The Misadventures of Tiffany Jones

"Could you at least put on a robe instead of parading around in the nuddy?"

"Don't be such a prude, Jo. We're all grown ups."

Both Ray and Jo stared at the delectable blonde who dragged the towel from her head and proceeded to brush her fair locks. Jo shrugged and Ray crossed his legs to conceal his burgeoning erection. He quickly hid his face in that day's copy of the Sun newspaper.

"Any plans today you two?"

Tiff turned away from her older cousin and sighed. The rate of bookings for her had slowed down of late. Where once she was booked for at least one fashion show a week, it was now only once a fortnight.

"Nothing much."

"Only the rent is due and it seems that as I'm the only one gainfully employed, I'm shelling out around here. It's about time you chipped in."

"I'm still waiting on that French assignment. That will bring in the dosh."

"What about that job in Soho you were offered?"

"What! The Fiona Richmond show? I'm not stripping off twice a night in front of dozens of dirty old men in raincoats, thank you very much."

Tiffany sat next to Ray and poured herself a cup of tea from the pot.

"Be reasonable, babe." Said Ray. "The money is good. Why not try it for a week? See how it goes?"

"I suppose so. But the minute I get groped by some pervert I quit. Oh, flip!"

The nude girl spilled hot tea between her thighs into her golden thatch and yelped.

"Serves you right," said Jo smugly. "Now go put on some knickers."

x

Two days later, Tiffany looked smart and sophisticated as she wore a menswear vest over a classic green blouse, a floral-print knee-length skirt, and brown leather knee-high boots. She took the tube to Piccadilly in the West End at six in the freezing evening and made her way through the throng of pedestrians to Whitehall.

The South of England had borne the brunt of some brutal wintry weather, and the pavements still showed signs of ice and frost.

"Show business? More like SNOW business!"

She managed to find the backstage door of the Trafalgar Theatre which led to a flight of rickety stairs. From a near distance, she could hear female voices coming from behind a closed door.

Taking a deep breath, the nervous blonde babe rang the intercom bell and someone said something incomprehensible or other from within.

The door opened and a true vision with light brown hair and peachy skin greeted her.

"Tiffany? Dah-ling! Sooo glad you returned my invitation. I'm Fiona. Do come in."

"Thanks. It's brass monkeys out here."

The bubbly blonde smiled back as six half-naked strippers dashed here and there. Fiona herself was a knockout. Entirely naked save for a large jewel jammed into her navel and a plume of blue ostrich feathers atop her head. At six feet tall in her high heels, this bodacious woman had a body that was capable of stopping traffic during the British Grand Prix! The daughter of a vicar, Fiona was well-spoken and well-brought up, blessed with an athletic-looking body with legs up to her neck. With her superb all-natural 34D-sized boobs and a slim build, her rise to fame had been swift. She had started out as an air stewardess, then subsequently became a Playboy Club croupier in London.

Richmond met the British strip club owner and publisher Paul Raymond in 1970 when she auditioned for a part in the nude farce Pajama Tops at the Whitehall Theatre in London. She was awarded the part and went on to star at the Raymond Revuebar strip club, appearing in nude photo shoots and working as an adult entertainment journalist, writing articles about sex for the UK's top-shelf magazines.

"How are you?"

"Fine, fine." Tiffany flushed with excitement.

Fiona's eyes blinked rapidly from the thick cake of blue glitter on each of her eyelids. Her brows had been immaculately tilted up into exotic arches, and her mouth was a slash of glossy scarlet.

"Good to hear. Well, it's a half hour till the first show, so I suggest you get your kit off."

"Right, yes. Right."

"Come with me, I'll show you where to change."

Tiffany was shown her spot. There was a metal folding chair next to a small makeup table with a mirror that had a dozen naked bulbs bordering it.

Two three-bar electric fires tried in vain to heat the busy room, as Tiff was shown a small chair and mirror with a dozen naked bulbs bordering it. She busied herself with decorating her face with white powder and glitter stars. Her mouth had always been full and with just the right amount of lipstick, her lips oozed sexual innuendo.

Fiona watched as she finally stripped off and stood starkers in front of her. She was handed a G-string to inadequately cover her thatch, and a conical-shaped silver that made her modestly sized tits look like two torpedoes. Fiona outlined the routine.

"I go on first, and then you and the others follow on in pairs. You'll go with Anita. We have three musical numbers. Lose the top at the end of the first. And the G-string after the second."

A tall brunette joined Tiffany and they linked arms. The floor was all old wood, and a makeshift arch, painted and domed at the front, suggested an Eastern Harem enchantment.

