Work of Art
by Jennifer Harrison

Part 1

I tell you what, sometimes it really pays to pay attention when people talk to you, it saves a lot of confusion and embarrassment later. Hi, my name is Teresa, and the story I want to tell you is from when I was much younger, an eighteen year old first year art student, in fact. I was actually a bigger girl then – my mum called it puppy fat, the kids at school just called it fat, and were pretty cruel about it. As this story is about art, you could say I was Rubenesque, although I wasn’t that fat, but I did have big boobs – I know you like cup sizes on this site, so I was about an EE (!). I slimmed down a lot in my twenties, including my breasts, thank God – they were just too big to live with!

Anyway, I had managed to reach the ripe old age of eighteen as a virgin – not through choice, I might add! – and now I was at art college, horny as hell, and totally naïve – not a good combination.

I had a crush on one of my tutors, called Serge – he was about thirty five, was French, had designer stubble, dirty blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. God, I was totally infatuated with him from day one, but then every girl in the college was probably the same, so I worshipped him from afar, pining like a fat little puppy.

Once a week I had a tutorial one-on-one with him, but this was a nightmare, because whenever he was talking to me and I was looking into those beautiful blue eyes, there was this sort of buzzing in my ears, and I didn’t take in a tenth of what he said to me. He must have thought me a complete moron too, as I became utterly tongue tied when he asked me a question. I’m going red with embarrassment just thinking about it all these years later. I would go back to my tiny little flat and cry in despair at my uselessness, then bring myself off thinking about him – I may have been a virgin, but I had experienced plenty of orgasms, it’s just that they were all at my own hand. I was a sad case.

I managed to get through the first year without getting thrown out, despite demonstrating no discernible talent or aptitude for art, and it was my final tutorial before the end of the summer term. Serge was talking to me, and as usual, I was staring into those eyes and hearing buzzing, when something suddenly got through.

“I finally have an opportunity for a major exhibition, and I want you to be my model,” he was saying. Whoa!

“You want me?” I asked, incredulously, “Really? Okay!” Wow! I was going to get to model for him! That meant spending hours and hours together!

“Are you sure?” he asked, sounding a little taken aback by my enthusiasm.

“I would absolutely love to help with your work!” I gushed, “When is the exhibition?”

“It’s next week,” he replied, giving me a simply divine smile that just turned me to jelly, “I’ll send you all the details. And you really don’t mind being naked for several hours at a time?”

“Oh no, it sounds like fun!” I laughed. Naked, eh? This was getting better and better! I imagined myself, Kate Winslett to his Leonardo DiCaprio, draped over a chaise longue as he paints me, then ravishes me in the back of a vintage car later…

The address I had to turn up at was a swanky private gallery in the West End, which I thought was a bit odd – surely he’d have to paint me before the exhibition, wouldn’t he? Shouldn’t we be meeting in his studio, rather than the gallery? Oh well, I assumed he knew what he was doing…

I went in and was met by this really snooty French woman. She was tall, slim, gorgeous, well-dressed – all the things I wasn’t. I introduced myself and asked for Serge.

“So, you’re the model?” There was the sound of surprise, possibly incredulity, in the question, and she looked me up and down critically. I felt like I was back in school, being interrogated by the school bully about my lunch money.

“I can see why he chose you,” she said, her gaze fixed on my breasts, “you’d better come this way, Serge is in the gallery at the moment. I am Francoise, his artistic director.”

Francoise led me through several rooms with various interesting pieces of avant garde art on display. Eventually, we came into a room, and I could see Serge with his back to me, in front of what looked like a giant spider’s web.

“Ah, Terese, ma petite, bonjour, bonjour!” he exclaimed as he rushed over to us and air kissed me on both cheeks, twice.

“I see you have met my wife, Francoise. Merveilleux!”

I was devastated – he was married? I didn’t hear much after that as I was in a daze, and I only registered snatches of what he was going on about.

“…centrepiece of the exhibition… performance installation… woman and the monster… man’s fear of female sexuality…” He did drone on a bit.

“Now, I must go and meet my sponsors and guests. I will leave you in the very capable hands of Francoise.” More air kisses, and then he was gone, and I was alone with the school bully.

“You’d better get your clothes off then, hadn’t you, ‘ma petite’.” The last bit was said with dripping sarcasm. I swallowed hard, and realised I’d got myself into a bit of a fix. But I’d said I would do this – had been incredibly enthusiastic, in fact – and I couldn’t back out now without completely ruining Serge’s big show. So, rather reluctantly, I started to take my clothes off, under the implacable gaze of the rather cold Francoise. Eventually, I was naked, trying to cover myself with my hands and failing rather badly.

She led me to the spider’s web, which I now saw was constructed from black rope about half an inch thick, and mounted in a steel frame about six feet square. She pointed out two wooden blocks on the floor, about three feet apart, and told me to stand on them, with my back to the web, so I was facing out into the room. I did as I was told, having to stand with my legs embarrassingly far apart. The centre of the web was now against the small of my back.

