"Let's go get lunch."

“Ready to talk yet, Arabella?”

“Shut up shut up shut up,” whimpers Arabella. She’s suspended in a gibbet, a sort of body-shaped frame of iron hoops that keeps her nubile figure locked in a standing, arms-out, legs-apart position. She hangs above the well-trafficked Esplanade, in full view of hundreds of promenading tourists. A helpful sign dangling from chains below her feet explains, in three languages, that she’s a naughty little nudist and this is her punishment for disobeying the laws of the beach.

She hates it. Every second of it. No ability to tolerate embarrassment at all. It’s clear the last three hundred years or so of power fantasy have left her without any defenses.

“Oh my god,” laughs Meg, now comfortably clothed, pointing up at her. Lots and lots of cameras are pointed at naked Arabella, and she trembles with each flash. Her whole bare body quivers in shame as she hangs nude in the street, every last inch of her round pert little figure exposed to the curious stares and mocking laughter of the public. The three photographers from yesterday are back, and they’re having a ball. “Look at her blush! Sitri, this was so totally worth it.”

“I wonder how long it’ll take her to break?”

“I hope it’s not for ages! Now let’s go get lunch.”