Paris, April 5th 2010

 

Three days later the Saint Mihiel reached Collier’s Quay in Charenton, to the south and east of the city of Paris. Thrift said her goodbyes to the three men with mixed feelings, gratitude for her deliverance but with more than a touch of resentment for the way they had extracted every last ounce of pleasure from her in return. Not that she could very well deny her own responses, but it seemed that however often she gave in to her wanton feelings her sense of shame would never go, and she was extremely grateful that nobody was ever likely to find out just how debauched she had been on the barge. By the end she had taken to going naked, not merely below decks but above, once it had been made plain to her that in France nobody would care whether a bargee’s slut had any clothes on or not.

She now wore a plain blue dress over cheap cotton underwear, garments Sébastien had procured for her, ostensibly from a shop, but, she suspected, actually pinched from a washing line while the money she had given him had gone into his pocket. It was a useful disguise in any case, ensuring her precious anonymity. Her maid’s uniform had been ruined, torn and soiled beyond the aid of any laundry. With her hair worn lose and no hat, she felt sure that only those who knew her face intimately could possibly have hoped to recognise her, while she seemed to have successfully eluded the attentions of the French Bureau.

Nevertheless, her sense of vulnerability grew as she walked away from the quay and into the maze of small streets behind. For all their faults, the men on the barge had made her feel protected, Christian especially. Now she was alone, with only the contents of her rectule to support her, that and the address in the Rue des Branleuses. It seemed as good a starting point as any, although as Paris was clearly very nearly as large as London itself the first problem would be actually finding the place. A tabac caught her eye, offering the possibility of a map.

The stand by the door held a display of postcards, including several showing girls with their dresses turned down over bare breasts, exhibiting their bottoms or even fully nude. Even the mildest would have been unthinkable in Britain, and she was shaking her head in astonishment as she went inside. Here was further evidence of depravity, magazines with large, colourful pictures of naked or half naked girls on the cover, most of them in blatantly lewd poses. It was hard not to stare, and despite having been in a similar state herself for most of her time on the barge she found herself blushing as she approached the man behind the counter. He was refilling a display case with cigars and barely bothered to glance up from his work as she approached the counter.

‘Excuse me,’ she asked, ‘but do you sell maps? Or possibly you could direct me to the Rue des Branleuses?’

He turned, his thick, somewhat moth-eaten eyebrows rising.

‘You wish to visit the Rue des Branleuses?’

‘Yes. I have employment there.’

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and his gaze shifted lower, to the swell of her breasts.

‘Well you might,’ he remarked, then glanced towards where an open door led into the rear premises of the shop before continuing in a hoarse whisper. ‘I will take you there myself, in my car, in return for the pleasure of your mouth.’

 

Thrift wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Her mouth tasted of spunk, but at least the shopkeeper had been quick and reasonably clean, simply stopping in a convenient alley halfway to their destination, pulling his cock and balls from his fly demanding that she suck him off. She had already agreed, too used to having Frenchmen seek to take advantage of her to bother to resist, and went down willingly, sucking him and wanking him until she was given a mouthful, which she had dutifully swallowed.

It still struck her as peculiar that every single man she had met since her arrival automatically seemed to assume that she was available for sex, but she put it down to the French character and reflected that she had at least reached the Rue des Branleuses with the minimum of fuss. That was just as well, as it was a considerable distance across the city, in the 16th Arrondisement. It was also grander than she had expected, straight and wide, with fine, tall buildings to either side and an avenue of ancient plane trees that softened the appearance of decay which marked every part of France she had yet visited.

Some of the buildings were evidently theatres of one sort or another, resplendent with scarlet, rich blue, gold and other gaudy colours. Others were more discreet, possibly embassies to judge by the flags and shields displayed above the doors, or even private residences. There were very few shops, and the only two nearby by sold extravagantly fashioned boots and what appeared to be equestrian and safari supplies, with the entire window taken up with an impressive display of whips.

The address Thrift had been given was decorated with high, golden letters that spelt out the words Salon L’Huître Rose, and so seemed to be one of the smaller theatres, but a glance at the card showed the number was right. She approached, puzzled, to where an enormously fat man in a plum coloured jacket stood beside a revolving door. He greeted her with an encouraging smile, but she gave her card a last, doubtful glance before speaking.

‘Is this the establishment of Mademoiselle Laroche?’

His smile broadened to a knowing grin.

‘You must be the English girl? We have been expecting you.’

As he spoke he had stood aside, sweeping out one massive arm to indicate that Thrift should go inside. There seemed little to be gained by holding back, so she gave him a polite nod and stepped within, assisted by a familiar pat to the seat of her dress. She jumped only slightly, now resigned to the rude attention to her body that Frenchmen seemed to consider normal behaviour.

Beyond the door was a large foyer, carpeted in crimson and heavily decorated with gilt, although both paint and furnishings had seen better days. The place was clearly a theatre of some kind, not a clothes shop at all, but Thrift gave an inner shrug, reasoning that one cover was as good as the next and work as an usherette or perhaps selling tickets no more demeaning that being a seamstress.

Nobody was about, and she moved deeper into the building, through a pair of tall, gilt painted doors. Beyond was the theatre itself, with perhaps three hundred seats and half-a-dozen boxes facing a stage currently concealed behind crimson curtains. Everything was in semi darkness, illuminated only by two dim globes set high on either wall and a chink of bright light showing through an open door to one side. Thrift could also hear voices, one sharp and high, the other an apologetic mumble. She made for the door, rehearsing what she would say and struggling to decide what name she should use, only to stop abruptly at the sound of a slap and a squeal of pain. Evidently a spanking was in progress beyond the door, and she hesitated, wondering if she should wait until whatever punishment was being meted out had been completed.

Another slap was followed by a sob and a staccato bark of French so rapid Thrift failed to follow the words. Silence followed, eventually broken by a curious wet sound and a soft, broken sob. Thrift waited a moment more before curiosity got the better of her, while the spanking seemed to have finished, and if it was perhaps impolite to interrupt then it was also tempting to get a glimpse of the victim’s smacked bottom before she was allowed to cover up. Rather gingerly, Thrift knocked on the door, then eased it open.

