The Reluctant Stripper

by Lady Alice McCloud

  ‘Now you know how it feels,’ she said, ‘and don’t you dare and try get up, or there’s more where that came from.’

  All M’selle Laroche could manage in response was a weak sob, with the pee still dribbling from her sex as Thrift lashed her wrists into her own petticoat strings. She had wet her pantalettes, but that made no difference to Thrift, who pulled them off, stuffed them into her victim’s mouth and tied them in place, then bound her ankles together and tied her wrists off to the foot of the desk, leaving her sat helpless on the floor, her bare bottom in her own piss puddle.

  ‘No doubt somebody will find you presently,’ Thrift remarked. ‘Monsieur Mazoyères himself perhaps. Now that would be amusing.’

  M’selle Laroche began to squirm and mumble through the pantalettes in her mouth, but Thrift merely blew her a farewell kiss and left, locking the door behind her. Her blood was singing in her veins as she dashed down the corridor, and she had begun to laugh, then stopped as she caught the edge of hysteria in the sound. A slap to her own face brought her back to her senses, but as she turned the corner of the corridor she was once again forced to stop. Mimi Caze and Bruno were standing by the door.

  ‘There you are,’ Mimi spoke immediately. ‘Let us leave.’

  Bruno had already pushed the door open and Thrift found herself with no choice but to join them in the alley. Mimi Caze was clearly nervous, her voice high pitched and abrupt as she carried on.

  ‘Eugène was being persistent, she said as they set off. He wanted us together, and Fleurette as well, the greedy hog. Have you got the money?

  ‘Not with me,’ Thrift answered. ‘His Lordship has it, at the rendezvous.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To a private house in the Rue de l’Assomption,’ Thrift lied. ‘It belongs to a friend of his Lordship who is currently away.’

  ‘That will do, I dare say. At least you have had the sense not to use a hotel. I am recognised everywhere. Now attend. We will inspect the money, Bruno and I, after which Milord and I will wish to be alone, naturally. You and Bruno will remain downstairs, where you may entertain him, and not only in your mouth but in any way he asks.’

  ‘Yes, M’selle Caze,’ Thrift responded, at which Bruno gave a low growl.

  They fell silent as they turned into the Rue des Branleuses, both women walking with their heads down and their hoods pulled forward, Bruno stalking behind. Thrift considered running, but decided against it, sure that in her tight, high heeled boots even the hulking Bruno would be able to outpace her. She thought of the drugged wine, wondering if she could somehow arrange for not only Mimi and Quigley to take a glass before the subject of money was raised, but also Bruno. It seemed unlikely, but gave her a new idea.

  We have no Champagne! she said as they drew level with a café and bar. One moment.

  ‘Stupid girl,’ Mimi remarked, ‘and what does a little whore like you know of Champagne? I will choose.’

  Thrift cursed silently under her breath as they entered the shop, her intention of leaving by the back now foiled. The shop was busy with revellers making purchases on their way home from the festival, but Bruno had stayed outside, making it impossible to slip back into the street and lose herself in the crowd either. Mimi made for the display of bottles to one side of the bar, then hesitated.

  ‘I must arrange myself,’ she said, and turned towards the convenient facilities.

  ‘I also,’ Thrift replied, sudden hope flaring inside her.

  As she followed Mimi through the door marked for the use of Ladies only, Thrift was already slipping loose the cord that tightened her cape at the throat. To her relief no other women were inside, and as Mimi turned to the basins Thrift struck. One well judged blow and Mimi was on the floor, a few moments of frantic work and her hands were tied behind her back and lashed to a pipe in one of the cubicles, with her pantalettes in her mouth. Thrift was grinning as she left, her sole regret that she had not had the time to give Mimi a good spanking before they parted. Bruno was outside as before and Thrift joined him, smiling as she touched his arm.

  ‘M’selle has a little indigestion. Would you purchase the Champagne? She wants the Arcens et Ay, Cuvée Marshal Foch, the Millennium vintage.’

