The Reluctant Stripper

by Lady Alice McCloud

  Thrift obeyed, reaching back to spread her still warm bottom cheeks and stretch her now juicy anus. She relaxed and pushed, letting the little hole pout to his cock as he got behind her. He was hardly the first man to put his cock up her bottom, making it easy enough as his bloated helmet pushed to her anal ring. She felt herself open, her bottom hole spreading out around the head of his penis until she was fully agape. He’d already got her slippery with his finger and soon he was deep in, his pubic hair tickling between her bottom cheeks and his scrotum squashing to her empty cunt as she jammed the last inch of her erection up her bottom.

  ‘You can let go now,’ Quigley grunted, and Thrift’s buggering had begun.

  Coco had sat up, watching in fascination as Thrift’s anus was penetrated, and giggling in delight as she watched the tight pink ring pull in and out on his cock shaft. Thrift was already panting for the sensation of his cock moving in her rectum, and had soon begun to grunt and gasp, unable to hold back her reactions. He began to smack at her cheeks as he sodomised her, and with every push his balls slapped against her cunt, a sensation too good to resist. Her hand went back, to find the wet slit of her sex and her vacant cunt hole, touching the junction between his cock shaft and her straining anus before she began to masturbate.

  ‘Good girl,’ Quigley sighed. ‘You do that. I want to feel your arsehole go tight on my cock.’

  Thrift didn’t need telling, rubbing hard at her cunt as his pushes grew faster. His balls were now slapping on her busy fingers, while Coco had leant down once more, to kiss Thrift and play with her dangling breasts. With that she came, a long, glorious orgasm with her straining bumhole in contraction on his cock, her fingers working between her clitoris and her empty hole and her tongue as far down Coco’s throat as it would go.

  As she came he continued to pump himself back and forth up her bottom, barely changing pace until her shudders had finally subsided. Only then did he speed up, and Thrift braced herself for the final, hard pushes, which she knew from long experience would hurt. They never came, his cock pulled suddenly from her bottom hole as he gave a grunted instruction.

  ‘I have to do you both. Lick her arse.’

  Coco gave a plaintive squeak and began to protest, but her voice broke to a sigh as Thrift’s tongue found her anus. She reached out as she licked, her face smothered in her friend’s pert little bottom and her tongue well in up the hole as she took hold of Quigley’s cock. It felt good to have her tongue up Coco’s bottom, and also to think that the tiny hole would soon be stretched taut on the same fat erection she’d just had stuffed up her own rear hole. Soon Coco was ready, and Thrift pulled back, to guide Quigley’s erection to the wet pink star between her friend’s cheeks. He tried to insert his cock and Coco gasped as her ring pushed in, too tight to take him at all easily.

  ‘Push out,’ Thrift instructed, ‘as if you wanted the pot.’

  Coco’s response was a weak sob, but she complied, pushing out her bottom hole to make the ring spread on the flesh of Quigley’s helmet. He pushed again and the head had gone inside, leaving Coco’s anus a taut ring of straining, glossy flesh. She was gasping and shaking her head, clearly struggling to accommodate his impressively large erection in her tiny bottom hole. Another inch went up as Quigley pushed once more, wringing a cry from Coco’s open lips.

  ‘Just pretend you need the pot,’ Thrift repeated.

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ Coco grunted. ‘I think I do!’

  Quigley had pushed again as the girls spoke, jamming another inch of erection up Cock’s back passage to leave her now properly sodomised but still with a good half his length sticking out of her hole. He put his hands to her bottom, spreading her cheeks as he began to rock gently back and forth, her bottom hole now pulling in and out on his shaft. She took it gasping and panting, just as Thrift had done, but also whimpering deep in her throat, and before long tears had began to roll from her eyes, trickling slowly down her cheeks.

  ‘She really is too small,’ Quigley said with regret, ‘and rather full inside. Would you mind if I finished with you, Georgette?’

  Thrift nodded, her own bottom hole still juicy and loose from her buggering, but as Quigley extracted his cock from Coco’s anus he had taken a firm grip in her hair.

