The bathing ladies must walk naked through Lausanne

“Hello, miss,” said Charlotte, nibbling a croissant as she sat outside a Lausanne cafe with two other schoolgirls and a trio of handsome young Frenchmen. “Why’ve you got no clothes on?”

“That’s none of your business,” said Miss Strappe, coldly. The septet of lady swimmers had found themselves unable to find their way back to the train station by means of alleyways, courtyards, forested parks and other such secluded spots, and instead found themselves confronted by the necessity of parading their unclad forms right down the middle of some of Lausanne’s best-trafficked shopping streets, arms clamped tightly to their breasts and sexes, swaying bare bottoms attracting the interest of astonished bankers and housewives. “But when I have conclusive proof that the responsible party is, indeed, responsible…”

“I wouldn’t like to be him,” agreed Charlotte. “But on the bright side, that lesson you taught me has really sunk in, miss. I no longer think other people’s embarrassment is funny.”

“No?”

“No. I don’t find anything the slightest bit amusing in the fact that somebody tricked you out of your clothes and left you stranded naked in the middle of a foreign city. And I haven’t a clue why all the chaps drinking beer at that table over there are laughing so hard. Do you think it might have something to do with your bare bottom?”

“Excuse me?”

“The great difficulty with the classic pose of Aphrodite, you see, is that it leaves the posterior exposed. A girl may hide her sex, and she may hide her breasts, but then no hands remain.”

The view from behind the flustered swimmers, as they stood on the cobbled streets of Lausanne in brilliant daylight, would have made a charming subject for a painting. Seven bare bottoms, ripe and squeezable, equally lovely, in every hue from peachy-pink to coffee-brown. Of course, none of the girls dared shift their hands away from their breasts and sex, so they were left with no alternative but to present their derrieres for careful inspection by the responsible Swiss citizens, who took the opportunity to closely scrutinise this fascinating new spectacle.

“Still, at least you don’t have to show anything else,” said Charlotte, as the trio of Frenchmen arose from the table. Acting in unison, as if the whole thing had been preplanned, they seized hold of three of the seven startled naked swimmers, and bound their wrists firmly behind their backs with lengths of stout rope they happened to be carrying in their pockets. Megan, Manon, Lakshmi and Dorothy tried to run away, but another squad of Frenchmen at another table stepped in to intercept them.

The girls’ ankles were bound, as well, so they couldn’t move any faster than a sort of bouncy bunny hop. They were taken by the shoulders and frogmarched into a nearby bakery, where large quantities of honey were poured all over their bare bodies, followed by several pillowcases’ worth of small white feathers. Finally, they were thrown back out into the street, where hundreds of laughing, jolly peasants fresh in from the Swiss countryside awaited with small portable cameras.

“Regardez ces stupides femmes nues! Toutes couvertes de miel et de plumes! Comme elles sont ridicules! Rions!”

“Yes,” said Charlotte, smiling politely, as the mortified nude sticky cuties began a sort of awkward hop-shuffle down the cobblestone road, their shame documented by endless flashes from the surprisingly inexpensive portable cameras. Fiona and Miss Strapp competed for the lead, biting their lips, whimpering in outrage and frustration as the rough-handed peasants made lewd jokes at their expense. “I don’t see how anyone could think this was funny at all.”