Strip Girl

by Aishling Morgan

  A soft choking cry escaped her mouth as she began to finger her anus, pushing deep and imagining his cock in the same tight dirty hole as her resistance snapped completely. Her other hand went to her sex, clutching herself back and front as she masturbated, with her breasts bouncing to the urgent rhythm as she thought of what he’d done to her, and what he might have done.

  He’d stripped her to her panties and pulled those down too. He’d licked her bottom hole and fucked her cleavage. He’d called her a tart, a fat tart, so insulting and yet so arousing. He was right anyway. She was a tart, a fat little tart, exactly what he’d called her, a dirty description for a dirty girl, a girl who liked to be stripped and used, a girl who enjoyed the feel of a man’s spunk between her bottom cheeks as she masturbated with one finger up the tight little hole he’d threatened to invade.

  She cried out in ecstasy, pushing a second finger in, to hold herself open as she clutched at her sex. Why did she have to be so prissy? Why had she refused? It felt so good, and it would have felt so much better to get herself nice and juicy and let him push the full length of his cock deep up her bottom, to bugger her, to sodomise her, to fuck her fat girlie bottom.

  Sarah bit her lip hard to stop herself screaming, determined that he wouldn’t hear and realise how badly she had disgraced herself. Yet, even as she came slowly down from orgasm without having given herself away, there was regret mingled with her relief.

  Two

  A week after having sex with Giles Compton-Bassett, Sarah discovered that he had a girlfriend called Rebecca who rode horses and lived in the country. It came as no great surprise, being more or less what she would have expected of him, and her disappointment was tempered by more than a little relief. She knew full well that if the encounter had blossomed into a relationship she would have ended up with his penis up her bottom.

  The information came from Hugh Bowle, dropped casually into a telephone conversation when she rang to thank him for lunch and check the details of the work she was supposed to do. In the excitement of sex, she and Giles had got no further with the plot, and when a letter arrived from him she had no idea whether or not he had taken up her suggestion, or if his apparent enthusiasm had merely been a device to get her into bed.

  As she walked to her art desk with the unopened letter she was telling herself that whatever it said, she would take a professional attitude, turning in her best possible work well before the deadline in two weeks. Picture 305 lay on the desk, Céleste du Musigny in a fox-fur wrap and a long black coat, walking down an imaginary promenade beside the Seine.

  ‘Are you ready for your public, Mademoiselle du Musigny?’ Sarah asked as she pushed a thumb into the flap of the envelope.

  Céleste’s haughty stare made it quite clear that not only was she ready, but that it was the height of impudence for Sarah to even ask. With a wry smile on her face, Sarah tore the envelope wide and peered inside. There were four pieces of paper, neatly folded, which she opened: a plot outline, that and nothing more, no mention of their brief but dirty escapade, not so much as a thank you. Sarah drew a sigh as she began to read.

  The story was entitled ‘The Versailles Resurrectionists’, and was a bizarre mixture of the Gothic and the macho, involving Céleste’s attempts to divert money stolen from a South American drugs cartel to her personal use. The plot was weak in places, but Sarah quickly found herself drawn in, both intrigued and somewhat repulsed by Giles’ imagination, which seemed to feed the male schoolboy fantasies of war, and horror, and sex.

  For all her qualms, she could see that the story would be popular with the readers of Hot Gun, and also that it suited Céleste, or at least, the wicked sexually provocative Céleste she had described to Giles while she was drunk and horny. The original Céleste was rather a different matter, as she certainly would never have behaved as she was supposed to for the opening of the story, stripping to bribe a man in some imaginary French records office.

  It was frankly sordid, and yet it not only provided a lot of artistic scope but fitted in with what she’d agreed with Giles. The first page would be a single frame, showing Céleste in all her perfection, about to cross a street in Paris towards an official-looking building, along with the title and a box of script to explain what was happening. Sarah knew it would be easy, and a scene she might very well have drawn herself.