  ‘Not in my...,’ she began, but too late, his cock already jammed deep into her mouth.

  Her eyes went wide as her senses filled with the taste of Coco’s bottom, but there was nothing she could do, held firmly in place on his cock as he fucked her head and jerked at what little of his shaft remained free. It took just seconds before he’d come, spunk erupting down her throat, forcing her to swallow twice before he withdrew to finish himself off in her face and over Coco’s bottom. When he finally let go Thrift sank down, panting, but only long enough to get her breath back before making an urgent dash to the loo. Quigley’s voice followed her from the room.

  ‘There, now you run along to your paymasters and tell them that Godfrey Quigley is not so easily gulled. They’ll understand.’

  Back at L’Huître Rose Thrift treated herself to a long, hot bath. She had successful located Godfrey Quigley and even made contact, which was well worth a sore bottom. He clearly assumed that she had been sent by the French Bureau, which was a little worrying but not unduly so when any claims or accusations made on either side would necessarily be suspect, if not actually disbelieved, at least if the French service operated at all like their British counterparts.

  His assumption also implied that he had not yet struck a deal with them, or at very least that the deal was incomplete. Possibly he thought they had been sent to gather information, or as a bribe, perhaps as part of some more elaborate gambit. None of that mattered, only that she had now had access to him and would presumably be welcome to pay another visit. Certainly he had been friendly enough, even apologising for buggering them so hard and sending them back with fifty franc notes in their purses.

  Coco had been delighted, at least once she’d applied cream to her bottom, speculating on how she should spend her generous tip and laughing at what Thrift had been made to do. One the way back they had stopped to eat ice-cream by the Seine, where Coco had sworn to keep the rendezvous a secret as long as Thrift promised in turn not to visit Quigley alone. Thrift had agreed, knowing that Coco’s presence improved her cover and content to worry about any possible consequences when the time came.

  As she lay back in the hot water, idly soaping herself, she tried to work out what she should do. Sir Blenheim Finch had made it clear that it didn’t really matter if she didn’t bring Quigley back so long as he was unable to pass on what he knew to the French Bureau. That meant assassination, a thought that instantly set her stomach tight and her throat dry. Yet it was by far the simplest option. The two agents guarding the apartment block had not even bothered to check on the girls while they were there, and when they left had done no more than pass a few jocular remarks. Nor had they been searched. Had Coco not been there it would have been easy to slip poison into Quigley’s wine, even to stab him, and there was no reason to think things would be any different on another occasion. All she needed was a clever strategy for her escape, and there was no reason to think that would be particularly difficult. The difficult part was doing the deed.

  She thought of the man in Épernay, whom she had left unconscious and might very easily have killed. Indeed, for all she knew he had never recovered. Yet that had been an instinctive response to a violent attack. To kill Quigley in cold blood would be another matter entirely. She thought of his cheerful, rosy face, smiling happily as he explained to Coco how he liked to give spankings, then that same face, twisted with pain and filled with accusation as the poison took hold or he lay bleeding on his luxurious carpet. The thought made her sick, and to make matters worse she’d accepted him in her body, willingly enough despite the circumstances, in her mouth, her anus, her cunt, something she’d never been abl
e to do without creating feelings of intimacy. No, it would be impossible to assassinate Godfrey Quigley. She simply did not have it in herself to kill him.

  Paris, Salon L’Huître Rose, April 17th 2010

  Georgette stood in the centre of the dormitory. In her hand she held a slim, rattan cane, long and smooth, the shaft dark with the sweat of its wielders and victims, at the grip and where it had smacked down across numerous bare, female bottoms. It was late on a Monday morning, with their exercises completed and nothing to do until lunchtime, leaving them to their own devices.

  ‘This is the game,’ Georgette stated. ‘One of us bends over the end of her bed with a candle in each hole, both lit. The others then cane her, taking turns, three strokes at a time, and she must strike between the two candles. Any girl who misses the target must take a stroke, while if she puts a candle out, breaks it or knocks it out, she takes the victim’s place. The most junior girl must go first, so that is you, Udders.’