Within was what seemed to be the end of a corridor, or perhaps an emergency exit. Like everywhere else in the theatre the decor was crimson and gold, but more dilapidated than ever. To one side was a single chair, and on the chair sat a woman of middling size and age but great elegance, her back straight and her somewhat sharp face poised and haughty, giving her a dignity somewhat spoiled by her open dress, from the front of which one firm, pointed breast stuck out, supported in her hand as she fed her nipple into the mouth of a second girl. The other girl was younger, equally slim and pert, and stark naked. What were evidently her clothes lay to one side in an unruly heap, while both her bottom and face had been slapped pink and a small, enamelled hairbrush protruded from between her buttocks, her kneeling position making the spread of her anal star around the handle plainly and obscenely visible. Thinking that she had stumbled on some piece of lesbian depravity, Thrift began to stammer an apology as the blood rushed to her face, but when the older woman spoke after just an instant of surprise her voice was quite calm.

‘Yes?’

‘Um... I, er...,’ Thrift stammered. ‘That is, I...’

‘Do speak clearly,’ the woman snapped, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was breastfeeding a naked and beaten girl. ‘Who are you, what is it you want?’

‘I... I’ve come to see Mademoiselle Laroche,’ Thrift finally managed. ‘I was recommended for employment by...’

‘Ah, the English girl,’ the woman interrupted. ‘I myself am M’selle Laroche and we have been expecting you. And your name?’

‘Chastity White,’ Thrift answered, improvising hastily.

‘As good as any, I suppose,’ M’selle Laroche responded. ‘But pray excuse me one moment. Zara, that will suffice, and there is no need to cry so over a little spanking. Do that again though and you will be getting worse on stage, or perhaps paying a visit to the Ruelle des Sanglots, where they will give you every reason to cry. Now get up.’

The girl obeyed, snivelling faintly as she got to her feet. She had been stripped naked, even her stockings lying on the untidy pile of her clothes, her face was streaked with tears and the cheeks of both her face and bottom red from the slaps, yet she kissed her tormentor before going to her clothes. Picking them up, she disappeared down the corridor at a run, her little red bottom cheeks jiggling behind her, the brush still sticking out between.

‘That was Zara,’ M’selle Laroche explained, ‘but I will introduce you properly at a more suitable moment.’

‘What had she done?’ Thrift asked cautiously, now fairly sure that what she had witnessed had indeed been a punishment.

‘I caught her with her fingers in the till,’ M’selle Laroche explained, ‘but it was the first time and she was properly contrite, so I was gentle with her.’

Thrift nodded, wondering if she herself might not end up stark naked across the woman’s knee at some point, a prospect that brought her apprehension but also a curious sense of relief. Being spanked for misbehaviour was, after all, a familiar practise, while if Zara seemed to have been handled rather lightly for theft, leniently even, save perhaps for having the brush used to smack her stuck up her bottom afterwards.

M’selle Laroche stood up to adjust her dress, which was a rich purple and strikingly cut in an exaggerated and somehow sexual version of high fashion. Once the front was closed her bosom was thrust out as a single full curve, her waist reduced to a wasp-like constriction and her back pulled into an elegant concavity. She also wore gloves and a neat hat with a wisp of net attached, an ensemble sufficiently smart to make Thrift conscious of her own shabby attire. The same thought had evidently occurred to M’selle Laroche.

‘Do you have nothing better to wear?’

‘I have the underwear I bought, and a few other items,’ Thrift responded, holding up her bag, ‘but I am in need of a new dress.’

‘So I see,’ M’selle Laroche continued, reaching out to take Thrift by the chin and turn her head to one side, then the other. ‘That can be rectified, and you are certainly pretty enough, which is what matters, unusually full at the bosom too, which will appeal to our less refined clients. Open your dress and chemise.’

‘Open my dress?’ Thrift echoed. ‘Um...’

‘How typically English,’ M’selle Laroche sighed. ‘I do hope you are not going to be difficult?’

‘No,’ Thrift assured her, thinking of the hairbrush in the other girl’s bottom hole, ‘but...’

She stopped. M’selle Laroche had put her hands to Thrift’s dress and was undoing the buttons, working each open in a casual fashion while her face remained as stern and impassive as before. Thrift’s blush began to grow once more, but she did nothing to prevent her exposure as first her dress and then the cheap cotton chemise beneath were opened and her breasts lifted from the cups of her corset.

‘Yes,’ M’selle Laroche remarked, holding up one plump globe, ‘very full, also firm, and such good reaction.’

As she spoke she had brushed Thrift’s nipple with one gloved finger, causing the little bud of flesh to stiffen. Thrift was unable to stifle a low gasp at the sensation, and again as her other breast was lifted and her nipple stroked quickly to erection.

‘Yes, I believe you will do very nicely,’ M’selle Laroche continued, still casually fondling Thrift’s breasts. ‘You have a good waist as well, and your hips seem promising. Lift your skirts.’

Thrift obeyed, sure it would be done for her in any case. Equally sure that M’selle Laroche didn’t merely want to admire her petticoat, she pulled that up too, to stand with the full mass bunched up around her waist and her drawers on show. M’selle Laroche gave a thoughtful nod then ducked down to pull open the front of Thrift’s splitters. Thrift swallowed hard, her blushes hot as her quim was inspected.

‘A trifle fleshy, perhaps,’ M’selle Laroche said, ‘and I see you have been shaved. Here in France we prefer our girls in their natural condition. Show me your bottom.’

Thrift shuffled around, now burning with both curiosity and apprehension as to why it was necessary that she be given such an intimate inspection. That a girl working in a French theatre might be expected to have a pretty face and full breasts she could understand, as she was sure to draw attention, but the inspection of her quim and bottom implied that both would be on show, and that maybe the girls worked in just their corsets and stockings, even stark naked. She squeaked as M’selle Laroche took a pinch of her bottom.

