Stripping the Aristocrats

 I'm glad to say that last night and was successfully able to complete my novel about the nudity virus and it was over 162,000 words, one of my longest things yet, and probably my longest on that topic. Now I'll probably take a while to get around to reading and editing and publishing it, but in the meantime today I have a good story that I thought of off the top of my head that involves a historical story about French aristocrats embarrassing their servants with nudity before turning the tables on them. This one's a little bit more of a cruel minded naked story, but I felt that that was necessary so that when the servants get revenge that it's all the more sweet. In this one contains mutual male and female nudity so I hope you will enjoy it.

Stripping the Aristocrats
"Strip them," the Marquis murmured against his wife's ear, fingers tracing idle circles on her collarbone. The drawing room's chandelier cast uneven light across the faces of their servants—eighteen in total, lined up against the silk-papered walls. Their expressions ranged from confusion to dawning horror. The Marquise laughed, low and delighted, twisting a lock of her powdered hair around one finger. "All of them? Even old Bertrand?"
    The footman closest to the door shifted his weight, throat bobbing. His livery suddenly seemed too tight. Across from him, Claudette, the head housemaid, kept her eyes fixed on the parquet floor, knuckles whitening around her apron strings. They'd been summoned for an "evening diversion," but none had expected *this*. The Marquis waved a hand, rings glinting. "Why hesitate? They're ours."
    Bertrand, the steward—who had served the household since before the Marquis was born—cleared his throat. His voice wavered only slightly. "My lord, with respect, such a demand is..." The Marquise cut him off with a flick of her fan. "Oh, don't be tedious. It's just skin." She leaned forward, elbow propped on the armrest of her chair. "Unless you'd prefer we sell your daughter to that banker in Marseille? What was his name again?"
    Silence pooled thickly in the room. The scullery maid—barely eighteen—began to cry, soundlessly, tears cutting tracks through the dust on her cheeks. The Marquis sighed, as if put upon, and reached for his wine. "Well?"
    The first button popped loose with a sound like a tiny guillotine dropping. Claudette’s hands shook as she worked her way down her bodice, each undone fastening feeling like a surrender. The footman—Jacques, his name was Jacques—fumbled with his cravat, fingers slipping on the silk. Behind him, the scullery maid had already given up, her shift pooling around her ankles like shed skin. The Marquis took a slow sip of wine, his eyes dark with amusement. "Faster," he murmured, and the word slithered through the room.
    The Marquise tapped her fan against her lower lip, watching Bertrand with particular delight. The old steward’s hands trembled as he unbuckled his belt, the leather creaking like a ship in a storm. His dignity unraveled stitch by stitch, and she let out a soft, satisfied hum. "There we are," she purred, tilting her head toward her husband. "Isn’t this better than ledgers and meal plans?" The Marquis chuckled, swirling his glass. "Infinitely."
    Across the room, a seamstress—young, new, her face still round with country innocence—hesitated, clutching her sleeves. The Marquise’s smile sharpened. "Ah, little mouse," she cooed, leaning forward. "Shall I have someone *help* you?" The woman’s breath hitched, and her hands flew to her laces. The Marquis watched the panic ripple through the room, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. "Good," he said, low and approving. "Very good."
    The last of the undergarments hit the floor just as the grandfather clock in the corner struck the half-hour. The servants stood bare under the chandelier’s judgmental light, their skin prickling in the draft. The Marquise sighed, stretching like a cat in a sunbeam. "Now," she said, flicking her fan open with a snap. "Let’s discuss *punishments* for those who took too long."
    The Marquise’s fan snapped shut with a sound like a bone breaking. "Dance," she commanded, tilting her head toward the harpsichord in the corner. The musician—who had been watching with wide, horrified eyes—flinched as if struck, then scrambled to the instrument, his own clothes still half-buttoned in his haste. His fingers stumbled into a jaunty bourrée, the notes brittle with panic.
    Bertrand’s knees creaked as he shifted his weight, his bare feet cold against the parquet. The scullery maid—Marie, her name was Marie—stepped forward first, her arms jerking upward in a parody of a courtly flourish. Her ribs stood out sharp beneath her skin, and her movements were stiff, like a marionette with tangled strings. The Marquis leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine. "Oh, come now," he murmured. "Put some *heart* into it."
