Aboard the Orient Express

Fiona sat in her cabin aboard the Orient Express, watching the scenery race by as the train barrelled across France. According to her calculations, this would be quite the fastest way to get to Constantinople, where she could easily find ways to proceed onward in her journey across the globe.

Her fellow passengers were a mixed lot. Not mixed in the sense that they represented a wide variety of genders, ages and body types. In fact, all hundred or so of the passengers currently travelling aboard the Orient Express happened, by an odd coincidence, to be incredibly beautiful women between the ages of eighteen and forty, who on the whole tended towards buxomness, though there were certainly a number of slim, small-breasted figures among them. And they were all highly intelligent, capable, successful women with sound common sense, many useful skills and a firm grasp of the issues of the day.

They did, however, have a staggeringly wide variety of reasons for travelling aboard the Orient Express. There was an elegant Parisian fashion designer intending to study the fabrics of the East, a red-headed Scottish heiress with business interests in Baghdad, a bejewelled maharani returning home to Hyderabad, a blonde missionary girl from Kansas determined to preach the gospel to the benighted heathens of Asia, a fiery Spanish countess who was searching the world for a man worthy of her love, and an entire class of cheeky eighteen-year-old English boarding school girls on an educational holiday, overseen by a stern headmistress named Miss Clarabelle Strappe.

The presence of this last group had caused some confusion. Due to circumstances entirely beyond her control, Fiona had found herself in the unfortunate position of having to hurl herself aboard the Orient Express at the last possible moment before it left the station, whilst completely nude. She subsequently found herself in a railway carriage occupied by no less than twenty cheeky schoolgirls, all of whom appeared to find her predicament hilarious.

Miss Strappe, a keen-eyed raven-haired martinet with spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose, a permanently condescending expression and her hair wound into a ruthlessly tight bun, arrived on the scene a few moments later, to discover a flustered nude apple-cheeked buxom English blonde being chased around the carriage and teased remorselessly by a dozen smart, posh girls in school uniforms, all of them from the best families.

“You there, girl,” she barked. “What on earth do you think you’re doing? Get back into your proper uniform at once.”

“But I don’t have a uniform,” protested Fiona.

“She took off and threw it out the window, miss,” said one of the schoolgirls. “She did it for a joke.”

“What positively unladylike behaviour! I’m disgusted and appalled by such indecency. Get over my knee at once.”

“I think there’s been a mistake,” said Fiona, as Miss Strappe grabbed her by the ear, sat down on a bench and hauled Fiona over her knee. “I’m not actually one of your OW! OW OW OW!”. All the actual schoolgirls pointed and giggled as Miss Strappe gave her a very hard spanking on her peachy bare bottom, first with the flat of her hand and then with a wooden ruler she carried around in her purse. Fiona howled and kicked and begged for mercy and attempted to explain the situation as her bottom rapidly turned an appealing shade of red, but Miss Strappe was entirely too angry to listen.

Next, once she had been well and truly spanked, Fiona was hauled to her feet and made to apologise to every single one of the giggling fully-clothed schoolgirls for her indecent, silly naughtiness, and ask each one of them politely if she would be so kind as to give Fiona ten more spanks to drive the lesson home. All the schoolgirls agreed that yes, this small favour was not too much to ask.

And then, to ensure she would never again be so foolish as to take her school uniform off and throw it out the window, Miss Strappe took a firm hold of Fiona’s wrists and marched her naked all up and down the train, exposing her hot red bottom to every last one of the astonished passengers and the polite, blue-uniformed staff, who seemed to act like this kind of thing happened every day. Her protests, complaints and totally logical arguments as to why she should immediately be let go all fell on deaf ears.

And, finally, she was made to stand in the dining car before dozens of amused onlookers, all of whom naturally assumed that she was in fact a naughty schoolgirl and therefore deserved to be punished, and recite a twenty-stanza classical Greek poem called Diana Ambushed, which was all about how incredibly embarrassing it was to be caught naked in public. Luckily, Fiona had memorised most of the poem in her own boarding-school days, but she hadn’t remembered it well enough to avoid a bevy of blows beating down on her blazing backside whenever she stumbled over a syllable or misplaced a line.