Francoise bent down and, taking a clear plastic strap I hadn’t seen, passed it around my ankle and buckled it in place. There was one for my other ankle as well, so now I was strapped to the web. She attached similar straps around each of my thighs and around my stomach. Then, she told me to stretch my arms upwards while she strapped them down as well, so I was spread-eagle on the web, naked, and entirely helpless. This was not looking good for me.

“Yes,” Francoise said, with an evil little smile playing on her lips, “I can see why Serge chose you.” As she spoke, she massaged my breasts, one in each hand, squeezing and stroking them, before leaning in and licking my large areolas and sucking my nipples.

I was so shocked I couldn’t speak! No-one had ever touched me like this, no man, let alone a woman, and the effect was electric, with a direct line to my pussy. But she stopped, just when I wanted her to keep going, and walked away. She went to the far end of the room and pressed a button on the wall. Suddenly, the whole frame with the spider’s web, and me on it, started to rise into the air, until I was halfway between floor and ceiling, suspended there. My weight was taken on the thigh straps, and it was fairly comfortable, although it did spread my legs even further apart. Francoise came back over to me and picked up the blocks I’d been standing on, then looked up at me with a smile. I just looked down at her dumbly and watched as she walked to the door, switched out the lights, and left, shutting the door behind her. I was left in the pitch black, with nothing to do but wait.

It was maybe an hour before the door opened again. Some very soft lighting in the middle of the room illuminated the arrival of a group of people into the room, ten, twenty, maybe more, men in suits and women in cocktail dresses, all with drinks in their hands, chatting animatedly and looking round the room to see what was going on here. I realised they couldn’t see me, up in the air and in the shadows, which was a relief, though I knew it couldn’t last. I saw Serge stride into the room and go to the far wall, where he faced his audience.

“Mesdames et Messieurs, thank you for sparing your time – and your money (polite laughter) – for my humble exhibits. This is the final piece, what I call a performance installation, entitled ‘The Monster Within Man’, I hope you will like it.”

The light went out and a film projection appeared on the blank wall opposite me. A girl wearing a pink gingham dress sits on a giant toadstool, eating a very large piece of bread dripping with what looks like honey. Some pleasant music is playing in the background. This goes on for a while, and the girl gradually gets honey all over her face, and her hands, and then her dress – she is a really messy eater! She takes the – frankly bizarre – decision to remove the dress, but then she gets honey, or treacle, or whatever it is, all over her body, and her bra and panties. So, of course, she strips out of them too, so now she’s siting on the toadstool, stark naked, but still stuffing her face! How does she stay so slim if she eats so much bread and honey, I found myself wondering. Mind you, most of it seemed to be missing her mouth and dripping on her breasts…

The music changes and becomes sinister, scarier. Gradually, we see, descending behind her, a giant spider! She’s still blissfully unaware, despite this huge great thing, as big as she is, right behind her. The spider rears up, its forelegs about to engulf her, when the image fades to black.

Suddenly, a spotlight came on pointing directly at me, and everyone turned, staring up at me, hanging there in the web. The music transferred from the film and began blaring out of speakers either side of me. It was certainly very atmospheric, and I felt a sense of dread creeping over me. A noise above me made me look up, and I let out a scream – the giant spider was coming out of the ceiling and descending towards me!

Yes, I knew it wasn’t real, of course I did, but it’s like when you scream at the movies. Plus it was moving its legs very realistically, and its eyes – all six of them – were shining, like beady little marbles. And I don’t like spiders, even little ones, at the best of times. It was just really scary, okay?

When it was right in front of me, it felt like it was staring at me, and I saw a picture appear on the wall behind it. I realised it was a picture of me, close up, focused, in fact zoomed in, on my boobs! The thing had a camera in it, and what it saw was being projected to the audience.

The legs of the thing came towards me and I felt them against my skin, making me scream in alarm again. I felt something touching my breast and looked down to see that the spider’s leg ended in a small clamp, and the thing was closing on my nipple! I squirmed and tried to get away from it, but it kept adjusting its position until finally it was in the right place and clamped shut. I squealed in pain as the thing bit down hard, and a few seconds later, I let out another howl as my other nipple was caught in the vice-like grip. I felt two painful pinches on the soft skin of my tummy as the next two legs attacked me, then my bottom was feeling the pinch as two more legs got to grips with my ample flesh. This thing was evil, and it was fully intent on torturing me. I just thanked my stars it didn’t have any more legs. Spiders are insects, right?

It didn’t take me long to realise my mistake, as the final two legs attached themselves to the edges of my pussy and made me scream in both surprise and pain, as they pulled my lips apart, exposing me completely to the rapt audience. Meanwhile, the top two legs had decided to take my poor, tortured nipples for a tour of the surrounding area, pulling my breasts all out of shape as they tried to keep up. The picture on the wall panned from my distended nipples, to my spread pussy, to my tear stained face, whimpering for mercy.

