Thrift gave a long sigh as she sat down on the edge of the bed. She was drunk, exhausted and aroused all at once, her head full of conflicting emotions and her body of conflicting needs. It had been a long evening, watching the others girls strip and talking to the men, all the while stark naked and with Georgette’s bright blue pantalettes hanging between her thighs to make it blatantly obvious that she had had her cunt stuffed.
In the end she had managed to evade Georgette’s vigilance and sneak upstairs, to a quiet corner among the eves where she had applied hand cream to her anus and removed her rectule, just in case she was made to take something up her bottom. She had been tempted to remain hidden, but knew that she would have to come out eventually, and that if the girls were forced to search for her it would make matters that much worse when they eventually caught her.
As she returned to the dormitory she was still trying to tell herself that she was only doing the sensible thing in getting her punishment over as quickly as possible, but it was a lie. For one thing she knew full well that if matters got out of hand she could easily tackle any two or three of them, perhaps all six. Not only was she bigger and stronger, but well trained, and above all, British. Yet she had no intention of even trying to defend herself, because it would put her cover at risk, but also because she wanted what was coming to her, badly.
The dormitory had been empty when she arrived, tempting her to lie back on the bed and play with her quim and the soggy pantalettes in her hole. With luck they would catch her and make her masturbate in front of them before spanking her soundly and putting her on her knees to lick all six to orgasm, or maybe beat her with their hairbrushes for being so rude, while she squatted nude on the bed and fiddled with her well stuffed cunt.
She lay back, unable to hold off any longer, only to sit up again at the sound of laughter from the stairs. Her stomach went tight and she felt suddenly sick, fear welling up beside her arousal so that she was wide-eyed and trembling as she turned to the door. Coco appeared, her tiny body naked but for a tight-laced corset of gold coloured leather that pinched in her waist but did nothing to conceal her breasts or sex. She laughed to see Thrift on the bed, then called out over her shoulder.
‘She’s here, girls! We’ve been looking everywhere for you, Udders. We thought you were hiding.’
Thrift shook her head, unable to find words. The other girls appeared, pushing eagerly into the dormitory, all naked or near naked, all flushed with drink and merriment, Zara with her nipples and cunt rouged, the twins with their arms around one another, Narcisse holding a magnum of Champagne, half-empty. Georgette came last, swaying slowly into the dormitory to stand at the end of the bed Thrift had sat down on.
‘Yes, here she is,’ she sneered, ‘you fat, English brat! Thanks to her I have been made to eat a man’s spunk off her breasts, and to suckle on her. I have been threatened with spanking. Me! What shall we do with her, girls?’
‘We should tie her up first,’ Zara suggested, ‘just in case she tries to make a run for it.’
‘Oh I don’t think she’ll do that,’ Georgette responded. ‘You see, she has a secret. She likes it, don’t you Udders?’
Thrift shook her head, but her face had gone red with blushes.
‘Yes, you do, don’t you?’ Georgette taunted. ‘So whatever are we to do with you?’
‘Let’s spank her fat bottom for her,’ Coco suggested. ‘That’s what dirty English girls like, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Coco,’ Georgette said patiently. ‘That is what dirty English girls like, to be spanked, which is precisely why we’re not going to spank this one.’
‘I want her to lick me,’ Zara put in.
‘All in good time,’ Georgette responded, ‘but for now, roll up the carpet.’
Zara did as she was told and Georgette strode to the centre of the dormitory, where she paused to tug off the fresh pantalettes she had put on for the salon. Bracing her feet apart, she put her hands on her hips and locked eyes with Thrift before her mouth came slowly open in pleasure as she began to pee on the floor, first a trickle, then a gush. The other girls jumped back, giggling as Georgette’s piddle splashed on the floor between her feet to form a rapidly expanding puddle on the bare wood.
‘Mop it up,’ she ordered Thrift, ‘and we want to see those big udders swinging while you work, so no slacking.’
