Monica

Old Frobisher was a fool. Everyone knew that. He let those girls get away with murder. But things would get better once he retired. I'd be boss then. Then the girls would get what for. I told them.

"You'll get what for when Old Frobisher retires just you wait and see."

But they just laughed. Well they would see.

It was a small provincial office. Just the six girls, Old Frobisher and me. I was second in command. I had to pretend to agree with Old Frobisher of course. Go along with his damn fool lackadaisical ways, but things would change when I became boss.

I told Monica that. She was the laziest and cheekiest girl there. A blowsy blonde with big tits. Pretty in her own way even if she did have a behind that was two sizes too big. She had a bossy insolent personality did Monica, but she got away with it with it with Old Frobisher by sucking up to him and sticking out her chest.

"There'll be none of that when I'm in charge," I told her, "I'll give you what for then. Just you wait and see."

Eventually Old Frobisher went. And about time too. It was a Miss Beal who came down from head office to give the good news that I was to take over. We all gathered together in the little meeting room. Beal was one of those power dressing women executive types with short hair and a shorter temper. She would need some sucking up to. I stood up.

"Miss Beal..." I started. I got no further.

"Ms...," she said, "Would you wish to be categorised by your marital status?"

"We'll... We... I suppose..."

"Speak up man. Stop wittering"

"No Ms Beal," I said rather lamely.

"I have come here today..." She began again. I hadn't even given her my welcoming speech.

"And most welcome..." I began.

"Did I ask you to speak?"

She fixed me with a gimlet eye.

"Er... No Miss... I mean Ms Beal."

"We'll kindly keep quiet then. I have a busy schedule even if you have time to waste."

I sat down.

"The performance of this office under Mr Frobisher was, to speak frankly, deplorable."

She stopped for effect and looked at each of us individually, as if daring us to contradict her. We didn't.

"Things are going to change."

They certainly were. Those girls were going to get what for and no mistake.

"The new office head will write to me on a weekly basis with a report on the performance of each member of staff. Anyone who has not performed will be out. Do you understand?"

"Yes Ms Beal," I was beginning to like this woman, even if she had been rather rude. I was already composing Monica's report in my head.

"You agree?"

She was looking at me.

"Certainly Miss Beal," a bit of sucking up never hurts, "anyone who isn't up to the mark should be through the door with a boot up their arse"

"An apt metaphor. Arses..." And she emphasised the word, "are on the line."
She looked round at everyone again.

"And that brings me to the point of my visit today. The next office head. I may say the board were quite unanimous in their decision. Someone who has given the highest level of service over many years. Your next office head is..."

I felt in my pocket for my acceptance speech. I'm always prepared.

"...is Monica Blunt."

"But, but..." I couldn't help blurting out, "I thought..."

Beal looked at me with a nasty glint in her eye.

"What? You didn't think you'd get the position did you? After the deplorable way you and Frobisher ran this office?"

"But..."

"You did, didn't you. Just because you're a man. You thought you'd get the job. Let me tell you, Frobisher might have promoted you because you're a man, but things are going to be different from now on. Come out here."

"But..."

"Don't you but me. Come out here."

"Yes Miss... I mean Ms Beal."

I crept out to the front like a naughty schoolboy chastised by his form mistress. I felt about six inches high.

"What was your position here? And I use the word 'was' advisably."

"Assistant Head Ms Beal."

"Well, let me tell you, I've looked at your work and well... Perhaps I should demonstrate. Bend over this desk."

"What?"

"You heard me. Bend over this desk."

I was so cowed by her manner that I did what I was told. I bent over the desk. My bottom facing the giggling girls.

"Your work is sloppy, inadequate, incompetent..," and with each adjective she tapped my behind smartly with a ruler, "and in general, rubbish. And your arse...," with this she gave my bottom an even smarter tap, "...is the first on the line. Do you understand?"

"Yes Ms Beal."

"What do you understand. Say it out loud for everyone to hear."

"My arse is first on the line Ms Beal."

My face was red, my legs were trembling, I had been completely cowed. Monica was to be my boss. I went home that night determined to hand in my notice. But what good would that do. I'd bought my flat at the height of the boom. It was in hopeless negative equity. Without a job I'd lose everything. And I'd never get another job. Not in the recession.

Anyway dumb blonde Monica would be boss. She was only a little girlie. I could deal with her. Once Beal was out the way I'd put Monica in her place.

If not happy at least I had a plan. Monica was just a girl. She'd never cope. I'd have to take over. I could always make sure she'd fail. But I was in for a shock. When I arrived the next morning Monica was already there. I'd never known Monica be in on time before. And this was a new Monica. The old blowsy blonde had vanished. In her place was a clone of the awful Beal. She was wearing a charcoal grey suit, tight knee length skirt and big shouldered jacket. Her face was lightly made up with a red gash for lips. Her blonde hair was up. She looked at her watch.

"What time do you call this to arrive?" She demanded.

"It's... It's er... ," I was so taken aback I was stammering.

"It's er... what? Speak up man,"

"It"s five past nine Miss, I mean Ms, I mean..."

I was so abashed I was calling her Miss!

"Miss Monica will do fine. Are you not supposed to be here prompt nine?"

"Yes Miss Monica. Sorry Miss Monica, but Mr Frobisher he..."

"Let me make one thing clear. The days of Frobisher are past. I am in charge now. You will be here on time in future. All the other employees managed to get here on time."