The mechanical monster used its grip on my flesh to pull itself closer to me, until the head was right next to my face, like that scene in Alien, when Sigourney Weaver meets the alien. Suddenly, I heard what sounded like the faint crackle of a speaker.

“Enjoying yourself yet?” It was Francoise’ voice! She was controlling this instrument of torture! I was being assaulted by my tutor’s wife!

“Don’t worry, the fun part starts now.”

The back section of the robot creature swung forward, until it was inches from my body, the tip of the abdomen between my thighs. To my horror, something extended from the body, it’s stinger! As I looked at it more closely, I saw that it actually resembled… oh my God, it was going to put that thing inside me!

“For God’s sake, someone help me!” I screamed, “It’s going to rape me!”

I looked down at the sea of faces, but I realised they thought this was all part of the performance, and from the expressions I could see, they were enjoying the show!

I let out another scream as it thrust into me, forcing its way deep inside my virgin place. I was in so much pain, but then, somehow, transformed into unbelievable pleasure. It thrust in and out, giving me sensations I’d never had before, and pretty soon I was thrusting back. The next time I screamed, it was in orgasmic ecstasy, and I didn’t care about anyone or anything at that moment. But the moment was over all too soon. The spider released me and went back up to its secret lair in the ceiling, leaving me hanging, exhausted, from the web.

The audience broke out in applause, and I like to think it was for my performance, as well as the spider’s.

It was another hour before Serge and Francoise returned and finally released me.

“Darling, you were magnifique!” Serge exclaimed enthusiastically, hugging my naked body to his.

“My backers were overwhelmed by my genius, and your performance was remarked on too. So, after three more nights here, we leave for Paris on the first leg of our two month tour of Europe!”

Two months of being stripped naked each night, tied up and being forced to cum in front of a crowd of faceless strangers?! I couldn’t wait!

* * *

As we sped across northern France on the Eurostar towards Paris, I couldn’t believe my luck – here I was, about to spend most of the long vacation travelling around Europe, starring in an art show, and getting paid for it! Okay, not a lot, but Francoise had given me a small advance when I’d signed the contract for the two month tour, shortly after my ‘audition’ at the London gallery. It had hurt my pride a little when I found out I wasn’t their first choice – the woman in the video was supposed to do it, but had got a better offer at the last minute to star in a porn film – but then, I wouldn’t ever have expected to be picked for something like this, so second choice was pretty good for me.

The journey was spent sitting and chatting. Well, actually, it was pretty much a monologue from Serge. I think it must have been the presence of his wife and artistic director alongside him, but I couldn’t stare into those limpid blue pools (yes, I feel a bit queasy at that language too, but it was how I felt at the time), and get lost in his beauty. I ended up listening to him and, oh my God! What a crashing bore! His sole topic of conversation was himself – he only talked about his art in order to illustrate what a genius he was. Maybe he was a genius – like I said before, I’m not sure I have an artistic bone in my body – but, to my ear, he was insufferably arrogant, self-centred and vain. Don’t get me wrong, I would have gone to bed with him in a heartbeat, just so long as he promised not to talk! That started me off into a little daydream, where he was trying to talk but couldn’t, due to having my pussy on his face! I felt myself blushing at the thought, and I shot a glance at Francoise to see if she’d noticed.

I was startled to find she was staring at me intently, and I quickly looked out of the window, blushing even more deeply. Had she read my carnal thoughts about her husband? That stare felt like it went deep into my soul! I glanced back surreptitiously at her every few minutes, and each time her steely gaze was fixed on me. I was becoming unnerved, and stared at the scenery flashing past, ignoring Serge’s continued cataloguing of his virtues.

I think he must have had to draw breath at some point, because Francoise suddenly asked me a question about my background. As I stuttered out a reply, Serge quickly became bored that we weren’t talking about him, closed his eyes, and was soon asleep. Francoise continued to interrogate me about everything from my childhood to my sex life, and although I was blushing furiously, I felt compelled to answer even the most intimate of questions, under her unyielding gaze. I was intensely relieved when we arrived in Gare du Nord and disembarked.

We were staying in a fairly low rent hotel to save money, and I was shocked to learn that, to save more money, the three of us would be sharing a room! It didn’t seem to be an issue to Serge and Francoise, who were totally cool with the idea, and I went along with it, being too shy and embarrassed to say anything. I realised that paying for my own room would cost more than they were paying me, so I swallowed my pride and tried to look like I was cool with it too.

The room was a bit shabby, and had a double and a single bed. There wasn’t even an en suite, we had to go down the corridor to the communal bathroom. It was pretty late, so I grabbed my nightie and my wash bag, and went to the bathroom, leaving the other two to do whatever they were doing. I took off my make-up, brushed my teeth, and put on my nightie, but keeping my underwear on underneath – the nightie was a little brief, and I didn’t want to inadvertently flash anyone.

