The girls blunder into a private establishment

"But this is all so terribly boring,” complained Giselle Gropius, enormously rich fashion magnate and patron of the Scorpion Club, a high-class brothel which catered exclusively to the tastes of Paris’ wealthiest and most sadistic lesbian perverts. She lounged in an armchair, fur coat draped over her shoulders, stiletto heels up on the bare back of a beautiful nude Chinese girl who knelt on all fours on the bearskin rug. Two more beautiful girls, one Swedish and one Brazilian, both wearing nothing but tiny lacy aprons and delicate golden chains, hovered beside her, ready to serve her drinks or sweetmeats at a moment’s notice. “I’ve had all these girls a dozen times. When are we going to get some new slaves in?”

The other members of the club nodded their agreement. Half a dozen women, each one as gorgeous as she was exquisitely cruel, they lounged about one of the club’s many well-appointed lounging chambers, with silk cushions and absinthe and incense and tasteful yet intensely erotic Japanese woodcuts of beautiful women in elaborate bondage harnesses adorning the walls. The slavegirls quivered as the bored rich ladies pinched, fondled, prodded and otherwise tormented them. They had all been kidnapped, blackmailed, tricked into signing dodgy contracts and otherwise **** into their new careers as submissive naked lesbian love slaves, so the humiliation and degradation they felt at having their bare breasts and bottoms molested for sport by ennui-afflicted wealthy Sapphists was absolutely real.

“Yes,” said Giselle, who was a character in an erotic story, and therefore did not have to care at all about stuff like “consent”, which is extremely important to establish in real life. “I need somebody new to punish. I’ve thought up some really delicious, horrible, humiliating torments and I’m **** to find two new victims to inflict them on. Some Englishwomen would do nicely. I do despise the English so.”

A hidden door in the wall swung open, and Fiona and Evelyn tumbled into the room. They had somehow gotten lost in the maze of corridors behind Pierre’s studio, which was connected by elaborate means to an entire complex of Pigalle nightclubs, and stumbled around until they wound up here. Both still nude, of course. The door swung noiselessly shut behind them.