Strip Girl

by Aishling Morgan

  ‘Let’s do it,’ Hugh prompted.

  Her nerve was about to fail her, and the moment Sid called for action she was hurrying into the phone box with no need for pretence. Stripping was harder, a bubble of panic growing in her throat as she jerked up her top, only to find the wet cotton stuck to her flesh, forcing her to jerk it high and wrestle it off her arms with her boobs squashed to the glass even before she was supposed to.

  At last her top came away and she was in her bra in public. Still nobody was visible, and her hands went behind her back, her panic now so strong that she was stamping her feet in agitation as she struggled with the catch. It came loose, she felt the weight of her breasts loll forward and before she could stop herself she had flipped the cups up and she was topless.

  A punch of shame and excitement hit her as her bare breasts came on show to the camera. She was doing it, bare in the street, or almost, and squashed to the glass as she went into the foolish sexy little routine she had agreed in advance, squashing herself to the glass so that Sid could film her flesh pressed flat through the panes. Her nipples were painfully stiff, aching as she pressed them to the warm hard glass.

  Next came her jeans, and the moment she felt she’d given Sid enough of a show she was pulling the button open and wriggling them down, only to realise that she couldn’t get them off without removing her shoes. That meant undoing the laces, and as she bent down her bottom was squashed to the glass, the tarty red panties they had insisted she wear already halfdown over her ample cheeks, and Sid was still filming, from just inches away.

  One shoe came, then the other. Sarah shoved her jeans to her ankles and wrenched one leg off, then the second, leaving her nude but for her wet panties, which had to come down too. The bubble of panic burst as she thrust them down and off. She was nude, stark naked but for her socks in a public phone box, her breasts on show to the world, her fat pink bottom wobbling bare behind, and as she bent to snatch up the bag with her new clothes in it she knew she was showing off even more, the plump rear purse of her sex – thrust out straight at Sid’s lens.

  A sob escaped her lips as she remembered how she’d been made to give the same rude display over the woman’s lap in Paris. That had been worse, but at least she hadn’t been filmed, and as she desperately tried to untangle her new panties she was promising herself that she’d get dressed just as fast as she possibly could.

  Only as she jerked the panties up did she realise that she had one foot in a leg hole and one in the waist hole. Sobbing and muttering curses, she took them off again, once more with her nude bottom pressed to the window. At last she got them right, only to realise that the tag didn’t say Size 10, but Age 10. It was too late, they were already halfway up her thighs, but that was as far as they would go.

  Sarah swore, wrenching desperately at the tiny garment, but the panties wouldn’t even come up to her bottom cheeks, let alone over them. She was in too much of a frenzy to admit defeat, bouncing up and down to make her bottom wobble and her boobs jiggle, until the cheap panties gave up the unequal battle and split, leaving her with a single pathetic scrap of cotton and elastic wrapped around one leg.

  She kicked it off, willing herself to be calm as she pulled her new jeans out of her bag. Again she glanced out of the box, and to her horror saw that three young black men were walking towards her along the pavement, directly towards her. They hadn’t seen her, merely joking among themselves, but they were going to at any moment. Sid either hadn’t seen, or didn’t care, but was still filming, while Giles seemed to have vanished completely.

  Now demented with panic, she thrust one leg into the jeans, pushing her foot through and extending a hand to steady herself as she tried to find the second hole, only not on the wall, but on the door, which swung open. Sarah gave a single long shriek as she tumbled backwards out of the phone box and a yelp of pain as she landed on her back on the pavement, to lie kicking like an upturned beetle, her breasts wobbling in every direction, her naked sex and rolledup bottom on full show to the camera, anus and all.

  More by luck than judgement her foot had gone into the right hole, and she forced it through and dragged the jeans up, squeezing her bottom in. The button wouldn’t do up by a long way, but her cheeks were covered, and that was far, far more important. That only left her breasts, but the door had already closed, leaving her topless in the street, with the three young men staring at her open-mouthed from a distance of a few feet and Giles nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,’ she babbled, slapping her hands onto her breasts. ‘That’s enough, Sid, I can’t –’

  ‘Just the top, love, just the top,’ he urged.