  The second page was to be more elaborate, showing Céleste entering the office of a man Giles described as ‘a really greasy frog-eater, a bit like Hercule Poirot but gone to seed’. Céleste’s request, to access the files of a wealthy South American businessman who had died in a car crash, was obviously outrageous, and as she made it she was supposed to lock the door, open her jacket, lift her bra, tug up her skirt, and start to take down her panties.

  Céleste would never, ever have done anything of the sort, let alone for some greasy middle-aged civil servant, and yet despite her horror, Sarah could already see the frames in her mind. The first would show the official beyond Céleste’s shoulder, seated behind a desk, a florid balding man with a nasty little moustache and a triple chin, a single bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face as he dabbed at his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. The second would show Céleste as the man would see her, cool and poised and beautiful, her mouth set in a small knowing smile, one hand to the middle button of her immaculately tailored jacket. She would already be speaking, making her proposal, the text of which would continue for the remaining frames, showing four close-up details in sequence: Céleste opening her jacket, pulling up her bra, lifting her skirt, and finally, drawn from behind, with her thumbs in the waistband of a pair of lacy black panties already half down as she prepared to expose her sex to the official, and her bottom …

  … to one hundred thousand dirty-minded British boys; plumbers and builders, lorry drivers and cabbies, IT specialists, city-types, dirty old men, smug little perverts like Giles himself, all of them staring at Céleste’s tiny perfect buttocks. It was impossible. Céleste wouldn’t do it, couldn’t do it. Never would she even think of giving such a display to a man, any man, to do a rude little striptease, like something out of the cheapest sort of peep show. Sarah might, it would be such a turn-on, but not Céleste, not ever.

  Sarah had put the paper down on her art desk, Céleste now staring at her in haughty accusation from drawing 305. There was no mistaking the meaning in those hard French eyes. Sarah was about to prostitute her art and, frankly, it was just what Céleste might have expected of the fat little English tart with her oversized breasts and her big wobbly bottom. Céleste was right too.

  ‘Sorry, Céleste,’ Sarah muttered, turning drawing 305 face down on the desk.

  Telling herself to stop being silly, Sarah selected a fresh piece of paper and set it in front of her. Choosing her preferred 4B pencil, she began to sketch, first picking out the lines of the street and Céleste for the first frame in rough, and writing the title in, splashed across the top in a bold curve. With the drawing begun, and fully formed in her mind, it seemed to flow from her fingers. The building took shape, a fine piece of the Parisian architecture she spent so long practising, complete with crossed tricolores just to make sure the readers knew exactly where they were. Céleste took shape, stepping out into the road with one perfectly shaped leg extended, her face a little turned, as if she was checking the traffic but really to get a better angle.

  Only when it came to the second page did Sarah pause, reluctant to draw the lines that showed Céleste opening her jacket, from which there would be no going back. Again she told herself not to be silly, that she had drawn Céleste naked over three hundred times, always beginning with a pencilled nude before adding clothes, a technique she’d used since college. Yet her hand seemed to have frozen, and she knew full well it was not the same. Céleste’s naked body was a thing of beauty, something Sarah was privileged to see, had to see, but only as an old-fashioned lady’s maid had to see her mistress. To draw Céleste naked in front of a particularly greasy civil serv
ant and for the readership of Hot Gun was another matter entirely, rather as if that same lady’s maid were to pull her mistress’ knickers down in public.

  There was only one thing for it. Putting aside her pencil, Sarah left the flat and made her way to the local off-licence. The owner greeted her with a friendly nod and she crossed to the fridge, opening it to take a bottle of the cheap Italian white she usually drank, then changing her mind. She was now earning money, and could afford better. After rejecting Champagne because Céleste drank it and red because Giles Compton-Bassett did, she bought the most expensive bottle of Australian Chardonnay they had cold and returned to her flat.