When I got back to the room, Serge was stripped down to his Y fronts, and I automatically glanced at the bulge in the front before I could stop myself, noticing it was quite large. I blushed and looked at Francoise who, inevitably it seemed, was staring at me and had clearly seen the look, so I blushed some more and, flustered, went to my bed, fussing with the rather thin duvet. Serge left the room to go to the bathroom, still dressed only in his pants – crikey, the guy had no shame or self-consciousness!

“Would you help me with this, please, Terèse?” Francoise asked in a sultry tone. She was standing with her back to me, holding up her glossy black hair, clearly inviting me to unzip her dress. Why couldn’t she just wait for Serge to come back?! My hands were shaking a little as I pulled down the zip, and as I stood back, she turned and stepped out of the dress, revealing the most elegant and expensive underwear I’d ever seen – satin bra, silk French knickers, suspenders and sheer stockings, all in black. With her four-inch high heels, she looked a million dollars, or maybe euros.

“Thank you, darling,” she said as she hung the garment in the wardrobe. Serge returned and, to my astonishment, whipped off his briefs and climbed into the double bed, naked. I had only caught a glimpse of him from the back, but his buttocks looked pretty firm and impressive to my untrained eye. I realised Francoise had caught me peeking again, and I became a fireball of embarrassment. I went to get into my single bed.

“A moment, Terèse,” Francoise ordered, and I stopped, turning to face her. She was standing with her legs apart and hands on hips, looking powerful and very sexy.

“I need to check something,” she continued, “take off your clothes, please.”

“I-I beg your pardon?” I stammered, totally taken aback.

“For the show, I need to check something, strip please!”

The tone of command in her voice was unmistakable. I can rationalise it by saying I was effectively her employee, she had already seen me naked, and it was no big deal, but I know what happened – I responded to that tone. I glanced at Serge, to see he was reading his newspaper, oblivious to anything else, as it wasn’t about him. I found it a little hurtful that he wasn’t interested enough to see me naked to even look up from the racing pages or whatever – actually he was probably re-reading the review of the London show – but I wasn’t surprised. Slowly, I lifted my nightie over my head and dropped it on the bed, revealing my cheap bra and big knickers, before looking beseechingly at the woman in front of me. Her expression didn’t change, she just waited for me to continue. Which, eventually, I did, unable to resist that commanding look, trying to cover myself with my hands once I was nude.

“Hands by your sides!” she ordered in an exasperated voice, making me feel guilty for wasting her time. She stared openly at my crotch, and I went even redder.

“As I thought,” she said, almost to herself, “the girl in the video has a shaven pubis. For authenticity, so must you. Don’t you agree, Serge?” There was a noncommittal grunt from the bed, and I don’t think he even glanced up.

“Come!” Francoise picked up her wash bag and took my hand, heading for the door. I reached for my nightie but she had already pulled me away and suddenly I was in the hallway, naked! I thought I might die of shame at any moment if someone walked by, but we made it to the bathroom without seeing anyone. Francoise told me to stand in the bathtub, which I did, and she ran warm water from the shower over my pubic hair. I felt like a little girl as I stood there and allowed her to lather me up, then carefully shave away every last scrap of my curly mop. I dried myself, feeling how the rough towel scoured my sensitive skin, a little alarmed by the curious sensation, while she brushed her teeth and removed her make-up. Then she took my hand again and led me out of the bathroom.

I wasn’t so lucky this time, as outside the door, waiting to use the bathroom, was an elderly lady in a dressing gown and curlers. She looked at both of us, then at my newly shaven pussy, and an evil-looking grin came to her face, as if she had decided something about me, something dirty. I opened my mouth to explain, but realised that, even if I’d known how to speak French, I couldn’t explain anyway. The woman swept past us, and we returned to the room without further incident.

As we walked to my bed, Francoise picked up my polyester nightie and my rather worn underwear.

“You should be wearing silk, my dear,” she remarked as she sashayed across the room.

“I-I can’t afford it!” I protested, watching her throw my clothes in the furthest corner of the room.

“Then sleep naked!” she retorted, half turning to me with a smile. “I always do.”

I watched transfixed, as she kicked off her heels and put her foot on the chair, before unclipping the suspenders and rolling down her stocking. She repeated this on her other leg, then removed the suspender belt. Next came the bra, releasing her perfect, perky breasts – what a contrast to my ugly monstrosities! Finally, she slid her silk knickers down her legs, revealing her pert round cheeks, and I could have cried at the unfairness of it all, thinking of the wobbly mass of my own derriere! She turned to face me, and I stared at the forest of tight black curls on her mound, which was thick and luxuriant, so neat it must have been trimmed. As she pinned her hair up in the mirror, I saw the equally luxuriant underarm hair, and one of the rumours I’d heard about French women was confirmed.

“Enjoying the show?” she asked with a little smile on her full, red lips. I was caught staring again! I turned away and got under the duvet, curling into a ball of embarrassment. A couple of minutes later, the lights went out and I was plunged into the safety of the darkness.