The other girls were laughing as Thrift climbed from the bed, now full of chagrin as well as shame as she accepted a sponge, a scrubbing brush and a zinc pail half full of water from Zara. Going down on all fours, she began to clean up Georgette’s urine, a sight that delighted her audience and Georgette in particular. Yet it was soon done, Georgette’s puddle reduced to a mere damp patch on the polished boards, at which point Thrift sat back on her haunches, looking up at the other girls in mingled anticipation and apprehension for what might come next. Georgette came forward.
‘That’s right, Chastity, just as it should be, down on your knees on the floor, mopping up my pee, but even the dirtiest little scrubber ought to take pride in her work, and be punished if she doesn’t do it properly. What do you think, girls, has she done a good job?’
‘But...,’ Thrift began, making a helpless gesture at the floor, only to have her voice drowned out by a chorus of laughing denial from the girls, not one of whom supported her.
‘I agree,’ Georgette said, ‘not nearly good enough. Do it again.’
‘But...,’ Thrift repeated, then hurriedly shut her mouth and also her eyes as she realised what was about to be done to her.
Georgette had picked up the bucket, which she poised over Thrift’s head for an instant before very slowly tipping the contents out. Thrift stayed kneeling, her head hung down, as the mixture of dirty water and Georgette’s piddle was poured over her head, to soak her hair and face, run down her back and over her bottom, a trickle even following the line of her shoulder to drip from one stiff nipple.
Again she began to scrub up, mopping at the increasingly grubby puddle and wringing the sponge out into the bucket, although she had a nasty suspicion that the moment she was finished the contents would be poured out over her head for a second time. The girls watched, giggling and chattering among themselves, plainly excited by Thrift’s degradation. The twins had their arms around each other, while Zara was cuddled up to Georgette, sharing kisses as they watched Thrift scrub at the floor. Yet it was Narcisse who suddenly mounted herself on Thrift’s back, her thighs well spread. She was laughing as she rubbed her cunt on the bumps of Thrift’s spine and then she had let go, pissing on Thrift’s back into her hair.
‘Really, Narcisse,’ Georgette joked, ‘can’t you use the pot like everybody else?’
Thrift stayed as she was, with the black girl’s pee running down her back and between the cheeks of her bottom to form a new puddle on the floor. That too she moped up, with her cunt now dripping with another’s girl’s urine, then more as Coco in turn came to stand over her, holding the lips of her sex wide to show off as she deliberately urinated over Thrift’s upturned bottom.
The other girls had clustered close, laughing with delight for the state Thrift was in, each determined to take her turn. All of them had been drinking in the salon, their bladders full as one after another mounted up on Thrift’s back or stood over her to release her evening’s piddle. Zara directed her stream full against Thrift’s bottom, splashing in her crease and running down over her cunt and thighs. The twins did it together, seated face to face on Thrift’s back, kissing as the pee bubbling from their cunts and ran down into the now huge puddle beneath them. Even Georgette managed a little more, done over Thrift’s head and into her already dripping hair, but the moment she was finished she pulled one of the bedroom chairs out into the middle of the floor.
‘You can finish moping up later,’ she said, her voice now hoarse and urgent, ‘for now you can lick my cunt.’
; As she spoke she had sat down, spreading her thighs to show off the moist pink split of her sex, the flesh glistening with juice, the hole open in her arousal. Zara already had Thrift by the hair, dragging her forward to force her to put her face between Georgette’s thighs, but it wasn’t necessary. Thrift had given in completely to her feelings, more than happy to lick cunt as she knelt in a pool of urine done over her body by the girls who were tormenting her. It felt right, just how she wanted to be treated, save only that a good spanking beforehand would have added to her pleasure.
It took just moments to make Georgette come, but she was immediately replaced by Zara, while the other girls were squabbling over who should be next. Thrift simply did as she was told, lapping at Zara’s cunt until she too came and was replaced by Narcisse. By then she had one hand on her chest, stroking at the piss slick skin of her breasts and pinching at her nipples, with the other between her legs, her fingers squelching in her juice sodden cunt flesh as she masturbated openly in front of the six girls who had abused her so badly.