  Just two glasses of the rich heady wine and she was ready to face her task. Taking up her pencil once again, she began to add detail to the outlines she had drawn, first Céleste, one hand on the button of her perfect little jacket. Now it was easy, but she left the face blank, sure Céleste’s expression would still come out as haughty distaste instead of the wanton look Giles expected. Instead she started on the official, and as her pencil flickered over the page he grew quickly, his face sleazier even than she had imagined, his bulging chins more corpulent, his moustache more distasteful. By the time she’d finished he was far and away the most sexually repulsive man she had ever drawn, yet without an obvious deformity or anything to suggest that he might not be real.

  Sarah was smiling as she sat back to reach for the bottle, placed safely out of the way of her art desk. With her chair pushed clear she poured herself another glass, filling it to the brim and sipping at the cool wine as she admired her half-finished drawing. It was going to be good. No, it was going to be great. It would drive men to distraction, and leave them desperate for next month’s issue and the full exposure of Céleste’s bottom. Certainly it would drive Giles to distraction. He would probably be straight round, begging to fuck between her tits and rub his cock in her bottom slit, and to sodomise her …

  No, that was wrong. He was with Rebecca and probably loved her, despite what had happened. They’d just got drunk together, that was all. Besides, Rebecca would certainly be far more attractive, probably a natural blonde, wholesome and athletic from all the horse riding, with perfect skin and a full yet well-proportioned body. Sarah drew a heavy sigh and took another swallow of wine. It really wasn’t fair. Why did she have to be so unreasonably voluptuous, so inelegant?

  As she returned to work, the last of her qualms were gone. She sketched in the remaining outlines and began to add detail: the folds of Céleste’s open jacket, the lacy borders to her bra, the contours of her high upturned breasts, the tight neatly formed bottom cheeks. All of it flowed from Sarah’s pencil, until only Céleste’s face remained. One more glass of wine and Sarah had completed that too, achieving a look so suggestive, so lewd and yet so fine and strong that had the official been real he would either have fled or come in his pants.

  Sarah found herself giggling at the thought. Maybe that was what had happened, and Céleste would find that she’d let her panties down for nothing? The idea appealed to her sense of humour, just to imagine Céleste’s consternation when she found she’d gone further than she had to for such a horrid man. Having come, he probably wouldn’t give in to her demands either, which would be funnier still.

  He had to give in, of course, or the story would be over before it had started. Maybe the greasy official wouldn’t be so easy? Maybe he had a wife at home who sucked his morning erection for him, a duty one of Sarah’s past boyfriends had demanded of her? If so, then Céleste might have to go a lot further. He’d make her strip nude. He’d make her get into naughty provocative poses, undignified poses, cupping her breasts in her hands and sticking her bum out to show her sex from the rear, and her anus.

  Sarah’s hand had gone between her thighs almost without realising it. Her pussy felt soft and sensitive beneath her jeans, with the material pulled tight against her sex lips. The temptation to rub herself off was overwhelming, and she decided to do it before common sense could get the better of her. A last swallow of wine and she had pushed her jeans and panties into a tangle around her legs, opening her knees to let her fingers touch her bare sex. Another quick adjustment and her top and bra were up, spilling out her big breasts into her hands.

  She closed her eyes, toying with her nipples as she decided what she should come over. It had to be Céleste, no question, Céleste stripping for the greasy French official, Céleste with her precious silk panties held down for his inspection, Céleste nude and posing for him as if she were no better than some girl in a peep-show, a cheap peep-show.

  One hand went to her sex, rubbing between her lips. She was wet, soaking, ready for penetration and ready for orgasm. A sigh of pure pleasure escaped her lips as she began to masturbate more firmly, bringing herself up towards climax as she imagined the scene. Maybe just posing wouldn’t be enough for the Frenchman? Maybe he’d make her go down on her knees for him? She’d protest, oh how she’d protest, but she’d do it. She’d have to, because Sarah was going to draw her like that, stark naked under the Frenchman’s desk, with her bare bottom sticking out behind as she sucked on his big dirty cock … as he made her take his enormous balls in her mouth … as he spunked in her open mouth and forced her to swallow what he’d done …

  Sarah came to climax, long and hard, her body tense beneath her fingers as she pinched at her straining nipples and snatched at her clitoris. It lasted as long as she held the image of Céleste’s beautiful face, open mouth full of spunk and more dribbling down her nose and cheeks and eyes to ruin her immaculate make-up, a perfect vision that broke only with the faint bang of the front door.