‘Again, rather fleshy perhaps, but firm and well formed. Yes, you will do very well, perhaps with your hair straightened. Now, as to wages, you will receive forty francs each week, along with your share of tips. Accommodation and meals are provided, while you may select anything you wish from the wardrobes, although with your big English body I fear there will be only a few items that fit. You may also use whatever props you see fit, unless I give you specific instructions. Do come along!’

Her last words had been spoken sharply, as she had already started down the corridor, leaving Thrift fumbling with the fastenings of her chemise as she hurried to cover herself up. Mumbling apologies, Thrift hurried to catch up as M’selle Laroche continued to talk.

‘You will go out just briefly tonight, so the audience can see there’s to be a new girl, and we’ll start you properly tomorrow. Perhaps I should have some posters done, if Delage will come around later. For now, take your things up to the dormitory, where you will meet the other girls. They can be a little cruel to newcomers sometimes, by the way, but it’s just high spirits and they know what will happen if they overstep the mark.’

Thrift responded with an apprehensive nod, all too familiar with the way a group of girls could behave towards an outsider. M’selle Laroche had stopped to open a door, this time revealing not faded red and gold, but a worn staircase of plain wood that rose in a steep spiral. Faint, feminine laughter could be heard from somewhere far above.

‘Up you go,’ M’selle Laroche instructed and Thrift was left to climb the stair.

As she went she wondered what she could say to ingratiate herself with the other girls. Zara would presumably be there, and a word of sympathy for her punishment seemed like a good idea, and they might even respond sympathetically to her outrage at the way M’selle Laroche had made her expose herself and handled her breasts and bottom so rudely. It made sense, after all, as the older woman was plainly responsible for the girls’ discipline and so would presumably be resented at least a little.

The stairs rose so high that by the time she reached the top Thrift was sure she was at the very top of the building. Like the staircase, the short corridor at the top had bare floorboards and was lit by naked bulbs, while an open door at the far end showed an old green carpet covering the middle of the floor and an iron bedstead with flaking, cream coloured paint. The girls’ voices had been growing louder as she climbed the stair, but stopped abruptly as she entered what was evidently the dormitory. Six faces turned to look at her, six girls, all young, all beautiful, and all in various states of undress, except for Zara who was still stark naked as she showed off the flushed skin of her recently smacked bottom to her friends. Thrift bobbed a curtsey as she spoke, doing her best to keep her voice friendly yet firm.

‘Good morning. I am Chastity. I am sorry about your spanking, Zara. Did it hurt very much?’

Zara merely made a face, but one of the other girls stepped forward. She was the tallest of the six, very slim, and dressed in nothing but exaggeratedly high heels, lace topped stockings, heavily flounced pantalettes and a corset that not only left the tight V between her thighs exposed but ended below two tiny, firm breasts. Her heels lifted her above Thrift’s own height, so that she was looking down as she came close.

‘So you are the English girl,’ she said. ‘We had heard you might be coming. I am Georgette. Zara you have met. This is Yseult, this Apolline. Narcisse is the beautiful one, Coco the little trollop sat on the bed. And you, you are...’

She paused. As she had been making the introductions she had been walking around Thrift in a slow circle, an inspection less intrusive than that given by M’selle Laroche, but no less intimidating.

‘Chastity,’ Thrift reminded them.

‘No,’ Georgette replied. ‘I do not think so. On stage, perhaps, if M’selle Laroche thinks the name suitable, but with us you are... you are...’

‘Fatso,’ the tiny girl who had been addressed as Coco suggested, raising a giggle from her friends.

‘Don’t be silly, Coco,’ Georgette chided. ‘She is overweight, it is true, but then English girls usually are, and it is really only her breasts and bottom we can truly call fat, especially her breasts. So, we shall call her the cow... no, Udders. We shall call her Udders.’

The other girls clapped and laughed. Thrift made a face, not daring to challenge Georgette’s authority and so resigned to the humiliating nickname. Instead she smiled and shrugged, looking around to appraise the other girls as they in turned looked her over. Georgette was clearly the leader among them, the tallest, probably the oldest, if not by much, and the most slender of all. Zara was similar, perhaps a couple of inches shorter, but with the same straight, dark hair and pert figure, if perhaps with a trifle more flesh on her bottom.

Yseult and Apolline were clearly sisters, perhaps even twins, equally slim and pert, with sharp, almost elfin faces topped by tumbles of dense black curls. They also wore corsets of identical design, Yseult’s scarlet, Apolline’s emerald green, but both cut to leave their breasts bare and do more to display their bottoms, bellies and hips than to conceal. Yseult was bare legged, Apolline is a pair of knee length woollen stockings the same bright colour as her corset.

Narcisse was dark, her skin a warm chocolate colour, while she certainly deserved to be called beautiful even beside her friends. She also carried an air of easy languor, and swayed as she walked up to join Georgette in a slow inspection of Thrift’s figure and face. Her skin smelt of some exotic preparation and her hair was decorated with a single, large bloom of a vivid yellow colour. She wore a set of combinations, plain and loose, the rear panel undone to show two tiny, hard, black bottom cheeks within.

Coco was much the smallest of the girls, less than five feet tall, the only blonde and the only one with full breasts, at least by comparison with the others and relative to her tiny frame. She was full of energy and mischief, bouncing up from the bed on which she’d been lying, stark naked but for a pair of red and green striped stockings, first walking behind Narcisse for a pace to mock the dark girl’s languid movements, then to take a double handful of Thrift’s bottom cheeks and squeeze. Thrift squeaked in surprise and Coco jumped away, laughing.

‘Ignore her,’ Georgette advised. ‘She is an idiot. Or if you ask me very nicely, I might punish her for you.’

‘That’s alright, really,’ Thrift said quickly, sure that the offer would prove to be a trap and that she, not Coco, would be the one who ended up being spanked, or given whatever other treatment Georgette used as discipline for the other girls.

Georgette responded with a sly smile, then stood back to fold her arms across her chest and give Thrift a last look before speaking.