I looked round. They were all there. I'd never known such good timekeeping in my life. They must all have been tipped off to catch me out.

"Do you remember what Ms Beal said?"

"Yes Miss Monica."

"Well go on then. What did she say?"

"She said my arse was on the line Miss Monica."

"She said your arse was on the line. You knew your arse was on the line and yet you turn up on my first day in charge late. Do you know what that shows?"

"No Miss Monica," my face was burning and my legs were shaking. I was getting a complete bollocking off the boss in front of all the girls. All my spirit and resistance had collapsed.

"It shows disrespect, that's what it shows. I don't think you learned a thing yesterday. I think you need to learn how to show respect."

"Yes Miss Monica."

"Bend over the desk."

"What?"

It was one thing being humiliated by the Beal. Surely I couldn't let Monica bully me in the same way. But I couldn't find any way to resist.

"You heard."

I bent over the desk."

"Drop your trousers."

"Please Miss Monica. No!"

I was reduced to begging. Somehow I couldn't summon up any resistance.

"You heard me. Do it"

One of the girls giggled, but I couldn't see any option. I unfastened my trousers and allowed them to drop to the floor. More giggles getting louder and louder.

"Remember girls," said Monica, "this arse," and she tapped my the seat of my tightly stretched underpants with a foot rule, "is on the line. I want any slacking, skulking, skiving reported to me."

"Yes Monica," the giggling girls chorused.

"And just to make myself abundantly clear," I suddenly felt her take hold of my underpants and tug them sharply down to mid-thigh. She'd bared my bottom in front of all the girls and I was so cowed I didn't resist, "this is the arse that is on the line. Take a good look at it. You know what to do."

There was a sudden swish and I felt a sharp stinging across my buttocks. She'd whacked me with the foot rule.

"Now back to work girls."

I could here the girls starting to work but I remained bent over the desk too frightened to move, too aware of my bare bottom on view, feeling the red stripe that must be forming across it.

"We'll, what are you waiting for. Get back to work, or do you want another one?"

"No Miss Monica."

I hastily pulled up my trousers and returned to my desk. It was going to be a long day

"Two skinny lattes and a capuccino. And be quick about it."

My position in the office had changed completely. Monica had made me drop my trousers in front of the girls, Monica had shown them my bare arse, Monica had administered a whack to my bare arse in front of them. And with that I had become the butt of every joke, I had become the office drudge, from bossing the girls at every opportunity I was being made to fetch the coffee. In my bare feet.

And there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't resign. I needed the job. I couldn't complain to management, Beal hated me. And in any case I couldn't admit to having let Monica spank my bare bottom. It would have been too embarrassing.

I had no choice.

"Yes Miss. Straight away Miss," the girls made me call them 'Miss' now. As I said. I had no choice.

I got stares on the bus into work the next day. Travelling in bare feet as I was. Monica had confiscated my shoes and made it clear that I would only get them back if I showed due respect for the rest of the week.

I knew I was being cowardly but I couldn't think what else to do. I had spent all the previous evening plotting, planning my revenge, deciding how to get the better of Monica. But come the morning I had meekly given in. I was going in to work in my bare feet. The trouble was my feet were so sore walking with no shoes on. I only hobbled in to work just in time.

Monica looked pointedly at the time.

"Take the coffee orders," she said, "it's all you're good for, and I'm not sure you're even good for that."

"Yes Miss Monica," I was reduced to office junior.

"Capuccino."

"Yes Miss."

"Latte."

"Yes Miss."

"Skinny latte no sugar."

"Yes Miss."

The orders came in thick and fast and I tried hard to remember them. Then I had to hobble down to the coffee shop and hobble back carrying a tray of coffees.

"What's this?" Monica was staring at the skinny latte I offered her, "Are you implying I'm fat or something."

"No Miss Monica."

"We'll why else would you bring me this abomination of a drink"

"Liar! You're nothing but a horrible little liar and you're trying to imply I'm fat. I ought to kick your arse all the way round the room for that. Teach you to show some respect to your betters"

"I'm not a liar. I'm not. You did ask for it. And you have got a fat bottom."

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I was in for it now.

"Drop your trousers"

"Please Miss Monica"

"You heard me. You'll do as I say or you won't like the consequences."

I could hear suppressed giggles from the girls. This was the time if any to stand up to Monica. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. It wasn't even fear of losing my job. Monica had changed. she was dressed today in knee length skirt with calf length high heel boots. She was the personification of the woman in power. She had bared my arse in front of the girls and humiliated me. I couldn't stand up to her after that. My trousers came down.

"Right off. Give them to me."

She was going to confiscate my trousers just as she had my shoes.

"Please Miss Monica."

"Give them to me now."

I gave them to her. Of course I did.

"Bend over."

I did as I was told. She lifted up my shirt and I felt her take hold of my underpants. It was my last chance. I knew it. If I let her pull them down she would have total domination over me. My legs trembled. I tried to pluck up courage to object. I tried to. But it was no good. I felt my underpants come down, over my thighs, past my knees, round my ankles, and completely off. She pulled my shirt up to display me completely nude from the waist down bent over.

"What did I say you deserved?"

"To have my arse kicked round the room Miss Monica."

I knew what was coming, even so her booted foot made such firm and accurate contact with my bare arse that I went sprawling forwards. I tried to get up, but as soon as I did so my arise felt her boot again, and again and again. I was being bare arse kicked round the room and there was nothing I could do about it.

