Strip Girl

by Aishling Morgan

  Sarah turned to the paintings, intent on choosing one, or possibly more than one, as the prices seemed surprisingly reasonable. Directly in front of her was a series using a particular blue to good effect, among which one instantly drew her attention. It was a view of the Seine, showing the upper works of Notre-Dame rising beyond the Île St. Louis, but made wonderful by the use of blue in the water and sky. Not only that, but the café outside which she had been spanked was plainly visible, with tiny figures at the table, including one, seated, elegant in black, who held another across her knee, anything but elegant with a plump pink bottom bare to the world and quite obviously being smacked. Her mouth came open in astonishment as a young man in a red and white striped top came towards her, evidently the artist, his expression aloof, as if insulted by her attention to his work.

  ‘When did you paint this?’ she asked.

  ‘It is among my most recent works,’ he answered her, his tone implying yet more strongly than his expression that she was incapable of fully appreciating it.

  Sarah made to reply, but another voice broke in from directly behind her, a voice at once intensely feminine, haughty, confident, and instantly recognisable as that of Céleste du Musigny.

  ‘You should purchase it, cocotte, and if you do not, I shall, on your behalf. Réservez s’il vous plaît cette peinture dans mon nom, Armand.’

  ‘C’est ça, Céleste,’ the artist replied.

  Sarah had begun to stammer, immediately scared and confused, and as the woman took her by the ear she found herself unable to resist, despite the certainty that she was going over the knee and her panties would be coming down in front of Armand and the entire street. But it didn’t happen. Céleste moved quickly away from the stalls, towing Sarah behind her, now squealing as the pain of her pinched ear broke through her initial shock.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she managed, catching the panic and self-pity in her own voice. ‘Please, I –’

  ‘Be quiet, you little whore,’ Céleste snapped back. ‘I warned you what would happen if you went on with your dirty scribblings, and now it will.’

  ‘What?’ Sarah asked. ‘What … Monsieur d’Orsay? No, not Monsieur d’Orsay, please … you – you cannot do this to me!’

  ‘No?’ the woman queried, her voice cold with anger. ‘You did it to me though, no? How do you think I felt, like that, like you showed me, on my knees to that … that cretin!’

  ‘I – no – look,’ Sarah stammered, ‘that wasn’t you! That was just a cartoon! That – ow!’

  Her cry of pain came as the woman wheeled on her to plant a stinging slap across one side of her face. Sarah was left gasping and clutching her hurt cheek, dizzy with shock as she was dragged stumbling towards the door of the building she had seen before, now held firmly by the wrist. She wanted to protest, but she knew it would make no difference and very likely earn her another slap in the face, while underneath her boiling feelings a strong sense of guilt was rising, guilt that made no sense, yet which she was unable to push down.

  She was pulled up the steps and into the building. An elderly man in a blue uniform sat behind a great marble reception desk in the foyer, but he scarcely troubled to look up from the magazine he was reading as Sarah was dragged stumbling across the polished floor to a cage lift. The Céleste woman pressed a button, never releasing her grip on Sarah’s wrist. The lift arrived, Sarah was pulled in and the door closed behind them. As the lift began to rise she finally found her voice.

  ‘I – I don’t understand, but if I’ve upset you in any way –’

  ‘Be quiet!’ the woman snapped. ‘You were warned of the consequences if you continued your vile behaviour, and now you will accept those consequences.’

  ‘Yes, but,’ Sarah began, struggling with her own frustration at the woman’s refusal to talk sense. ‘I didn’t do anything to you! I mean, if I had, then –’

  ‘Nothing?’ the woman responded, her eyes blazing. ‘Nothing? You call being made to – to striptease for Monsieur d’Orsay nothing? You call being made to take the old toad’s penis in my mouth as half a million people look on at my degradation nothing!? You … you are extraordinary … incroyable! We shall see, shall we, how you feel, and without even the audience. Sacrebleu!’

  Sarah once more found herself speechless in the face of the woman’s fury, and shied away for fear of another slap. The lift stopped and the door slid open onto a corridor. The woman gave Sarah a firm push, sending her stumbling out, and once more took a firm pinch of one ear. Squealing and babbling inanities, Sarah was frogmarched down the passage, past doors each marked with a name on a discrete brass plaque. They stopped outside one of the doors, no different from the rest save for the name – Monsieur d’Orsay.

