Fourteen
Monsieur d’Orsay was not merely gone from the room, but from the apartment, a complete puzzle until the sound of an altercation from the street below drew Sarah to the window. Three storeys down, two armed gendarmes were manhandling Monsieur d’Orsay towards a car. He was shouting and expostulating wildly, while his cock and balls still hung from his trousers.
‘He is down in the street,’ she said, unnecessarily as Céleste had joined her at the window.
Sarah moved back, conscious that she was in nothing but seamed stockings and high heels, as was Céleste. They exchanged glances. Sarah shrugged.
‘He could not have taken the stairs,’ Céleste said.
‘He went,’ Sarah said. ‘I didn’t want him there, and he just went. He must have run down.’
‘With his penis showing?’ Céleste queried.
Again Sarah shrugged.
‘And why would he,’ Céleste went on, ‘when he was taking such pleasure in our humiliation … mine at least.’
‘You did come, Céleste,’ Sarah answered, still bold with drink, ‘and never mind Monsieur d’Orsay. He is gone … I made him, I think, because I didn’t want him watching.’
‘You made him watch!’ Céleste exclaimed.
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ Sarah said. ‘I didn’t know how I’d feel.’
‘How you would feel?’ Céleste demanded. ‘What of how I would feel? You are my creator, and you parade me in front of perverts like him, for money! You disgust me, Sarah.’
‘I … I don’t even understand!’ Sarah wailed.
Céleste gave a sharp intake of breath, then flourished her arm towards the window, a gesture of infinite exasperation.
‘This, Sarah,’ she said, ‘all of it, it is yours, and what do you do? You sell yourself for a few miserable pennies, and me also. We might have lived in the palace of Versailles, you and I, but no, you have me stripping for perverts and debasing myself with the scum of the streets!’
‘I – I didn’t know!’ Sarah answered. ‘I’m sorry, Céleste, but I really didn’t, and I still don’t understand.’
‘Do you need to understand?’ Céleste asked. ‘Do you understand gravity, or infinity?’
‘No,’ Sarah admitted. ‘Céleste, could we start again, do you think? You have punished me, and I have punished myself as well.’
‘I punished you because you needed me to,’ Céleste responded, ‘and as for your disgusting habits with dog food, I would rather not know, although, yes, it is the least you deserve. Frankly, I think you should return to Madame Leboeuf’s brothel. It is where you belong.’
‘I belong at your feet,’ Sarah responded.
Céleste gave a snort of contempt.
‘Ah yes, you wish to be my maid, to serve me, until you get drunk, and then … then you will have me giving myself to tramps in the street so that you may soothe your pride for what you chose to do in the first place.’
‘I won’t, I promise,’ Sarah answered. ‘I’m drunk now, quite drunk, but I’m coming to accept my nature, and you know your own, Céleste. You came, didn’t you, just now.’
‘How could I not?’ Céleste demanded. ‘Nobody – no man, because as you well know I have never been with a woman before – nobody has done that to me, not like that.’
‘I will,’ Sarah promised, ‘every night. I’ll be your plaything, Céleste. You can do anything to me, all the things you like but dare not admit to, because you are cruel, Céleste, I made you cruel. You can punish me too, you like to punish me, don’t you?’
‘How can I help it?’ Céleste answered.
‘You can’t,’ Sarah told her.
The attic above Céleste’s apartment was a bare simply furnished place, suitable for a menial, although far more comfortable than was immediately apparent, and with a perfect north light for drawing. From the windows the rooftops of Sarah’s private Paris spread as far as she could see, a constant source of pleasure and of inspiration.
