Constable Jacques sorts the whole matter out

It was the next day. The evil lesbians had long since been packed off to an asylum for wayward women, where they would be kept in straitjackets and hosed down with cold water and have their pussies electrocuted and so on. Constable Jacques, thoughtfully, had decided to offer all the sex slaves he’d liberated from their brothel jobs as nurses in that very same asylum, where they’d be responsible for every last detail of the treatment and therapy undergone by their former captors.

“It’s been lovely,” said Fiona, strolling hand in hand through the Jardin du Luxembourg with Constable Jacques, who’d taken her out for a very nice dinner the previous evening, and very kindly allowed her to stay the night in his apartment, since she had left London in too great a hurry to reserve a hotel. She wore a very pretty pink dress that she’d found in the police station storeroom, along with lacy white undergarments from the same location that seemed as if they’d never been worn. “But I must be moving on. Why, I’m still only in Paris, and I believe I’ve just sixty-six days remaining in which to circumnavigate the globe.”

“I quite understand,” said Constable Jacques, fiddling erotically with his moustache. “It has been a pleasure, Mademoiselle Fiona.”

“Indeed it has. I’ll miss you, Jacques. But what’s to become of her?”

“Who?”

“Her.”

“Oh,” said Jacques. “Her.”

Lady Evelyn Crooke, pride of the British aristocracy, with her raven-black hair and snow-white skin, her gleaming dark eyes and voluptuous figure, glared up at them from her spot on the sprawling lawns of the Jardin du Luxembourg, where she was positioned in what appeared to be an ancient medieval pillory. Tourists strolled the gravel paths around her, admiring the statuary and the flowers. Several cafe tables had been positioned on a nearby hillside, with a splendid view of her location.

She was naked, of course.

Bent over, bottom in the air, wrists and neck clasped firmly between two planks of stout oak. Her full breasts dangled beneath her. Two small brass bells had been affixed with thread to her nipples, jingling with every small motion. A vibrating ivory rod, set to buzz at the lowest setting, jutted from between her dew-slick pussy lips, and a French flag on a wooden stick protruded from her bottom. She was gagged with somebody’s spare knickers, preventing her from offering any commentary on this situation.

A wooden sign reading PUTAIN dangled from a string around her neck. More obscene phrases had been carefully scrawled across her body - perhaps a formal part of the punishment, or just graffiti from random passers-by.

“Sale salope sans culotte!”

“Chienne idiote avec de gros seins!”

“Gifle mon stupide derrière anglais!”

“Regarde ma chatte humide!”

“Posh British tart!”

“Quelle humiliation! J'ai perdu tous mes vêtements!”

“Femme nue embarrassée!”

“It is a very old French law,” said Jacques, apologetically. “Dating back to before the Revolution. The kings of the ancien règime used it to discipline court ladies who displeased them. Robespierre kept it on the books. During the Reign of Shame, hundreds of helpless, beautiful aristocratic women were subject to such treatment by the sans-culottes.”

“Don’t you mean the Reign of Terror?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Oh, dear,” said Fiona, shaking her head as they stood before Evelyn. “Such a shame.” She directed another sweet smile at the furiously blushing villainess, and reached down to idly stroke her hair. “So it seems that, while I’m off on my adventure around the world, poor dear helpless Evelyn will be stuck in Paris with her bottom bare. How unfair.”

“It is her own fault,” said Jacques, shrugging. “She should not have played with herself so much.”