‘You are different, that is certain. Now look, we will get along very well as long as you know your place, which is at the bottom, at least for now. What have you got in your case?’

‘Just a few clothes,’ Thrift admitted.

‘Let me see.’

Thrift put her case down on the nearest bed and opened it as the girls clustered around. The beautiful garments she had bought in Meaux were on the top, each carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper. Georgette immediately pulled out the black silk drawers, holding them up for inspection.

‘Oh, you’ve even bought me a present, how very kind!’

‘Um...,’ Thrift managed, then stopped, knowing the inevitable result of any protest on her part.

‘How lovely!’ Georgette went on. ‘A little large, of course – which we’ll discuss presently – but ever so fine, and Madame Moreau can alter them to fit. Oh, and a chemise to match, and petticoats! I will look like Mimi Caze! Look, girls, she has new stockings too, six pairs, one for each of us. How thoughtful you are, Udders!’

Thrift drew a heavy sigh, watching as her beautiful new clothes were distributed among the girls. The slightest protest, she was sure, would lead to a spanking, or worse, and her clothes would be taken anyway. Yet at least the girls were not openly antagonistic to her, as she had half expected, and once they had finished pillaging the contents of her case she put a cautious question to Georgette.

‘You mentioned that my name might be suitable on stage. You are actresses, I presume, but I am to be an usherette, or on reception perhaps. Do you know?’

Georgette looked up from her inspection of her new underwear.

‘You will do your stint as usherette, yes, but you will be taking your turn like the rest of us, surely?’

‘My turn?’ Thrift queried.

‘On stage,’ Georgette told her, ‘stripping.’

 

Thrift stood at the centre of the stage at L’Huître Rose, bathed in light of lurid magenta. Never, in a life filled with humiliating incidents, had she felt so embarrassed. To be spanked, even in public, to be made to go in the nude, to suck men’s cocks or lick women’s cunts, even to offer her own sex for penetration, and her anus, all of it was essentially passive and required only her surrender. Now she had to strip, fully nude, deliberately teasing the audience with the gradual removal of her clothes until she stood stark naked before them, on parade to over two hundred people, men and women too, which was worse.

Worse still was that she was expected to dance, something she had never been good at, while both the girls who had already finished their acts had obviously been thoroughly trained. Georgette herself had gone on first, to perform a slow, elegant striptease that had held the audience spellbound and left them cheering and calling for more. Coco had followed, with a piece of comic burlesque as rude as it was funny, to set the audience laughing and leave them more aroused still.

They seemed to have no restraint whatsoever. In the front row was an middle-aged gentleman with a waxed moustache who was seated between two women, both very much younger and both with their dresses open to show off their bare breasts. Another woman was openly squeezing her partner’s crotch, while in the central box, M’selle Laroche actually appeared to be masturbating the two men sat to either side of her.

The music began and Thrift swallowed hard, completely at a loss for what to do, save that she had to remove her clothes. Dancing was out of the question, her muscles barely able to respond, while her fingers were shaking uncontrollably and her face was hot and red with a blush that went all the way down to her chest. She wore only her underwear, a mixture of garments cobbled together more or less at random from her own belongings and what she could find in the wardrobes and chests backstage; white stockings, a pair of ill matched petticoats, a plain white corset with a single suspender strap still in place, a pair of split seam drawers so tattered she wouldn’t have bothered to give them to the servants and a chemise far too small to hold in her ample breasts.

Somebody in the audience laughed, making Thrift’s blushes hotter still, but her hands had gone to the buttons of her chemise. She tweaked one open, her eyes closed to shut out the awful sight of the people watching her, her shame raging in her head for all that she had only put a little cleavage on show. Yet the button was open and her hands found the next automatically, slipping it loose to allow the strain on her chemise to pull it open. A third button and the chemise hung loose, held over her nipples only because the sides were tucked into her corset. One small motion and her breasts would be bare, but there was no going back, her fingers already on the scrap of lace that was all that separated her naked bosom from the lecherous gaze of so many eyes.

Unable to stop herself, she tugged the material free and let her chemise fall open, showing off the full, plump globes of her breasts. Her shaking had grown worse, so strong in her jaw that she could no longer close her mouth, but her hands continued to work, fumbling at the fastenings of her underwear, the embarrassment of stopping to stand like a fool in front of so many people now worse than that of going naked.

Her corset came next, the laces tugged loose and the catches at the front opened until the sides came free to allow her to drop it to the floor and step away. For all that her chemise no longer concealed anything she found herself unable to take it off and instead began to unfasten the cords of her petticoats, her eyes fixed on the bare boards of the stage as one and then the next came open and fell to her feet, leaving her standing in a puddle of cheap cotton made coloured by the lights.

She hesitated, still reluctant to shrug off her chemise and yet painfully aware that her drawers were all that separated her from a yet more intimate exposure. It had to be done, but any delay could only be good and she found herself removing her stockings, each peeled clumsily down from beneath the legs of her drawers and discarded on stage. With just two articles remaining it had to be her chemise, which she peeled off down one arm at a time in what she knew was a pathetic imitation of one of Georgette’s moves.

That left her drawers, but she was unable to do it with her face to the audience, the display of her bottom bad enough but nothing to the prospect of exposing her cunt. She turned her back, her fingers shaking so badly that for a moment she found herself unable to get a grip on the drawstrings that held her splitters closed. Then the knot was loose, her drawers supported only by the shape of her hips, then falling slowly down to expose the full, split globe of her bare bottom to the audience.

She was shaking terribly, with tears of shame and failure coursing down her face, both for her nudity and what she knew was a truly wretched performance in comparison to the other girls. Yet the audience had begun to clap and cheer, calling out their approval and whistling in merriment and pleasure. She turned her head, astonished, to find more people than not on their feet in appreciation, and for all her misgivings a smile spread slowly across her face. One of the single men near the front threw a rose onto the stage, then another. Thrift turned round, giving them the display of her belly and the light fuzz of hair on her quim, amazed by their response. Even M’selle Laroche was on her feet, flanked by two gentlemen, one fat, one thin, but each with an engorged cock and a set of balls protruding from the fly of his evening dress, and as she caught Thrift’s eye she gave an approving nod.

