue of fear and a desire for revenge. She wonder if M’selle Laroche and Mimi Caze had managed to free themselves of their bonds, and which of the girls at L’Huître Rose were due on stage that afternoon, even if any of the tiny specks visible on the Seine was the Saint Mihiel in which she had travelled down river, a journey that now seemed long past, although it had been just weeks before.

She watched until it was no longer possible to pick out L’Huître Rose from its neighbours, then rose to walk to the bar. On sudden impulse she ordered a bottle of India Pale Ale, which she took up without bothering to wait for a glass and poured into her throat, a moment of pure bliss that drew a haughty and disapproving look from a grand old lady who happened to be passing the bar with her companion. Thrift met the icy disdain in the woman’s eyes without difficulty.

‘So, spank me,’ she said and walked back to her seat, ignoring the woman’s shocked exclamation and flurry of remarks directed at the companion.

Seated once more, she gradually began to relax, sipping her beer as she watched the French landscape far below, with fields and woods now visible as the Saint George swung around to the north to point her nose in the direction of England. A steward approached, bowing respectfully as he addressed her.

‘M’selle Caze?’

‘Miss Moncrieff,’ Thrift corrected him.

He looked puzzled but continued.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, but the porters say that there appears to be some sort of animal in your luggage.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Thrift responded. ‘I had been meaning to speak to you about that. It’s probably best that the Captain telephone my father, after which I will be able to explain everything.’

London, May 16th 2010

Thrift sat before the desk of Sir Blenheim Finch, who was beaming in an avuncular manner as he read through her report. She was back in proper British attire, a high-necked, floor length dress with underskirts, a complete set of full cut underwear in respectable white cotton, silk and lace, a corset that reached from her neck to just above her ankles, all of which felt reassuringly restrictive.

‘He threatened to do what!?’ Sir Blenheim suddenly exclaimed. ‘With a pear?’

‘It is made of metal,’ Thrift explained, ‘and opens up inside you as the screw is tightened. I believe it was originally a medieval torture device. That was when they were trying to make me turn double agent, by playing Mr Nice and Mr Nasty with me, the Vice-President himself and a man I only heard called Odenas, who threatened to use the pear on me. Of course I recognised the game.’

‘So I should think. Rank amateurs, these fellows, and I must say that you managed to bluff them very nicely. Hot work though, I’d imagine, especially towards the end.’

‘It was rather trying at times,’ Thrift admitted.

‘Damn Frogs!’ Sir Blenheim snorted. ‘Still, all’s well that ends well, eh? You do look a bit peaky though, I must say, and you’ve lost weight.’

‘The French food didn’t really agree with me, sir.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ he grunted, ‘all that cheese and garlic with everything, and snails! I mean to say, who on Earth would want to eat snails? A good big portion of British beef, that’s what you need, my girl, followed by a king-sized helping of spotted dick.’

He’d said it without the slightest hint of a double meaning, making Thrift smile as he went back to reading her report. Presently his eyebrows rose and he gave a grunt of astonishment before speaking once more.

‘You feel you were betrayed? Can you prove this?’

‘I believe so,’ Thrift answered him. ‘The men at the Bureau knew many of the details of my mission in advance, including how I was to enter France. Very few people had that information, really only my father and yourself...’

‘I do hope you’re not suggesting that I...,’ he began.

‘No, sir, not at all,’ Thrift cut in to reassure him. ‘Other people were privy to the facts, or at least sufficient facts to pass on to Quigley, who could no doubt alert the French Bureau. All the traitor really needed to know was that I was going to France. That would include several people, Mr Warburton for example, but I have been down to Records and discovered that one of them was at school with Godfrey Quigley, at Bucklebury College.’

‘Bucklebury, eh? Rotten place. They have girls in the sixth form, you know. I expect that’s what turned Quigley.’

‘What’s more, at Bucklebury he was Quigley’s fag, a junior boy who acts as a sort of servant to a senior...’

‘I know what a fag is, my girl,’ Sir Blenheim interrupted, ‘and you’re right, it damns him with devil a shade of a doubt, in my eyes, but you’ll need proof for the Department.’

‘I should be able to provide that,’ Thrift answered.

London, the Quality Enclave, May 17th 2010

‘Miss Moncrieff,’ Thrift declared, ‘to see Dr Molloy.’

‘He is expecting you,’ the receptionist answered. ‘If you would care to go in?’

Thrift responded with the smallest of curtsies and started for the door to Dr Molloy’s room. Miss Simms followed, as quiet and nervous as ever, casting a backward glance at the receptionist as she closed the inner door behind her.

‘Ah, Miss Moncrieff, my dear,’ Dr Molloy said as he accepted Thrift’s notes from his nurse. ‘Now, let me see...’

As he began to examine the notes Miss Simms sat down in her customary chair by the window and Thrift came to stand by the familiar couch, on which she had lain for so many inspections, courses of injections, enemas and more.

‘A single injection?’ Dr Molloy said, with a hint of disappointment in his voice before he rallied. ‘Nevertheless, that is no reason to dispense with proper routine, is it now? Be so kind as to remove your clothes, all of them.’

‘I know you prefer me nude, Dr Molloy,’ Thrift responded, deliberately coy, ‘but for a single injection perhaps it would suffice for me to bend over the couch?’

‘Nonsense,’ he responded, ‘although naturally you may wear a modesty gown if you wish, it really is quite foolish for a little slip of a thing like you to worry about being seen in the nude by your own doctor, conceited even, some might say. Now come along, off with those clothes and let’s have no more silliness.’

‘I would prefer to simple bend over the couch,’ Thrift insisted, ‘a position quite suitable for a woman due to receive an injection, and indeed, in the circumstances I think I would prefer Miss Simms and your nurse not to be in the room.’