    Jacques swallowed hard and began to pivot, his body rigid with shame. His attempt at a bow was more of a stagger, and the Marquise laughed—a bright, chiming sound that didn’t touch her eyes. Claudette, ever the pragmatist, closed her eyes and swayed, her hips moving in slow, deliberate circles. The seamstress—Lise, fresh from some backwater village—whimpered as she tried to mimic her, her hands fluttering uselessly at her sides.
    The music sped up, the harpsichordist’s fingers slipping into a frenetic gigue. The servants’ movements grew more desperate, less coordinated. Marie tripped over her own feet, catching herself on the edge of a side table. The Marquis’s smile widened. "Lovely," he purred. "But I think our little mouse needs… encouragement." He nodded to a footman still lingering by the door—one of the few who hadn’t been stripped. "Pierre. Be a dear and show her how it’s done."
    Pierre hesitated, then stepped forward, his boots loud against the floor. He seized Lise’s wrist, spinning her roughly. She cried out, her free hand flying up to cover her breasts. "None of that," the Marquise chided, tapping her fan against her palm. "We’re all friends here." The grandfather clock ticked ominously in the corner, its pendulum swinging like a metronome counting down to something worse.
    Pierre's grip on Lise's wrist tightened as he yanked her into a spin that sent her stumbling against Jacques, their bare skin sticking together with panicked sweat before they recoiled like scalded cats. The Marquise dissolved into laughter, her fan clattering to the floor as she clutched her husband's arm. "Look at them—oh god, look at Bertrand's *knees*!" she wheezed, tears of mirth glinting at the corners of her eyes. The old steward wobbled mid-pirouette, his sagging flesh quivering with every misstep, his face a mask of humiliated concentration.
    The Marquis nearly choked on his wine, gesturing toward Marie with his glass. Liquid sloshed over the rim as her frantic jig sent her small breasts bouncing violently. "Like a pair of startled hares in a sack!" he crowed, while Claudette—who had given up all pretense of grace—flailed her arms in a grotesque parody of a peasant reel, her thick thighs slapping together with each graceless leap. The harpsichordist, sweating profusely, accelerated the tempo until the music was little more than a discordant scramble of notes.
    Lise sobbed openly now, her attempts to cover herself abandoned as Pierre manhandled her into increasingly elaborate figures, her body jolting with every forced movement. The Marquise wiped her eyes, gasping, "Oh, do it again—the thing with the *leg*!" Pierre obeyed, hiking Lise's knee up sharply until she nearly toppled, her balance sacrificed to the cruel physics of momentum. Her breasts swung wildly, and the Marquis let out a delighted groan, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as if to stifle his own vulgarity.
    Then the clock struck the hour, its deep chime slicing through the cacophony. The servants froze mid-gesture, their chests heaving, while the last notes of the harpsichord died in a dissonant twang. The Marquise's laughter faded into a sigh of contentment. She lifted a finger, and the room held its breath. "Now," she said, her voice velvet with malice, "let's discuss who among you has earned a... *private* audience." Her gaze lingered on Marie's protruding ribs, then drifted lower. The Marquis leaned forward, his rings clicking against his glass. "We'll start with the slowest to obey."
    Marie's breath hitched as Pierre's meaty hands clamped around her waist, lifting her effortlessly until her bare feet dangled inches above the floor. "No—please—" she gasped, but the protest died in her throat when the Marquise snapped her fingers twice. The harpsichordist, his face slick with sweat, launched into a frenzied tarantella. Pierre began shaking Marie in time with the music, her entire body vibrating violently—her coltish legs kicking uselessly, her underfed belly quaking, her small breasts jouncing in frantic ellipses that made the Marquis spit out his wine with laughter.
    "Higher!" the Marquise shrieked, slapping her fan against her husband's thigh. Pierre obediently bounced Marie up and down like a ragdoll, her limbs flailing as her pelvis jerked forward and back with each downward thrust, the obscene slap of flesh against flesh punctuating the music. Tears streamed down Marie's cheeks, but the sound that escaped her was less a sob than a staccato series of grunts forced from her diaphragm by the merciless jostling. The Marquis wiped his eyes, wheezing, "Look at her tits—like eggs in a sack!"