Yseult and Apolline had grown tired of waiting, retiring to one of the beds to lie side by side and head to toe, each with her head between her sister’s thighs, licking busily. Narcisse finished and was replaced by Coco, cunt spread to Thrift’s eager mouth. Already Thrift could feel her orgasm rising up, and she licked as hard as she could, eager to bring the little blonde girl off in her face as she herself came. It didn’t work, Coco crying out in ecstasy before Thrift had even got the rhythm of her licking matched with her busy fingers, but as she came the small girl had slid forward on the chair, allowing her trim cheeks to open and exposing her tiny, puckered bottom hole.
The sight of Coco’s anus was too much for Thrift to resist. With a last, despairing sob she let her head go lower, pursing her lips to kiss the tight pink ring as she rubbed frantically at her cunt, and as her orgasm finally came together in her head poking her tongue out to lap at the tiny hole. She came like that, in full view of the laughing, cheering girls, her muscles in violent contraction, one leg jerking to splash her knee in the puddle of urine beneath her, fluid squirting from her cunt, her tongue extended as far as it would go up Coco’s bottom hole.
Paris, April 12th 2010
Thrift stared into the mirror, her expression doubtful. Gone were her luxurious auburn curls, her hair now straight and dark, while her make-up made her eyes seem large and bright, her cheeks flushed and her mouth a scarlet purse simply awaiting the insertion of a man’s cock. Her breasts were bare and her nipples bright with rouge, something the French seemed to like, while what few clothes she wore did far more to reveal than to conceal. Her corset supported the undersides of her breasts without covering them at all, and was faced with brilliant scarlet satin to match her lips and nipples, also her tiny, flounced pantalettes, a ridiculous garment with a split so wide that the slightest movement allowed peeps of her bottom and quim, which was no doubt the idea. She was also in stockings of the same brilliant red and heels so high that she was obliged to take every step with exaggerated care.
The result was that she looked like a French tart. Indeed, to all practical intents she was a French tart, or at best an English tart in France. After all, she not only stripped for money, but made herself available for sex in exchange for tips, sucking several men’s cocks and twice allowing herself to be entered, once by Monsieur Brochon in the privacy of the director’s suite, with his huge belly squashing on her upturned bottom as she took him from behind, and once when the other girls had decided that the doorman, Pierre, deserved a treat. Like Monsieur Brochon he’d had her on all fours and from behind, only this time with the others girls watching and encouraging him as she was fucked.
She had also lost a little weight, and seemed likely to lose more owing to the humiliating regime of exercise imposed on her by M’selle Laroche, which was done in the nude beneath a small gallery from which men could pay to watch. Plenty had done so, and several of those had paid for the use of her mouth immediately afterwards, with her kneeling nude and sweaty at their feet until she was given her mouthful of spunk and had dutifully swallowed it down.
One thing was certain. Nobody was going to recognise her as Thrift Moncrieff, not even her own mother, and definitely not any members of the French Bureau who happened to be searching for her in the 16th Arrondissement. She therefore felt secure in moving on to locate Godfrey Quigley. The papers in her rectule stated that he was housed in an apartment on the Avenue Emile Zola, on the far side of the river in a district known for its theatres, although in the classic sense rather than the striptease houses and bordellos of the Rue des Branleuses. Not that the district was short of girls in her profession, but while she was fully entitled to go out whenever she wished, so long as she did not miss a performance, practice or an exercise period, M’selle Laroche had a strict rule about girls going out alone, more for fear of them being poached by a rival establishment than for their own safety. Making assignations without M’selle Laroche’s permission was also forbidden, while in any event she was expected to charge set rates and pay half to the house. To break M’selle Laroche’s rules meant a spanking, quite possibly the cane, and probably on stage, even a visit to the establishment in the Ruelle des Sanglots where recalcitrant girls were taken for formal and severe punishments. Thrift was happy to accept anything in the line of duty, but it made sense to take a companion who knew the city and whose presence would further reduce the suspicions of those Bureau agents presumably guarding Quigley. After some thought she had selected Coco, who was easy going, pleasant company and always game for mischief.