Thrift curtsied, gathered up her discarded underwear and fled, ignoring the calls for her to come back on stage. The backs were cool and dim after the heat and glare of the stage, but she found her body prickling with sweat and her head dizzy for her experience. An old fashioned porcelain basin stood against one wall, from which she splashed water onto her face, looking up to find Georgette beside her, still naked but for ankle length black boots and a pair of stockings. The tall girl’s gaze was anything but friendly.

‘Roses!?’ Georgette spat. ‘On your first night? You’ll pay for that, Udders!’

‘I didn’t mean...,’ Thrift began, only to break off with a gasp of shock and pain as Georgette caught her across the face with an open handed slap.

‘You didn’t mean to, indeed!’ Georgette mocked. ‘Oh, of course not! I suppose that was all real. Do you think I’m naive? Do you think I’m stupid? Seven years I’ve been stripping, and believe me I’ve seen it all, every little trick. Oh you’re good, that’s for sure, with your oh-so-shy manner and your reluctance and your hangdog expression. I can see why M’selle took you on, but that’s not going to save you, believe me. What about poor Narcisse, who has to go on next? How is she supposed to follow that?’

‘Narcisse is beautiful,’ Thrift managed, still rubbing at her cheek.

‘Beauty they take for granted,’ Georgette answered her. ‘What they really like is to see a girl make a fool of herself, which is why Coco is so good, or better still, a girl who doesn’t really want to strip, and what better than some snotty, self-absorbed, English bitch!’

Her voice had risen as she spoke and Thrift threw her hands up to shield her face, only to catch not one slap but two, delivered in quick succession across her naked breasts, then a third across her face as she instinctively shielded her chest. Georgette laughed and turned away, ignoring Thrift as she opened a chest of drawers to select a brilliant blue corset and a pair of pantalettes in the same colour.

With Georgette gone, Thrift was left shaking and confused, biting her lip against the stinging pain of the slaps and wondering what was going to happen to her later. If Georgette’s behaviour was anything to go by it was sure to be harsh, but while going to M’selle Laroche might postpone her fate it was also likely to make it worse in the long run, especially if Georgette got spanked.

Telling herself that it could hardly be worse than the sort of things she’d had done to her by the other girls at training college, she splashed more water on her face and chest, dried herself and clambered back into her underwear. There were plenty of dresses in the wardrobes, and although most were vulgar to a degree she eventually managed to find something in green satin that if hardly respectable did at least cover her up.

She was hungry, and knew she was entitled to help herself from a buffet set out in the little restaurant that joined onto the foyer. In return she was expected to mingle with those patrons who had paid for the privilege, with the implication that should she so desire she could accept what M’selle Laroche had referred to as tips, evidently in return for sexual favours. With no need of money, and not wishing to prostitute herself unless it were absolutely necessary, Thrift had meant to go upstairs after the show instead, but now reasoned that the audience would be watching Narcisse strip, allowing her to grab a bite to eat and a glass of something without being accosted.

Not many people were about backstage, and Thrift was soon in the restaurant, a glass of Champagne in one hand as she wolfed down meat pastries and little sweet tarts decorated with preserved fruit. As she had hoped, she had the room to herself, and had soon managed to fill her belly with delicacies and pour a second glass of Champagne. At the sound of applause she hastened to leave, only to find her retreat cut off by M’selle Laroche herself, along with the two gentlemen who’d been sharing her box.

‘Ah, Chastity, there you are,’ M’selle Laroche began as Thrift bobbed a curtsey. ‘You performed very prettily tonight. These two gentlemen are Monsieur Brochon and Monsieur Corgoloin. Both are directors and shareholders, very important people who I am sure you would wish to please.’

Thrift gave another curtsey, despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. Monsieur Brochon took a glass of red wine, Monsieur Corgoloin a measure of absinthe, before turning their attention to Thrift. Both were beaming at her, Monsieur Brochon from among the sweaty folds of a face the shape of a pumpkin and not dissimilar in colour, Monsieur Corgoloin in the manner of an underfed ghoul eyeing its prey. Even before the start of Thrift’s striptease they had both had their cocks out, and as they began to make conversation she found herself hoping that M’selle Laroche had managed to bring both off in her hands.

M’selle Laroche quickly excused herself as the room began to fill up, and Thrift found herself alone with the two men. Both were attentive, but didn’t seem in any great urgency to molest her, and she gradually relaxed. A third glass of Champagne and she was even congratulating herself. She was now secure, safely ensconced in L’Huître Rose as a stripper, surely not something the French Bureau were likely to suspect, and yet just the sort of place Godfrey Quigley might frequent.

She had memorised his face from the photographs in her rectule, and found herself looking around to see if he was among those taking their refreshment and talking to the girls, five of who were now in the restaurant. There was no sign of him, but Monsieur Brochon noticed that her attention has begun to wander.

‘It seems that our little English rosebud has matters other than food and drink on her mind, Albert,’ he remarked to his companion, chuckling. ‘Note how she eyes the men, no doubt wondering which are stallions and which are geldings. Perhaps it is time we showed her that we ourselves are not short of mettle, eh?’

‘I didn’t mean to be rude,’ Thrift said hastily.

‘Not at all, my rosebud,’ Monsieur Brochon assured her, with Monsieur Corgoloin nodding agreement. ‘A young thing like you is sure to have a good appetite for Adam’s arsenal, and you might well be forgiven for thinking that Albert and I are past our best. In fact, I think you’ll find we know a trick or two that the young bucks won’t, while Fleurette has given us both quite an appetite.’