    Claudette, watching from the sidelines with her arms crossed over her own sagging bosom, flinched as Marie's heel accidentally connected with Pierre's chin. The Marquise's smile turned dangerous. "Oh, clumsy girl," she murmured, rising from her chair in a rustle of silk. She glided forward and seized Marie's ankle mid-kick, yanking it sideways with a sharp twist that sent the girl's body into a violent spin. Marie shrieked as centrifugal force took over—her limbs splaying outward, her hair whipping across her face, her breasts and buttocks wobbling in exaggerated oscillations that sent the aristocrats into fresh peals of delight.
    Pierre released her abruptly. Marie crashed to the floor on hands and knees, her body heaving with ragged breaths, strands of saliva dangling from her lips. The Marquis rose, adjusting his breeches with one hand while the other gestured languidly toward Lise. "Now the mouse," he said, his voice thick. The seamstress whimpered and tried to back away, but Pierre was already moving, his boots scraping against the parquet as he reached for her. The Marquise sighed happily and settled back into her chair, tapping her fan against her teeth. "Make her *leap*," she instructed.
    The Marquis's fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair, his eyes lingering on Lise’s trembling form as Pierre dragged her toward the center of the room. Then, with a sudden, languid stretch, he turned to his wife. "Darling," he murmured, "don’t you think the Comte de Vexin would *adore* this little tableau?" The Marquise’s fan paused mid-tap. A slow, wicked smile curled her lips. "Oh, *yes*," she breathed. "And the Baronne—she does so love a spirited performance." 
    A collective shudder ran through the servants. Marie, still gasping on the floor, pressed her forehead to the parquet. Claudette’s arms tightened around herself, her knuckles blanching. Even Bertrand’s stoic expression fractured for a heartbeat. The Marquis clapped his hands. "Pierre, fetch the others—the ones still dressed. They’ll carry the invitations." His gaze slid over the naked, shivering figures. "The rest of you... well. Best to stay *presentable*."
    The harpsichordist’s hands hovered above the keys, his face ashen. The Marquise twirled her fan idly. "Keep playing, dear," she said sweetly. "We’ll need ambiance for our *guests*." The first notes stumbled out, a faltering minuet that did nothing to mask the rustle of silk as the Marquise rose and circled the servants like a hawk. She paused behind Lise, tracing a fingernail down the girl’s spine. "Such pretty bones," she mused. "The Baronne will want to see them *up close*." 
    Jacques’s jaw clenched. The Marquis noticed, of course. "Problem, boy?" he purred. Jacques swallowed. "N-no, my lord." The Marquis’s smile widened. "Good. Because I’d hate for your sister in the village to hear you’ve been... *uncooperative*." The threat hung in the air, thicker than the scent of sweat and spilled wine. Somewhere in the hall, a door creaked open—Pierre departing to summon their audience. 
    The Marquise sighed, fanning herself. "Oh, do *relax*," she chided the servants. "It’s not as if they haven’t seen bare skin before." She leaned down, her breath hot against Marie’s ear. "Though perhaps not quite so... *animated*." Marie squeezed her eyes shut. The clock ticked. The music played. And the servants waited, their humiliation now a spectacle yet to come.
    The first carriage arrived with a clatter of hooves and the stench of spiced wine, its occupants already howling with laughter before the footman could even lower the step. The Baronne de Vexin tumbled out first, her powdered wig askew, her face flushed with drink and anticipation. "Oh, *marvelous*!" she shrieked, clutching her companion’s arm as she took in the scene—the servants frozen mid-movement, their naked bodies gleaming with sweat under the chandelier’s pitiless glare. "Is this how you greet all your guests? How *progressive*!" Behind her, the Comte staggered out of the carriage, his cravat undone, his eyes already raking over Marie’s trembling form. "Better than the opera," he slurred, elbowing the Baronne. "And far more *interactive*."
    More carriages rolled into the courtyard, disgorging a stream of silk-clad aristocrats who descended upon the drawing room like vultures to a carcass. The Marquise greeted them with open arms, her fan fluttering like a butterfly pinned to her wrist. "Do enjoy the entertainment, darlings," she trilled, while Lise tried in vain to shield herself behind Jacques’s broader frame. The Comte noticed immediately. "Ah, the shy ones are always the sweetest," he murmured, plucking a grape from a passing tray and popping it into his mouth. His teeth gleamed. "Aren’t you going to *dance* for us, little mouse?"