  ‘No I …’ Sarah stammered. ‘Oh bloody Hell! Here, have a good stare, you bastards! Aren’t I big and fat? Wouldn’t you just love to stick your cocks between them and come all over my face, you dirty bastards! Come on, have a good grope, why don’t you!?’

  She was holding her breasts out to the three black youths, but they just stared. She wrenched the door of the phone box wide, snatched up the Union Jack top and tugged it on over her head. As planned, it wasn’t easy to get on, and even when she’d finally managed to cover her breasts the cotton was stretched across them with her nipples showing as two straining bumps. Yet she was covered, and a moment later Giles was there, putting the big fleece around her shoulders.

  ‘Good one,’ Sid said, as Giles quickly gathered up Sarah’s things. ‘How about a last flash and a cheeky grin, just to show it was all in play?’

  ‘Give her a chance,’ Giles responded. ‘Better put your shoes on, Sarah.’

  He helped her, then began to steer her away. The two men didn’t follow, Hugh Bowle holding Sid back, and Sarah let herself be led through the streets towards her own flat. She felt weak, and confused, not sure even what to think, let alone how to respond to the conflicting demands of her mind and body. Only when she was indoors did her tension at last begin to drain, and she let herself collapse onto the bed.

  ‘Coffee? Something stronger?’ Giles offered.

  Sarah shook her head.

  ‘No. Cuddle me, like you did last night.’

  ‘Are you …’

  ‘Do it, please.’

  Giles complied, climbing onto the bed beside her. Sensing his uncertainty, Sarah pushed the over-tight jeans down, not off but to her ankles. Her hands went to her hips, her belly, her bottom cheeks, feeling the bare skin.

  ‘No panties,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve got no panties on and they saw me like that, bare … Hold me, Giles, kiss me.’

  Giles nodded and moved in closer, opening his mouth to hers. Their tongues met and Sarah closed her eyes, imagining herself back in the phone box, topless, then naked, stamping her feet in her growing panic, struggling to get the tiny panties up her legs, falling out to roll naked on the pavement, her breasts bare, her bottom bare, her sex bare.

  She’d begun to masturbate, teasing her open pussy with her fingers to bring her pleasure slowly up as she tried to focus on the full power of what she’d done, on what she’d been made to do. Having her wet top plastered to her breasts in the street seemed mild now, even the hideously embarrassing experience of buying the clothes little stronger. Stripping was anything but mild, each moment of agonising embarrassment now providing her with a jolt of pleasure.

  Giles’ mouth pressed harder to her own and she responded, kissing urgently as her back arched in pleasure. She put a hand to her chest, stroking her breasts through the taut fabric. With no bra, they felt huge and soft, her straining nipples so sensitive she could hardly bear to touch them, even with her orgasm already approaching. She thought of how rude she’d have looked in the street, even in her top, but that was nothing to having been bare.

  She crushed her mouth to Giles’ as she started to come. One quick motion and she’d jerked her top up, spilling out her breasts, fat and soft and naked in her hands. Her fingers began to make the little clutching motions she preferred and her mind fixed on the most exquisite, most unb
earable moment of the entire experience – when she’d tumbled out of the phone box to roll on the pavement, her breasts naked to the three astonished young men, her legs up, no panties, nothing to shield the fleshy folds of her sex and the rude pink star of her anus, not only on view to Sid and Hugh and Giles, but shortly to be exposed to thousands upon thousands of men.

  Six

  Peering carefully left and right, Sarah surveyed the platform of the Gare du Nord. It was clear, so far as she could see, with no sign of anyone resembling Céleste, but there were altogether too many people about for her liking. Exposure was one thing, but what she was worried might happen to her was another altogether, while recognising that it would ultimately excite her only made it worse. She’d felt thoroughly ashamed of herself for masturbating over the first time she’d gone nude for a men’s magazine, but Giles hadn’t understood, and for him to see her get a public spanking would be far worse.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Giles asked, nudging her bottom with the bags he was carrying.

