‘When I first used to dance,’ she said, ‘at the old Salon L’Écarlate, we used to dunk the new girls’ heads in their pots to teach them their place. Would that not be funny?’
‘This is a grand apartment,’ Fleurette pointed out, laughing. ‘We have no pot, but yes, something might be done!’
‘No, please!’ Thrift managed weakly as the pantalettes were tugged from her mouth, but she was already being dragged back and around, until instead of her breasts dangling into the lavatory bowl her face was directly above it, looking down at the water in which the tips of her hair were already floating.
The spanking had stopped, but it was little consolation and unlikely to be over, with her bottom already ablaze and the brush still in Fleurette’s hand, while what was about to be done to her might be painless but was even more humiliating. Already Fleurette’s hand was tight in her hair, ready to push her face down into the bowl, but Mimi raised a finger.
‘No, no, not yet! These things must be done properly, Fleurette, and remember, what she did to us, we must do to her. Pull her back.’
Thrift was dragged back by her hair, to leave her kneeling in front of the lavatory as Mimi began to tug up her skirts and Thrift gave a hollow groan as she realised her fate was to be worse still, yet she knew that her protests would only amuse the two women and stayed silent. Quigley made no move to intervene, still playing with his cock as Mimi bunched her skirts up around her waist, pushed her pantalettes to her ankles and settled herself above the lavatory bowl. Her sex was spread to Thrift, sweetly turned cunt lips busy with hair and pink in the middle, from where a gush of dark yellow piddle erupted, splashing in the lavatory bowl and staining the water. She let it all come out, finished with a mocking little wriggle of her hips, then pulled up her pantalettes and stepped away. Thrift looked down into the bowl and swallowed hard, but Mimi wasn’t finished.
‘There, that will give the water a little flavour, and remember, it is I, Mimi Caze, who has pissed in the bowl you are being washed in. You should be honoured. Now, you wanted me put in nappies, so you shall go in nappies yourself.’
She had taken a towel from the nearby rack as she spoke, and came behind Thrift, who shut her eyes in bitter humiliation as her nappy was put on, although it was impossible to deny the justice of what was being done to her. The towel felt heavy and fat around her hips and bottom, and was also rather too big, adding to the comedy of her appearance and setting both girls laughing in delight to see how she looked once it had been tied off. Even knowing that it was only a towel was no help, because she looked as if she was in nappies and felt as if she was in nappies, as was her tormentor’s intention.
‘Next,’ Mimi declared, ‘an extra little detail for the entertainment of Monsieur Quigley. Come, Monsieur.’
She had walked over to him, kissed him and taken a firm hold of his cock, on which she began to tug, masturbating him but also helping him to rise. He said nothing, his face set in ecstasy as he was led over to the lavatory bowl by his cock, to stand side on with his erection jutting out above Thrift’s head.
‘Stay there, Monsieur Quigley,’ Mimi instructed as she let go of his cock, ‘that she may suck you in-between dunkings, and then, when you have given her face a good coating of spunk we can put her head back in the bowl one last time to wash it off!’
‘Wonderful!’ Fleurette agreed, twisting her fist in Thrift’s hair to tighten her grip once more. ‘Come then, are you ready?’
She gave a sudden, hard push, forcing Thrift’s head well down into the toilet bowl, until her fringe was touching the water and her face only a matter of inches above it. Mimi was laughing and slapping at Thrift’s bottom and thighs, Quigley tugging at his cock as he held it ready for Thrift’s mouth, while M’selle Laroche had reached up to take hold of the chain that would flush the toilet.
‘And again,’ Fleurette said sweetly. ‘Are you ready? And one... and two... and three...’
‘No,’ Thrift managed, speaking at exactly the wrong moment, her mouth open as Fleurette pulled the chain, so that it immediately filled with a mixture of water and Mimi’s piddle.