    The harpsichordist, his fingers trembling, launched into a gavotte. The servants moved like marionettes with half-cut strings—jerky, disjointed, their faces burning with shame as the aristocrats pointed and cackled. The Baronne collapsed onto a settee, fanning herself violently. "Look at Bertrand’s *knees*!" she howled, tears streaming down her rouged cheeks. "Like two eggs in a stocking!" The old steward wobbled mid-turn, his sagging flesh jiggling grotesquely, and the room erupted anew. Someone threw a sugared almond. It bounced off his shoulder, leaving a sticky trail.
    Pierre, still gripping Marie’s wrist, yanked her forward into a bow so deep her forehead nearly brushed the floor. Her ribs jutted like the hull of a shipwreck. "Oh, *do* make her jump again!" the Baronne begged, clapping her hands. The Marquis, reclining in his chair like a sated predator, flicked his fingers lazily. Pierre obeyed, hauling Marie upward until her feet left the ground, then shaking her violently. Her body convulsed—a puppet in a hurricane—and the Comte nearly choked on his wine. "Christ, look at her tits!" he gasped. "Like a pair of *rabbits* in a sack!" The room dissolved into hysterics.
    Lise, forgotten for a moment, tried to edge toward the door. The Marquise’s fan snapped shut like a guillotine. "Going somewhere, darling?" she purred. The Baronne turned, her eyes alight. "Oh, *please* let me have her next," she cooed, already rising from her seat. Her silk slippers whispered across the floor as she advanced, her fingers twitching. Lise backed away, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. The Comte grinned. "Catch her quick," he advised. "The scared ones *always* run."
    The Marquise sighed, shaking her head as if disappointed. "Really, my dears," she chided the servants, gesturing to the glittering crowd with her fan. "You should be *flattered* by such attention. Look at them—all lace and velvet, while you stand there like... well." She let the sentence hang, her smile sharp. The Baronne giggled, plucking at her own embroidered bodice. "Such *fine* fabric," she simpered. "And so *much* of it." She reached out suddenly, catching Lise’s chin between thumb and forefinger. The seamstress flinched as the Baronne’s rings bit into her skin. "Aren’t you *grateful*," the woman murmured, "to be spared such *burdens*?"
    Jacques’s fists clenched at his sides. The Marquis noticed, of course. "Something to say, boy?" he drawled. Jacques swallowed hard. "N-no, my lord." The Marquis’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Good. Because I’d hate for your sister in the village to hear you’ve been... *ungrateful*." The threat slithered through the room, colder than the draft on bare skin. Marie, still trembling from Pierre’s ministrations, let out a quiet sob. The Comte tutted. "Now, now," he said, wagging a finger. "Tears don’t suit *entertainment*."
    The Baronne released Lise’s face with a little push that sent her stumbling back. "Oh, *do* cheer up," she trilled, adjusting her own lace cuffs with a flourish. "After all, you’re the *stars* of the evening!" She swept a hand toward the other guests, their silks and satins gleaming in the candlelight. "We’re *dressed* for the theater," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "But *you*... well." Her smile turned vicious. "You’re the *show*."
    The harpsichordist, his face slick with sweat, struck up a frantic galliard. The servants moved like corpses jerked upright by strings—their limbs stiff, their eyes vacant. The Baronne sighed happily, settling back onto her settee. "Much better," she murmured, as Pierre grabbed Lise’s arm and spun her into a graceless pirouette. Her bare feet skidded on the polished floor, her body twisting like a leaf in a storm. The Comte leaned forward, his breath hot and wine-sour. "Now *that*," he declared, "is what I call *appreciation*."
    The Marquise twirled her fan idly, then snapped it shut with a click that silenced the harpsichord. "Enough dancing," she announced. "Now, you'll learn *appreciation*." She gestured to the Baronne's elaborate stomacher, its silver threads catching the light. "Claudette, come feel the embroidery. Tell her how exquisite it is."