  ‘Nothing,’ Sarah replied quickly, and jumped down onto the platform.

  Giles followed, in no hurry at all, finding a trolley and piling the bags onto it before starting slowly down the platform, so that Sarah was obliged to follow at the same pace. Nobody was taking any real notice of them, and she tried to tell herself to relax. It wasn’t easy, and if there was no sign of the Céleste woman on the concourse either, there were all too many places from which she could be ambushed, from the tall green pillars supporting the roof to a highly suspicious-looking set of tables outside a café, each with a red and white striped umbrella and chairs just right for a woman to sit on as she dealt with a naughty girl’s bottom. Still nothing happened, and they reached the main exit without incident.

  Thick pillars flanked the doorways, and Sarah froze as she saw the woman standing with her back to the nearest of them. She was tall, slim, naturally elegant, dressed in smart expensive clothes, all black, including a neat pork-pie hat exactly like the one Sarah had drawn Céleste in for her visit to Monsieur d’Orsay. Sarah could already feel her panties gliding down to expose her bottom as the woman turned, lazily, showing long, chiselled features completely unlike those of Céleste.

  ‘Are you all right, darling?’ Giles asked.

  ‘Fine, really,’ Sarah answered. ‘I just need the loo.’

  It was true, because when she’d seen the woman leaning against the pillar she’d very nearly wet herself and, if being spanked bare-bottom in public and in front of her boyfriend was a prospect of agonising humiliation, then having the same thing done wearing pissed-in panties defied description.

  She ran back into the station and used the ladies’, returning to Giles as quickly as she could. As they waited for a taxi she was telling herself that she was being silly, that nothing would happen or, if it did, Giles would put a stop to it. That didn’t prevent her constantly scanning the faces of passers-by, and even in the taxi she found it impossible to relax completely.

  If Hugh Bowle had set her up – and she couldn’t see who else it could be – then he would know where they were going, having chosen the hotel personally. That made it all too likely that she was going to get it in the hotel and, if it seemed absurd to think of the staff permitting such a thing, then it was not much more absurd than the attitude of both staff and customers at the café on the Île St. Louis, and surely not all of them could have been paid off, because if so it must have been a very expensive joke.

  A horrible thought occurred to her: that Hugh Bowle and possibly Sid too might have created the incident not as a joke at all, but to get some juicy footage for one of the magazines. No doubt there was a title devoted to spanked girls, as there seemed to be a title devoted to everything else, and yet there was the issue of model release forms, which they’d been very careful about for her phone-box strip.

  As they drove she was constantly looking around her. Paris seemed different from her previous visit, although the day was much the same and nothing obvious had altered. Somehow it seemed more mundane, bland even, certainly less romantic, which was odd as she was visiting with her new boyfriend. The hotel was superb, immensely grand and impressively appointed, but with far less atmosphere than the poky family establishment in the Latin quarter.

  Their room was excellent too, large, well furnished, but strangely sterile, despite what should have been a classic view across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower. She put it down to nerves and began to unpack, telling herself that she was at least safe, only to change her mind. What if Giles was in on it after all? If he was, they really had her where they wanted her. At any moment the Céleste woman might come in, perhaps even with a Monsieur d’Orsay look-alike. She’d be put over the knee and spanked bare. She’d be forced to suck d’Orsay’s cock while she was punished, with no let-up until he’d come in her mouth. She’d be sat on and have her red bottom cheeks held wide so that Giles could bugger her while Céleste looked on, smoking a Gitane and giving a soft musical laugh every time Sarah pulled a particularly stupid face or squealed in the pain of her sodomy …

  Giles was looking out of the window with a faintly critical expression on his patrician face, completely oblivious to her thoughts.

  ‘I always think there’s something inherently vulgar about French architecture,’ he remarked. ‘Shall we go down and have tea?’

