The Alps

“They say,” said Miss Strapp, as the train raced through the high Alps, “that odd things have been known to happen inside these mountain tunnels.”

“Really?” said Fiona.

“Oh, yes.” The brilliant alpine sunlight illuminated the interior of the railway carriage, which was occupied by Fiona, Miss Strapp and around twenty chattering schoolgirls. Tiny villages clung to the distant flanks of the green valleys far below the track. “One’s coming up right now. It will be perfectly dark inside, you know.”

“And what sort of strange things happen?”

“Rock trolls,” said Miss Strapp, gravely. “They’re said to play practical jokes on the occupants of railway carriages.”

“I see,” said Fiona, as the stone edge of a tunnel cut off the sunlight and threw the whole carriage into absolute pitch blackness. Around fifteen minutes passed.

The train emerged from the tunnel. Fiona and Miss Strapp sat side by side in their wooden chairs, exactly where they’d been. Both women were completely naked, and fixed to their chairs with lengths of stout rope. Lacy white bloomers perched like hats atop their pretty heads. Schoolgirl knickers had been crammed into their mouths. Wooden clothespins adorned their nipples. Fat ivory vibrators, fixed on the highest setting, jutted from their pussies. “Stuck-up interfering tart” was written in lipstick across Fiona’s breasts, and “Smug self-righteous bitch,” was written across Miss Strapp’s.

“Gosh,” said Charlotte, looking at the squirming pair with interest. “It looks like someone’s taken those two down a peg. But who could it have been?”

“It must have been the rock trolls,” said Florence, a curly-haired girl from the West Indies. “Should we let them go?”

“No! This is now a crime scene. We can’t disturb anything until we’ve looked for evidence.”

“I’ll dust them for fingerprints,” said Florence, taking a feather duster and a small jar of white powder out of her travel bag. She carefully applied the white powder with their feather duster to the trapped girls’ breasts and pussies, removing the clothespins to get at the nipples and sliding out the dripping wet vibrators to brush between the girls’ labia as deep as she could go, before putting everything back into its proper place. “Okay, what now?”

“Oh, no! Florence, you’ve made a horrible mistake! That’s not fingerprint powder! That’s the incredibly intense itching/tickling powder we bought from that joke shop in Pigalle, for reasons of pure scientific curiosity!”

“Oh, no,” said Florence. “What have I done?” Fiona and Miss Strapp were thrashing in their bonds and squealing into their gags, both feeling like thousands of tiny prickly fairy fingers were going to town on their nipples, areolas, clits, labia, mounds of Venus and general breast and pussy areas, as well as a fair bit of their inner thighs. “How do we fix this?”

“First, we have to make sure it’s all carefully documented,” said Charlotte. Penny, the tomboyish Irish redhead currently working the experimental but surprisingly effective nineteenth-century video camera, gave her a nod. “Now, I can’t remember just what cures the itching. Was it ice cubes?”

“Maybe,” said Florence. “Or it could be honey, or whipped cream, or custard, or chocolate sauce. Or even marmalade! Or cold rice pudding!”

“I’m sure that nice man in the joke shop told me what it was, but I can’t remember. How infuriating! Florence, run along to the kitchen and bring back one of the dessert chefs. We’ll just have to try them all.”