The Reluctant Stripper

by Lady Alice McCloud

  ‘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, a
djusting 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 shak
ing 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.