by Ian Smith
“You know,” mused Bewes, “that’s a lovely dress you’re wearing, Lady Penelope. I wish I had one like it for my wife.”
The girl tried to figure out where this was leading to and couldn’t. It seemed innocuous enough. “It belongs to Mr. De Roulter, actually,” she managed to say, trying to recover a tiny fraction of her lost poise.
“Is your wife the same size as our good lady here?” De Roulter asked. Bewes affirmed that she was, an answer that surprised Johnson not in the least. This was all clearly pre-planned, as was now doubtless equally clear to poor Penelope. “Well then,” continued De Roulter, “I don’t see any difficulty. You won’t want to wear it again after tonight, will you, Lady Penelope? You know what women are like,” he added to the others: “wear something once and they couldn’t possibly consider wearing it again.”
“No, that would be fine,” said Penelope, still trying to see the catch.
“Well, then,” De Roulter went on, “if you can manage without it ...”
“Yes, of course,” Penelope said.
“You’ve got enough knick-knacks and things on underneath?”
The penny, if one may be excused the pun, dropped. Penelope’s jaw fell open. “What, you mean take it off NOW?” she asked, stunned.
“Well, yes; then one of the servants can air it and brush it and wrap it up nicely for Mr. Bewes to take away with him at the end of the night. I’m sorry, we were obviously talking at cross purposes. I thought it was strange that you didn’t mind taking it off here and now. Never mind, we’ll send it to Mr. Bewes tomorrow.”
Clearly the most dire punishment awaited Lady Penelope on the morrow if she didn’t play ball, Johnson realised. “No,” she almost croaked, “I ... don’t mind. I’ve ... got some bits and pieces on underneath.”
“Are you absolutely sure? Well, that would be splendid,” De Roulter beamed. “I must say, Lady Penelope, you’re a most game and generous person.”
The young woman did not reply. Johnson could see her breathing deeply, obviously summoning the courage her next task would require. After long seconds, she had composed herself. Now she needed assistance. After a brief look around, she chose Phillips. “Could you ... undo the zip at the back of my dress, please?” she asked him a little huskily.
“Of course,” he replied, equally huskily. She turned her back to him and Johnson heard the sound of a zip being pulled down. The dress which had fitted her so well now hung baggily about her lithe frame. For a moment she hesitated, then slipped one of the slim shoulder straps off her elegant young shoulder. Another moment’s pause, then the other strap was also pushed away. “Lady” Penelope stood stock still as the dress slid down her body to land in a heap around her ankles.
She did have things on underneath, but it was totally untrue to say that she had enough on even for a gathering of close friends, let alone a society ball. She stood revealed in a sheer silk white translucent petticoat that plunged far deeper than the dress at both front and back and barely covered her hips. Beneath that, an equally white set of brassiere and panties could be clearly seen. The points of her nipples stood out through the bra and petticoat, whilst a suspicious dark patch behind the gusset of her panties indicated her triangle of pubic hair. In stark contrast to the white underclothes, a black suspender belt could be clearly seen, with black straps leading down to her dark stockings. The stockings came up to only several inches below the hem of the petticoat, leaving a good two inches of creamy, luscious thigh exposed at the top of both legs. At the end of her long, shapely legs, the stilettos now stood out incongruously.
Johnson raised his eyes to her face. Her lovely features were now deeply flushed, her expression one of deep degradation. Her hands hung limply at her sides, the elegant society hostess now replaced by an awkward, extremely embarrassed young girl. Every eye in the room was now turned on her, and she knew it. There was a long silence.
Sir Charles eventually broke it. “Yes, definitely suspenders,” he murmured.
“Very nice,” agreed the colonel.
“You know, colonel, I can understand your interest in stockings now,” De Roulter said casually. “Well, we must mingle!”
As if that were a signal, which it quite possibly was, the group broke up and went five separate ways, leaving Penelope standing very uncertainly, her lovely purple gown still around her ankles. One of the servants appeared at her side and coughed discreetly. Miserably, Penelope stepped out of the dress and watched him pick it up and take it away. She must feel even more vulnerable now that it’s gone, Johnson reflected as the servant disappeared from view. Still very red-faced, the girl stood there, continuing to attract a great deal of attention.
“Nice weather we’re having,” a man observed to her.
“What? Oh, er, yes, quite,” she stumbled out.
“Not too hot or humid,” the man continued. “The air conditioning in here is very good anyway, though. De Roulter must have paid a fair sum for it.”
“Er, yes, I suppose he must,” Penelope managed.
“You look very cool, though,” the man said to her meaningfully. Penelope had no answer for that.
What for her must have been long minutes went by. A middle aged man and woman passed by her and stopped. The man said to her, “I must say, I think you have a lot of courage just to stay in here dressed like that.”
“Er, thank you,” Penelope said, still very flushed.
“Well, I don’t,” said the rather unattractive woman. “Flashing yourself around like this! A common little tart, that’s what you are.”
“Hardly that, my dear,” the man said with forbearance. “This is the Lady Penelope Faversham.”