She confiscated my trousers and underpants, of courses she did. I had nothing left to wear but my shirt. I pulled it down as best I could to preserve my modesty, but how can you work properly with no trousers on.

I tried to plan what to do on the bus home, but the driver threw me off because I wasn't wearing trousers. He said he didn't want weirdos on his bus.

I had to walk the three miles home past the jeering kids and staring passers-by. Had they never seen a man walking down the street with no trousers on? No, they probably hadn't.

Monica had made it clear that I would not get my trousers back until I had shown that I could show some respect. I just knew it wouldn't end there. I would have to give up the job or stand up to Monica. I couldn't give up work, I needed the money. There was nothing for it. I would just have to stand up for myself. Then would get the better of Monica. I'd be restored to my proper position. I'd give those girls what-for and no mistake. But next day when I walked into work barefoot, bare legged and bare arsed (except of course I pulled by shirt down so as my arse would be covered) I'd already admitted defeat. I just got into work in time. I made everybody write the coffee orders down this time. I wasn't going to be caught like that again.

Except of course I was, as I should have known I would be. I'd been set up again - Monica or the other girls. As I walked through the door into the office I went arse over tip, my foot catching on a shoe somebody had left lying in the middle of the room. My shoe. The coffee went all over Monica.

Se glowered at me.

"I give you a last chance," she snapped, "a chance to show a bit of respect and this is what you do."

"Please Miss Monica. It was an accident Miss Monica," so much for standing up to her, asserting my position, this was abject grovelling.

"Give me your shirt."

"Please Miss Monica. Not nude Miss Monica. Please."

But this was what she'd been planning for. This was Monica's revenge. Exhibiting me nude to the girls in the office. Little by little she'd asserted her dominance until she had me completely in her power.

"You heard me," she said, "your shirt."

It was my last vestige of clothing. This last little cover of dignity. And it was coming off. I was trembling so much I couldn't move. But I didn't stop Monica as she slowly and theatrically unbuttoned my shirt and took it off. I was completely nude. I couldn't object. What could I say - I came into work with no trousers on and one of the girls took off my shirt. It would sound ridiculous. No. Monica had won. I was nude.

She turned me round to face the girls. Showing my penis to them. It was the ultimate humiliation, being made to show my penis to the girls in the office.

"You'll get your clothes back," said Monica, "when you've learned to show some respect.

The horror of my situation suddenly struck me. Not only was I going to have to work all day in the nude. I was going to have to go home in the nude.


"I will not stand for disrespect from my underlings. Especially from little cry-babies like you. Horrid, you say, you don't know the meaning of the word. I'm going to show you exactly what horrid is."

I was standing at the front of the office getting the biggest dressing down of my life from my new boss Monica. The girls were all agog to see their erstwhile deputy head of department being made to look two inches tall. All the more agog because to drive home his humiliation he had been made to receive his dressing down in the nude.

Yes, Monica had stripped me naked the day before and had now decreed that I was to work in the nude until I learned to show some respect. I had had an eventful journey home. Walking home through the streets of London in the nude is fraught with danger, not the least of which is its dubious legality. Fortunately one of the girls had taken pity on me and lent me her spare pair of knickers. Walking home wearing nothing but a pair of girl's knickers was the height of embarrassment, but at least it wasn't illegal.

So I had vowed that this was the last time that I would get my arse kicked by Monica. I couldn't resign, but I would complain. I'd get Monica sacked, then I'd rule the roost again. I had it all planned. I was in the office early and on the phone to the awful Beal. Even she couldn't condone her protégée stripping one of the company's employees stark naked in front of the whole office could she? I never found the answer to that. I got on to Beal on the phone all right. I told her I had a serious complaint against Monica, but when it came to describing what it was I found I couldn't do it. It was too embarrassing. I just couldn't admit to allowing myself to be stripped naked.

"It's Monica. She's... She's..."

"She's what. Speak up man. Stop blubbering. I can't stand men who blubber on."

"She's been horrid to me..."

It was the best I could do.

"That's her job," said Beal, and put the phone down. At least she put the phone down on me. She then picked it up and told Monica exactly what I'd said. That was why Monica had told me to work in the nude again. That was why I was standing there in the nude. That was why Monica was giving my arse its biggest metaphorical kicking of the week. I was a little cry-baby she said, and little babies didn't wear clothes. I had had no option but to strip naked again. I had tried complaining and I couldn't do it. I was resigned to my fate.

"...I'm going to show you what horrid is. Kneel on the desk."

"What!"

"Address your superiors respectfully if you want to keep a job here."

"Sorry Miss Monica."

"We'll?"

"We'll Miss Monica," it was so embarrassing I could hardly say it, "if I kneel like that I'll be showing my..."

"Just do it."

"Yes Miss Monica."

I knelt on the desk facing away from the girls in the office. I knew what was on display.

"We'll girls. What can you see? Rebecca?"

"Er... An arsehole Miss."

"Exactly. This so-called colleague has been a total arsehole. Now get back to work all of you. That," said Monica turning to me "is being horrid."

I had to go home in girl's knickers again. But salvation seemed to be at hand. When I opened up my home email there was a message there.

"Have heard rumours you worked in the nude today. Is this true? G.Beal."

It was the sort of message Beal would send. She was short and to the point and had obviously sent to my home address to keep it private."

"Yes," I replied, "Monica made me."

"Not acceptable," replied Beal, "Proof?"