    Claudette's calloused fingers trembled as she approached. The Baronne smirked, arching her back to better display the intricate floral patterns. The housemaid's fingertips brushed the raised stitching, the contrast between her work-roughened skin and the delicate fabric obscene. "It's... very fine, my lady," she managed, voice hollow. The Baronne sighed. "*Such* enthusiasm. Try again—with feeling."
    Jacques was next, ordered to kneel and press his cheek against the Comte's velvet breeches. The nap of the fabric scraped his skin raw as he mumbled, "S-so soft." The Comte chuckled, patting his head like a dog. "There, was that so hard?" Across the room, Marie was made to trace the scalloped edges of the Marquise's lace cuffs with her tongue, her own ribs stark against her skin as she bent forward. Each pass left her mouth drier, the starch bitter on her tongue.
    Lise, though—Lise was given the Baronne's fan. "Go on," the woman purred, guiding her fingers over the painted silk. "Tell me how it *glides*." The seamstress's hands shook as she stroked the scene of shepherdesses cavorting, her own nakedness a cruel parody of their frolicking. The Baronne leaned close, her breath hot. "Isn't it *lovely* to touch such things?" she whispered. "Even if you'll never wear them." 
    The Marquis suddenly clapped his hands. "Enough!" The servants flinched. "Now," he said, smiling, "let's discuss how *else* you might show your gratitude." His gaze lingered on Marie's protruding hip bones. The grandfather clock ticked louder. Somewhere, a carriage rattled into the courtyard. More guests were arriving.
The crunch of carriage wheels on gravel announced yet another wave of arrivals—silhouettes staggering against torchlight, their laughter already slicing through the drawing room’s thick air. The servants stiffened as new eyes raked over them, their nakedness now a grotesque exhibit for the fifteenth—no, sixteenth—pair of gawking aristocrats. The Baronne clapped her hands, her stomacher’s silver threads flashing. "Oh, *do* make them greet the guests properly!" she trilled. The Marquise obliged, snapping her fan toward the doorway. "Line up. *Bow*."
    Marie’s stomach lurched as she was shoved forward, her bare breasts grazing the embroidered hem of a duc’s coat as she bent at the waist. The contact—warm skin against cold silk—sent the man into a fit of giggles, his wig trembling. "Like a *hound* nosing for scraps!" he crowed, while his companion, a woman dripping in sapphires, pressed her gloved palm flat against Jacques’s chest as he bowed. "Ohhh, the *heat* of them!" she moaned, fanning herself. The servants’ skin burned hotter with each unwanted touch, their blushes creeping down to their collarbones, their thighs, as if their humiliation could be measured in patches of scarlet.
    Claudette, forced to kneel and kiss the Comte’s shoe buckle, felt the stiff brocade scrape her lips raw. Above her, the man howled with laughter, nudging his friend’s knee. "Look at her *knees*—like two wrinkled apples!" The room erupted anew, glasses clinking as toasts were made to "the best entertainment Versailles never had." Lise, meanwhile, was made to twirl slowly before each new arrival, her arms rigid at her sides as fingers reached out to pinch her waist, to trace the sharp jut of her hip bones. "Such a *delicate* frame," murmured a marquise, her diamond bracelets catching in Lise’s hair as she tugged her closer. "Like a *doll* come to life!"
    The Marquise reclined in her chair, swirling her wine lazily. "We *must* make this a monthly affair," she sighed, watching as the Baronne "accidentally" spilled champagne down Marie’s back just to watch her jump. The liquid dripped between her shoulder blades, tracing the knobs of her spine before pooling at the base of her ribs. The guests shrieked with delight. "Oh, *do* let’s!" agreed the Comte, already loosening his cravat further. "We’ll call it... the *Naked Cotillion*." The Marquis grinned, lifting his glass. "To tradition." The servants, their bodies now glistening with sweat and spilled liquor, trembled as the toast echoed around them—a death knell for what little dignity remained.
    The grandfather clock struck three, its hollow chime slicing through the remnants of laughter and spilled wine. The guests had staggered out hours ago, their carriages rattling away into the night, but the stench of their perfumes and the ghost of their fingers still clung to the servants’ skin. Marie crouched in the scullery, scrubbing her raw wrists with lye soap until the water turned pink. Each scrape of the brush felt like erasing a layer of herself—but the shame had seeped too deep to wash away. Across the room, Lise sat motionless on a stool, her shift hanging loose where the Baronne’s rings had torn the fabric. Her fingers traced the bruises blooming along her ribs in the shape of a fan.