  Worried that Mak might be back from work, Sarah quickly adjusted herself, pushing her sticky fingers into her mouth before struggling her clothes up her legs. Gay he might be, open-minded he might be, but to have him catch her with her top up and her panties around her ankles while she masturbated over her own creation would still be deeply embarrassing.

  The distinctive creak of the stairs confirmed her suspicions as she was still struggling to do up her bra catch. She felt a twinge of panic as the door opened and Mak’s voice called out, and she left the last two hooks undone as she quickly pulled her top down. Jerking her chair forward, she had just picked up her pencil and turned to greet him as he entered the room.

  ‘You’re off early,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he answered, ‘just my normal shift time. Now that is good!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sarah answered him, glancing at the clock to discover that she had been drawing for nearly four hours without a pause, completely lost in her work.

  Mak leant closer, shaking his head in admiration as he took in Sarah’s finished pencil sketch, then smiling.

  ‘That guy looks like one major creep,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me your Céleste is going to blow him?’

  ‘No,’ Sarah answered. ‘I think she’s just going to give him a flash, but it’s not really up to me. It’s the writer’s job to decide what happens.’

  ‘This Giles guy, Mr Poshboy?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘So he’s into gross guys getting it with cute girls, huh?’

  ‘Mr Bowle says the readers prefer the men not to be too attractive. They’ve done a survey apparently.’

  ‘That sounds like straight guys all right, but Giles is public school, yeah? You’d think he’d like a nice young man, with smooth, smooth skin and arse cheeks so tight he could crack nuts between them.’

  ‘I think that’s just you, Mak.’

  ‘Me and a lot of other guys, hon, and take if from me, if this Giles was at public school he either likes to take it up the arse or he’d like to take you up the arse.’

  ‘That’s just your wishful thinking,’ Sarah replied, forcing a laugh and looking the other way to hide her blushes.

  ‘That’s how it is,’ he assured her. ‘So what, how long did this take you? You hadn’t started this morning.’

  ‘I didn’t even have the story this morning
,’ she answered. ‘Four hours, maybe a bit less.’

  ‘And all you’ve got to do is ink it in?’

  ‘That takes just as long, maybe longer, and I’ll probably add some more detail as well.’

  ‘So what, two to three days’ work and that’s you done for a month. I wish I had your talent, that’s all!’

  ‘I suppose I’m just lucky,’ she said, ‘and it’s not easy to find work.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he answered, ‘but while you’re in the money you’re doing well. You know you can claim all this stuff on expenses, yeah?’

  ‘Reasonable expenses, yes,’ she began, but he cut her off.

  ‘Expenses like research. What you ought to do, honey, is go to Paris.’

  As she stepped onto the platform of the Gare du Nord, Sarah was still having difficulty taking everything in. She had been to Paris twice before, as a child and while at college, but never alone and free to do as she pleased. There was still a dream-like quality to her new life, and it had been growing stronger every moment she was in France, so much so that as she began to walk down the Rue La Fayette she was expecting to pass Céleste du Musigny at any moment.

  There were plenty of dark elegant women about, although none quite so perfect, and yet before she had gone too far she had seen three men who might have passed for the greasy official, and several others who were likely to provide future inspiration. Occasionally she would stop to sketch; a likely looking face, a detail of architecture, or a prospect down one of the long straight avenues. As she worked she was constantly hoping that somebody would ask her what she was doing, preferably a handsome and quintes-sentially French young man, so that she could explain that she was no mere tourist, but a professional artist. Ideally he would then offer to be her guide, take her to dinner at some little-known but fine restaurant, and come back to her hotel for a night of thoroughly rude sex.