The girls burst out laughing, a sound drowned out for Thrift by the roar of water around her head as it was flushed in the lavatory bowl, her mouth now firmly shut but still full of water and urine, her eyes shut tighter still. Her nose was under the swirling water too, and for one awful moment she couldn’t even breathe, before the level subsided and her head was pulled up, dripping water with her hair hanging down around her face in sodden rat’s tails. She began to gasp down air, only to have Quigley’s straining cock thrust deep into her open mouth.
‘Suck his cock, slut!’ Mimi ordered. ‘Remember, it’s not over until he has spunked in your face! And when the cistern is full again, you know what happens!’
Thrift tried desperately to oblige, sucking on Quigley’s erection as best she could, but already gagging where the bulbous head was jammed into her throat. Nor would Fleurette let her work, keeping her grip tight and encouraging him to fuck Thrift’s mouth instead of letting her suck. Spittle and mucus began to run from around her lips and from her nostrils, dripping into the bowl beneath her, but still her head was held firmly in place, while he had began to tug at what little of his cock remained free of her mouth. She was sure she would be sick at any moment, and that even that wouldn’t stop her from getting her head flushed in the lavatory a second time.
‘Again!’ Mimi crowed. ‘Flush her again, Fleurette, and give me that brush!’
On the instant Thrift’s head was pulled off Quigley’s cock and stuck back down the lavatory. A hand gripped the back of her nappy, pulling it tight up between her cheeks and the spanking began again, as hard as before, making her yelp and for the second time in a row get her mouth filled with lavatory water as Fleurette pulled the chain. She went into hysterics, unable to cope with what was being done to her, kicking and writhing in their grip as the water swirled around her head, but there was no mercy.
‘Don’t forget she spanked my cunt!’ Fleurette called out and Thrift’s nappy had been pulled aside to expose her sex even as her head was pulled up once more and Quigley’s cock thrust back in her mouth.
She didn’t even try to suck, her head held firmly as he once more began to fuck her throat. The hairbrush caught her between her thighs, a firm smack delivered to the meat of her cunt, then again and everything seemed to happen at once. She came, from nowhere, her body reacting in sudden violence to the smacks applied directly to her clitoris. Quigley also came, his spunk erupting down Thrift’s throat to explode from her nose in a sticky mixture of mucus and spittle and semen. More spurted from around her lips and as her head was pulled sharply back another gout caught her in one eye and across her nose. The next instant her head was back down the lavatory bowl, water once more swirling around her ears and filling her mouth as she was flushed, only now in the throes of orgasm with the hairbrush smacking hard down on her open cunt and her muscles in violent contraction.
‘It’s a lost cause,’ Fleurette said calmly as she finally let go of Thrift’s hair. ‘She is such a slut that she cannot be properly punished.’
‘I think not,’ Mimi responded. ‘For all her pleasure I think she is punished well and often, because that is what is in her head, and no more than she deserves, you may be sure.’
She applied a final smack to Thrift’s still pulsing cunt and let go of the towel. Thrift slumped to the floor, exhausted, defeated, gasping for breath and shaking with reaction. Quigley squeezed out the last drop of his come, into her hair, then stood back, smiling.
‘There we are, my dear, rather fun in the end, wasn’t it? Still, I think you’d better clear up. We are Eugène’s guests, after all.’
‘That’s right,’ Fleurette put in. ‘Clean up this mess, then you may serve us Champagne. Come, Mimi.’
She took Mimi’s arm and the two girls sauntered
from the room. Quigley paused long enough top untie Thrift’s wrists and then followed. Thrift stayed on the floor for a long while, too far gone to care, but finally forced herself to her knees. She had been acting as housemaid for Eugène Mazoyères, and knew where the cleaning materials were, but she stripped first, to do it nude as she knew would be expected of her, for all that both Fleurette and Mimi seemed to have lost interest, chatting gaily in the salon while she scrubbed and mopped in the bathroom.
When she was done she went straight to the kitchen, peering briefly from the window before going to the refrigerator. The Saint George was now docked, the gantries joining her to the tower clearly visible, along with the tiny figures of the disembarking passengers. Thrift shook her head and took a deep breath. There was a bottle of cooking brandy to one side and she took a deep swallow, which burnt her throat but stopped her fingers from shaking and made it easier to focus on her task.