“Huh! Not much of a lady if you ask me! They hardly had to twist your arm to get your clothes off you, did they, girl?”
Penelope squirmed. “No,” she said, and could offer no further defence of herself.
They moved on. Johnson continued to watch, highly amused. Of course, the title “lady” was false, he knew, but if this was the girl he thought it was then her background was equally impeccable, perhaps more.
Ever so gradually, the party returned to normal. Johnson, watching her carefully, saw the girl relax just slightly. She was still red-faced and acutely aware of the spectacle she was making of herself, but she was adjusting with time just a little, and she was no longer quite so much the centre of attention. When a small commotion began on the far side of the ballroom, she was almost forgotten.
A querulous older woman, clutching a poodle, was complaining rather loudly. “It’s quite unacceptable,” she was saying. “We’ve got a long way to travel home tonight and my little Fifi here just refuses to settle in his travel box unless it’s lined with silk. Do you, my darling?” She smothered the dog with kisses.
“I’m extremely sorry, madam,” the harassed senior butler was saying. “We just don’t have any silk here at the moment. We sent it all away to be washed.”
“Well, it just won’t do. It’s not Fifi’s fault he did pooh-poohs in his silk on the way here, is it?” She addressed the dog. “No, it’s not your faulty-waulty, my little munchkin-wunchkin, is it?”
Tearing himself away from this nauseating affection, Johnson was just in time to see De Roulter appear at Penelope’s side and say quietly to her, “your petticoat is silk, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” she replied without thinking, and then realised the implication. Her mouth dropped open once again. “Oh no, master, please!” she began as she turned to him, but he had already moved off. For a moment Johnson thought that she would run after him, but she didn’t. He had spoken, and that was that. The whole thing had quite obviously been staged for this precise purpose. Her fate was sealed. She turned and walked towards the still loudly protesting woman. “Excuse me, madam,” she said as steadily as she could manage.
The harridan stopped in
mid-harangue and looked at the half-dressed young woman dubiously. “Yes?”
Penelope ran a little of her petticoat through her fingers. “Would ... this do for Fifi?”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “Why, yes, it would be perfect, but I couldn’t possibly expect you to part with it, especially dressed the way you are already.”
“I ... don’t mind,” Penelope lied.
“No, no, no, it’s out of the question. You’d be almost naked without it.”
“Honestly, I’ll ... be all right.”
“Well, all right then. I must say it’s very good of you.”
The big crowd that had been drawn to this woman was now focused once again on Penelope. Johnson, watching as closely as ever, saw her realise that the woman and everyone else was now waiting for her to divest herself of her most substantial remaining garment. Trembling, she grasped the short hem of it in both hands, hesitated for a moment, then pulled it up and over her head in one swift movement, presumably before her nerve deserted her.
Reduced now to bra, panties, suspender belt and stockings, Penelope was truly beautiful. Johnson admired the trim, firm stomach, the excellent figure, the rounded breasts nestling in their cups. Bereft of the semi-transparent silk petticoat, the triangle of pubic hair now stood out clearly against the thin gauze of her panties. The petticoat, still held in her hand as the full force of her latest self-degradation hit her, was almost snatched away by the woman who disappeared almost immediately. Johnson very much doubted whether Fifi would get to make a nest in it.
Penelope was now very firmly the centre of attention once more and knew it. The male eyes were increasingly less discreet in their stares, whilst the female eyes frowned disapproval at best and downright hostility at worst. Totally miserable, the girl just stood there, hands once again by her sides. As before, there were a series of comments, some muttered, some quite loud enough to hear. Admiring complements about her body were mixed with expressions of unease about her “forwardness.”
“Ow, ow, ow!”
The exclamation came from right beside Johnson’s carefully chosen seat near the wall and made him jump. Turning, he saw a coloured servant girl licking her fingers. Several others had turned their eyes away from Penelope’s superb body to check out this latest disturbance.
“What’s the problem, girl?” the senior waiter asked sharply.
“I left this coffee pot tray on the warmer,” the maid explained. “It’s got really hot. I can’t pick it up.”
“Well, haven’t you got any oven gloves or anything?” The girl shook her head miserably. Her uniform didn’t leave her anything she could use. “Well then, you’ll just have to burn your hands, won’t you?” said the waiter, irritated.
Ahead of the plot, Johnson looked around for De Roulter. He saw him, some distance away from Penelope, catch her attention and wink at her. The girl’s face turned a shade redder. She walked over towards the servant girl and licked her dry lips. “Can I help?” she asked tremulously.
The senior waiter turned to her and bowed obsequiously, pretending not to notice her semi-nude state. “Thank you for asking, Lady Penelope,” he said politely, “but I fear not, unless you have some slightly padded material we can use like a pair of oven gloves; and, if you’ll excuse my saying so, you don’t seem to have a lot of anything at this moment.”
Penelope’s face went a little redder, but like Johnson, she had got the plot. “My ... bra is slightly padded,” she said, trying to hide her evident dejection. “Only slightly, though,” she added in a ludicrous moment of hope.
