Constable Gaston walks the girls down to the station

"Mademoiselle,” said Constable Jacques, “you are free to go.”

“Why, thank you,” said Fiona Fairweather. She had suffered through a long, uncomfortable wait on top of the wooden horse, in the middle of the Quartier Pigalle, bound together in a hideously intimate embrace with the single woman whom she despised most in the entire world. The thieves, touts, tourists, prostitutes, painters, pimps and other miscellaneous lowlives who hung around the bohemian district had amused themselves greatly at Fiona and Evelyn’s expense by tickling the girls’ feet, pulling their hair and spanking their **** bottoms, much to their enormous annoyance.

And Constable Gaston, when he finally arrived, had unfortunately neglected to provide the undressed ladies with a fresh set of clothes. In fact, due to a miscommunication with Constable Jacques, he had gotten the impression that Evelyn and Fiona, far from being innocent victims of the Scorpion Club’s decadent sexual perversion, were in fact evil sadistic lesbians in their own right!

Fiona made every attempt to disabuse him of this misconception. She explained to him, at length, that neither she nor Evelyn had the words LESBIAN PERVERT stamped in ink on their stomachs and anyway a fine flower of English womanhood like her was quite obviously incapable of evil. But, regrettably, she could not manage to make herself understood.

So she and Evelyn were shackled, chained and placed at the head of a **** coffle of evil wealthy naked blushing lesbians, while all the sordid denizens of the Pigalle stood by and cheered. And, thus restrained by the iron hand of the law, they were obliged to march from the Pigalle to a police station on the other side of the Seine, in Montparnasse. Constable Gaston insisted, as a patriotic Frenchmen, on taking a detour past Notre-Dame Cathedral, a gesture which extended the journey to around an hour and a half.

This meant, of course, that Evelyn and Fiona, despite having done absolutely nothing wrong, were both obliged to suffer the indignity of walking naked across Paris, their full creamy breasts and pert peachy bottoms and soft silky bushes and tender, warm, inviting, velvety vaginas exposed to the brazenly curious inspection of thousands of jeering Frenchmen, and the same number of Frenchwomen. With their hands cleverly shackled, they had no way to conceal even the slightest portion of their delectable feminine charms from the crowd, which all too clearly found their mortification hilarious.

The evil lesbians got the same treatment, of course. But they deserved it.

Anyway, once they finally arrived at the station, red-faced and quivering with humiliated fury, Constable Jacques sorted the whole thing out. Constable Gaston was transferred to women’s prison and boarding school inspection duty, to punish him for his error, and Fiona was rapidly unshackled and given her pick of clothing from the lost and found box. Evelyn rattled her chains, eager to be unshackled next, but Constable Jacques shook his head.

“I think not,” he said, presenting a copy of the Financial Times for her inspection. “You are Lady Evelyn Crooke, are you not?”

“Indeed I am! I’m a very important woman, and I demand to be let go at once!”

“It says here,” said Constable Jacques, drawing Evelyn’s attention to an advertisement, “that you are the proud owner of a species of vibrating ivory rod, sold to the general public under the name of Dr. Featherstone’s Patented All-Purpose Hysteria Cure. Is this correct?”

“Um,” said Evelyn, standing on the floor of the police station, surrounded by blue-uniformed constables and eavesdropping secretaries, and not a few journalists who’d snuck in.

“It is a very serious crime in France to lie to the police.”

“...yes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes, I own a vibrating ivory rod.”

“A vibrator, for short?”

“Yes, a vibrator.”

“And what is this vibrator used for?”

“...hysteria treatment?”

“What is it really used for? You must answer honestly, and loudly, or I shall throw you in jail.”

“Masturbating,” answered Evelyn, going very red as all the secretaries and constables and journalists snickered at her. Fiona, who was now warmly wrapped in a nice fur coat, smiled at her sweetly. “I… I masturbate with it.”

“Interesting. How precisely is it used?”

“I… I turn it on and then I… put it in my pussy. And I pretend I’m being fucked by a big strong man.”

“Do you like being fucked by big strong men, Lady Evelyn?”

“I love it! I love being fucked by big strong men!”

The room was full of giggles. Constable Jacques shook his head sadly. “And they say we French are too romantic. I am afraid, Lady Evelyn, that the manufacture of personal masturbation devices is strictly prohibited under French decency law, as being corrosive to the moral fibre of the tender sex. The possession of one classifies you, according to our penal code, as a whore of the lowest calibre.”

“But there must be some mistake,” sputtered Lady Evelyn, aghast. “I’m no whore. Why, I’m a member of the royal peerage!”

“In France, I am afraid, this carries very little weight. Miss Fiona, you are a fine upstanding citizen and completely free to do as you will from this moment on. But I am terribly afraid that we must retain custody of your little whore friend.”

“Oh, no,” said Fiona, brightly. “I do hope the punishment isn’t too severe.”

“Sadly, I must confess it is.”