  ‘Please?’ Sarah managed as the woman rapped on the door.

  A voice answered, thick as oil, inviting them in. The Céleste woman pushed the door wide and Sarah was dragged in and sent forward with a shove, into the centre of a room furnished exactly as she had pictured it – even the pattern on the carpet was identical – and with the same design of desk. Beyond the desk was a man who looked as exactly like the Monsieur d’Orsay of her cartoon as the woman looked like Céleste du Musigny; greasy, florid, balding, complete with nasty little moustache and a sweating face which he dabbed with a monogrammed handkerchief as the door closed. He smiled, revealing a row of large yellowish teeth.

  ‘Ah ha,’ he said, ‘so this is our little artiste, eh? Quite the little butterball, is she not?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know who you are …’ Sarah began, only to stop as he laughed.

  ‘Oh, but you do!’ he said, seeming vastly amused by the situation. ‘Myself, I am Monsieur Vivien d’Orsay, and beside you, Mam’selle Céleste du Musigny.’

  He was grinning as he finished, and Sarah was gaping. She had decided that d’Orsay’s Christian name would be Vivien, but only on the train. Giles knew, but they had been together every moment since. More confused than ever, she found herself completely lost for words as the man continued, now addressing the woman.

  ‘Well, Céleste, my dear, let us proceed, eh! I trust you are going to spank her first? There is nothing these English girls like more, you know, than a well warmed bottom before sex. It is, I imagine, a device to defray their guilt, for which they may feel they have been punished in advance.’

  He finished with a dirty chuckle and folded his hands across his paunch. The woman had pulled out a chair and placed it purposefully in the exact centre of the space in front of the desk, sideways on to Monsieur d’Orsay. Sarah could do nothing, her body limp as the woman reached out to take her wrist once more. A great bubble of shame and consternation was forming as she was placed gently but firmly across the knee, her bottom to Monsieur d’Orsay. Yet she was too shocked to fight, while two voices seemed to be whispering directly into her brain, one cold and full of disgust, telling her she deserved what she was about to get and more, the other warm and seductive, telling her what a lucky girl she was to be spanked in such exquisitely humiliating circumstances.

  ‘You say she fought before?’ Monsieur d’Orsay remarked from behind her as the woman took hold of the hem of Sarah’s dress. ‘Perhaps she has begun to learn her place after all?’

  ‘We shall see,’ the woman responded, and the pretty summer dress Sarah had put on in the hotel was lifted onto her back.

  With the exposure of her panties Sarah was finally shocked out of inaction. She tried to get up, but the woman immediately caught her wrist and twisted it hard up into the small of her back, as before. A squeal of pain and misery broke from her mouth, followed by babbled protests against the monstrous liberty about to be taken with her. Monsieur d’Orsay merely laughed, then spoke again.

  ‘Oh ho, she still has some fight in her, I see? Excellent! Take her knickers down slowly, Céleste, make her feel it as she is unveiled.’

  ‘That is my intention,’ the woman stated. ‘Be calm, Sarah, you will only make it worse, while if you have a gram of decency in
you then you must realise that you fully deserve this.’

  ‘No I don’t!’ Sarah squealed, still kicking and wriggling despite the woman’s words, already near to panic as a thumb was hooked into the waistband of her panties. ‘No! Please, not my panties! Not in front of him! No!’

  ‘Hoopla!’ d’Orsay declared. ‘How she kicks! Slowly, Céleste, very slowly, to see a girl’s bottom exposed is a moment to be savoured, like a fine wine.’

  ‘You are a filthy old roué, Monsieur,’ the woman responded, but it didn’t stop her beginning to take Sarah’s panties down, and just as slowly as he had requested.

  He merely chuckled, and Sarah’s babbled entreaties broke to a long moan of despair as the top of her bottom crease came on show. She could feel the tension in her panty elastic as they were eased low, and the exposure of every inch of smooth pink bottom skin, the swell of her cheeks and the plump crests, the meaty tuck and between, where she knew full well her sex lips would be peeping out backwards between her thighs.