In the space of thirty minutes, the bemused blonde had walked off the icy streets and onto an old stage semi-nude. Bright lights blinded her temporarily as they stepped out. The show began with snazzy music blaring out of crushingly distorting loudspeakers as Fiona threw her arms up and out to catcalls and whistles. The classy stripper pouted, gyrated, and fluttered her eyes as she played the seated audience. Her big tits were bared to all and bobbed alluringly in her chest. The firm moons of her rear cheeks quivered in front of the other girls who followed like obedient ducklings in tow. Under the stage light, Tiff could not make out any faces but heard them nonetheless.

"Just keep moving, ladies." Ordered Fiona.

There was not much of a routine really, just the women prancing and getting around to losing their bras. Tiffany stood topless with her hands on her hips and attempted to jiggle her tits as best she could. Then, a mass of bubbles descended from the ceiling over the stage, and there was more raunchy strip music, which seemingly meant that it was time to remove the G-strings.

"Get 'em off!" Came a chorus from the punters who shifted excitedly in well-worn seats.

Keeping a close eye on the other strippers, Tiffany copied them and slowly plucked up the courage to remove her sequined triangle of material.

They all turned their backs to the audience and wiggled their rumps. Then, an about-turn to show off their pussies. Tiffany had never shown her naked form to more than three or four people at the same time. And never in such public circumstances. She kept telling herself that this was show business. She moved about in a simulation of ecstasy designed to ensure that the customers got a fairly good view of what was between her legs.

"Ugh!"

As the spotlight occasionally lit the onlookers, Tiffany saw lecherous men with their shirts and trousers glued to their bodies with sweat. On the filthy floor were numerous stains. 50 per cent alcohol and 50 per cent of you know what.

Nothing much actually happened on the stage, just a lot of flashing, dashing about, and being caught in the spotlight with nothing on. Still, even in 1973, it was considered fairly shocking at the time to see a young naked woman prancing about.

After two minutes, Fiona clapped and led her troupe off stage.

Backstage, she turned to a relieved blonde.

"Tiffany, dah-ling. That was bloody awful!"

"So sorry. I got stage fright."

"Hmm. A bit of polishing up and you just might fit the bill. I think it's the cage for you, I'm afraid."

Tiffany heard titters from all four corners of the girls as she wondered what on earth the cage was.

x

The next evening, she duly turned up at the theatre and Fiona told her to put in a pair of silver stilettos only. She was taken by the elbow behind the curtain on the stage and shown a rather cramped-looking gilded cage.

"In you get, poppet. And do try to be sexy."

Tiff tentatively got into the cage and held onto the bars as the door was bolted she was suddenly raised on a pulley system to a lofty height. Shaking fear, and in the nuddy, she clung on as she drifted across the stage and suspended twenty feet above it. More jazzy music began as the curtain was lifted and the paying punters craned their necks to see the caged naked bird. Tiffany smiled and flashed her slender body to the best of her ability. From the particular height, her minge and anus could be seen as one having the right angle of view. Tiffany had a good sense of heights, so the ordeal passed quickly and without any agitation.

Later, Fiona seemed more confident in her.

"You did alright, honey. Well done."

"Thanks, Fiona."

The end of the week saw Tiffany's unplanned final live performance.

Now she witnessed the seamier side of stripping. From her view from the cage, and with an unforeseen lighting glitch, she peered down onto the highlighted all-male audience to see numerous voyeurs with their dicks out and wanking off en mass. She had not seen so many cocks waving at her in various states of erection. Tiffany undoubtedly enjoyed the attention, but she couldn't get her mind around grown men tossing themselves off at the sight of her bare bod. Catcalls and lewd insinuations made her blush bright red as she attempted to maintain some sort of decorum.

"Dirty buggers!"

Eager to please, Tiff crouched down and hooked her left high heel over her right thigh and bounced up and down, as though she was letting her lover between her thighs.

Then the loud music stopped and she was brought back to earth with a bump. As she exited the cage, Dennis, the elderly stage hand and lecherous old geezer grabbed hold of her bared bottom and gave her left cheek a good pinch.

"Cor, lovely! Here? Do you like chicken?"

"What?"

Tiffany took a robe and tried to cover herself up as she caught her breath.

"Do you like chicken?" He repeated as he licked his cracked lips with a darting tongue.

"I suppose."

He then unbuttoned his fly and took out his greasy dick.

"Then suck this, it's fowl!"

He wagged his erection up and down and made grotesque pelvic thrusts at the distraught girl.

"That's it. I mean. That is IT! You can stick this job right up your jacksie!"

x

After quitting the show, Tiffany returned to the flat, jaded and miserable. Jo was still up and watching News at Ten on the box.