I couldn’t sleep, I just lay there thinking about what had just happened – I had no idea what had just happened, but I thought about all these weird events and the feelings they had engendered. My fingers explored the strange nakedness of my pussy and I saw Francoise undressing once again, in my mind’s eye. I had to resist the temptation to let my fingers explore a little more vigorously, and I turned over restlessly, staring at the dim outline of the other bed, wondering what they were trying to do to me.

As I was lying there, I saw movement and started to hear noises from across the room. As the sounds of creaking bedsprings joined the grunts and moans, it was clear that Serge and Francoise were making love. I wanted to turn away but, for some reason, I couldn’t, I just lay there, transfixed by the vague outline in the dark of the duvet going up and down. I realised my fingers had slipped between my shaven lips and were slowly rubbing along the slit, toying with my clitoris.

I froze as the duvet was thrown back and a naked body rose from the bed. I realised it was Francoise’ slender frame, and she was riding on top of the prone form of her husband. The noise levels went up, and I knew I would never have slept through this. I wondered whether anyone in an adjoining room could sleep through it either – they were certainly going at it with gusto!

The activity before me reached a rousing climax, as it were, the body collapsed back onto the bed, and moments later the duvet was back in place and all was quiet. I was very aroused, having imagined myself riding in the French woman’s place, but I hadn’t managed to bring myself to orgasm at the same time as the others. Now, I couldn’t continue to finger myself without making a noise, and in the sudden silence, I was too self-conscious to do it. This left me unable to sleep, and horny as hell but unable to bring myself off. It was a long night!

I must have fallen asleep at some point, because I awoke with a start at a sudden noise. I must also have kicked off the duvet in the night, because I was suddenly aware I was cold and naked, and on display. Serge was heading for the door, but he was also naked, and I could see his… I want to say ‘willy’, but that sounds so childish in this story… I saw his cock, and it was fully erect. This must be the famous ‘morning glory’ a man gets when he badly needs to pee. I couldn’t believe he was going into the corridor like that, but he did!

“Ah, you’re awake at last!” I turned and saw Francoise standing near me, still naked, stretching her lithe body like a cat. God, she looked so sexy! My eyes went to her crotch, where I saw the dried cum from the previous night on her pubic hair, and was amazed by her total lack of self-consciousness.

“Come on, let’s take a shower!” Once again, I found myself being hustled naked into the corridor, but now we had to wait for Serge to come out of the bathroom, and as we stood there, a middle-aged couple walked by, giving us both, but me in particular, filthy looks. When Serge finally opened the door, he gave his wife a peck on the lips, said ‘good morning’ to me, and went back to the room with barely a glance. If I still had any hopes of him ever fancying me, they were well and truly crushed right there by his complete lack of interest.

“There is never enough hot water for two showers,” Francoise explained as she stepped into the tub and gestured for me to get in with her. As before, there seemed to be no gainsaying the woman, and I found myself standing uncomfortably close to her as she pulled the curtain around us and turned on the water.

We only had one bar of soap between us, and she used it to get a good lather on her hands before passing it to me. But, rather than washing her own body as I expected, she started to rub her hands over my breasts, covering them in soap! And she didn’t stop there either, soaping my back, stomach, then reaching around me and massaging my buttocks. When she brought her hands around to the front and ran her fingers across my pussy, I let out a yelp, then allowed her to push my thighs apart and wash between my legs. She took the shower head off the wall, and played the powerful spray across my bare mound. Now I was moaning quite loudly, and I was sure I was about to cum, but at the last moment, she took the spray away and used it to rinse the soap off the rest of my body.

“My turn now,” she said, spreading her arms to make her body available to me. I did what she’d done to me, except with more timidity and less confidence. When it came to her pussy, I tentatively brushed at her bush as lightly as possible, but she grabbed my hand and pressed it against her body.

“Harder,” she ordered with a smile, “I’m a bit dirty down there.” I swallowed hard, and rubbed her more vigorously, eliciting an appreciative moan from her. She pulled her lips wide apart, forcing me to stimulate her even more. I brought down the shower head and rinsed her clean, hearing her moans becoming more strident, just as they had the previous night. When I judged she had reached the same level of arousal as I had earlier, I went to put the shower head back, but she grabbed my hand.

“I’ll tell you when to stop,” she growled, fixing me with a glare and pulling in my free hand to finger her, while the spray pounded against her clitoris. It was clear she was not going to let me stop until she had cum, so I resigned myself to it, and ensured it was over as quickly as possible. God, she was noisy when she climaxed! As she leaned back against the wall with a smile on her face, she suddenly pulled me in and planted her open lips against mine, her tongue forcing its way into my mouth, while her other hand pulled our wet bodies together. The kiss was sensational, and the feel of our breasts squashed together and sliding around, as the now-lukewarm water cascaded down on us was fantastic! By the time she broke away, I was hot and bothered all over again!

But there was to be no relief for me and, once we had dried ourselves, I left the bathroom even more frustrated than when I went in. Outside, we met the same woman as we had the previous evening, and it was clear from the smug, knowing look on her face that she had heard Francoise’ vocals earlier. I quickly returned to my state of near permanent red-faced embarrassment, and we returned to the room.