  Sarah agreed, telling herself not to be paranoid. Giles had some difficulty in making the hotel staff understand exactly what he wanted, to Sarah’s intense embarrassment, but he finally managed it, and they sat for a while in comfort, allowing the stresses of the journey to dissipate. Slowly, Sarah began to relax. There was a very modern bustle about the hotel, while it was impossible to imagine the staff allowing a guest to be assaulted in the main lounge.

  Having had tea, Giles was full of energy, and suggested walking along the Seine. Sarah readily agreed, pushing aside her worries in her determination to enjoy another of her long-held ambitions, to walk through the streets of Paris arm in arm with her lover. As they walked south and crossed the river on the Pont d’Iéna, something of the atmosphere she had noted earlier remained, and yet her determination to enjoy the experience began to win through.

  Giles let her steer him, past the Eiffel Tower and along the bank, before striking in among smaller streets. Soon she was lost, navigating only by the occasional glimpse of the upper parts of the tower between buildings. She was no longer glancing fearfully at every woman who even slightly resembled Céleste du Musigny, although in her imagination it was just the sort of area in which she might have met her heroine, the Paris of locals rather than tourists.

  They had been walking for over an hour when she turned back in roughly the direction of the hotel, intending to find the river and follow the bank. The buildings quickly became grander again, but in a different style, more municipal than commercial. Many of them were decorated with tricolores, but one in particular was so heavily hung with flags and bunting that there was more cloth showing than stone or glass. Sarah paused, read the inscription above the door announcing it as a war museum, and was going to walk on, but Giles held back.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a look around, if you’d be interested?’ he suggested.

  ‘Not really,’ Sarah told him, ‘but you go in. I can amuse myself for a bit.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be fine. There’s bound to be a stall selling paintings or something.’

  Giles glanced up and down the street, made a doubtful face but moved towards the doorway of the museum.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I promise not to be more than half an hour.’

  ‘Fine,’ Sarah answered, slightly piqued but determined not to spoil their first day in Paris with a row or to give Giles any reason not to be content with her.

  He answered with a slightly sheepish grin and went inside. Sarah paused, wondering what to do with herself as there were no stalls of any sort in sight, nor anything else of any real interest. She turned on her
heel, wondering which way to go, only to realise that she had been wrong. There was a line of stalls, a little way down the street, partially obscured by trees. It was a scene that might very well have been painted by Pissarro, but for the traffic and other modern paraphernalia, of which there didn’t actually seem to be a great deal.

  She walked towards the stalls, hoping they’d be selling paintings and even wondering if with her now quite good income she might not treat herself. If there was something good enough it would be irresistible, a lifelong treasure to remember her visit with Giles, whatever came later. As she crossed the road she was picturing herself as a grandmother, explaining how she had come across some wonderful painting to a cluster of grandchildren lost in the romance of a Paris by then fifty years gone, just as when she was a child the Paris of the pre-war period had so inspired her.

  Only as she approached the stall did she realise that she was passing a distinctly familiar building, tall, imposing, with fine tricolores crossed above the door, so similar to the one she’d drawn for the first episode of ‘Graverobbers’ that for a moment she felt uneasy. Then again, she had drawn it from her studies of Parisian architecture, and it was Parisian architecture, also no doubt a government building of some kind, so the similarity was hardly surprising.

  On reaching the stalls her qualms were immediately forgotten. Not just one but all three sold paintings, and from many artists, with a broad range of styles unified only by an atmosphere that seemed to encapsulate her elaborately constructed image of romantic France. She was immediately entranced, both by the paintings and the other people around the stalls, every one of whom possessed something of the characteristics she so admired. Next to her was a girl in a blue cape and a smart hat, no more than thirteen or fourteen and clearly a pupil at some nearby lycée, yet discussing the influences behind the various paintings with a portly man of over sixty who wore a waxed moustache. Further along an elderly couple were in conversation with a young man who seemed to be one of the artists, while a small beetle-like man in a black coat listened with an expression of austere intelligence.