The Reluctant Stripper

by Lady Alice McCloud

  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, w
hatever 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.