When we got back, Serge was dressed and once more engrossed in the newspaper. I went to my bag to get my clothes for the day, but it had been emptied. I looked at the other two, but Serge was still reading, while Francoise had put on some super-sexy cream-coloured French knickers and camisole, and was now choosing a dress.

“Excuse me, but has someone taken my clothes?” It felt ridiculous to say it, but that was clearly what had happened. Francoise turned to me with a smile.

“I’ll get you some new clothes today, darling, you have to be smartly dressed, as you are representing us to some very important people. In the meantime, I got rid of those cheap rags.”

I was astonished, and I’m sure my face showed it. How could she be so cruel, and arrogant, and dictatorial? How dare she take my stuff! My mind went back to my first impression of her – the school bully. And here she was in action, humiliating me and laughing in my face!

“But… but what am I to wear now?” I stammered in disbelief.

“You can relax here, cherie,” she replied nonchalantly, “you’re not needed during the setup. I’ll bring the clothes over later.”

And with that, they walked out, leaving me naked and trapped! I was utterly dumbfounded, outraged and miserable. If I could have got on a train and gone home right then, I would have done it. But, not only did I not have any clothes, I didn’t have enough money for the train or a ferry. All I could do for the moment was grind my teeth and bide my time, but the gloss had certainly gone off the trip!

After I’d searched the room in vain for my clothes, I wrapped myself in a sheet and sat down to wait for Francoise to return. There was no TV and nothing to read, so I was also bored stiff, with nothing to distract me from my thoughts. The only alarm was when the maid turned up to clean the room and, as I couldn’t explain that I didn’t want the room cleaned, she just got on with it. The embarrassing bit was when she insisted on taking the sheet I was wearing! There was a brief tug of war before she won, and I was left exposed, at least until she handed me a clean sheet.

I sat around and wondered why I had let myself be put into this situation – I had just been steamrollered by Serge’s domineering wife. Why couldn’t I be stronger? I resolved to stand up to her when she returned, demand my own clothes back, and refuse to go to the gallery and take part in the exhibition. This worm was going to turn!

Francoise finally reappeared in mid-afternoon, and on top of everything else, I was hungry and thirsty, having missed breakfast and lunch. She was carrying a number of bags, and looked very pleased with herself. I steeled myself for a confrontation.

“Francoise,” I started, speaking as firmly as I could, “I want my own clothes back, please, and I want them now. I don’t want to do the show either, I want to go home – I don’t think you have shown me any respect.” My heart was pounding, but I’d said what I had to say.

She looked around, her face a mixture of surprise and amusement.

“I’m sorry, Terèse,” she replied, putting the bags down and drawing herself up to her full height which, with the high heels, was considerably more than me. Now I felt physically intimidated, as well as psychologically.

“Did I not make myself clear? Your clothes are gone, in the rubbish. I have beautiful new clothes for you here. As for not doing the show, I could say you have signed a contract to do it, and we could sue you for breaching it. I could say, give me back the money I advanced you, then pay me for these clothes, then pay me for your train ticket here and this room, then you can find your own way home. But I’m not going to say either of those things. Keep the money. Keep the clothes.”

Her words were vaguely conciliatory, but as she said them she was slowly moving forward, and I was retreating, cowering a little.

“I will just say this. You. Will. Do. As. I. Order. “ Her tone of voice was so menacing, I was actually frightened and, as she said ‘order’, the backs of my legs hit the double bed, I lost my balance, and I fell backwards onto the mattress. Now she loomed over me, and I flinched when she put her hand out, but only to lay it against my cheek rather than slap it.

“As for respect, I think you’re right, there is a sad lack of it here. From now on, I will call you ‘ma petite souris’, and you will call me ‘Maîtresse’, do you understand ?” her hand moved from my cheek to my throat, and squeezed.

“Yes, Mattress!” I squeaked, appropriately – I didn’t know it then, but she was calling me her ‘little mouse’.

“In French!” she commanded, squeezing a little harder. I frantically thought back to my schoolgirl French classes as I struggled for breath.

“Oui, Maîtresse!”

Satisfied by my obeisance, she let me go and fetched the bags over.

“Naked, you are beautiful, little one,” she said conversationally, “but in your clothes, you looked ugly. What you need is this.”

She brought out a white, lace-covered corset, the kind of thing I’d never even seen, let alone worn. I stood up and, after a moment’s confusion and the departure of the last vestige of my resistance, I stepped into it, pulling it up my legs. It was a struggle to get it over my hips, but after a brief hiatus, I had it in place, covering me from breasts to hips. Even before it was laced, I could feel the stays squeezing me across my lower chest and stomach. When I poured my enormous boobs into the cups, for the first time in my life I suddenly had a very impressive cleavage!