  ‘Magnifique!’ d’Orsay sighed as Sarah’s full rear view came on show. ‘She is fine, yes. I do like them big, womanly. What is the word the English use? That is it, porky, to compare her with a pig, which is appropriate, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Sarah sobbed, surprised to hear the words in her own mouth.

  ‘Yes,’ d’Orsay continued, ignoring her completely, ‘she is certainly porky, ideal for spanking, not that I in any way wish to denigrate your own derrière, Céleste. No, where she is porky, you are pert, and –’

  ‘Kindly keep your observations on my anatomy to yourself, Monsieur,’ Céleste said coldly. ‘That was our agreement, was it not? Now, if you have looked your fill?’

  ‘Oh ho, not quite,’ he replied. ‘Have you forgotten how she made you expose your breasts? She needs the same treatment, no?’

  ‘That is true enough,’ the woman admitted, and immediately began to tug Sarah’s dress higher.

  ‘No, not my breasts!’ Sarah squealed. ‘You don’t need my breasts bare to spank me, Céleste, you don’t! You just don’t!’

  She’d snatched back, trying to keep her dress from being pulled up, but Céleste immediately let go, and before Sarah realised what was happening the zip at the back had been tugged down. Immediately she made a grab for her front, only for her dress to be turned up further still. Again she snatched back, and immediately the woman’s hand was under her chest. Sarah went wild, full of panic and frustration as she fought to protect herself, with d’Orsay laughing and slapping one fat thigh in merriment behind her. It did no good, Céleste was too clever and too quick, so that before long Sarah’s dress was up around her neck, her bra catch was opened and finally the cups were pulled up, to flop out the full fat meat of her breasts. They jiggled and bounced beneath her chest as she continued to fight, now with both arms twisted up into the small of her back so that she was unable to cover her shame at all.

  ‘Superb!’ d’Orsay chuckled, breathless with laughter for the display Sarah knew must have been as ludicrous as it was erotic. ‘Vraiment superbe! Ah, but she is a fighter, no? Yet it was worth your trouble I think, Céleste. What a pair she has, true bloblos, such as you seldom see on a French girl.’

  He had got up, and walked around his desk to get a better view of Sarah’s dangling breasts. Céleste – and Sarah now found herself thinking of the woman as her heroine – made a small adjustment in her position, bringing Sarah’s bottom up a little and leaving her breasts swinging free.

  ‘Bloblos, my fat little English tart,’ she explained, ‘are heavy pendulous breasts, such as, perhaps, you might think to find on an overweight peasant girl who has just given birth.’

  As she spoke the spanking began, Céleste’s hand smacking down on Sarah’s bare wriggling bottom. Overwhelmed by her emotions, she gave in to it, merely kicking a little in her pain and sobbing for all the bitterness and self-pity in her head. Monsieur d’Orsay stayed on his feet, giving the occasional cluck of satisfaction as he walked around the spanking scene. Sometimes he would pause, to admire Sarah from behind with her bottom bouncing to the slaps and her sex and even her anus on show, or to duck low to take a look at the faces she was pulling as she was punished.

  Céleste paid little attention to him, spanking to a firm methodical rhythm that never allowed Sarah so much as an instant to compose herself before the next smack fell. If anything it hurt more than before, and her bottom began to warm more rapidly, until before long the same awful helpless feelings of strong sexual arousal had begun to steal over her. She tried to fight it, but she knew her own body was betraying her; her nipples were hard, her sex moist and swollen.

  D’Orsay was still making a close inspection of her spanking, and she knew that not only could he see, but he would be fully aware of what the changes in her body implied. Sure enough, when he finally went back to his desk he gave a lewd knowing chuckle as he sat down, then spoke.

  ‘You were right, Céleste, she is a whore at heart. Enough, I think. She is rosy and obviously warm, while I think I would burst at a touch.’

  Céleste didn’t answer, but the spanking stopped and Sarah’s arm was released. Panting, she slid to the floor in a kneeling position, massaging her wrist briefly before putting her hands back to her hot bottom. Her skin was aglow, thick and hot and rough, her sex puffy and urgent between her thighs, so that she was shaking her head in furious and futile denial of her own feelings as d’Orsay continued.