Thrift blushed, thinking of their erect cocks protruding from their evening clothes. Evidently M’selle Laroche hadn’t finished them off, presumably on purpose. She swallowed and threw another glance around the room, seeking escape. This time her eyes met those of Georgette, who returned a vindictive glare. Evidently her choice lay between pleasuring the two men and submitting herself to the girls. Neither choice was ideal, but while the first filled her with disgust and shame for her inevitable response the outcome was at least predictable, while the second was frightening, for all that the prospect of what they might do made her sex tighten and her nipples grow stiff.

‘She is intrigued, you see,’ Monsieur Brochon chuckled.

The blush on Thrift’s face grew abruptly hotter as she realised that he had noticed the sudden and involuntary erection of her nipples, drawing the obvious conclusion, but also the wrong one. She stammered something about the warmth of the room, but he merely laughed, even Monsieur Corgoloin giving a dry cluck that presumably indicated amusement. Monsieur Brochon swallowed most of his wine at a gulp, then spoke again.

‘Come, Albert. She has my dander up, shy little thing that she is. Let’s have our sport.’

He extended one chubby arm, a gesture immediately copied by Monsieur Corgoloin. Neither man seemed to have even considered the possibility that Thrift might refuse their company, but she accepted their arms anyway, burning with consternation for her predicament but not daring to refuse the offer when the alternative was probably a spanking from M’selle Laroche and definitely both pain and humiliation at the hands of the other girls.

As she was led from the room she reflected that the two men would no doubt expect to sleep with her, perhaps even take her to some apartment or townhouse where she could be used at leisure. That way she would escape the girls and ingratiate herself with M’selle Laroche, thus gaining a stay of execution at the very least, perhaps better if one man or the other were to take her as his lover. She forced a smile, which grew brighter if even less convincing as they encounter M’selle Laroche in the foyer.

‘Ah, Fleurette,’ Monsieur Brochon declared. ‘There you are. We are taking Chastity upstairs for a while, just to see if she lives up to her name, which I suspect she does not.’

He favoured Thrift with an oily wink as he spoke.

‘Enjoy yourselves,’ M’selle Laroche responded, ‘and I shall have refreshments ordered to my box for when you are done.’

‘Splendid,’ Monsieur Brochon answered, ‘and after all, we wouldn’t want to miss the rest of the show.’

‘The rest of the show?’ Thrift queried.

‘Certainly,’ M’selle Laroche said in surprise. ‘This is the interval, my dear. As I was saying, gentlemen, this is her first night.’

‘Then we shall make it one for her to remember!’ Monsieur Brochon declared. ‘You, girl, a bottle of Champagne to the director’s suite, and be quick about it.’

The girl he had spoken to was Georgette, who was nearby with her back turned to them, sipping at a glass of Champagne. When she failed to respond Monsieur Brochon followed up his order with a stinging slap to her rump, laughed when she spilt her drink down the front of the pretty blue corset that was her only garment beside stockings and tiny, bright blue pantalettes, then repeated the order. Georgette smiled, apologised, bobbed a curtsey and shot Thrift a brief but very meaningful glance before hurrying away.

‘Off we go!’ Monsieur Brochon said happily and Thrift found herself led away.

She was taken upstairs by the main staircase, to a large, well appointed set of rooms on the second floor, directly above the entrance and looking out over the Rue des Branleuses. The men seemed in no great hurry, settling themselves into armchairs and sipping their drinks as Thrift stood awkwardly to one side, awaiting instructions. A small cedar wood box stood on the table beside Monsieur Brochon and he opened it, revealing a double row of fat, brown cigars.

‘Ah ha, Habanas! Just the thing,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Chastity, can you do the cigar trick?’

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ Thrift admitted.

‘You must know it, surely?’ he answered her. ‘But being English, perhaps not. You smoke a cigar in your cunt. Ah, but here’s little Georgette, she’ll show you how it’s done.’

Georgette had arrived, an ice bucket and glasses in her hands, bumping the door open with her bottom. She’d heard what had been said and quickly put the ice bucket down, curtsied to the two men and made to leave.

‘I must attend to our guests,’ she said.

‘Nonsense!’ Monsieur Brochon boomed. ‘It will only take a moment, so come along, down on all fours with you and let’s have those pretty pantalettes apart.’

Georgette gave Thrift yet another filthy look but did as she was told, getting down on the floor in a crawling position and sticking up her bottom towards the two men. Even when she was standing the frilly slit at the back of her pantalettes had hinted at the soft pink curves within, but in her new position it was fully open, showing off the crease of her bottom in every detail, with the pouted rear lips of her cunt on full display and the tight, brown star of her anus winking between her cheeks. Monsieur Brochon gave an approving nod at the sight before selecting a cigar from the box, only to stop at a word from Monsieur Corgoloin.

‘The Champagne, Gustave.’

‘Naturally,’ Monsieur Brochon replied. ‘Chastity, if you would be so kind as to serve. Don’t worry, Georgette can wait.’

Thrift hastened to serve the Champagne, fumbling at the wire cage and struggling with the cork, all the while with Georgette still in place, her pert bottom stuck high and spread to the room with every rude detail on display. When the cork did finally give way a gout of wine erupted from the bottle, splashing Georgette’s hair and wetting the carpet. Thrift was mumbling apologies as she poured but Monsieur Brochon waved them aside as he began to explain the trick.

‘The art is to draw the smoke in up your cunt, but it does need to be well lit. Now watch.’

With slow, methodical motions he clipped and lit the cigar, drawing deep to set the tip glowing red hot and puffing out a smoke ring before turning his attention to Georgette. She was already wet, and the base of the cigar slid in easily up her cunt, but the expression on her face suggested that however aroused she might be physically, this was not the way she had intended to spend her evening. Nevertheless, she did as she had been told, contracting the muscles of her cunt to suck in smoke before reaching back to extract the fat, brown cylinder. Again she squeezed her cunt, to emit a perfect ring of thick, grey smoke accompanied by a soft farting noise as her hole closed.

‘Excellent!’ Monsieur Brochon declared, clapping his hand. ‘Now you try it, Chastity. Georgette will help.’