    Claudette dragged a mop across the drawing room floor, the wood slick with champagne and worse. The chandelier’s candles had burned low, casting long shadows that made the discarded garments strewn about look like skinned animals. Jacques emerged from the hallway, his face ashen, clutching a crumpled note—the Marquis’s orders for next week’s "entertainment." He didn’t need to read it aloud. The way his knuckles whitened around the paper said enough. 
    Bertrand leaned against the hearth, his knees popping as he shifted. The firelight carved hollows beneath his eyes. "They’ll want it grander next time," he muttered. "More guests. More... variations." The words hung in the air like a noose. Marie’s soap slipped from her fingers. The splash echoed like a stone dropped into a well. 
    In the silence that followed, the unspoken truth settled over them: this was only the beginning. The Marquise’s fan, left behind on a settee, gleamed like a knife in the dim light.
The news slithered through the château like a live wire—first a whisper between the stableboys, then a hissed confirmation from the butcher’s boy who’d seen the smoke rising from Paris. Marie froze mid-scrub, her chapped hands hovering over the washbasin as Claudette burst into the scullery, her face flushed. "They’re burning the tax records," she breathed. "They dragged the governor’s head through the streets on a pike." The soap slipped from Marie’s fingers again, this time sinking like a corpse beneath the scummy water.
    Upstairs, the Marquis was screaming at a messenger, his voice ricocheting off the gilt ceiling. "*Ridiculous*! My brother’s regiment will—" The courier’s reply was too low to hear, but the silence that followed was thicker than blood. Lise, crouched on the back stairs with a pile of mending, felt the tremor in the floorboards as something heavy—a vase? A chair?—shattered against the wall. Jacques appeared at the scullery door, his grin wild and terrible. "They’re coming," he said softly. "For *him*."
    The servants exchanged glances like stolen coins. Bertrand’s knuckles cracked as he flexed his hands. "The road from Paris is three hours hard ride," he murmured. Marie watched a drop of water slide down her forearm, tracing the same path the champagne had taken the night before. Her voice, when it came, was a stranger’s. "Then we have two."
    Somewhere above them, a door slammed. The Marquise’s shrill laughter tumbled down the stairs, sharp as broken glass. Claudette’s fingers tightened around the mop handle. "She thinks it’s a *joke*," she muttered. Jacques was already moving, snatching a carving knife from the block with a sound like a tooth being pulled. Lise’s needle hovered over the torn shift in her lap. The Baronne’s bruises stared up at her from the fabric.
    The grandfather clock ticked. Somewhere beyond the estate walls, a dog began to bark. Marie wiped her hands on her apron—slowly, methodically—then reached for the fireplace poker. It came away from the hearth with a whisper of soot. Bertrand exhaled through his nose. "Two hours," he repeated, as if testing the weight of the words.
    Down the hall, the harpsichord struck up a gavotte. The Marquise was singing.
    The distant thunder of hooves reached them before the torches did—a low, rolling tremor through the wine cellar floor that made Jacques’s knife hand twitch. Claudette pressed her ear to the scullery wall, the plaster cool against her skin. "Forty? Fifty?" she whispered. Bertrand’s cracked lips peeled back from his teeth. "Enough."
    Upstairs, the Marquise’s gavotte faltered mid-note as the first shouts pierced the night. A crystal glass shattered. The Marquis’s bellow—"Who dares?!"—was cut short by the splintering of the front doors. Marie’s fingers tightened around the poker, the iron still warm from the hearth. Lise didn’t realize she’d snapped her needle until she felt the sting.
    They moved as one, a silent tide through the servants’ passages. Jacques reached the grand staircase first, just in time to see the Marquis dragged backward by his embroidered collar, his silk stockings flashing white against the mud-streaked floor. The mob’s torches threw monstrous shadows up the walls—here the Comtesse’s pearl necklace snapping like beads of glass, there the Baronne’s wig tumbling into the fray like a head already severed.