Francoise had me hold onto the edge of the table as she gradually pulled the laces through, tightening the garment all around my body. I was struggling a little for breath, and my breasts seemed to be ballooning up in front of me, but still she was pulling. By the time she had finished, there were stars in front of my eyes and I was a little light headed. She packed the laces away behind the panel, zipped it into place, and slipped a tiny lock through the hasp. Oh my God! I was locked into this monster! Yet another reason I couldn’t disobey her, I realised.

“You also need decent shoes,” she said, producing a pair of black strappy sandals with what looked like six inch heels. The highest shoes I’d ever worn were two inches, so this was going to be a challenge. First, she gave me some white stockings, which came to mid-thigh, and didn’t require suspenders. After I’d pulled these on, I sat down on the edge of the bed to put the shoes on, then tottered to my feet. Francoise lent me a steadying hand as I went to the mirror on the wardrobe door.

“There!” she said triumphantly. “Not so much the sack of potatoes now, as you English say!”

I was mesmerised by the vision in front of me – I looked like a sex bomb! Jane Mansfield, Rita Hayworth, Marilyn Monroe! I was… well, none of them, but God I looked good! I had a real hourglass figure, my breasts were out on a gravity-defying platform, and my legs were shapely and relatively long. Okay, I could hardly breathe and I was soon in pain from those shoes, but I just couldn’t believe I could look so desirable.

As I was admiring myself, Francoise quietly squatted down and slipped two tiny locks through the buckles on the shoes. Now I was locked in the shoes as well. My disquiet was increasing, along with my arousal.

“Okay, let’s go!” she suddenly declared brightly.

“I can’t go out like this!” I protested, but the word had hardly left my mouth before her hand slapped hard across my face, knocking me off the heels and sending me sprawling on the carpet.

“You stupid bitch!” she spat at me. “That was a test! Don’t ever tell me what you can or cannot do, I tell you what to do and you do it! Understand?”

“Oui, Maîtresse!”

“That’s better,” she said, offering me a hand up, “now, you will do your make-up and then you will try on the dress.”

She told me to apply black mascara and eyeliner, then gave me some blood red lip gloss. I looked just this side of a tart. Then she started brushing my mousey brown hair out.

If we’d been friends, we would have talked.
If we’d been acquaintances, we would have talked.
If we’d been employer and employee, we would have talked.
If we’d been art director and model, we would have talked.
If we’d been equals, we would have talked.
I sat in silence.
She brushed.
In silence.

When she was done, she plaited my hair into two pigtails at either side of my head. It looked rather juvenile, but somehow familiar. When Francoise brought out the dress – pink gingham – I realised that she was dressing me and making me look more like the girl in the video at the start of my ‘performance’.

The dress was tight around the body – it wouldn’t have fit if I hadn’t been wearing the corset – with white cotton puff sleeves and white cotton ruffles across the bust, framing and presenting my décolletage, as the French say – ‘tits’, we’d say in English. The skirt flared out from low on my hips to just – only just – below my bottom. There was a significant expanse of flesh between the hem of the dress and the stocking tops, and it was clear that any false move on my part, or even a gentle breeze, would expose either my bare arse or my bald pussy!

“Please, Mistress –” I started but she raised a finger.

“Ah, ah, ah! French!”

“Er, s’il vous plait, Maîtresse… je veux … les … knickers, s’il vous plait?” My schoolgirl French couldn’t cope, which was perhaps the point – she was taking my voice away as well!

“Good effort, ma petite souris,” she responded condescendingly, “but no, you do not get panties – we are in the entertainment industry, and this will certainly be entertaining! Now, it really is time to go.”

I took a last look in the mirror, and thought I looked like a porn star version of Little Miss Muffet – which was entirely the point, I suppose. Good job, Francoise!

As expected, I was horribly embarrassed to be out in public dressed as I was. It started at the front desk of the hotel, where the desk clerk did a classic interpretive performance of ‘leering letch’, not sure whether to stare at my breasts or my arse, and deciding to flick between them. Out in the street, I had to contend with walking in the unfamiliar heels, as well as trying to stop the skirt from blowing up around my hips – I wasn’t entirely successful with either.

Things didn’t improve much when we went into the Metro, the Paris underground. It was out of the wind, but it was very crowded, and I could feel a lot of eyes on me. The arrival of the train took me by surprise, as it pushed a huge block of air in front of it, causing a sudden violent gust of wind! There were a number of cheers, whistles, and a smattering of applause as I fought in vain to cover myself up. Everyone on the platform got a good look at everything I had to offer below the waist. When I looked to Francoise for help, I saw she was openly laughing at my discomfort, before stepping onto the train.

I hesitated, thinking I just didn’t want to go along with her, as things would probably just get worse. She smiled at me, utterly relaxed, just waiting for it to dawn on me that I had no ticket, no money, no passport, no French, and no room key at the hotel! I was completely dependent on her! As the doors started to close, I had to jump into the carriage, twisted my ankle and fell on the floor, my dress around my waist once again. As I looked up, everyone in the carriage was staring at me, either in shock, disgust, amusement, or lust. Francoise, still smiling, offered me a hand and helped me to my feet.

