A low moan sounded from the bedroom and her smile grew broader still as she wondered if she had caught him masturbating, only to vanish as she put her eye to the crack of the door. Giles was there, kneeling upright on the bed, stark naked, his erect cock extending forward to disappear between the full well-turned buttocks of a girl, quite clearly inserted in her anus. She was on all fours, her arms and legs braced to take her buggering, her big breasts swinging gently beneath her chest, her head thrown back in ecstasy, her glorious red hair spread out across her back and hanging down around her face, which was set in an expression of pure bliss as Giles continued to ease his cock in up her rectum.
Sarah stayed as she was, too appalled to speak, her eyes glued to Giles’ erect shaft as it slowly disappeared up the girl’s willingly offered bottom. Only when the full length was up did she finally react, her emotions raging, but even her sense of betrayal mild beside her shock at the identity of the girl Giles was buggering – Rebecca Compton-Bassett.
Thirteen
A week passed before Sarah felt ready to start inking in the last three episodes of ‘Graverobbers’. Giles attempted to contact her several times, but she ignored him, quite unable to come to terms with what he had done, especially as, looking back, it was clear this relationship with his ‘sister’ had been going since long before she had met him. Most of all, she was glad she had split up with him first, rather than finding out months or even years into a long-term relationship.
The fact of her own infidelity made it easier, and she made a point of thinking about her experiences with Monsieur d’Orsay and the other Frenchmen the first time she masturbated, after four days of shocked abstinence. Even then she found herself unable to concentrate on work, until a phone call from Hugh Bowle to ask how she was getting on forced her to focus.
With three full episodes to do it was going to take at least a week, for which she was grateful, and she was determined to go to Paris the moment she had finished. Sat down at her work bench with her ink, brushes and all the necessary accessories set out, she began her task, stopping only for coffee and the loo until her eyes had begun to hurt and she was forced to stop.
An hour’s rest and she had begun again, soon lost in her private Paris as she brought her pencil sketches to life in painstaking detail. It took two hours alone to create Antoine Saint-Coeur, with the need to make him slim yet strong, sensitive yet manly, handsome yet harsh. Only once she was satisfied with the first drawing of him did he seem to come to life, and she used her failed attempts for the faces and bodies of Céleste’s legion of rejects, men she was nevertheless going to be privileged to take in her mouth one by one if it was demanded of her.
By the end of the day the first of the three episodes was half finished. She collapsed onto the sofa with a takeaway Chinese thoughtfully provided by Mak, half-asleep even as she ate and listened to him bemoaning the unattainable beauty of a new and unfortunately married colleague at work.
The following day was easier, with no new characters to create and a great deal of background detail to complete, which had always come easily to her. Céleste’s apartment grew in form, to occupy the entire upper storey of a block on the Île St. Louis, with the long ironwork balcony directly above the river and looking across to the gardens of Notre-Dame. The furnishings were priceless antiques or modern classics, the walls were hung with impossibly expensive paintings, the glasses the finest crystal and the wines exquisite. Her bedroom was if anything more magnificent still, and all of it in stark contrast to the opposing corners showing Raoul’s hate-filled scowl as he was led off to prison and Monsieur d’Orsay’s leering pervert face as he contemplated blackmail.
By mid-afternoon the episode was finished, and after a mug of tea and half a packet of biscuits she set to work on the next, the brothel scene and her own grand entrance. It was slower going than the last, the interior of the brothel refusing to come together in her mind until she was forced to break off. A half hour searching the net for Toulouse-Lautrec posters and she was back, creating a piece of gilded baroque extravagance that formed the perfect background for herself as a curvaceous near-naked Parisian tart.
She gave up in the early hours of the morning and slept late the next day. Working on her own humiliation at the hands of Céleste and d’Orsay proved harder still, not for artistic reasons this time, but because every single frame brought her to such a state of arousal that her hands would start to tremble, forcing her either to break off for a coffee or to masturbate. The same problem persisted over the next two days, with Sarah becoming more and more lost in her private world. Hugh Bowle’s instructions were forgotten, the full details of herself being urinated on by Céleste inked in with loving care, as were those of Monsieur d’Orsay buggering her and feeding her his dirty cock.