"I don't have any. Ask the girls"

"Have done. Deny all knowledge."

They would. My hopes were dashed.

"What should I do?"

"Need to get Monica sacked. Need proof."

Now I understood. The wretched Beal wasn't interested in me being made to strip; she needed a reason to sack Monica. The chance was there. I had to take it.

"How do I get proof?"

"Visit of bigwigs to your office tomorrow. Will tell Monica you are to give presentation. Give presentation in nude. That will be proof."

This was my chance. Monica would be gone. I would rule the roost.

"Will do!"

Only then did it dawn on me that I was going to have to give a presentation to thirty people stark naked. What had I done! I'd committed myself to Beal. She'd kick my arse from here to John O'Groats if I didn't do it. Oh heck!

I was at the office early.

"I see my attempts to get you to show respect are working," said Monica, "here on time for once."

"Yes Miss."

"We'll you'll be glad that today you can keep your clothes on. The big bosses are visiting and we can't have you parading around in front of them in your birthday suit. That would never do. That would get me the sack double quick."

"Absolutely Miss. Thank you Miss."

"Don't thank me. Thank Miss Beal. She has asked for you to give the presentation. Who’s teacher’s pet then?"

"I'll give it," I said, "it'll be a show they'll not forget."

"I hope so," said Monica. Little did she know!

The big bosses arrived about ten. There was Beal of course, looking as sour faced as ever, the sort of woman who looked as if her principal enjoyment in life was kicking men in the balls and then laughing; then there was her boss, a French woman by the name of Simone, the sort that has short black hair, hairy armpits and wears black silk lingerie; and finally there was the biggest boss of all Fanny Wideopen, founder of the company and legendary man eater. All women of course, the company was dominated by women, well you'd expect that with a company that sold knickers wouldn't you.

Simone was head of marketing; her slogan 'You'll always get your man with your Fanny Wideopen' had tripled sales overnight.

There they were the women I was going to have to appear nude in front of. But it would get Monica the sack. Beal would see to that. I would just have to grit my teeth and go through with it. Then I would be boss again and those girls would have to jump?

I'd been so taken up with the prospect of being on Beal's good books and of getting Monica the sack that I hadn't considered the practicalities of how I was going to get nude for the presentation, but Monica provided me with the perfect opportunity. Digging her own grave was how I saw it.

"Wait in my office while they get settled. I'll announce you. I'll give you a knock on the door. Then you can come in and do the presentation. And don't make a mess of it. your arse is on the line with this one, though why she should want you to give the presentation is beyond me."

So the problem was solved. I strip off in Monica's office, march out into the meeting room, Monica is denounced and I'm boss again. There was only one problem. How on earth was I going to pluck up the courage to walk out into a room full of women stark naked.

I stood in Monica's office and listened as the Big Bosses settled in. My mouth was dry, my face was red, my legs were trembling. I was completely nude and I couldn't pluck up the courage to march out. I could hear Monica's voice droning on making the announcement, followed by laughter. I'd never thought of Monica as much of a joke teller, but she'd had other hidden talents.

Then the knock on the door. I was going to have to do it. I realised that now. Beal would roast my arse and I'd be out the door in a flash if I didn't. I gritted my teeth and forced my legs to move. I opened the door and nervously tottered over to the presentation screen and stood there completely nude. I didn’t dare look at the audience. They were howling with laughter. I tried to say something but no words would come out. I just told myself - just a minute or two, Beal will denounce Monica and it will be over.

I looked up at the presentation screen. Instead of my presentation there I was projected on the screen nude, looking like a frightened rabbit, and instead of an indignant Beal denouncing Monica, Monica herself was stepping forward.

"Thank you, thank you ladies. As I explained in my introduction, we in the marketing division are always looking at new ways of persuading people to do things that they don't want to do and I suggested that I could get one of our staff to give presentation in the nude. If I remember you mocked that suggestion. But here he is, naked as nature intended and raring to go."

There was a round of applause, but whether for me or Monica I wasn't sure. What I did know was that I had been tricked, duped and played for the twerp I was. It had been easy enough for Monica to set up an email in the name of Beal and send me those messages. And there I was. Monica had me naked over a barrel as the saying goes, and she had put my arse on the line again. I was going to have to give the presentation or look a fool and lose my job. And I was going to have to give it in the nude.

I gulped and started.

"Good morning ladies," I looked down at my notes, "I hope you're going to enjoy what I'm showing you today...," howls of laughter. Oh no! That didn't sound right at all. "I mean I'm going to show you my big..."

More laughter.

"The bare facts are..."

"The naked truth is..."

I looked at my notes again. Somebody had doctored them so that these wretched double entendre a kept coming out. The audience was loving it. In the end I was just left standing there red faced, knock kneed and dry mouthed. An object of naked derision.

"Thank you," said Simone for that interesting display of well...," she seemed to search for the right words, "...all your talents."

I crept off back to my clothes. Monica had won. Surely I was finished in the company.

****************************

"A skinny latte and two doughnuts," Simone looked up at me and smiled.

I smiled back. Monica had done me a favour. Simone had like what she had seen. I had shown her my big one and she approved. My big idea I mean, what did you think I meant? She had taken me on as her secretary.

The job was perfect. I was even getting used to the special dress code. It could be a bit embarrassing when visitors came though.

"Why is your secretary in the nude?" they would ask. Then they would stare.

It was Simone's one stipulation. That and the special service when she ordered doughnuts.