She was seated at her art desk, the same familiar one she had used since college, although a new and expensive model stood to one side, purchased specifically for inking in. The new cartoon was coming on well. Hugh Bowle had given her the go-ahead for the idea, and she was sure he would approve of the results. She had entitled it ‘An English Girl Abroad’, although she knew that was likely to be changed for something more laddish. The heroine was Becky Wellington, and it followed her exploits as she attempted to seduce one man and one woman from every European country in order to comply with a freak will left by an eccentric and perverted uncle, a simple plot designed to provide exactly what the readers wanted, plenty of breasts and bottoms. For her own amusement Sarah had added the stipulation that a different sex act had to be carried out on each occasion, and that it had to be performed at a recognisable national monument or in some nationalistic style. She had already completed the first episode, establishing the plot and showing Becky sucking cock for a London cabbie in the back of his vehicle while parked near Big Ben.
Next would come the seduction of a woman in London, possibly a smart city girl seduced to oral sex in her own office, then Paris, the details of which she had yet to decide on. With each episode covering two countries, a man and a woman for sex and two distinct sex acts, Sarah had calculated that she would need forty-six double page episodes including the first and last needed to open and conclude the plot. The project would take four years to complete, and would keep her amused as it became increasingly difficult to work out national settings for countries like Moldova and Estonia, while the sex acts would need to grow increasingly bizarre.
She was smiling as she laid down her pencil, completely happy with life. It was time to go downstairs, which meant getting dressed. She padded over to her wardrobe, casting a critical eye over the contents. One of her maid’s uniforms would be needed later, but it was hard to choose between one with a skirt so short she would have to endure the humiliation of having her panties or bare bottom showing, or one of the more respectable ones so that she would suffer more if she had to be exposed for spanking.
Before then, she needed something suitable to wear while she was pissed on, which was an even more difficult choice. An expensive gown with silk underwear beneath had a certain appeal, for the thrill of having it ruined, but then she didn’t have to pay for it anyway. Tight clothing was perhaps better, so the urine-soaked cloth would cling to her flesh as she masturbated in Céleste’s puddle, or possibly woollens to make the biggest possible mess.
None of it quite suited her mood. After a thoroughly businesslike conversation with Hugh Bowle and an hour of sketching she was feeling pleased with herself, the ideal situation from which to be brought down. Yes, that was it, she would wear her smart new skirt suit, which reflected her mood and would allow her to experience the full emotional intensity of being urinated on, while the pale-grey wool would show the wet perfectly.
She chose cotton underwear to go underneath, tight white panties that would cling to her wet skin and a full bra with cotton cups so her nipples would show through. Stay-up stockings and a white blouse added to the image she was building, along with smart black shoes with sensible heels and, last, the knee-length skirt and neatly tailored jacket of the suit. She put her hair up and added a touch of mascara and lipstick, then inspected herself in the mirror. The smart young businesswoman in the reflection definitely did not look as if she wanted to have another woman urinate on her head, which was perfect.
Trotting smartly downstairs, Sarah called for Céleste, who was in the kitchen, reading Le Figaro and making a late breakfast of a croissant, coffee and a suspiciously large glass of orange juice. She wore only a short bathrobe, with her elegant legs crossed and extended towards Sarah, who immediately got down on her knees and kissed her lover’s foot.
‘I don’t know what you are grovelling for, Sarah,’ Céleste remarked. ‘It will make no difference.’
‘I know, Mademoiselle du Musigny,’ Sarah replied.
Céleste didn�
�t bother to reply, but went back to reading her paper. Sarah stayed as she was, kneeling on the hard tiles of the kitchen floor, her head bowed respectfully, Céleste’s foot almost in her face. Five minutes passed, and ten, Céleste ignoring Sarah completely as she finished her breakfast and leafed through the paper. At last Céleste spoke.
‘I see they are trying to get around the ban on using non-traditional building materials. You must put a stop to it.’
‘Of course, Mademoiselle,’ Sarah answered.
Céleste folded the paper and placed it carefully on the breakfast table, turning to look down on Sarah with an amused smile.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you are to be urinated on.’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle,’ Sarah responded.
‘You are a disgusting little tart,’ Céleste told her, standing up from the chair. ‘What are you?’
‘A disgusting little tart.’
‘Look up at me.’