  Thrift had already guessed that she would be the one to end up with candles stuck up her cunt and bottom hole, so merely made a face. The other girls grabbed her, laughing as they forced her down over the end of a bed. Her dress was pulled up and off, her petticoats lifted and her pantalettes pulled down, leaving her bare bottom sticking up in the air with her cheeks well parted. She began to protest, weakly, but had already stopped struggling as Narcisse took hold of her bottom and spread her cheeks, stretching her anus wide for the insertion of a candle Georgette was prodding into a tub of hand cream.

  She felt it touch, the cream cool on her anal skin, then go in, her hole spreading easily to accommodate the slim shaft. A second followed, pushed up her cunt without the need for extra lubricant and she had been penetrated in both holes, her muscles twitching in her apprehension at the thought of Georgette’s cane and very likely hot wax as well.

  ‘Do keep still, Chastity,’ Georgette urged. ‘I don’t want to burn you.’

  Thrift said nothing, but held herself absolutely still as she heard the rasp of a match being struck and felt the heat against the sensitive skin between her bottom cheeks.

  ‘There,’ Georgette said. ‘I shall go first with the cane, just to be fair.’

  Georgette took up the wicked implement, laying it gently across Thrift’s bottom, between the two candles, the cold, hard wood pressing to the tuck of her cheeks only just above where they met her thighs. The pressure went, she tensed, heard the swish of the cane and felt it bite into the softness of her flesh.

  ‘One,’ Georgette said.

  Thrift bit her lip. She could feel the welt across her bottom, a burning line laid perfectly between the two candles. The mark was going to show, no doubt amusing the audience when she had to strip that evening, and if all six girls gave her three strokes without hitting a candle her bottom was going to be a mess.

  ‘What about the show?’ she asked.

  ‘Shut up,’ Georgette answered her and brought the cane down for a second time.

  Thrift cried out as her body jerked to the impact, a trifle higher this time, but still leaving both candles lit and firmly wedged in up her twin holes.

  ‘Two,’ Georgette said, ‘and... three.’

  The third stroke had hit across the other two, leaving Thrift gasping and stamping her feet in her pain, which dislodged a trickle of wax, splashing between her bottom cheeks and into the hair of her cunt.

  ‘Ow!’ she sobbed. ‘Georgette, I...’

  ‘I told you to shut up,’ Georgette answered and brought the cane down again, full across Thrift’s bottom, well above the candle in her anus.

  ‘You missed!’ Coco laughed.

  ‘That one doesn’t count,’ Georgette retorted. ‘It was just to make Udders stop whining.’

  ‘But you said...,’ Coco began, then broke off at the staccato click of heels from the stairs. ‘It’s M’selle!’

  She ducked down to blow the candles out, but when M’selle Laroche appeared in the doorway Thrift was still trying to pull the second candle from her bottom hole. M’selle Laroche barely spared her a glance, but focussed on Georgette.

  ‘Come with me. You too, Coco.’

  There was a hard edge to M’selle Laroche’s voice as she spoke, and both girls were quickly marched out of the dormitory and away down the stairs, leaving the others to speculate on their fate.

  ‘I’ve never seen her so furious!’ Zara declared.

  ‘But what have they done?’ Narcisse queried.

  The girls exchanged glances, each hoping for enlightenment from the others, but received nothing but shrugs in response. Thrift said nothing, but she was biting her lip as she inspected the four cane marks that now decorated her bottom in the mirror. To the best of her knowledge Georgette had done nothing to warrant M’selle Laroche’s anger, but Coco had, as had Thrift, only she had called herself Georgette at the time. The implications were alarming to say the least, and not merely because her deception was bound to be exposed and so lead to punishment from both M’selle Laroche and Georgette. That she could cope with, but if M’selle Laroche knew what had happened in the Avenue Emile Zola, it surely had to mean that the information had come via the Bureau.