    Claudette stepped into the light, her apron strings dangling. "Strip them," she said, and her voice didn’t shake. The mob stilled. The Marquis’s cravat was already half-undone, his throat bobbing above the lace. "You wouldn’t—" Marie drove the poker between his shoulder blades, sending him sprawling. "Like eggs in a stocking," she murmured as his knees hit marble.
    Lise approached the Marquise with the Baronne’s own fan. It snapped open with a sound like a pistol cocking. "Lovely bones," she said, tapping it against the woman’s stomacher. "The *world* should see them." The Marquise’s shriek drowned in the roar of the crowd as hands—calloused, scarred, *familiar*—descended upon the silk.
    Bertrand watched from the stairs as the last pin holding the aristocracy together came undone. Somewhere beneath the whoops and tearing fabric, the grandfather clock struck four. He adjusted his threadbare cuffs and smiled.
    The Marquis's silk breeches hit the marble with a wet slap, his bare thighs mottled with gooseflesh in the torchlight. He drew himself up, chin trembling, as the mob pressed closer—his once-impeccable posture now reduced to the hunched defensiveness of a cornered stag. "This is *beneath* us," he hissed, but the words dissolved into a choked gasp as Jacques wrenched his arms behind his back with a hemp rope. The Marquise shrank against her husband, her elaborate coiffure unraveling into greasy strands that stuck to her sweat-slicked shoulders. "You wouldn't dare—" she began, until Marie stepped forward with the fireplace poker still warm from the hearth and pressed it between her shoulder blades.
    "Like a *hound* nosing for scraps," Marie murmured, mimicking the duc's mocking lilt from the night before. The mob erupted into laughter, their torches casting jagged shadows that made the aristocrats' naked bodies look like flayed meat hung in a butcher's window. Claudette tossed the harpsichordist's bow at their feet. "Play," she ordered, and when he hesitated, Pierre—still bare-chested from his earlier exertions—seized the Comtesse's pearl necklace and yanked until the beads popped like gunfire. The musician scrambled for the bow with shaking hands.
    The first notes of the bourrée stumbled out, discordant as a drunkard's gait. The Marquis and Marquise swayed like marionettes with half-severed strings, their movements stiff with outrage and terror. "Faster," Jacques growled, and the tempo lurched forward until the music was a grotesque parody of elegance. The Marquise's knees buckled mid-turn; her husband caught her elbow only to have his grip slip on her sweat-slicked skin. They careened into each other, their pale flesh slapping together with a sound that sent the scullery maids into hysterics. Someone threw a rotten apple. It struck the Marquis's ribs with a wet thud, leaving a pulpy bruise that bloomed like a peony in the torchlight.
    Lise emerged from the crowd holding the Baronne's silver-handled fan. She snapped it open with a flourish that would've made the dead woman blush. "Now," she said sweetly, tapping the fan against her palm, "let's discuss who among you has earned a... *private* audience." The fan's pointed tip hovered over the Comte's groin. His bladder let go before she could speak another word.
    The torches bobbed like drunken fireflies as the mob spilled from the château gates, their laughter sharp as shattered crystal. At the procession's head, Jacques dragged the Marquis by a rope looped around his throat—not tight enough to choke, just enough to make the man stumble forward with every jerk, his bare feet slapping the cobbles like raw meat on a butcher's block. Behind them, Marie and Claudette prodded the Marquise with fireplace pokers, the iron tips leaving sooty crescents on the woman's shoulder blades whenever she slowed. "Dance, my lady," Marie crooned, mimicking the Marquise's own honeyed venom from the night before. The crowd roared as the noblewoman's knees buckled mid-step, her bare breasts swaying grotesquely with each forced movement.
    Someone had found the Comte's ceremonial wig stand and mounted it like a standard, the empty wire frame bobbing above the sea of torches. Beneath it, the real Comte shuffled in a grotesque parody of a minuet, his once-proud stomach now jiggling with every terrified step. Lise walked beside him, lazily fanning herself with the Baronne's stolen fan, its painted silk fluttering like a butterfly pinned to her wrist. "Oh do keep up, your grace," she sighed, tapping the fan's edge against his flabby thigh. "We wouldn't want you to be... *slowest to obey*." The reference to last night's threat sent a fresh wave of laughter through the mob, and the Comte's face crumpled like wet parchment.