  ‘Just as she made you, Céleste. Ça c’est juste, non?’

  ‘Do it,’ Céleste ordered, looking down at Sarah, her voice full of cold satisfaction. ‘Do it as you made me do it. Crawl to him on your knees with your pants down behind and your breasts showing bare. Get under the desk with your bottom stuck out behind and take him in your mouth, as I had to. Suck him, suck his horrible penis and make him come in your mouth and in your face, as you had him to me. Go on, do it, you little bitch, you dirty slut, you –’

  She broke off suddenly to stand back, angry and yet still fully in command as she looked down. Frightened, her emotions a mess, Sarah could only obey, crawling on her knees to d’Orsay’s desk and beneath it, all the time acutely aware of how she would look from behind with her panties down over her smacked bottom and her wet sex showing between her thighs. Once she was under the desk it was worse, her legs bent and cocked wide, her bottom splayed open to show her anus, the exact same rude pose Céleste had been in, and with Monsieur d’Orsay’s taut lumpy crotch right in front of her face.

  ‘Take my penis out,’ he ordered.

  ‘Do it!’ Céleste snapped, and bent to plant a stinging slap on Sarah’s outthrust bottom.

  ‘Ow!’ Sarah complained, her voice breaking close to tears as she went on, all sense of reality now abandoned. ‘I didn’t do that to you!’

  ‘No,’ Céleste answered her. ‘You did not. You had me masturbate, you filthy salope, and you are going to do the same as you suck him. Now take him out, and I want to see those fat fingers on your cunt.’

  Sarah bit her lip hard as Monsieur d’Orsay spread his legs and came a little forward in the chair to make it easier for her to take his cock out. A long thick bulge showed under his trousers, which he squeezed and adjusted into a more central position before folding his hands over his paunch. He was looking down as Sarah put trembling fingers to his fly, his face redder and sweatier than ever, his eyes bulging with delight, just as she had drawn him as Céleste prepared to undertake the same degrading task.

  ‘Come on!’ Céleste urged, and planted another hard smack on Sarah’s bottom.

  With her face set in a scowl of consternation, Sarah began to undo Monsieur d’Orsay’s fly, first peeling the zip down, then opening the buttons higher up. As she worked, her fingers would occasionally brush the turgid lump of his penis, making her flinch and bringing a sickly feeling to her stomach at the thought of taking it in her mouth. She hesitated as his fly fell wide, but again Céleste smacked her, and with a wince of distaste she tugged down
the front of his underpants.

  His cock sprang free, fat and fleshy and dirty, an obscene thing, exactly as she had drawn him. Remembering the picture, she let a hand burrow into his underpants and pulled out his balls, the heavy scrotum every bit as fat and wrinkled as in her imagination. Now in a trance, she rocked forward, taking his cock in her hand, and with a final mental effort, feeding it into her own mouth. A strong taste filled her senses, both masculine and sour, making her gag. She sucked and swallowed, knowing she’d be sick on his cock if she didn’t, and he spoke.

  ‘Oh ho, she is truly eager! Not like you, Céleste.’

  Sarah pulled back, wanting to deny his words but forced to draw in air before she could speak.

  ‘No, I –’

  Céleste immediately leant forward across the desk and twisted her hand cruelly into Sarah’s hair. Forced to take the big cock back in her mouth, Sarah’s words broke off in an odd gulping noise. Monsieur d’Orsay gave a pleased cluck and Sarah began to have her face fucked, Céleste pulling her up and down by the hair and talking as she did it.

  ‘Not eager enough,’ she said. ‘You suck, you little cocotte, like you made me. Take it deep, Sarah, as deep as I did, go on!’

  With the last order Sarah’s head was pushed down harder still, forcing the thick bulbous head of d’Orsay’s cock down her throat. She was gagging immediately, with her cheeks bulging and her eyes popping as her head was held down and her hands flapping ineffectually at the Frenchman’s legs. Only when her face had begun to go red did Céleste relent, pulling Sarah’s head up, and off, to leave her gasping for breath once more before she could find words.