‘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 p
robably 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.
The Reluctant Stripper Page 6