Dawn had begun to lighten the sky when she came to the final frame, but she was determined to finish, putting her heart and soul into the depiction of the two lovers as they stood together looking out over the Seine, and into her own image behind, plump and earthy in contrast to the ethereal elegance of Céleste and Antoine, her cheeky, well-whipped bottom on plain show beneath the skirt of her maid’s uniform. By then she was lost completely, in absolute thrall to Céleste as she added one last detail, a patch of light visible through an open door to Céleste’s kitchen, and on the floor a bowl piled high with dog food and inscribed with a single word, ‘Cocotte’.
Exhausted, Sarah had to force herself to prepare the three completed episodes for the post and send them off, after which she collapsed into bed, too tired even to masturbate. As she drifted towards sleep her head was full of the images she’d been painting, Céleste and d’Orsay and Antoine, Madame Leboeuf from the brothel, her fellow girls and Céleste’s suitors, all marching in procession through her brain and on into her dreams, with the Madame taking an ever greater role, until finally the harsh grating voice brought her awake once more.
‘Get up, you lazy girl!’
Sarah sat up, bleary-eyed and disoriented, but with a jolt of adrenaline already setting her heart hammering. She was in bed, but not her own bed. The comfortable chaos of her room was gone, replaced by florid crimson and gilt, no longer the room of a young and disorganised artist, but a tart’s boudoir. Outside, the dirty red brick of Stepney was also gone, and in its place a high façade of decaying stone and rusting ironwork, with what little sky visible dominated by the massive structure of the Eiffel Tower. In the doorway stood a woman; middle-aged, stern, with a harsh face heavily painted with make-up and dressed to gaudy excess, a woman Sarah knew only too well, having put the finishing touches to her just hours before – Madame Leboeuf.
‘What are you gawping at, girl?’ the Madame demanded, speaking thickly accented English. ‘You’re wanted in the salon, this minute. Now get up and get dressed, or do I have to take my stick to your rump?’
‘No,’ Sarah assured the woman hastily. ‘I –’
She went quiet. No words could hope to express her feelings, and yet it was easy to respond to the threat of a beating. Scrambling quickly out of bed, Sarah began to dress, finding that she already knew not only what clothes she had, but which drawers they were in. Madame Leboeuf watched, her face set in impatience as she tapped the short dark cane she held irritably against one booted foot.
Sarah already knew how she would be dressed, as she had imagined a working girl was made to dress as she waited for clients – in a wasp-waisted corset of crimson satin that supported her breasts but did nothing to conceal them and left her bottom looking simply huge, along with seamed stockings held up by suspenders attached to the corset and knee-length velvet boots with heels so high she could barely walk. There was nothing to cover her breasts, her bottom, or her cunt, the only accessories a crimson velvet collar to match her boots and a spray of peacock feather tips for her hair.
She also knew how to prepare herself, just as she had shown girls doing in the background of her drawing, with plenty of make-up and scent, including a touch of rouge to each nip
ple and a dab of powder between her thighs. Dressed and ready, she felt impossibly lewd, also ridiculous and deeply ashamed of herself, although the last emotion was already fading with a helpless arousal she could do nothing about.
‘Downstairs,’ Madame Leboeuf ordered the moment Sarah had tied off the second of her boot laces.
Sarah scampered for the door as fast as she could, teetering on her heels with her bottom wobbling behind her to provide a perfect target of the Madame’s cane. She was smacked all the way along the corridor, not hard, but enough to make her squeak and set her breasts jiggling as she struggled to move fast enough to escape. Only at the top of an impressive flight of marble stairs did the beating stop.
Below, just as Sarah had expected, the stairs opened out to a grand salon, furnished in the same lavish vulgarity as her room, with chairs and benches upholstered in crimson plush, gilt pillars carved as naked girls supporting the ceiling, huge mirrors and equally huge paintings showing nudes and scenes of debauchery, a deep carpet in the same bold shades, even a painted ceiling showing a full-breasted girl disporting herself with a satyr. There were plenty of people about too; the girls in their finery, corsets and stockings and little jackets, but every one of them bare where it mattered; clients in evening dress or crimson and gold robes provided by the house; a trio of boys in tight britches to serve the drinks, and two massively built, hard-faced Moroccans lounging by the door. Monsieur d’Orsay was also there, looking well pleased with himself as he sipped a pastis, and Céleste, the only decently-clad woman present, her perfect face cool and haughty, showing a touch of amusement as she watched her less fortunate sisters.