There were several bottles of Champagne in the refrigerator, one of which she selected. She placed three of Mazoyères’ elegant flutes on a tray, along with M’selle Laroche’s pantalettes, which she had retrieved, and she was ready. Stepping naked into the salon, she found Quigley seated at one end of a couch, teasing Mimi’s feet with one of the peacock feather tickler’s. M’selle Laroche sat the other end, stroking Mimi’s hair and feeding her grapes from a bowl on the table.
Thrift curtsied and set the tray down on the table, taking care to bend from the waist and so show off her bottom. Lifting the Champagne bottle, she took a firm grip on the neck and brought it down with every ounce of her strength on Quigley’s head. He toppled over without a sound, and before either of the girls could react Thrift was on them. Both tried to scramble away, shrieking with fright but still trying to kick and bite in an ineffectual defence she had no trouble at all in countering, hacking and punching with sudden, vicious blows that quickly left both in no condition to resist as she tied them into the strings of their own clothes and added further bonds from Mazoyères’ box of tricks.
After a glass of water in the face to bring them back to their senses, each girl’s pantalettes went into the other’s mouth, pushed deep and tied firmly in place. Both fought back, struggling and trying to bite Thrift’s fingers, also threatening dire retribution, but she took not notice beyond applying to occasional smack where it would do the most good, and before long both were completely helpless, tied back to back on the floor, their wrists, ankles and hair bound together, their dresses in a tangle around their waists, and in a final act of revenge she found herself unable to resist, an orange stuffed in up each well juiced cunt.
Quigley was still unconscious, but she tied him carefully, used a spherical gag with holes in it to ensure that he could breathe easily but not call for help and bound tape around his eyes to rob him of his sight as well. She then went to work with frantic speed, washing her soiled body and slapping at herself with a towel. Every detail of what she needed to do had been worked out during the days she had spent as Mistress and plaything to Eugène Mazoyères, even the order in which they needed to be done. Still naked, she collected the largest of his travelling trunks and dragged it into the salon. Getting Quigley inside was no easy task, as she first had to tie his legs high up to his chest, then lay the trunk on its side and roll him in. The exertion left her panting for breath and wet with sweat, but she paused only for a swallow of water before moving on, to the study where Mimi Caze kept her valuables and documents.
Having been made to work as Eugène’s maid, Thrift knew exactly where everything was and had quickly secured the papers she needed, also money. Next came clothes, a selection of Mimi’s finery, most of it a little small but fitting well enough. Fully dressed in an elegant dark green ensemble that included a veiled hat, she stuffed more clothing in around the still unconscious Quigley, checked his breathing and that the trunk would still admit air when closed, then shut it and secured the catches and lock.
It took some time to drag the trunk into the hall, and again left her hot and sweaty, with a rising sense of panic. Each room of the apartment boasted at least one clock, and all were in agreement, showing that she had plenty of time, and yet she had to fight to remain calm as she checked her things, adjusted her make-up and tightened the bonds that held M’selle Laroche and Mimi silent and helpless. Both squirmed in fury and made muffled threats through the pantalettes in their mouth but Thrift ignored them, contenting herself with taking a last swallow of wine before pouring out what remained in the bottle all over the two of them. A last, blown kiss and she left the salon, closing the door behind her.
Leaning from the hall window, she called down to the group of cabmen lounging below, waving a cluster of fifty franc bills and demanding their assistance. They came without hesitation and she forced herself to calm, greeting them at the door and ordering them to carrying the trunk downstairs. It took four men, puffing and grunting and snapping at each other, but the trunk was soon loaded onto a cab. Thrift paid off all four with generous tips, climbed into the cab and instructed the driver to make for the Tour Eiffel.