I smiled back. Doughnuts! She wanted servicing.

Vanity

I shouldn't be vain. That's my trouble. If I hadn't been showing off it would never have happened to me. I shouldn't volunteer. That's another weakness; that and the tendency to be bullied by Miss Peabody.

Miss Peabody was the headmistress of the school where I had been sent as a student teacher. Miss Peabody was one of those women who could make even the most recalcitrant, objectionable, bothersome pupil do exactly as told just by fixing her beady eyes on them. Those beady eyes that squinted behind thick pebble lensed spectacles. She could also make me do exactly as I was told by fixing her beady eyes on me.

"You will assist me on our half term school outing," she announced in her crisp Morningside accent, and those beady eyes gave me no alternative.

The half term outing turned out to be a weekend in Paris with the sixth form French class. Which, on the face of things, could have been worse. I could show off my French. I had a 'B' at A Level. See, I told you I was a show off.

"...to improve your abysmal grammar and learn some culture," as Miss Peabody announced to the class as I stood beside her quaking. I was always quaking when I stood beside Peabody.

I looked at the class and quaked even more. They were all girls. You might think it strange that a class of eighteen year old girls made me quake. But I've always found girls a bit intimidating.

You might also think it strange that I chose teaching for a career. I was what might be described as a callow youth. Callow is a good word I think, mixing notions of timidity with naivety. I was callow and I was jejune. Jejune being another good word suggesting at the same time both a slim figure and a degree of youthful inexperience. All of which epithets applied equally to me. I was naive, inexperienced, slim and timid. On the other hand I've always been a bit of a show off and I fancied the idea of a class of admiring schoolchildren hanging on my every word. In French of course. I had a 'B' at A Level.

I hadn't expected to be intimidated though. But they were so self-assured, so confident, so bossy. So there I was commandeered on to the trip by Miss Peabody.

Not that discipline was a problem at St Mungo's Academy for Girls. Not with Miss Peabody around.

"Our new student," she went on having evidently forgotten my name, "will accompany us. He assures me he speaks fluent French."

Miss Peabody had not been overthrilled at getting a male student, but in these days of equality she couldn't complain.

I had got my 'B' at A Level French exam and I was going to boast about it. That's what I mean by being a show off. I liked to be admire for my academic achievements.

So there I was, accompanying the intimidating Miss Peabody and twelve bossy girls. Still, there was only a weekend to get through and Miss Peabody would keep them in order. At least Miss Peabody would have kept them in order but for an unfortunate incident. You see culture was to be an important part of the visit, and culture meant art galleries where Miss Peabody expected improving landscapes and pictures of water lilies. What the girls actually saw when they entered that room on the ground floor of the Museée d'Orsay was a picture by the eminent Gustave Corbet entitled L'Origine du Monde.

For those of you who are not art lovers and have never been to the Musée d'Orsay, I must explain that this picture is rather rude. In fact it is more than rude, it is a picture that would bring a blush to the cheek of a gynaecologist. If you want to know what will bring a blush to the cheek of a gynaecologist just go to http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/L'Origine_du_monde#/image/File:Origin-of-the-World.jpg and you will see.

Miss Peabody placed her pebble lensed spectacles upon her nose, without which she could see nothing except vague shapes and bright colours, and squinted at the picture. Then she fainted clear away and had to be revived with smelling salts. After that she took to her bed with two aspirin and a bottle of gin.

I was stuck with a dozen eighteen year olds to amuse and culture wasn't the first thing on their mind. They wanted to go shopping. Well, a few souvenirs. What was the harm in that. Or so I thought. Souvenirs were the last things on their mind. Led by a rather precocious self-assured girl called Collette (just the sort who intimidated me the most) I was dragged into one of those fashion boutiques selling sexy underwear, the sort which Miss Peabody would definitely not have approved of.

Ah Collette! Just the sort of girl a callow youth would dream of, if not totally intimidated by her. She was tall, she was dark, she was beautiful, she spoke with that mixture of assurance and expectancy that whispered 'come hither' in the ear of the young, the naive and the inexperienced.

But I couldn't have them spending their cultural weekend buying underwear!

"Come on girls," I protested, "this shop isn't suitable."

One word from me and they did as they liked. A shop assistant appeared. A dark haired beauty emanating 'Le sex'. She babbled something incomprehensible at me. Was that supposed to be French? It sounded nothing like I'd learned at school.

But still, I had to boast of my linguistic skills.

"I have a 'B' at A Level French," I said, "let me do the talking."

"Excusez-moi," I said, turning to the sales assistant, "Je m'appelle..."

I got not further. Collette broke in with more incomprehensible gabble. The shop assistant broke into a smile. I stared at Collette.

"My mother's French," she explained, "I can actually speak the language."

"Well so can I," I said.

"Of course," said Collette.

I turned to the assistant.

"Oui!!" I pronounced. I'd show them. I had a 'B' at A Level. I should though perhaps have checked what I was saying 'oui' to.

"Great girls!" Exclaimed Collette, "he says we can try things on!"

"But..." I protested. It was too late. Too vain to admit I hadn't understood a word, I had agreed to the girls trying things on. They rushed to the racks, then to the changing rooms, and were soon flitting around in front of mirrors in the most unsuitable garments. There they all were! Parading round in sexy underwear. There was quite too much female bare flesh on display. I had to put a stop to it.

I turned to the assistant, "Je voudrais..."