Sarah looked up, between Céleste’s lean shapely thighs, cocked a trifle apart, to the neatly formed, newly waxed sex, held open to show the pink interior and the tiny hole from which she was about to be given her faceful.
‘Open your mouth,’ Céleste ordered, and Sarah’s mouth came open immediately. ‘Good girl. Now, I am going to urinate in your mouth, which I hope will help you to appreciate how far you are below me, yes, to take my waste in your mouth and over your body, Sarah.’
Sarah nodded urgently. A soft whimper escaped her throat, and a tiny ecstatic gasp as Céleste let go, expelling a stream of sparkling pale-yellow piddle full into Sarah’s open mouth. Sarah’s senses filled with the pungent feminine taste of Céleste’s urine, which quickly filled her mouth to bubble out around her lips and pour from her chin, over her suit jacket and her blouse, down her cleavage too, to wet her breasts and belly. She pulled her blouse wide, taking her breasts in her hands and massaging the piss-wet material over the heavy sticky globes as yet more piddle splashed in her mouth and face.
She shut her eyes as Céleste aimed her stream higher, soiling Sarah’s hair and sending a rivulet of hot piddle down the back of her collar. Now shivering with pleasure as she squeezed her own breasts and rubbed the piddle into her belly and stocking-clad legs, Sarah already knew she was going to have to come then and there. Quickly she pulled her skirt up, exposing the crotch of her panties, at which Céleste took a step back, to aim the last of her piddle between Sarah’s thighs.
Her mouth was still full, and she held on, massaging her soggy panty crotch as her pleasure rose, determined to swallow Céleste’s pee only at the very moment of orgasm. Already she was close, her cunt as wet with her own juices as it was with Céleste’s urine. She pushed her fingers deep, pressing the wet cotton of her sodden panties into the slippery groove between her sex lips. She was ready to swallow, to fill her belly with the wonderful gift of her lover’s pee, when Céleste spoke.
‘Not yet, Cocotte. I have a little something extra for you today, then you may come. Now swallow what is in your mouth.’
Sarah obeyed without hesitation, swallowing down her acrid hormonal mouthful as she stopped masturbating. Her whole body was trembling, her need for orgasm close to overpowering, but she held off, waiting obediently as Céleste moved around the kitchen. At length a wet cloth was pressed to her face, cleaning her eyes so that she could open them to look up at Céleste, her robe open at the front to show off her cunt and the turn of her buttocks. Sarah stuck her tongue out in hope.
‘Later,’ Céleste told her, ‘when you are not quite so filthy. For now, you may pleasure yourself, but only once you have eaten. Do not be long. I want you ready in one hour.’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle du Musigny,’ Sarah answered.
Céleste strode from the room naked, her robe dropped into the puddle of urine as she left.
Sarah looked to the side. On the floor was a plain plastic bowl, labelled with her pet name, Cocotte, and piled high with a lumpy glistening pile of dog food. She winced despite her excitement, but crawled over, unable to resist Céleste’s command. Somehow being dressed didn’t seem right for eating dog food, and she began to strip off, peeling away her soiled clothing bit by bit, an exquisitely disgusting process that left her trembling harder than before, so that by the time she was down to her wet panties she could no longer contain herself.
Her face went into the dog food, pushed down as she adopted a crawling position, her hand already back between her legs as she started to eat, gobbling down the slimy smelly pulp with rising eagerness. She could feel it going down her throat, while the smell and taste and texture had her close to being sick even as she clutched at her eager cunt with her orgasm rising in her head and dirty thoughts running through her mind.
She stopped, inspired to be ruder still, holding back with an effort as she tensed her bladder and deliberately let go into her panties, the urine spraying out through the thin cotton, all over her hand and between her legs. More trickled down to drip from her belly and over her breasts where they were squashed out on the floor, also wetting her thighs and soaking up into the seat of her panties.
