‘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 e
nsuring 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 F
itzroper 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.
The Reluctant Stripper Page 4