The police raid the Scorpion Club

Constable Jacques knocked on the front door of the Scorpion Club.

“Open up,” he barked. One full night had passed, as well as much of the subsequent day, and it was now early afternoon. “We’ve got a warrant.”

“Just a minute, officer,” panted Giselle, hastily trying to stuff a trio of slavegirls into a lacquered Oriental cabinet. “I swear to you we’re not up to anything saucier than a few games of mah-jongg and a nice cup of tea.”

“You don’t fool me, Giselle.” The door banged open. “I know you’re up to lesbian pervert stuff in there. It’s illegal to be a lesbian pervert. This is the nineteenth century, you know.”

“Perhaps one day, in a more enlightened era, it will no longer be illegal to be a lesbian pervert?”

“Fat chance.” Jacques, accompanied by a squad of tough-looking blue-uniformed officers, stomped around the premises, prying into every nook and cranny as Giselle and the rest of the ultra-wealthy sadistic lesbian perverts stood helplessly by. He opened the Oriental cabinet, and three slavegirls tumbled out, nude and oiled up.

“Hide and seek?” suggested Giselle.

Jacques gave her a cold stare, and opened up another door. The room beyond was decorated to resemble a medieval dungeon. Fiona and Evelyn sat facing each other on a wooden horse, stark naked, strapped into elaborate bondage harnesses that ensured they couldn’t wriggle free. Straps **** their mouths together in a permanent open-mouthed French kiss. Wooden clothespins connected their nipples. Cane marks decorated their bare backsides.

“Sacre bleu,” said Giselle. “I had no idea this room was here.”

“Don’t touch anything. It’s now a crime scene.” Constable Jacques snapped his fingers, and four crime scene technicians with feather dusters entered the room, accompanied by two official photographers. “Those lesbian sex slaves are evidence! I want them dusted and documented from head to toe.”

“There’s not enough light in here,” suggested one of the photographers.

“That horse is on wheels. Take them outside! Do I have to think of everything?”

So Fiona and Evelyn were wheeled out of the Scorpion Club, onto the Boulevard de Clichy, which happened to be extremely well trafficked by artists, flaneurs, gadabouts and tourists looking for a good time among the fleshpots of Montmartre. They were instantly spotted by Pierre Prevert, the photographer from the day before, who nudged his girlfriend and said “Look! It is those Englishwomen again!”

“The crazy naked ones?” said his other girlfriend.

“The very same! And now they are tied up? Let us go and, ‘ow you say, make fun of them, no?”

“Why do you say ‘ow you say? We are speaking French.”

Fiona and Evelyn engaged in a lot of frantic mmfffing, which, since they had their tongues in each other’s mouths, bore a strong resemblance to making out. The crime scene technicians, who were experienced professionals, rolled their eyes. They’d seen it all before. Ignoring the girls’ muffled complaints, they set about dusting them all over with their feather dusters, from the soles of the girls’ feet to their bottoms, ribs, armpits, necks, earlobes, breasts, bellies and even what they could reach of the girls’ pussies. This was excruciatingly ticklish for the poor young ladies, of course, but the technicians were far too experienced and professional to care.

“Ingenious,” said Giselle, who was watching intently, along with a large and rapidly growing crowd of wandering Paris street creatures. “But do you really think you will be able to retrieve my fingerprints from bare, sweaty skin?”

“Fingerprints?” said Jacques, a little puzzled, as the photographers began to do their dirty work. “Anyway, it’s your turn now, Giselle. Strip off.”

“Excuse me? How dare you! Don’t you know who I am? You have no right to… I say! Take your filthy hands off me! Don’t touch that strap! No! You’ll tear it! That’s a very expensive piece of… eeeeek!”

In no time at all, the extremely rich and incredibly haughty fashion magnate, an ivory-skinned brunette with piercing green eyes, had been stripped stark naked by strong-handed constables in the middle of the boulevard, and handcuffed to a conveniently nearby length of wrought-iron fencing to prevent her from running away. One by one, though they struggled and squealed, the other sadistic evil rich lesbians were given the same treatment.

“Now,” ordered Constable Jacques, gazing in satisfaction upon the row of nude blushing ladies, each one shackled in such a way that she couldn’t bend over or cover up, and was thus left with no alternative but to present her nudity in all its full-frontal glory to the gawping, guffawing, lampooning denizens of the grubby Paris underworld, “dust them.”

And, though they complained, protested and threatened to bring legal catastrophe down on the technicians’ heads, every last one of the evil lesbians had her bare-naked body thoroughly tickled with feather dusters. Special attention was paid to their breasts and pussies, since these were thought to be the regions of the female anatomy most densely saturated with crime.

Giselle’s cries of outrage gave way to ****, pathetic pleas for mercy, which earnt her absolutely no sympathy from the soggy proletarians of the mob, as tantalising white feathers flicked with cold precision back and forth over her clitoris and her pussy lips, carefully parted for maximum access by a gloved policeman’s hand. She shivered and trembled and begged, but there was no way she could prevent the first shuddering, cruel orgasm from conquering her body while the crowd snickered and made jokes about how easy she was.

“Right,” said Constable Jacques, as the photographers took a few final snaps of the lesbians, who had gone from being proud, dignified mistresses of the night to quivering, bedraggled naked prisoners in only a few short routine police procedures. “Now, I’ve got some work to do back at the station, so I’ll have to leave the lot of you here.”

“...excuse me?”

“I just do the investigating. Arresting’s somebody else’s business. We’re very bureaucratic here in France. Constable Gaston will be along to pick you up in an hour or so.”

“An… an hour?”

“If he’s not on his lunch break. But we’d better make sure you can be identified.” Constable Jacques took a rubber stamp from his pocket, and carefully imprinted the words LESBIAN PERVERT in indelible ink on each of the cuffed, nude captives’ bellies, just above their pussies, the pubic hair of which came in a pleasing variety of tones. “There we go. Au revoir!”

“But…”

It was too late. The policemen had all suddenly vanished, and a dozen incredibly wealthy and very evil lesbian perverts were left in the middle of the Boulevard de Clichy, in broad daylight, shackled naked in a row to an iron fence with no way whatsoever to conceal their glorious nudity from the shameless ogling of a crowd of ragged-trousered plebs. Their burning ears were immediately assaulted with half a hundred cruel catcalls and jibes, only the least lewd and obscene of which can be repeated here.

“Those stupid sluts have got their tits out! Let’s all take a gander!”

“Bit wet out, eh, girls! Don’t try to hide it, I can see your pussies dripping!”

“I didn’t know Giselle Gropius was a lesbian pervert! How appalling!”

“The Financial Times will love this one, girls! Smile!”

Giselle Gropius felt her entire body burn with the abject shame of being leered at by these hooligans as she struggled in her bonds, desperately yearning to sink into the earth. Not only was she naked before the dregs of Paris - she had been outed to the public as a lesbian pervert who liked to have naughty kinky sex with slavegirls in brothels! Her deepest, best-kept, most humiliating secret! Soon, all of Europe would know!

Wait. What had happened to the slavegirls?

A young Chinese woman walked into her field of vision, smiling. She was wearing a black kimono, and accompanied by a Swede and a Brazilian in similar attire. All three of them were holding feather dusters.