Thrift got slowly to her knees, numb with embarrassment for what she was about being made to do. Positioning herself in the same rude crawling stance Georgette had adopted, she reached back to flip her dress and petticoats onto her back, then to part her drawers and put her bottom on display.

‘Stick it up,’ Georgette ordered. ‘I need to get at your cunt.’

Closing her eyes in a vain effort to fight down her shame, Thrift obeyed, putting her face to the carpet and tucking her back in to make her bottom lift and spread. Her cheeks came open, showing off her quim and anus to her audience. She felt Georgette’s hand on her flesh, spreading the mouth of her cunt, then the cigar, firm and warm as it was eased in up her ready hole.

‘Now squeeze,’ Georgette instructed.

Thrift did her best, tightening the muscles of her sex, once, and then again as the cigar was pulled free. Like Georgette, the air in her hole came out with a soft, wet farting noise, adding to her shame and misery, although she had no idea if she had successful blown smoke out or not.

‘Not bad,’ Monsieur Brochon chuckled, ‘for a beginner. Once more, girls, and then I think you had both better attend to our cocks. The show starts again in a minute and it would not do to disappoint Fleurette.’

Thrift was made to go through the humiliating little routine a second time, and when she turned around it was to find Monsieur Brochon with his cock already out of his trousers. Monsieur Corgoloin was in the act of unzipping himself, while Georgette stood to one side, looking sulky and hesitant.

‘I should really be...’ she began.

‘Nonsense!’ Monsieur Brochon interrupted. ‘What’s the matter with you tonight, Georgette? You’re usually one of the gayest little trollops I know.’

‘I... I’d prefer not to do it in front of her,’ Georgette responded, jerking a thumb towards Thrift. ‘I am senior girl, and...’

‘Oh what magnificent conceit!’ Monsieur Brochon laughed. ‘Oh what airs you girls do give yourselves, eh Albert! Now come along, down you go, unless you’d prefer those saucy little pantalettes pulled down and you tail smacked first?’

His voice had hardened as he threatened the spanking and Georgette was down on her knees in an instant, to crawl quickly across and flop his cock into her mouth. As she began to suck her eyes gave Thrift one last, furious glance, then closed. Monsieur Corgoloin beckoned to Thrift and indicated his own cock, where it lay semi-flaccid on his taut, wrinkly scrotum. Like Georgette, Thrift crawled across and took him in her mouth.

‘Now that,’ Monsieur Brochon announced as he retrieved his cigar, ‘is a wonderful sight, two fine young tarts in nothing but their underwear, down on their knees with cocks in their mouths, just as it should be. Hmm, that’s rather good you know, the cigar. Cunt imparts a certain something to the flavour.’

He continued to puff away as his cock grew in Georgette’s mouth. Her eyes were still closed but the expression on her face suggested that she was sucking on a lemon, and a mouldy one at that. Thrift could not help but feel sympathy, with resentment for her own humiliating situation boiling in her head as Monsieur Corgoloin’s cock began to swell and stiffen, while the fact that she felt ready for penetration only made it worse. Yet being obliged to suck a man off was the least of her worries, as with the show only half way through it was obvious that giving into sex did not hold out the opportunity for escape from the other girls that she had hoped in would. Instead, she had merely ensured that Georgette would be yet more vindictive.

Her only chance seemed to lie in pleasing one or other of the men so thoroughly that he decided to take her home with him, and so as she mouthed on Monsieur Corgoloin’s erection she used every trick she knew to make the experience pleasurable for him, while also giving full rein to her own arousal. Once he was stiff she pulled back, fixing her eyes to his harsh, impassive face as she slowly unfastened her dress and the chemise beneath, to allow her to lift out her breasts and cup them in her hands, showing off as she used her thumbs to get her nipples erect. He merely raised his eyebrows a trifle, but Monsieur Brochon was less reticent.

‘By Heaven she’s big, like a pair of Provençal melons! I’d love those rubbed around my cock.’

‘Let us exchange girls, by all means,’ Monsieur Corgoloin replied courteously. ‘Little Georgette has always been a favourite of mine, for all that she lacks Chastity’s impressive bosom.’

‘Much obliged, Albert,’ Monsieur Brochon replied. ‘Come on, girls, turn and turn about.’

Thrift began to shuffle towards Monsieur Brochon, catching another ferocious glare from Georgette as they passed in the middle of the carpet, at which point Monsieur Brochon spoke up once more.

‘That’s a thought. Georgette, give Chastity’s titties a suckle. I’d like to see that.’

Georgette stopped, her face scarlet.

‘But, Monsieur...’

‘Do you actually want that spanking, Georgette?’ Monsieur Brochon warned.

‘No,’ she replied hastily, ‘but... but please understand what you ask, Monsieur!’

‘I want to see one pretty girl sucking on another’s titties,’ he responded. ‘What’s so unusually about that? Dammit, I’ve watched you do it with Fleurette often enough.’

‘With M’selle Laroche, yes,’ Georgette answered, more flustered than ever, ‘but that is how she mothers us... how she comforts us after a spanking! I... I cannot, not with Chastity!’

‘Fair enough,’ Monsieur Brochon said easily. ‘I shall give you a choice. Let Chastity suckle you, or you can take a spanking, from her.’

Georgette’s mouth came slowly open, then closed abruptly and with a single, petulant mumble she had bent forward to take Thrift’s nipple in her mouth, sucking so hard it hurt. Monsieur Brochon laughed, and even Monsieur Corgoloin managed a light chuckle as his companion spoke.

‘Gently, Georgette, gently. This is an act of love, not of war. Lay your head against her chest, in the crook of her arm and suck sweetly, as if you were feeding on her milk.’

Georgette responded with an inarticulate grunt but did as she was told, twisting her body to allow Thrift to support her as a mother might support her baby, mouth to teat as she went back to sucking. There was no denying that it felt nice, and Georgette had closed her eyes against her own feelings, while both men were pulling on their cocks in open arousal.

‘Stroke her other breast, Georgette,’ Monsieur Brochon demanded, his voice thick with passion, ‘and Chastity, stroke her hair and cunt.’