The journey seemed to take forever, the various pieces of bureaucracy at the tower longer still, with Thrift sure that she would either be discovered in her deception or caught by agents from the Bureau. Yet not one question was asked, each official accepting her identity as Mimi Caze without question, none asking her to lift her veil and one even asking for her autograph, to which she responded with a hasty scribble on an airline timetable. The British officials were easier still, treating her as simply another wealthy Frenchwoman, of no particular consequence one way or another. The lifts rose smoothly to the summit of the tower and her tickets and passport were again accepted on the gangway to the airship.
Thrift went straight to the Quality Salon, ignoring the curious stares and haughty sniffs for her opulent French clothing. Taking a seat by the window, she waited, staring out over the rooftops of Paris far below, outwardly still and composed but near to panic inside. The day was clear, the view exact, allowing her to see the very building she had just escaped in the Avenue Montaigne, also the Rue des Branleuses and the leaded roofs of Salon L’Huître Rose. The faint shudder of release came and at last her tension began to drain away. She was free, still above French territory but in a British airship and therefore safe.
Yet it was hard to take in her success, and as she watched the buildings of Paris grow slowly smaller far below her emotion were anything but simple; triumph blended with regret, joy with sadness, relief with a residue of fear and a desire for revenge. She wonder if M’selle Laroche and Mimi Caze had managed to free themselves of their bonds, and which of the girls at L’Huître Rose were due on stage that afternoon, even if any of the tiny specks visible on the Seine was the Saint Mihiel in which she had travelled down river, a journey that now seemed long past, although it had been just weeks before.
She watched until it was no longer possible to pick out L’Huître Rose from its neighbours, then rose to walk to the bar. On sudden impulse she ordered a bottle of India Pale Ale, which she took up without bothering to wait for a glass and poured into her throat, a moment of pure bliss that drew a haughty and disapproving look from a grand old lady who happened to be passing the bar with her companion. Thrift met the icy disdain in the woman’s eyes without difficulty.
‘So, spank me,’ she said and walked back to her seat, ignoring the woman’s shocked exclamation and flurry of remarks directed at the companion.
Seated once more, she gradually began to relax, sipping her beer as she watched the French landscape far below, with fields and woods now visible as the Saint George swung around to the north to point her nose in the direction of England. A steward approached, bowing respectfully as he addressed her.
‘M’selle Caze?’
‘Miss Moncrieff,’ Thrift corrected him.
He looked puzzled but continued.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, but the porters say
that there appears to be some sort of animal in your luggage.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Thrift responded. ‘I had been meaning to speak to you about that. It’s probably best that the Captain telephone my father, after which I will be able to explain everything.’
London, May 16th 2010
Thrift sat before the desk of Sir Blenheim Finch, who was beaming in an avuncular manner as he read through her report. She was back in proper British attire, a high-necked, floor length dress with underskirts, a complete set of full cut underwear in respectable white cotton, silk and lace, a corset that reached from her neck to just above her ankles, all of which felt reassuringly restrictive.
‘He threatened to do what!?’ Sir Blenheim suddenly exclaimed. ‘With a pear?’
‘It is made of metal,’ Thrift explained, ‘and opens up inside you as the screw is tightened. I believe it was originally a medieval torture device. That was when they were trying to make me turn double agent, by playing Mr Nice and Mr Nasty with me, the Vice-President himself and a man I only heard called Odenas, who threatened to use the pear on me. Of course I recognised the game.’
‘So I should think. Rank amateurs, these fellows, and I must say that you managed to bluff them very nicely. Hot work though, I’d imagine, especially towards the end.’
‘It was rather trying at times,’ Thrift admitted.
‘Damn Frogs!’ Sir Blenheim snorted. ‘Still, all’s well that ends well, eh? You do look a bit peaky though, I must say, and you’ve lost weight.’
‘The French food didn’t really agree with me, sir.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ he grunted, ‘all that cheese and garlic with everything, and snails! I mean to say, who on Earth would want to eat snails? A good big portion of British beef, that’s what you need, my girl, followed by a king-sized helping of spotted dick.’
He’d said it without the slightest hint of a double meaning, making Thrift smile as he went back to reading her report. Presently his eyebrows rose and he gave a grunt of astonishment before speaking once more.
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