Sarah started down the stairs, her stomach churning wildly. She knew what was going to happen to her, in every vivid humiliating detail, and she knew she was quite incapable of resistance. Sure enough, she found herself curtseying automatically as Céleste saw her, and came to stand meekly at the foot of the stairs, with her head bowed, painfully aware of her exposed body, her face hot with blushes for her already hard nipples and the urgent need between her legs.
‘Oui, c’est la fille,’ Céleste remarked to Madame Leboeuf, then addressed Sarah. ‘You have come to recognise your true nature, Sarah, yes?’
‘Yes,’ Sarah admitted.
‘As a whore,’ Céleste continued. ‘Say it, Sarah, tell me what you are.’
‘A – a whore, Mademoiselle du Musigny,’ Sarah managed. ‘I am a whore.’
She was trembling violently all over; a tiny part of her mind was still fighting her fate, but far more of it was not merely willing to submit, but urgent to be paid for and used so that it would become true. Céleste gave a light chuckle, expressing amusement and satisfaction, then spoke to Madame Leboeuf once more.
‘Je voudrais l’engager pour plusieurs jours. Ça coûtera combien?’
‘Son prix est mille euros par jour, Mademoiselle du Musigny,’ the Madame replied, ‘mais peut-être je pourrais vous faire une petite remise?’
‘Non, non, pas du tout,’ Céleste insisted. ‘Deux milles euros, pour deux jours.’
Sarah had been struggling to understand, but as the awful truth sank in she found her voice.
‘No … Céleste, please. You are supposed to buy me outright, to be your maid … your doggy slave, or anything.’
‘Then perhaps you should have made that clear?’ Céleste responded with rising amusement.
‘But I want to be yours,’ Sarah protested. ‘I’ll be ever so good. I’ll do anything you say, anything!’
‘What you will do,’ Céleste responded, ‘is return here to work that is fitting for you, as a whore, which as you admit yourself is what you are. Given that I do not normally move in such circles, it is highly unlikely you will ever see me again.’
‘No!’ Sarah protested. ‘You can’t do that, Céleste, you – ow! Ow! Ow!’
Madame Leboeuf’s cane had been applied to Sarah’s legs three times, and hard, sending her into a little frenzied dance with her hands clutching the backs of her thighs. Céleste smiled and moved to a table, where she began to count out notes to the Madame, both ignoring Sarah as if she did not exist.
‘A pretty little show,’ Monsieur d’Orsay remarked as he approached. ‘Now stay still, and place your hands on your head. Come, come, you must learn to obey, and promptly, unless you wish further decoration on that plump derrière?’
‘No,’ Sarah responded, ‘but look, please, Monsieur d’Orsay, I –’
‘Uh, uh!’ he interrupted. ‘No talking. To talk is chief among the faults of woman, so save your inconsequential chatter for your sisters while I enjoy the one thing you have that is worthwhile, your body. Come, come, put your hands on your head, or must I really have you beaten?’
Sarah responded, burning with resentment and confusion as she obeyed his order. He immediately put a hand on her bottom and another to a breast, testing the texture and weight of her flesh, then beginning to stroke and tickle and pinch, until Sarah was squirming with frustration and helpless excitement. Only when Céleste stepped back from the table did he stop, to perform a somewhat mocking bow.
‘D’accord, Monsieur,’ Céleste stated. ‘Elle est la vôtre, pour deux jours.’
‘D’accord,’ Monsieur d’Orsay responded, tugging on his moustache. ‘Voulez-vous monter? Je voudrais l’essayer.’
As he finished speaking he gave Sarah a resounding slap on one bottom cheek, making her squeak and sending her staggering towards the stairs. Céleste hesitated, gave Sarah a brief glance of distaste and followed, unable to do otherwise. Still unable to think clearly, save for apprehension of what was coming to her, Sarah could only allow herself to be taken back upstairs, steered by pats and pinches from d’Orsay’s hand to her bottom.