  She tried to tell herself that if the Bureau had realised her identity it would not have been M’selle Laroche who walked in on her during her caning, but several agents, that or she would simply have been shot without warning the next time she left L’Huître Rose. It made sense, and while it did little to reassure her she forced herself to follow the train of logic. Unfortunately she knew very little, save that somehow news of her visit to Quigley had almost certainly reached M’selle Laroche. Plainly she had to learn more, and while she could hardly expect to get any useful information from Quigley, M’selle Laroche had no reason not to tell her what had happened, rather the opposite. That meant going to M’selle Laroche and confessing to having broken the rules, which in turn meant having to take some no doubt extremely painful and humiliating punishment. Yet that was likely to happen anyway, because even if Coco kept her promise of silence it wasn’t going to take a genius to work out that Thrift was responsible for the deception.

  She drew a heavy sigh and made for the door. The others turned to watch her go, silent, and then in a babble of excited chatter as she started down the stairs. It was not far to M’selle Laroche’s office, and she could hear voices long before she reached the door, first M’selle Laroche herself, loud and angry, then Georgette, louder still and protesting her innocence with mounting fury. Thrift stopped with her hand on the doorknob, her stomach churning violently as she thought of the likely consequences of her actions, and it took all her willpower to go inside.

  The first thing she saw was Georgette, who had been hoisted up onto the back of Pierre the doorman, her wrists gripped in his massive hands, her feet well clear of the ground and kicking in furious but futile protest. She was in nothing but a bright green corset and matching pantalettes, from the back of which her bare bottom stuck out, her cheeks squeezing as she struggled to break free. Coco stood nearby, her nose pressed into the corner of two walls, looking thoroughly sorry for herself, while M’selle Laroche was in the act of taking a long, wicked looking cane down from its place on the wall. She alone noticed Thrift’s entrance and looked up with an impatient expression.

  ‘Well, what is it, Chastity?’

  ‘I... I think it’s me you need to see, not Georgette,’ Thrift admitted.

  ‘I told you so!’ Georgette squealed. ‘Now let me down, you great pig!’

  ‘Stay as you are,’ M’selle Laroche ordered. ‘Chastity, explain yourself.’

  ‘If somebody came to tell you that Coco and another girl made an assignation behind your back,’ Thrift said carefully, ‘then the other girl wasn’t Georgette, it...’

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it, you little bitch!’ Georgette screamed, now thrashing so violently on Pierre�
�s back that he was struggling to keep his balance.

  ‘Be quiet, Georgette!’ M’selle Laroche snapped. ‘And do stop wriggling like that, or I shall cane you anyway.’

  Georgette went still, but she had twisted her head around, to meet Thrift’s eyes with a murderous glare.

  ‘Well?’ M’selle Laroche demanded, addressing Thrift.

  Thrift paused, wondering how best to avoid giving away her real reasons for using Georgette’s name and also to find out how the information had reached M’selle Laroche. Only one solution presented itself, and that far from ideal.

  ‘I... I pretended to be Georgette,’ she admitted, ‘to try and get her into trouble, but it was wrong, and I’m sorry, so I’ve come to you now. I was only playing about, really, because I didn’t expect that you’d find out.’

  ‘You little bitch!’ Georgette spat.

  ‘Georgette,’ M’selle Laroche warning, ‘that is your final warning. No, Chastity, I don’t imagine you did expect to get caught, or you wouldn’t have broken the rules. Girls seldom do, if ever. Unfortunately for you I have rather more friends than you might suppose. Very well, Pierre, you may put her down, but Georgette, in future, do try and show a little dignity.’

  Georgette was lowered to the ground, still glaring at Thrift even as she adjusted her pantalettes to cover up her bottom. Thrift ignored her, with far more important matters to think about. M’selle Laroche’s manner was not that of a woman who had just received a visit from the notorious French Bureau, leaving Thrift more puzzled than ever. She decided on a direct question.

  ‘How did you find out, if I may ask?’

  ‘To tell you that would be to betray a confidence,’ M’selle Laroche responded, ‘but let us just say that your Mr Quigley was sufficiently impressed by your filthy little performance that he couldn’t resist boasting about it. The rest you may fill in for yourself.’