Making her way to the wardrobes, she chose a scarlet gown with gloves, a hat and a bag to match, dressing with care before once more inspecting herself in the mirror. Despite having covered up she still looked like the tart she was supposed to be, as did Coco, who was waiting for her in the foyer and had chosen a yellow ensemble set off by flowers in her hair and cleavage. She twirled for Thrift, evidently pleased with herself.
‘How much will you bet that I have been offered a hundred francs before we reach the river?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ Thrift responded. ‘I would be throwing my money away.’
Coco feigned a pout, but took Thrift’s arm and blew Pierre a kiss as they left L’Huître Rose. He responded with a pat to her rump and an obscene suggestion, which Thrift ignored while Coco gave a pleased giggle. Outside, the Rue des Branleuses was busy, the road itself thronged with vehicles of every sorts, the pavements crowded with people on their way to the afternoon shows, girls promenading in the hope of business and the men they sought to attract. Thrift and Coco walked swiftly, their chins lifted, taking care not to meet anybody’s eyes and responding to the occasional raised hat or bow with chilly nods. Even then they had been propositioned several times before reaching the Pont de Grenelle, where they paused to admire the Seine, with the recently rebuilt Tour Eiffel rising high above the scenery. A British airship was docked at the masthead, her fluttering Union Flag clearly visible, and Thrift was forced to bite down a pang of home sickness.
‘We could make a fortune together, you and I,’ Coco remarked as she pointedly adjusted her bodice to show off her ample cleavage. ‘Men like girls with a little on the balcony, and they would come by the dozen. An apartment with a good address, a stupid, faithful bully to see off the pimps, and in ten, maybe fifteen years we could buy our own establishment, preferably opposite L’Huître Rose.’
‘Perhaps,’ Thrift answered vaguely, ‘but for now I have my eye on a patron.’
‘Who?’ Coco demanded in instant excitement. ‘Is he rich? He must be. An English Lord? Has he enough for two, perhaps? But you know what M’selle Laroche will do if she catches us, don’t you? She’ll make our whipping the centrepiece of a show, with posters out all over Paris, and the twenty ugliest brutes from the audience allowed to use us as they please once we’re thoroughly beaten. Or she’ll invite every pervert in the city to wa
tch us given enemas on stage, with Champagne, and made to drink it as it squirts from each other’s bumholes. Or she’ll have us dipped in blackberry jam and staked out for ants, then...’
‘Dipped in blackberry jam and staked out for ants?’ Thrift queried.
‘Maybe not,’ Coco admitted, ‘but she will punish us, badly. She made Yseult take a milk enema and Apolline drink it, on stage, just for arranging a private rendezvous without telling her, admittedly with the director of Le Ciel Bleu, but still!’
‘I would like to have seen that,’ Thrift admitted, thinking of how she’d been made to kiss the twins’ bottom holes that morning before being allowed into the washroom.
‘It was a picture,’ Coco laughed. ‘The look on Apolline’s face when Yseult’s anus stared to push out, priceless!’
Thrift laughed and once more linked arms with Coco, leading her on across the bridge. It was easy to share the tiny woman’s light-hearted enthusiasm, as Coco seemed to have an extraordinary knack of finding life comic no matter the circumstances and even when she herself was the victim. She had been spanked by Georgette a few days before, and had squealed like a pig while it was actually being done but been laughing and showing off her reddened bottom the moment she’d been let up.
Coco continued her gay chatter as they moved in among the houses on the far side of the river. The district was notably grander than the 16th Arrondissement, the buildings taller still and only a trifle shabby, the roads better maintained, and while they still drew attention there were fewer propositions and more looks of amusement or even contempt, especially from other women. Neither took any notice, Thrift deliberately, Coco apparently genuinely indifferent. At length they reached the Avenue Emile Zola, where Thrift stopped to check which direction they should turn.
The Reluctant Stripper Page 11