“Well, that’s very thoughtful and helpful of you, madam,” the waiter replied politely. “I’m sure that it will be enough. Do you, ahem, require any assistance in taking it off?”
“No,” replied Penelope shortly. She reached behind her back and undid the clip, then crossed her hands to push the straps over her young shoulders and held her arms out to let the cups fall away from her. Turning her back on the now fully attentive audience, she passed the bra to the maid, almost burying her firm young chest in Johnson’s face as she did so and muttering an instinctive “excuse me” to him. Then, as the maid used the bra as an oven glove and carried the tray away, Penelope turned to face the crowd and stood, head lowered, hands behind her back, now topless. She was waiting for the final contrived little scene, for it was as obvious to her as to Johnson now that De Roulter would not stop until she had been made to strip herself fully naked. Johnson noted that she wore her panties outside the suspender straps; doubtless she had received very precise instructions on the way she was to dress for tonight. He also noted that she was shaking and shivering with humiliation, shame and fear. He marvelled that De Roulter had got her so terrified of him that she would put herself through this without rebellion.
She did not have to wait long. One of the chauffeurs put his head around the front door (quite unrealistic, as if he would normally even think of doing that at an event such as this, but who cared?) and called out, “excuse me, but the fan felt has gone on my car. Has anybody got any elastic with them, say, knicker elastic or something like that?”
“Yes,” sighed Penelope resignedly, not even waiting for the signal from De Roulter. She pushed her thumbs into her briefs, clearly lost to all hope now, and pushed them down. From slightly behind her and very near to her, Johnson saw her firmly muscled young buttocks exposed in all their bare glory, and also saw more than a hint of the secrets between her legs as she stooped to step out of the panties. She was a truly lovely young woman. She handed the limp garment to the chauffeur and watched him depart with it, then turned to face the audience. Johnson noted that her trembling had increased.
Then, cruelly, De Roulter started the party going once more.
Johnson watched the girl struggle to cope with it all. She was now totally naked except for the suspender belt, stockings and stilettos. Somehow those items only made things worse: they reminded both her and everybody else of the elegantly dressed young lady she had been only half an hour or so ago. Also, the sight of the stocking tops and her creamy thighs above them lent an intimacy to her appearance that was somehow more exposing that total nudity would have been; and the high heels forced her to maintain a poise and balance that looked quite ridiculous with her boobs and pussy fully on show. Men crowded around her, trying to strike up banal conversations, but not one of them ever had his eyes on hers; each talked to her with his eyes firmly on her chest or lower. Verbally stumbling, Penelope’s distracted attempts at responding to their conversation held little coherence. She remained, understandably, exceptionally nervous and on edge. It did not help when from time to time disparaging remarks were made about her seeming enthusiasm for removing her clothes. These were never made to her face, but were often deliberately loud enough for her to hear. It was this aspect of things that made her humiliation so total. If everybody present had known that she was De Roulter’s slave, then she would have only had to cope with her nudity itself, bad enough though that might be; but as it was, she knew that everybody assumed her to be just another guest and her behaviour therefore quite inexplicable. Even most of those who had participated in the various staged scenes probably didn’t realise the truth. Only Johnson, De Roulter himself, the house staff and one other person who was about to make his entrance were fully in the know.
“PENELOPE! What on earth do you think you are doing?”
The bawled male voice made her almost jump out of her skin and startled quite a few others to boot. Spinning round, Penelope came almost face to face with a large, pompous looking man in late middle age, sporting a ridiculous walrus moustache and looking for all the world like Jimmy Edwards.
De Roulter appeared. “Lord Faversham, I ...” he began.
The other man ignored him, focusing on the trembling girl. “I can’t believe it!” he thundered. “My only daughter, standing around stark naked in front of all these
people! Explain yourself!”
Clearly the girl had been briefed before the evening started that this man would be masquerading as her father. Doubtless it had completely slipped her mind, understandably preoccupied as she had been with her plight. “I ...” she began, not having the faintest clue what to say.
“Lord Faversham,” De Roulter began again, “I can assure you that this was not my doing. All evening your daughter seems, well, to have taken every slightest opportunity to undress herself in public. I can assure you that this was not my idea, nor did I or anybody else here encourage her.” There were numerous murmurs of confirmation around the room. To those not in the know, Johnson reflected, which was the vast majority of the audience, this was exactly how it appeared.
“Is this true?” Faversham bawled the question at the shaking, exposed girl.
“Well, I ... I ...”
“ANSWER ME, GIRL!”
There was only one answer. “Yes ... I suppose so ...”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, daddy,” she replied meekly.
“And just what do you think I feel like, with my daughter flashing her tits, cunt and ass at every man in sight?”
“Er ... I don’t know.”
“Well, I won’t tolerate it! Put your clothes on this instant!”
The girl squirmed beautifully, Johnson thought. “I ... don’t have them,” she pleaded pitifully. “I gave them all away.”
The so-called “Lord Faversham” looked ready to explode. “Then you’re leaving this party right now,” he announced. “Go out and sit in the car until it’s time to go home.”