Dr Molloy looked puzzled, then suddenly pleased. At a nod from Thrift Miss Simms rose and left, closely followed by the nurse.

‘Could it be,’ Dr Molloy remarked, ‘that you are at last beginning to realise how suitable it is that young ladies should allow their elders and betters the occasional little indulgence of nature’s bounty?’

‘Perhaps,’ Thrift responded, ‘or it might simply be that I have learnt something while in France, something from which I expect you will benefit.’

‘Indeed, indeed, to be sure,’ he answered, his face now red and a bead of sweat already forming at one temple, ‘but why won’t you undress?’

‘Never mind that,’ Thrift insisted. ‘Continue to work, as if nothing were out of the ordinary, and to talk, loudly and clearly, but listen to me.’

As she spoke she had bent over the couch and reached back to throw up her skirts and petticoats, exposing the bulbous seat of her corset. Eight tiny catches held the rear panel closed and he had begun to work on them with feverish urgency as she went on.

‘I have been in France, as you know. There, I met Godfrey Charles Hugh Quigley. He wants you to come to France, without delay.’

Dr Molloy had been busy getting Thrift’s bottom bare and didn’t even pause in his attention to the catches and buttons barring him from access, but his voice faltered as he replied.

‘Godfrey Quigley, the defector, who used to be Director of European? Why ever would he wish me to come to France?’

‘Why do you think I am in England?’ Thrift responded as the panel of her drawers was pulled down and the full, bare globe of her bottom put on inspection. ‘I was caught, but Godfrey and I have reached an accommodation, also with the French Bureau. In warning him of my arrival in France you have compromised yourself. At present nobody suspects, but it is only a matter of time.’

‘What nonsense!’ Dr Molloy responded, but his hand was shaking badly as he applied an alcohol swap to Thrift’s skin, and for the first time she could remember he failed to take advantage of the intimate contact. ‘Now then, relax.’

Thrift winced as the needle was driven home into the flesh of her bottom. She waited, allowing him to push the plunger home and administer the vaccine, then place the syringe and needle back onto the trolley she spoke again.

‘Everything is arranged,’ she insisted. ‘I have French passports in the name of Monsieur and Madame Rossignol, money, and tickets for the Belle Imperatrix, which leaves this Thursday. They are between my corset and my chemise. Why else did you think I wouldn’t undress in front of Miss Simms? She is a Foreign and Colonial chaperone, you realise?’

‘Of course,’ he responded, nervously petting Thrift’s bottom as he spoke, ‘and yet...’

‘You must come,’ Thrift urged, ‘otherwise I myself will be compromised, don’t you see? As it is you need merely make me a fresh appointment for Thursday, which will allow you to put your affairs in order. We will order Miss Simms and the nurse to leave the room, and we can escape through the back while they think you’re molesting me.’

Dr Molloy barely seemed to hear what she said but gave a sudden, urgent nod.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is the best way of it, and I dare say I will be able to set up a new practice in France. Yes, yes, and the girls are lovely, so I understand from Godfrey, and always ready for dalliance, as indeed you seem to be yourself?’

‘I have learnt a lot,’ Thrift admitted.

‘Yes, yes, so I see,’ he said, and his hand had once more returned to her bottom.

Thrift glanced at the door, but it was firmly shut and she could hear nothing from outside.

‘Perhaps then, just quickly?’ he said, his fingers now at his fly.

Thrift hesitated, then nodded. His fly slid down, his hand delved into his trousers and he had pulled out his cock and balls. His cock went straight into Thrift’s mouth as he once more began to play with her bottom, now teasing in her slit and smacking her cheeks as well as squeezing and stroking. A finger found her anus, tickling the tiny hole until she’d begun to giggle on her mouthful of rapidly swelling penis.

As he began to fuck her mouth he turned his attention to her cunt, penetrating her with one finger and then two before pulling free to go behind her.

‘Not in my...,’ Thrift began, but it was too late, his erection already pushed in up her cunt hole until his balls were pressed to the mound of her sex. ‘Dr Molloy! Just over my bottom or something, please!’

He grunted in dissatisfaction, but whipped his cock free to masturbate over her upturned bottom with furious energy. In just seconds he’d come, spattering Thrift’s bare cheeks with globules of thick, white spunk, at which point the door finally burst open to admit Miss Simms, four powerfully built young Foreign and Colonial agents and lastly Sir Blenheim Finch.

‘It’s all on tape!’ he declared, holding up the recorder to which the microphones concealed in Thrift’s corset fed. ‘We’ve got the lot!’

‘So have I,’ Thrift sighed.

Also Available

Cover

Front Matter

Title Page

Publisher Information

Dedication

The Reluctant Stripper

London, the Quality Enclave, March 27th 2010

London, the Foreign and Colonial Offices, March 27th 2010

London, the Bayswater Professional Enclave, March 28th 2010

Aboard the airship, Lord Charles Howard, March 29th 2010

Épernay, France, March 30th 2010

On the Marne, France, April 2nd 2010

Paris, April 5th 2010

Paris, April 12th 2010

Paris, Salon L’Huître Rose, April 17th 2010

Paris, Baudelaire’s, April 22nd 2010

Paris, Salon L’Huître Rose, April 24th 2010

Paris, Salon L’Huître Rose, April 27th 2010

Paris, Baudelaire’s, April 30th 2010

Paris, Salon L’Huître Rose, May 1st 2010

Paris, the headquarters of the French Bureau, May 2nd 2010

Paris, May 14th 2010

London, May 16th 2010

London, the Quality Enclave, May 17th 2010

Also Available