Thrift hesitated, but Georgette had put a hand to her breast, squeezing gently, while Monsieur Brochon looked as if he were on the verge of apoplexy. Hoping that it might even be possible to win Georgette’s sympathy, she bent low to whisper an apology into the other girl’s ear, then did as she had been ordered. Georgette gave a weak sob as Thrift began to caress her, one hand stroking at her long, dark hair, the other kneading the moist, swollen flesh of her sex. Monsieur Brochon grunted and a fountain of thick, white spunk erupted from his cock to soil his hand and trousers.

‘Damn!’ he swore. ‘And I meant to fuck her tits!’

‘Perhaps later?’ Thrift suggested, forcing the words out.

‘Can’t be done, my dear,’ he answered her. ‘We must be back to our wives, eh Albert?’

‘Indeed we must,’ Monsieur Corgoloin responded, ‘but for the moment, come here, both of you, on your knees. As I have the virtue of patience, it is I who shall fuck in Chastity’s cleavage.’

Thrift crawled to him, her bare breasts swinging beneath her chest, to fold them around his engorged cock. He immediately began to fuck in the soft, fleshy slide she had made, the head of his cock popping in and out. Georgette had come close, as ordered, and sat watching until he beckoned her.

‘Make a cunt of your lips, Georgette.’

She grimaced but did as she was told, moving in close to purse her mouth against Thrift’s cleavage so that with each push of his cock Monsieur Corgoloin penetrated the seal of her lips. He sighed in pleasure and began to move faster, jamming his erection up and down between Thrift’s breasts and into Georgette’s mouth. Monsieur Brochon looked on with envy but also approval, absently wiping his cock and trousers with a handkerchief as his friend used the two girls.

Georgette’s spittle had begun to run down into Thrift’s cleavage, making the flesh of her breasts slippery around Monsieur Corgoloin’s pumping cock. He grunted, spunk erupted into Georgette’s mouth, exploded from around her lips and the slit between Thrift’s breasts had grown more slippery still. He grabbed his cock, to finish himself off over Thrift’s chest and in Georgette’s face as both girls rocked back on their heels, then relaxed with a sigh.

Thrift was breathing heavily, her chest heaving, her belly tight with excitement. She wondered if they would want her to masturbate in front of them, perhaps even have her lick Georgette and vice versa, but Monsieur Brochon gave a quiet cough as he glanced at his watch.

‘Fleurette will be expecting us, Albert, but as a final treat, Georgette, you may lick Chastity’s breasts clean. And no nonsense.’

Georgette had been about to speak, but closed her mouth, leaving her spunk streaked face set in deep consternation as she lent forward. Thrift obliged by lifting her breasts to make it easier for Georgette to lap up the spunk, still hoping to create a bond between them. Georgette took no notice, her sharp pink tongue flicking in and out to lick up bits of spunk until Thrift’s breasts were glossy with saliva but otherwise moderately clean. She also did it so that the men could see, performing for them despite her fury at what she was being made to do, and when she finally pulled back she was smiling.

‘Good girl,’ Monsieur Brochon said, and reached out to pay Georgette on the head. ‘There, that was all quite fun really, wasn’t it?’

All he got in return for his question was a shrug, the meaning unclear although Georgette was still smiling. He laughed and stood up to adjust his trousers, checking his watch again as he started for the door.

‘Come, Albert, the performance will have started, while these two, if I know what tarts are like, will want to be alone together.’

Monsieur Corgoloin responded with a knowing chuckle and the two men walked from the room, taking the Champagne with them and leaving Thrift and Georgette still kneeling on the carpet. Thrift hung her head, fighting her emotions as she spoke in a barely audible whisper.

‘If... if you want to do anything nasty to me, do it now.’

Georgette lifted one delicate eyebrow.

‘Oh, it’s like that is it? I suspected as much. No. I want to take it out on you, but I want the other girls to join in, especially poor Narcisse. She was close to tears when she came off.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Thrift mumbled.

‘You will be,’ Georgette assured her, ‘but for now, get that big bottom in the air. Come on, face on the carpet, bottom high, knees apart to show your cunt.’

Thrift obeyed, expecting to be spanked as she once more adopted the same position in which she had been made to smoke the cigar in her vagina. After what she’d done her apprehension was tempered by arousal, but that didn’t stop her bottom cheeks from twitching as she waited for her punishment.

‘It’s a shame they took the bottle,’ Georgette remarked. ‘I could have stuck it up your big fat bottom and given you a Champagne enema. Still, we must think of the carpet, or we’ll be scrubbing at it in the nude until midnight. Which gives me an idea, but for now...’

Her voice trailed of as she got to her feet, to give Thrift a single, resounding slap across her bare bottom. Thrift tensed, expecting more, but Georgette simply stepped out of her pantalettes and scrunched them into a ball. Walking across the room, the tall girl opened a cabinet and extracted a slender bottle of vivid green liquid, a small quantity of which she poured into her discarded drawers.

‘Absinthe,’ she explained, ‘not too much, as we don’t want you drunk, but enough to make you tipsy, and to sting.’

Thrift had already worked out where the pantalettes were going, and put on a resigned face as Georgette came back. The ball of soggy material was pressed to Thrift’s cunt and up, worked slowly in with Georgette’s fingers until the hole was straining wide but a good half of the garment still hung out. The absinthe immediately began to sting, leaving Thrift gasping and Georgette laughing as she once more slapped Thrift’s bottom.

‘There we are, half up you, half hanging out so that everybody can see what’s been done to you. Now, get up, and off with your clothes, all of them. Then we had better join the others.’

Thrift began to beg.

‘Not naked, Georgette, not like this!’

Georgette’s hand shot out, to catch Thrift a stinging blow across her cheek.

‘Strip!’ she ordered.

Thrift began to undress, letting her clothes fall in a puddle around her feet, even her corset. Georgette watched, near naked herself but still with a sneer of amusement and superiority on her face. When Thrift was stark naked she gathered up her clothes and followed Georgette from the room.

 

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.