  Bruno merely grunted and went into the shop to search for a Champagne Thrift was confident would not be in stock as she had just made up the name of the cuvée. The instant the door had closed she moved away, walking fast, and the moment she had turned a corner breaking into a run. It was hard going in Zara’s heeled boots, but her spirits were high. There was immense satisfaction in her revenge on both M’selle Laroche and Mimi Caze. Only Quigley remained, and it was hard to see him not taking advantage of the bottle of Beaujolais so temptingly placed in the salon.

  Nevertheless, she slowed as the reached the Pont de Grenelle, glancing at every shadow and pausing for a long time by the parapet to look down at the barges tied up alongside the Île des Cygnes. The Singe du Seine was plainly visible, the curtains drawn but a dim light showing in the salon. Everything was quiet, with nobody about who did not seem to have obvious business and no tell-tale movement among the shadows. At last she moved on, to slip quickly down the stairs to the quay. No sound at all came from the barge and she stepped board, clattering happily down the companionway just in case Quigley had resisted the wine and was waiting.

  He was not there at all, or not visible, but as she started forward dark figures moved in from the shadows to either side of her, big, silent men in black suits, far too many to resist, calm and professional, leaving her no avenue of escape and quickly closing in to grip her arms and feet. Thrift fought, kicking and scratching, but it was hopeless. In seconds she had been pinned face down on the floor and her hands securely cuffed behind her back. Only then did Godfrey Quigley step out from behind the doors to the engine room. He was smiling as he spoke.

  ‘Did you really think me so easily gulled, Miss Moncrieff?’

  Paris, the headquarters of the French Bureau, May 2nd 2010

  Thrift struggled to control her fear. She sat in a bare room, naked and tied to a metal chair with her hands cuffed behind the back and her ankles shackled to the legs. The chair in turn was welded to an iron plate in the floor, while straps secured her belly and thighs. Save for her head, she could barely move. She knew she was in the Headquarters of the French Bureau, the infamous address in the Rue Lafayette, but little more. A sealed car had brought her there, with big, silent men holding her at either side despite her cuffed wrists. Inside she had been taken to a medical room, stripped, hosed down and held bent over a table while her cunt and anus were inspected. Her rectule had been taken out and now lay on a small table in front of her, open and with the contents laid out neatly beside it; money, her stiletto, vials of drugs and poisons, but no papers, which she had disposed of when she no longer needed them. Again and again she told herself to be brave, but when the door slammed back her body jerked in fear and a jet of urine escaped her cunt, to drip from the chair as the man who had entered came to stand in front of her. He was small, dapper, older than those Bureau men she had so far encountered, with a harsh, cold face that gave her no hope of mercy. When he spoke his voice was cold, clipped.

  ‘You are Thrift Moncrieff, of the British Foreign and Colonial Service.’

  Thrift shook her head. He pointed to her rectule and its contents.

  ‘This suggests that you are.’

  Again Thrift shook her head. He drew a sigh, carefully removed first one glove and then the other, put them together and smacked her hard across the face. Thrift yelped in pain, but once more shook her head. The gloves smacked into her face again, and a third time, to leave her shaking and gasping. He glanced down, to where his foot had made contact with the edge of the little puddle of urine she had made on the floor, then pulled back with a gesture of fastidious distaste before speaking again.

  ‘I
t is pointless to dissemble, Miss Moncrieff. We know more than you might think. You joined the Service directly from Diplomatic School and were trained at Weathercote House in Yorkshire. You have served in South-East Asia and the British colonies in North America, where you have earned several commendations. You entered France through Reims, arriving on the airship Lord Charles Howard. You were disguised as a lady’s maid. You then travelled to Paris and in due course made contact with Monsieur Quigley. Your intention was to bring him back to London, as tonight’s events demonstrate. Do you deny this?’

  ‘I am a stripper,’ Thrift protested. ‘I made an assignation...’