I wanted to say 'stop'. What on earth was 'stop' again.

"Je voudrais essayer..." That was it... Wasn't it?

The assistant looked blankly at me and Collette broke in with more gabble. The assistant looked at me with a puzzled expression and gabbled some more. She must be asking if I really wanted them to stop.

"Oui," I said. That means 'yes' in French if you haven't got a 'B' at A Level.

"Certainememt," she said.

Good! They were going to stop! But no the assistant went off and returned with the briefest pair of whatever they were I have ever seen.

"What on earth's that?" I gasped.

"It's a gentleman's thong," said Collette.

"A what?"

"A gentleman's thong. And you just asked to try it on."

"But... But..."

My stupid vanity. My stupid showing off. By not admitting I couldn't understand a word I'd been tricked into asking to try this thing on. How was I going to get out of this! I couldn't admit I couldn't understand anybody. I couldn't.

The assistant held the wretched article out and gabbled something with a puzzled look on her face.

"Non, non," I said (which if you haven't worked it out for yourself means 'no').

"Good," said the assistant. Oh no! She could speak excellent English.

"But..."

"I asked if you had any objections to trying it on now. Well I thought you might, but you said you didn't. So if you care to come this way."

Oh no! I looked at the skimpy garment. I had to be shown up as a fraudulent speaker of the language or be shown up in quite a different way. Vanity won. I was a show-off. I couldn't admit that I hadn't understood. I let myself be led to the fitting room.

Oh well. All I had to do was try the thing on, say I didn't like it and put the whole thing down to experience. First I had to strip naked though. I don't know about you, but I always feel self conscious stripping in a shop changing room, but at least at home they have doors. This place just had a curtain across the front. Just one flimsy curtain between me with no clothes on and the girls. I stood there in the altogether and held the garment up. I couldn't for the life of me work out how to put the thing on.

Then the most dreadful thing happened.

A gabble from outside the curtain.

"Oui..." I replied not understanding a word of it.

And the curtain was flung back exposing me in a state of total nudity to the giggling girls in the shop. Have you ever been exposed in a state of total nudity to a group of giggling girls? Probably not. Well this is what happens. You go bright red. You hold your hands over your private parts. You stand knock-kneed, speechless, with your mouth open. Well that's what I did.

"Ooh la la!" Said the shop assistant, stepping into the fitting room and pulling the curtain closed behind her, "I ask if you are ready and you say yes."

"We'll I er... I..." I was standing in the nude with Mademoiselle Sexy and I was completely tongue tied.

"You need some help?" She asked.

"I er... I er..."

"Why do you not ask. It is no problem," and she knelt down in front of me to put the ridiculous garment over my feet, apparently oblivious of the fact that her nose was two inches from my bare penis. She pulled the wretched thing up. I looked at myself in the mirror. It was awful. A little pouch over my you-know-what's and a couple of thin straps round the waist and between the cheeks of my bottom. Completely bare otherwise.

"Perfect," said the girl, "except er.. Perhaps.. Your..." She glanced down.

My penis had somehow escaped the ridiculous pouch and was swinging free.

"Let me," she said, and before I could say anything she took hold of it and tucked it back in, the grasping my naughty bits she adjusted the pouch so they were held firmly in place.

"Eh voila!" She said flinging the curtain back. I've never heard so much laughter in my life.

"Tu veux que je..." I couldn't understand the rest. Something about wrapping up, I thought. She must be asking if I wanted the ridiculous costume wrapping.

"Oui," but she'd been asking if I wanted to come out and get the opinion of the girls. This involved standing on a stool in the middle of the shop to be admired.

Oh no!

Have you ever stood in the middle of a shop ninety-nine percent nude with a group of girls pointing you out to the laughing shoppers. Well I had to. You see I had to pretend that was what I wanted. That I wanted to make an exhibition of myself. It was that or admit I couldn't really speak the language at all. All I could do was stare straight ahead, my face burning red and thank my lucky stars that the rudest one percent was covered up at least.

"What is going on here!"

The sound of a familiar intimidating voice resonated throughout the shop.

"Miss Peabody...," I gasped. The wretched woman had ventured forth and was standing in front of me. How on earth had she got there?

"What," she said, turning ashen grey, "is that?"

She pointed down at my nether regions. I looked down. My penis was swinging free in the breeze. At least it would have been if there had been any breeze. No wonder the crowd had been laughing. It must have worked its way out again.

"It's er... I er..."

I stepped back, forgetting I was standing on a stool. I started to topple backwards. Miss Peabody grabbed the stupid costume I wasn't quite wearing and it tore straight off. I tumbled backwards completely nude straight into the girls standing behind me. I stood up and stared at the astonished Peabody standing open mouthed as she slowly sank to the floor in a swoon

I was completely nude in the middle of a shop surrounded by giggling girls. I had to keep my nerve. I just had to keep my nerve. I summoned up all my courage. This was no time to stand cringing with my hands over my willy, as much as I wanted to.

I drew myself up to my full height.

"Come on girls," I said, in as authoritative tone as I could manage, "there's nothing to laugh at here."

"Oh yes there is," said Collette, "...that!" And she pointed straight at my penis.

I defy any man to keep his nerve when a girl is pointing at his penis and laughing. My nerve broke, and hands over willy, I turned and ran, gales of laughter at the sight of my bare bum following me as I scuttled round the shop trying to find the changing cubicle and my clothes.

