The Reluctant Stripper

by Lady Alice McCloud

  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, t
he 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 mad
e 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.