  Her voice broke to another cry of pain as he lashed out with the gloves once more, catching her hard across the face several times before again stepping away to leave her whimpering and sobbing.

  ‘We know otherwise,’ he snapped. ‘Your message requesting a fast boat and three agents was intercepted, as you clearly expected it to be, and yet we are not as dull witted as you British like to suppose. Therefore we also took the precaution of warning Monsieur Quigley, and of having you watched. Your performance on the clysopomp was, incidentally, highly entertaining.’

  Thrift raised her head. Her cheeks were burning, her hair plastered to her forehead with the sweat of her fear, but she forced herself to think. From what they knew it was obvious she had indeed been betrayed, although it was possible they had known about her drop anyway. The false trail she had tried to lay had seemed such a good idea at the time, but it had backfired, destroying her last chance of maintaining her pose as a stripper. Still she stayed silent, determined to give nothing away.

  For a long while her interrogator watched her from cold, half-lidded eyes, waiting for her to speak, the gloves held negligently in one hand. At length he nodded, then replaced his gloves as slowly and carefully as he had removed them. Walking across the room he touched a finger to some unseen button, causing a panel to slide back and expose the dim interior of a cupboard hung with vague metallic shapes. Thrift’s stomach began to churn and a fresh spurt of urine escaped her cunt, and again as he extracted a curious object from the cupboard, what appeared to be a pear made of ridged metal but with an ornate key protruding from the top where the stalk would have been. His voice was still cool and level as he spoke once more, but touched with amusement.

  ‘As you are no doubt aware, there are many modern techniques that can be employed to extract truth from the reluctant, many of them painless. Some of us, however, prefer a more traditional approach. This interesting little object is a Poire d’Angoisser or Pear of Anguish, as used by the Inquisition, among others, to deal with heretics, blasphemers, homosexuals, women who had consorted with Satan, and so forth. As you have no doubt already deduced from the shape, it is interested into the appropriate orifice – mouth, anus or vagina according to the sin – and the key turned, like so, thus opening the four leaves of the pear.’

  As he spoke he had demonstrated how the pear worked, turning the key to make the ridged iron leaves of the horrible device spread apart. Thrift’s muscles began to twitch with fear at the thought of having it put inside her and she lost what little control she had left of her bladder, urinating copiously over the floor. The edge of his mouth had begun to flicker into the tiniest of smiles as he went on, still twisting the key.

  ‘You understand, I see? In your own case, it would of course be inserted into your vagina. Not that I am suggesting you have consorted with Satan, so given your behaviour with your fellow whores at L’Huître Rose, perhaps it would be more appropriate to stick it up your bottom? Who knows, I might even let you choose. Whichever hole we select the effect will be much the same. At first, simply a rather full feeling, as if you are enjoying the attentions of a well endowed and exceptionally hard lover. Then, as your vaginal cavity or rectum starts to distend, pain, although perhaps no more than you experienced with a couple of litres of water up your bottom on the clysopomp. But then...’

  As he trailed off he gave the key a series of sudden, rapid twists, spreading the leaves of the pear to their maximum extent, far beyond what she could hope to accommodate in either orifice. She screamed, her reason lost to fear, and began to writhe and jerk in her bonds, begging for mercy and for release. He merely watched, cool and amused, now turning the key of the pear in the opposite direction to slowly close the leaves in preparation for use. Thrift felt she would go mad, her limbs jerking uncontrollably, her throat tight and her stomach heaving with horror of what was to be done to her, but he merely placed the pear on the table then continued, his voice now light and easy.

  ‘But the Bureau does not entirely approve of me indulging my little hobby. They say it is unprofessional. Still, who knows, perhaps if you are recalcitrant they will make an exception? Or of course you could be very dull and simply tell me what I want to know without any encouragement. Ah, but I am forgetting my manners. A glass of water perhaps? Or something a little larger, perhaps, in the circumstances.’

  Thrift had been sick down her front, soiling her breasts and belly. He left the room, quickly returning with a bucket of water, which he threw over her. It was freezing cold and left her wet and spluttering, little cleaner than before but clear headed enough to speak.