“See?” she said, “I told you it would be entertaining.”

Eventually we reached the gallery, and I felt a little better to be out of the public gaze, although I knew it was soon going to be much, much worse. However, before the performance, there was a reception for the patrons, and I filled a plate with canapés, grabbed a glass of wine, and stood there, munching away, as men ogled me and women glared disapprovingly.

“Slow down, ma petite,” Francoise chided as I stuffed another pastry in my mouth, “or that corset will kill you. Now, you are not to speak English tonight, do you understand? You speak French or not at all.”

This order effectively gagged me, as my French was not good enough to hold a conversation, so I had to just stand there like the dumb brunette that I was, while people all around chatted to each other, but staring at me. I could see Serge holding forth to a rapt audience, probably talking about his favourite topic i.e. himself. There was no sign of his wife. I felt like a zoo animal, on display to the gawping crowds. A vision of a chimp masturbating came into my mind, leading me to imagine myself raising my skirt and fingering myself in front of this lot – now that’s entertainment! But this just reminded me how horny I was – I should have taken the opportunity to pleasure myself in the hotel room, while I had the chance! In a – very – perverse way, I was now looking forward to the assault of the spider.

By the time Francoise came to prepare me for the performance, I was a little drunk from the wine. We did not speak as she undressed me and strapped me to the web. I was surprised when she started to spray me with what felt like oil, then spread it around, until every inch of my body was glistening like a bodybuilder. This just added to my feelings of arousal and frustration, as she ran her hands over my breasts, buttocks, thighs and even my shaved mound. I was almost panting by the time she had finished.

“I felt your performance in London was becoming rather staged,” she said as she rubbed the oil over my face as well, “so I’ve added a few surprises to be make your reaction a little more… natural. Don’t worry, nothing too painful.” This last was clearly to assuage the look of alarm that had crossed my face.

“So, are you ready to give your best for us tonight?”

“Oui, Maîtresse!” I replied, with rather more enthusiasm than I’d expected. I was raised into the shadows to await my cue.

As the great and the good filed in, still eating, drinking and chatting, I felt the familiar pre-performance nerves, but also felt a mounting sense of excitement - my mechanical rapist, controlled by my domineering Mistress, was about to violate me in front of all these people! Why the hell was I excited?!

Serge did his introduction, in French this time, and interminably long, then the film started. Then it was my turn – the lights came on me, and I looked up in anticipation for the appearance of the monster. I felt something light touch my cheek, then something in my hair, then something on my breast. I looked down and – screamed! There was a real spider, about an inch across, scurrying across my skin and disappearing between my breasts! I could feel them crawling through my hair, and I lost it completely, screaming, and struggling against my bondage, shaking my head to try and get rid of them. Before I knew it, the giant mechanical spider had gripped onto me, its pincers biting cruelly into my nipples, seemingly much harder than before, and I was crying, and begging for it to stop.

“Ready or not, here I come!” I heard Francoise say through the speaker, and I looked down to see the dildo sticking out of the spider’s abdomen. It was dripping with lubricant, which was unusual – despite the terror induced by the spiders, which seemed to have scurried off into hiding, well away from me, I was certainly well-lubricated enough already. But what surprised me was how thin it was, not much thicker than a pencil, and I wondered how something so small was going to bring me to orgasm. Then I felt the tip of the dildo slide between my buttocks…

“Oh my God!” I cried out, “Not there! Please! NO!”

I struggled to avoid the tip of the dildo as it pressed against me, then froze when I realised my movements had actually helped centre me over the advancing shaft. I tried to move away again, but it was too late, and I screamed again at the shock and the shame of being penetrated anally, rather than any pain.

“Oops!” the speaker crackled.

Suddenly, I felt the intruder expanding inside me, inflating, stretching my poor bottom passage, and this time I did scream in pain, very real pain. It slid out a little way, but then it slowly pushed back into me, deeper than before, ripping another scream from me. On and on it went, with me crying, wailing, and begging for mercy. At last, it stopped, the monster deflated and withdrew, and the lights went out. Wild applause broke out from below, but I just hung limply from the straps, sobbing silently.

Eventually, I was lowered back down, to find Francoise standing in front of me. She lifted my head with her hand under my chin, and kissed me passionately, full on the lips.

“You were wonderful, souris!” she exclaimed and, somehow, her praise made me feel better about myself.

“I am so hot right now!” she continued, “I am going to give you such a good time later! But first, we have to get you cleaned up and ready for your second performance.”

Second performance?! You mean I have to go through all that again?! I was in a stunned daze as she wiped away my tears, then wiped away the disgusting discharge that had trickled down my leg. Before I had come to terms with what had happened and what she had said, I was on my way back to my starting position. My bottom was very sore, but more than that, my frustrated arousal was driving me mad. I really hoped Francoise would make me cum this time…

End of part 1

Copyright© 2012 by Jennifer Harrison. All rights reserved.