Have you ever fallen backwards off a stool in the nude. I bet you have! Then you'll know that it is rather disorientating. I has been three times round the shop and once nearly out into the street before the kindly shop assistant finally caught me and helped me put the gentleman's thong, now reconstructed with the help of a safety pin, back on. I was clearly going to have to buy the wretched thing. She pushed me back into the changing cubicle and helped me get dressed.

Shamefaced I crept back out. Miss Peabody was sitting with a glass of brandy in her hand, looking more than shaken. Se didn't seem best pleased.

turned out that Collette had left a message for Miss Peabody to let her know where we were going. She said that Miss Peabody had insisted on knowing. She said that she had never thought that Miss Peabody would follow is there. That's what she said anyway.

Miss Peabody, it seemed, had taken to her bed again and purchased a second bottle of gin. Colette, it seemed, been given instructions to find somewhere for the girls to eat that night. I, it seemed, was no longer to be trusted.

I wasn't sure that Colette was to be trusted with booking the evening's outing, but I let her. She spoke the language and anyway I didn't dare risk the wrath if Peabody again. She announced we were going to the 'Haut Nues'. The phrase sounded familiar. I tried Google Translate, the last refuge of the person with a 'B' at A Level. It seemed to mean 'High Clouds'. That sounded all right.

I joined the girls to set off to the restaurant in the minibus Colette had hired. Good God, she was efficient, I'll say that for her. They didn't look like schoolgirls. But of course they were final year girls. They were eighteen, only a few years younger than me. They were dressed to kill. Not tarty! Oh no! This was Paris. You didn't dress tarty unless you were a tart. They dressed sexy. Oh Gosh. Out in Paris for the evening with a dozen sexy girls. Some people's idea of heaven. My idea of trouble. But the High Clouds restaurant, that sounded all right. Until we got there that is.

It was in Pigalle. In a sort of back street in Pigalle. An area that was somewhat racier than I would have chosen. Still, there were some nice restaurants round there. And there it was, down some steps, dim lights, loud music, raucous parties, and there was the sign 'Bienvenue au Nu'. It wasn't called 'Haut Nues' at all, it was called 'Au Nu'. I had a horrible feeling I knew what that meant. I quickly Googled it. The sign meant 'Welcome to Naked'. We were going to eat in a place called 'Naked'. I didn't think Miss Peabody would approve at all, and there was nothing I could do about it.

We were led to the table reserved for us. I looked at the waitresses and gasped. They were wearing high heels, fish net stockings, spangly briefs and.. Well that was all. Perhaps not quite all, silver bracelets and collars; bosoms, and bosoms which were being stuck almost in my face, were quite bare. I had led a sheltered life. I wasn't used to having a pair of shapely bare bosoms a few inches from my nose. I stared in astonishment. I had never realised that topless waitresses applied makeup to their nipples. But these ones had. It was like a light mascara. And they looked like they'd been twiddled to make them stand out.

I gasped at Colette, "Do you think this is quite appropriate?" I said.

"Don't be an old prude," she replied, "sit back and enjoy the view!.

"But Miss Peabody."

"Bugger Miss Peabody," she replied, an expression which brought a horrible vision to my mind, "I'm not going to tell her. Are you?"

"Well no..."

"There you are then."

She spoke rapidly to the serving girl in French and the meal started. The meal was even rather good, so that was all right. Maybe I shouldn't have allowed them to have all that wine; but they were eighteen and I didn't have any way to stop them and Peabody would never know. Would she?

It was when the entertainment started that the trouble began. It was a place that seemed to cater for group outings, office parties, hen parties or whatever. I knew we could expect audience participation. And embarrassment of the audience would be a major part of the entertainment.

Various acts, musicians, magicians, comedians, chose members of the audience to assist them. The point being to embarrass them of course. And the more the night went on the more the place began to live up to its name. Dancing girls came on between each act wearing, if that's what you can call it, very little indeed. Dancing men came on, wearing not much more. The girls cheered at that rather more than was seemly.

And members of the audience started being deprived of their clothes as well as their dignity. Girls had their skirts lifted up, men lost their belts and their trousers fell down. And with each indignity the audience roared and laughed more.

Please not our table! Please don't come to our table for volunteers! But of course they did. And there was no stopping them. Collette urged two of the girls up on their feet and there they were, joining these two foreign blokes in their quick patter, quite incomprehensible, double act. It was a very clever act, as one bloke distracted a girl, the other one would quickly remove something from her: her belt, her watch, her necklace or whatever, without her noticing. It was really quite funny as they played one of against the other so that they ended up with each other's things. Nothing sexy though, not until...

Whoosh!

While the girls had been distracted with all this fun and games with watches and necklaces, their skirts had been unfastened. Two sharp simultaneous tugs, me two skirts fell to the floor. The girls fell about laughing, and as they bent down to pick the up.

Whoosh!

Two tops were whipped off. The spotlights were switched on and the two girls were brightly lit on stage dressed in bra and panties. Oh my God! They were wearing the sexy underwear they'd bought at that shop. I didn't know where to look. I shouldn't be looking at them, I knew that. I was supposedly in charge. On the other hand Peabody had put Collette in charge, and they were eighteen, and they were wearing sexy underwear. I looked. In the bright lights the sexy underwear was semi-transparent. The girls were giggling with laughter and embarrassment as they made their way back to the table.

"Enjoy that?" asked Colette and winked.

"Well... Er..."