Finally, the conductor arrived. Since he happened to be the exact same conductor from the London-Paris train, having only recently transferred to the Orient Express, he recognised Fiona immediately, and was able to explain that she was not, in fact, a naughty schoolgirl, but rather a well-respected adventuress and member in good standing of the Reform Club. Miss Strappe was suitably horrified by her blunder, and apologised profusely, which Fiona received with as much good grace as she could manage.

Fiona had not yet managed to buy any more travelling clothes. So the other women on the train chipped in to provide her with a suitable wardrobe from their spare luggage, which Fiona thought was jolly decent of them, though it was just a little unfortunate that all the dresses were slightly too small and all the lacy bloomers slightly too tight.

The schoolgirls, meanwhile, were in trouble. It was now patently obvious to Miss Strappe that a nasty trick had been played on Fiona, and all her charges had been complicit. An obvious punishment presented itself.

So all twenty or so of the beautiful eighteen-year-old British schoolgirls - some blonde, some brunette, some red-headed, some black or Indian or even half-Chinese, but every last one strikingly beautiful in her own unique way - was made to take off her school uniform, fold it neatly and hand it over the train conductor for safekeeping until such time as Miss Strappe deemed appropriate.

“You all thought it was ever so amusing to embarrass poor Fiona,” scolded Miss Strappe, as her quivering red-faced charges stood in a row down the centre of the crowded dining car in nothing but their shoes and socks. “Well, now I’m going to embarrass you, girls. How do you like it?”

“They don’t seem to like it all,” said Fiona, sitting at one of the dining tables. Her companions for the evening were Manon, the fashion designer, Megan, the Scottish heiress, Lakshmi the maharani, Dorothy the missionary and Maria the Spanish countess. She reached out and slapped the pert pink bottom of the smug blonde who’d accused her of throwing her uniform out the window before, whose name was Charlotte, and who shot her a murderous glare.

“I should rather hope not,” said Miss Strappe, severely. “Perhaps in a country like France there are some deviants who actually enjoy the sensation of shame. But no such thing would ever be possible in good old England. Now, girls, you all appear to be under the delusion that other people’s embarrassment is in some way funny.”

“Sorry, miss,” came the obedient chorus.

“How do you feel right now, girls?”

“Embarrassed, miss.”

“And is it at all funny?”

“No, miss.”

“Correct. Now, to drive home the lesson that there is nothing in the least bit funny about embarrassment, you will all sing the song Roses Of England with no clothes in front of all these people. And I’ve decided the lot of you will be deprived of uniform privileges until we reach the French border.”

But where was the train bound? That’s what Fiona thought as she sat in her cabin that evening, staring out the window, comfortably dressed in her borrowed nightgown. In all the excitement, she’d entirely forgotten to check what the route of the Orient Express actually was these days. Did it go north through Germany, or south through Italy, or another mysterious path entirely? She simply didn’t know.

Oh, well, she supposed, motioning Charlotte to come closer. By way of apology, Miss Strappe assigned the arrogant schoolgirl to Fiona for the evening as a personal servant. She smiled, watching the furious nude blonde scuttle on her hands and knees across the floor, cheeks as red as her freshly-spanked bottom.

She reached down and ran her fingers through Charlotte’s hair, mind drifting back to her own boarding school days. Stern teachers. Bullying. Cold showers. Pranks after lights-out. And, of course, the strict hierarchy of cunnilingus which dominated every aspect of old-fashioned English girls’ boarding school life.

She parted her legs, raised the hem of her dressing gown and beckoned the sulky schoolgirl closer. There had been that game they played with the gardener boy, where each girl took it in turns to kiss his erection and the loser got a spurt of cum in the face. And the hockey matches, with such cold muddy forfeits for the losing team…

Oh, yes. Boarding school had been rather fun. Almost as fun as travelling around the world.