  ‘You already know everything I do!’ she managed, gasping.

  ‘Then you admit that you are Thrift Moncrieff?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that you came to France as I described?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you travel from Épernay to Paris?’

  ‘On a barge.’

  ‘And on arrival you signed on at L’Huître Rose as a stripper and part time whore, thus providing yourself with an excuse to contact Monsieur Quigley. I am impressed by your ingenuity, but it was not enough. What of other British agents in Paris? Who was to assist you?’

  ‘Nobody. I was working alone.’

  ‘Indeed? Then who was to collect your message from the drop?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Who are you to report to in London?’

  Thrift stayed silent, biting her lip. His mouth once more flickered into a smile and his hand strayed towards the pear. Before he could touch it the door pushed open, admitting the tall, hawk-faced Monsieur Mazoyères. Thrift’s interrogator had reacted instantaneously, but the expression on his faced changed from anger to surprise as he realised the identity of his visitor.

  ‘Monsieur Mazoyères! I am honoured, but...’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mazoyères demanded.

  ‘A standard routine, Vice-President.’

  ‘With a common prostitute!?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. She is a British agent, one Thrift Moncrieff, sent here in order to retrieve the defector Godfrey Quigley. She has admitted as much.’

  ‘That is hardly surprising!’ Mazoyères stormed as his eyes fell on the pear. ‘If you threatened to use that thing on her, no doubt she would admit to being Jean d’Arc. In all honesty, Odenas, you... One moment. Did you say Moncrieff? As in Lord Moncrieff, the British foreign secretary?’

  ‘Precisely, sir. She is his niece, and...’

  ‘And you intend to subject her to torture. Do you really think that wise?’

  ‘But sir, she is an agent...’

  ‘So she is, assuming of course that you have your facts straight and this girl is in fact Thrift Moncrieff and not merely some ambitious prostitute bent on a little blackmail, and how do you expect the British will react to your treatment of her? For the love of God, why do you think they chose her for this mission?’

  ‘She is experienced and yet little known in Europe. She is...’

  ‘She is the niece of the British foreign secretary, not to mention the daughter of Sir Kincardine Moncrieff, who ranks high in their civil service. She is also related to half the British élite. Can you imagine the consequences if the British were to
discover that you had subjected her to torture? Sanctions and demands for reparation would be the least of it!’

  He threw his hands up in the air and began to pace the room. Thrift said nothing, her fear tempered by relief but still strong, and at length the interrogator spoke again.

  ‘What is to be done with her then? She cannot be high in the service, at her age, but in her position no doubt there is much she knows which might be of value to us. The names of other agents in Europe perhaps?’

  Mazoyères nodded.

  ‘No doubt, but we must avoid an incident at all costs.’

  ‘She is a woman, and young. I suspect she will respond well to a choice with an unpleasant alternative, not the pear, sadly, but an unfortunate accident, perhaps?

  ‘It is a possibility,’ Mazoyères admitted with a shrug. ‘We would need to be careful, naturally, to ensure the facts add up, perhaps to find some suitable scapegoat, certainly to ensure that an autopsy reveals only the facts as we have presented them.’

  ‘All this is well within our capabilities.’

  ‘That I do not doubt, and yet there is no question that she is more valuable alive, working for us.’

  ‘My thinking reflects your own, Vice-President.’

  ‘Let that be her choice then. She can work for the Bureau, or...’

  He left the sentence unfinished and turned to Thrift.

  Paris, May 14th 2010

  Stretched out on a divan upholstered in purple velvet, Thrift toyed with a glass of deep red Rhône wine with one hand and a dildo with the other. She wore nothing but a diminutive corset, faced with black satin and edged with heavy lace, which did nothing to conceal her breasts, bottom or cunt, although she was in fishnet stockings held up by straining suspenders and smart, high-heeled black boots, both decorated with purple ribbons.