    Further back, Pierre had organized the footmen into an impromptu orchestra—kitchen pots for drums, a rusted scythe dragged across iron railings for strings. The dissonant clamor drove the naked aristocrats into increasingly frantic movements, their pale limbs flashing in the torchlight like gutted fish twitching on a dock. Bertrand watched from the sidelines, his gnarled hands clenched around the Marquis's own jeweled walking stick. When the old steward finally stepped forward, the crowd fell silent. With deliberate slowness, he used the stick's silver tip to lift the Marquis's chin. "Tell me," he murmured, "does our *entertainment* meet your exacting standards?" The Marquis's lips moved soundlessly, his eyes darting to where his wife now crouched in the gutter, her elaborate coiffure unraveled into rat's tails. Bertrand smiled. "No? Then by all means—*demonstrate*."
    The walking stick came down across the Marquis's shoulders with a crack that echoed off the storefronts. The nobleman yelped, his body jerking forward into an involuntary bow so deep his forehead nearly scraped the cobbles. The mob erupted—not in cruelty, but in the same vicious delight the aristocrats had shown the night before. Somewhere a window shattered. A silk handkerchief fluttered down from an upper story like a surrender flag. The harpsichordist, now clutching a dented stew pot, began pounding out the same bourrée he'd played during their degradation. This time, it was the Marquis who wept as his body moved without his consent, his once-proud erection now shriveled against his thigh like a dead thing.
    The cobblestones were slick with rain and something darker as the last of the aristocrats were herded into the square, their pale, trembling bodies huddled together like plucked chickens awaiting slaughter. The Marquis, his once-impeccable wig now a sodden rat's nest clinging to his scalp, tried to cover himself with hands that had never known calluses—useless against the jeers and flying refuse. A rotten cabbage struck the Marquise's shoulder, its leaves unfurling like grotesque lace against her sagging breast. She made a sound then, halfway between a sob and the mewl of a stepped-on kitten, and the crowd roared louder.
    Jacques wiped his brow with the tattered remains of the Comte's embroidered cravat, watching as Marie circled the shivering nobles with a butcher's appraisal. "Look at them," she murmured, dragging the cold tip of a fireplace poker down the Marquis's spine. "Like snails without their shells." The comparison sent a ripple of laughter through the villagers—the baker's wife clutching her sides, the blacksmith's children pointing with grubby fingers. Even old Bertrand allowed himself a cracked smile, though his knuckles whitened around the stolen walking stick. 
    For a heartbeat, silence settled over the square. The only sounds were the patter of rain on bare skin and the Marquis's teeth chattering like dice in a cup. Then Claudette stepped forward, her work-roughened fingers trailing over the Marquise's jewel-crusted fan—now clutched in her own hand like a scepter. "Oh dear," she crooned, snapping the fan open with a sound like a breaking neck. "Are we... *cold*, my lady?" The crowd erupted as the noblewoman flinched, her nipples pebbling in the chill. Someone threw a bucket of gutter water. It hit the Comte square in the chest, revealing the pink, wrinkled truth of him beneath the grime.
    They might have stopped then—might have let the broken creatures slink away into the dawn. But as the first light crept over the rooftops, glinting off the puddles of vomit and spilled wine, Jacques caught sight of the Marquis's eyes. Still calculating. Still *waiting*. He seized a handful of the man's greasy hair and wrenched his head back. "Bow," he whispered, sweet as poisoned honey. And as the aristocrat's knees hit the stones with a wet crack, the square filled with the sound of a thousand ragged voices singing the same word: "*Again*."
 

This is one that just came to me spontaneously and I thought it would make for a good historical story about embarrassing nudity because that was something that was used in a lot of societies historically. So I just thought of this idea of did this happen during the French Revolution and I looked it up and there were incidents of aristocrats being stripped naked and humiliated during the French Revolution and I thought that that would just be a great idea for story honestly. This one's a little bit more nasty I suppose where the people who were making the people get naked were really truly humiliating and degrading them rather than just being awkward social tension like in a lot of these naked stories, but I had to make them basically horrible assholes so that when the peasants rise up and get revenge on them you kind of feel that they richly deserve it and the fact that they end up as naked prisoners in the end I thought was a pretty good way of ending it all things considered.