Only when she’d quite finished did she start to eat again, revelling in having wet herself and the state she was now in – sodden with Céleste’s urine and her own, face down in a bowl of dog food as she swallowed mouthful after mouthful of the repulsive muck, until her belly was nicely bloated out, when she began to masturbate again, teasing her sex lips through her soggy panties, rubbing more firmly, tugging the piss-sodden cotton tight up between her bulging bottom cheeks, rubbing again, burying her face in what remained of the dog food, clutching at her cunt as she began to lick at the bowl, and coming, in a screaming shuddering orgasm so powerful it brought her to the edge of fainting before she finally collapsed on the filthy tiles of the kitchen floor in exhaustion, still mumbling Céleste’s name over and over.
Sarah hung her head as the beautiful young man threw his coat to her and passed on without a second glance, not from shyness or because he made her feel small, but to hide her smile. Around her, the party was in full swing, the apartment crowded almost to capacity. Over fifty of Céleste’s suitors were there, handsome young men from Paris and beyond; aristocrats from many of the oldest families in Europe, men of wealth and consequence, the sons of politicians and industrialists, up-and-coming artists and renowned sportsmen, stars of stage and screen. Their behaviour towards Sarah varied from easy condescension through amused contempt to absolute indifference, attitudes that only made her smile. Most of them she had created that very afternoon, every single one was desperately in love with Céleste, and every single one was doomed to failure, even the exquisite Antoine Saint-Coeur. When Céleste chose her lover that night it would not be a man at all. It would be Sarah.
She had chosen her shortest uniform, the one she had been given at Madame Leboeuf’s brothel, as to have her bottom and breasts showing provided a constant gentle humiliation embellished with sharper pangs of the same sweet emotion when one or another guest remarked on her unfashionably plump curves. After two hours she was already in a state of rapture, and she knew there would be no release until the early hours of the morning, when Céleste had managed to dispose of the last of the men. Until that time she had to serve, taking coats and passing drinks and, if Céleste thought it appropriate, providing sexual relief for those men unable to contain themselves any longer.
All the guests had now arrived, and Sarah took the last of the coats to her room, tossing it casually on the floor for future reference. Returning downstairs, she made her way to the kitchen. The men were precisely as ineffectual as she would have expected and, while eager to serve Céleste, had very little idea of the practicalities involved. The refrigerator door was open, for one thing, apparently due to somebody’s determination to select a bottle of Champagne from the very back and failure to return the others properly.
Sarah quickly rearranged the bottles and selected one, a vintage Krug, which she opened and poured into glasses on a tray, taking one for herself. Cé
leste had decided that Sarah should drink only in moderation, but she was sure she had come to terms with her sexuality and would not inflict any further humiliations on her lover, so had already allowed herself enough to make her pleasantly tipsy. The Krug was delicious, also cold and refreshing, so Sarah poured herself a second glass and swallowed it down before taking the tray out into the main room of the apartment.
The men paid little or no attention to her, some taking glasses, others not, but very seldom thanking her and then in a distant or superior manner. Most were in little groups, talking among themselves, with a few standing aloof. Céleste moved among them, seeming to glide in her designer gown and shoes, her body clearly naked beneath, providing a constant provocation to the men, many of whom already looked fit to burst.
Sarah’s tray was soon exhausted, and she went back to the kitchen to fill it again, this time taking her glasses out to the roof garden, where a number of men stood looking out over the rooftops, apparently lost in contemplation or possibly attempting to project an air of mystery that might entice Céleste to notice them. One even appeared close to tears, exciting Sarah’s sympathy as she offered him a glass of Champagne.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You look upset. Perhaps I can help?’
She smiled and pushed her chest out a little, eager to indulge herself in the intensely humiliating pleasure of taking him in her mouth or between her breasts while she knew he was fantasising over Céleste. He barely glanced at her, and downed the Champagne at a gulp, then took another glass.
‘I could help,’ Sarah suggested. ‘Mademoiselle du Musigny says I am to assist the guests in any way they please, any way at all.’
Strip Girl Page 21