"Of course you did. Don't worry I won't tell Peabody. Unless of course..."

"Unless what!"

"Your turn to volunteer next I think."

It was the last act.

The announcement came on "Mademoiselle Fifi", the stripper! And she was coming to our table. I was going to be volunteered to be the stripper's stooge and there was no way I could refuse. Not if Peabody was to be kept in the dark.

She was holding her hand out to me. I was going to have to volunteer. Oh heck! Dancing with a stripper! I couldn't dance at the best of times. This was going to be embarrassing!

Collette looked at her and winked, "A poil," she said.

Mademoiselle Fifi winked back, "Mais out," she said.

"What was that?" I asked Fifi, I knew I knew that expression, but I couldn't just recall it to mind.

"It mean ze good luck," she replied. Oh yes! That would be it.

So a few minutes looking an idiot while Mademoiselle Fifi took her clothes off, not all of them if course, only then I could escape. Or so I thought. Fifi decided I should dance barefoot and bare chested.

Well she would, I suppose, the poor stooge had to be embarrassed sufficiently. And I'd gone wearing a business suit. With a tie and everything. She couldn't have me dance wearing a suit and tie could she. So she takes off my shoes and socks, and she looks at them and says with a slight sneer, "Ze Marks and Spencer," so she can speak English.

Next my tie, "Ze Marks and Spencer again,"and my shirt and, "Oh! I do not believe it. It is ze Marks and Spencer." For those of you who are not English, good old M&S are not really considered the height of fashion. But I always shop there. They are very reliable.

And she tied the tie back round my neck so she could lead me round like I was on a lead. I told you it was about audience embarrassment.

And she of course was taking her clothes off. Till she had nothing left on but her hot pants. Thank God! She was down to her hot pants. It would soon be all over. As if. She had hold of me by the tie and she was gesturing. Oh my God! She wanted me to pull her pants down. How could I get out of that. I couldn't! With a sharp pull on the tie my face was pulled towards her and I was made to grab hold of her pants. I pulled them down. My nose was six inches from her whatsit! Thank Goodness. Under her pants she was wearing a pair of sexy red panties. I was to be spared having my nose pulled into her nook and cranny.

With relief I stood up and my trousers fell down. Well it had happened to others, why was I surprised it had happened to me! I had been so distracted with participating in her striptease, I hadn't noticed how she had removed my belt and loosened my trousers. They were round my ankles. A sharp pull forward on the tie round my neck and I stumbled out of them.

The audience roared. I was wearing my Gentleman's Thong. Why had I put it on! Why oh why had I resurrected this ridiculous garment, stuck together with a safety pin, and worn it. The answer was quite mundane. I had left my ordinary underwear in the shop. I had no alternative but to patch this thing together and put it on. And I was being paraded round in it.

"Ooh la la!" said Fifi, "you are ze naughty boy! Zis is not ze Marks and Spencer I am thinking!"

And Fifi in her scanties and her high heels went strutting round the stage with me in tow in my ridiculous underwear. She pulled me to face the audience. In the glare of the bright lights I could make nobody out. That they could make me out was all too obvious. The laughter was bringing the roof down.

Fifi held out her hand, garbled something quickly and borrowed a bright red lipstick from an audience member. She carefully opened it and held up the crimson contents. What on earth was she going to do? I soon found out.

"One..."

She said it in English as, facing me to the audience, she daubed my right nipple with red.

"Two..."

My left nipple with red.

"Three....

My belly button red.

"And..."

A noise behind me. I looked round.

What on earth..

Collette was standing next to me! Come to rescue me. But... What had she got a hold of.. No.. Please...

Whoosh!

She swung the Gentleman's Thong round and round her head. The spotlight came on. And I stood there stupefied. Completely nude and ...

"Four..." Fifi, displaying me to the laughing multitude, carefully and deliberately decorated my cock with bright red lipstick.

And, with my face as crimson as my cock, the audience roared with laughter and the lights at last went out.

*****

I stood in the ladies room at the Au Nu while Colette tried unsuccessfully to clean the bright red lipstick off my penis. I still hadn't got my clothes back.

"Can't have you going back like that," she said, "what would Peabody say?"

The other girls were milling around getting ready for the journey back.

"I don't suppose Peabody is going to see my... Well you know what.."

"You never know with Peabody. She would demand explanations."

She rubbed harder.

"Oh dear! It's still bright red. Maybe if you let it well... Relax..." she said.

"I can't. I'm standing here with no clothes on and you're rubbing it!"

'Oh. I suppose...," but she didn't get any further.

'Its a disgrace!"

A familiar Morningside accent boomed out from the doorway to the ladies room. We looked round in horror. Peabody!

"It's a disgrace!"

Oh no! I was in for it now. Stark naked in the ladies room with a bright red, and embarrassingly vertical, willy!

"The concierge told me you'd ordered a taxi for here and so I came to see what was happening. Unfortunately I left my spectacles behind and couldn't see a thing until that strange dancing woman came and borrowed my lipstick. And she never gave it back. It's a disgrace I tell you. She never gave it back. It's my particularly favourite shade of...!"

She looked at my bright red startling erect penis.

"Ah! There it is," she squinted hard in the dim light of the ladies room, trying to make something of the blurs in front if her eyes, "That girl in the pick costume has it. I can see it's my colour even without my specs!"

And you know what? I'd have got away with it all if she hadn't come over and grabbed her lost property before she realised precisely what it was.