Her room was as she had left it, save that some thoughtful person had made the bed and set out a tray on top of the chest of drawers, a tray bearing a bottle of Champagne in an ice-bucket, two flute glasses with long crimson stems and gold rims, and two improbably large dildoes, both shaped in the fashion of monstrous black cocks. Sarah bit her lip, wishing she had been rather more restrained in her imagination. Monsieur d’Orsay moved to open the Champagne, speaking as he peeled the foil away with a single dextrous twist.
‘Pour commencer, une bonne fessée, si vous obligeriez, Céleste.’
Céleste had already sat down on a straight-backed chair, an article Sarah knew existed in every bedroom in the brothel, placed there for the convenient discipline of the girls. Quite unable to resist, she went to drape herself across Céleste’s lap, bottom raised in classic spanking position, her head full of consternation and yet grateful that at least she would be spared the humiliating process of having her bottom exposed, even if only because she was already on full show.
A pop signalled the removal of the Champagne cork and a smack the onset of Sarah’s spanking. It was hard, and well placed, Céleste working Sarah’s bottom with firm matter-of-fact slaps, a spanking given neither as punishment nor for arousal, but purely for the enjoyment of a voyeur. Nevertheless, Sarah experienced all the emotions of a punishment spanking, and the gradual swelling of her sex as she grew warm behind, quickly bringing her close to tears with frustration and pain.
Monsieur d’Orsay watched, sipping Champagne and occasionally moving position to admire either Sarah’s bouncing bottom and the rude view between her cheeks and thighs, or the expressions she was making as the smacks fell. Occasionally he would squeeze his crotch, while Sarah could soon smell the natural excitement of her cunt even above the heavy perfume she had been given to wear.
Only when her bottom was a hot throbbing ball behind her did the spanking stop, by which time Monsieur d’Orsay’s cock was hard in his trousers. Sarah winced as she glanced at his bulge, wishing she hadn’t made it quite so grotesque but knowing she was going to suck it anyway. Part of her already wanted to; she climbed unsteadily from Céleste’s lap and crossed to the bed without having to be told.
‘Do it on your knees,’ d’Orsay instructe
d her. ‘Both holes, but first, let me watch you as Céleste opens your bottom hole.’
‘Must I?’ Céleste queried.
‘I believe you must,’ d’Orsay chuckled.
Céleste’s face was a frozen mask as she crossed to the bed, on which Sarah had already adopted a crawling position. Monsieur d’Orsay was rubbing his hands with glee and Céleste removed one glove with a fastidious gesture. Sarah winced at the sight of Céleste’s long painted nails, and forced herself to speak.
‘Could – could you please find something … some sort of lubricant?’
‘No doubt,’ Monsieur d’Orsay responded happily. ‘Hmm, you would have thought an establishment such as this would be amply provided with such things.’
‘In the top drawer, on the left,’ Sarah said, realising that she knew exactly where the anal lubricant was, and how much was in the jar.
Monsieur d’Orsay chuckled and pulled the drawer open, extracting a large jar of some thick paste coloured an unpleasant yellow. Céleste took it with a look of utter disgust and twisted the lid free to dip one elegant finger within. Sarah gave a heartfelt sigh and lifted her bottom a trifle more, making her cheeks spread for easier access to the tight pucker of her anus.
‘You have only yourself to blame for this, Sarah,’ Céleste pointed out as she wiped a quantity of lubricant between Sarah’s open buttocks.
‘I know,’ Sarah responded, making a face as the cold slimy substance was smeared onto her sensitive skin, a sensation at once disgusting and soothing, especially on her smacked flesh. ‘Actually, could you rub a little into my bum, I’m still smarting.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Céleste answered, and inserted a finger into Sarah’s anus.
Sarah gasped as she was penetrated, her ring immediately tightening on Céleste’s intruding finger. Beside her, Monsieur d’Orsay had approached the bed, and was fumbling one-handed with his fly, trying to get his cock out and drink Champagne at the same time. Sarah reached out to help, wondering at her instinct to be useful and obedient despite her very real revulsion for the cock she was about to take in her hand.
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