"Jo, I'm so fed up with it all."

Her cousin smiled back as they sat next to each other on the sofa.

"Not to worry, cuz." She said as she gave the sobbing blonde a hug. "Good news is Uncle Arthur phoned. He has a job for you."

"Well, about bloody time."

"He mentioned something about dealing with a troublesome mole?"

"A mole? I don't even know what a mole looks like?"

Tiffany sniffed and cheered up somewhat as Jo switched channels to BBC Two to then hear the tones of Sousa's Liberty Bell March.

"And now for something completely different." Announced John Cleese onscreen.

"Switch it off! Switch it off!"

xxx

Chapter Eight.

France, 1973.

For food or wine lovers, a journey through the Rhone River in France promises some of Europe's finest delicacies. From rich Burgundy wines to fine cheeses. Driving through the idyllic countryside, Tiffany and Ray passed the very same landscapes that had once inspired Gogh, Cezanne, and Gaugin. Having flown to Nice, the young couple had enjoyed the break from a busy month of photo shoots and film processing back in London.

Ray had chosen to hire the sexy looking Citreon SM two seater for the road trip that had seen them drive from the South northward. It was a car that became legendary racing driver Sir Stirling Moss's favourite and for good reason. It provided a combination of V8 performance with decent handling and an interior décor that was so gorgeous that Ringo Starr of the Beatles bought one.

"Not too far to go, buttercup."

"Finally. French radio is the pits." Tiffany switched off the car radio in disgust. "Not one song from Sweet or Gary Glitter the whole trip."

On the request of her Uncle Arthur, a shadowy member of the British Secret Service, the couple were headed to Calais to participate in a fashion shoot for the trendy and stylish Elle magazine. Tiffany loved it. ELLE being the world's number-one fashion magazine network. At ELLE, everything is about style, from the way a woman lives to where she travels and her taste in music, art, food, cars, and technology. Attracting celebrities such as Cher, Bianca Jagger, and Brigitte Bardot.

It just so happened that the photo shoot was to be located extremely close to the proposed construction sight of the much-maligned Channel Tunnel. The British Transport Commission, and its French counterpart, were excavating and carrying out detailed geological surveys in the area. Although the two countries had agreed to build a tunnel in 1964, the phase 1 initial studies and signing of a second agreement to cover phase 2 only took place in 1973. The plan described a government-funded project to create two tunnels to accommodate car shuttle wagons on either side of a service tunnel. Construction started on both sides of the Channel in 1974.

In Calais, there had been conducted a 1980 feet experimental tunnel, sounding out an initial starting and access point for tunneling operations from the French side.

"Sources tell us of bad-tempered rumblings in the student fraternity in Paris. We fear that some nefarious no-gooders have plans on sabotaging the whole shebang. Some people are just dead set against the idea of a tunnel to join our two countries. If you were close enough, you may prove helpful in uncovering the ghastly deed. And indeed, nipping it in the bud."

Tiffany looked at the telephone receiver in disgust.

"But, Uncle. I'm no super spy, expected to infiltrate some sort of criminal network or whatever. I'm just a model."

"Quite so, quite so. This is why we're sending one of our agents to France post haste. You shan't be operating alone. You're all set for next week. Take along your young chap and make a holiday of it. Toodle pip."

x

The Hotel de France is a historic hotel in the center of the town. The 22-room hotel, with its Art Deco facade, is located at 20, Place de la République. One main feature of the hotel is the iconic spiral staircase which leads to six floors of opulent, individually designed luxury bedrooms and suites, each a sanctuary with lavish fabrics, original works of art, and indulgent bathrooms. True French indulgence. One can dine in one of two restaurants at night. And a twenty-foot-long bar is open all day and night.

"Oh, my! Look who it is?"

When Tiff and lover entered the front lounge, she saw a familiar figure reading a copy of that day's Le Monde.

She ran over to greet him with open arms.

"What a surprise! Mister James G..."

The tall man rose and gave the astonished girl a love tap on the chin, thus rendering her unconscious for a full minute.

Both he and Ray took the groggy girl by the elbows and hastened her to their room. Once inside, she was placed on the bed as Ray fetched a damp face towel from the bathroom. Gradually opening her eyes, she saw two faces hovering over the bed.

"You? You hit me!" Said she rubbing her jaw.

"Sorry, my dear. I hate to hit a woman, but needs must. You were about to blurt my name out loud, and as I'm undercover as a fashion critic, I had to stop you."

"Well. Alright then."

James sat in a chair and lit up a cigarette. Tiffany was giddy with adoration. Soon after the secret agent had rescued her from the clutches of Gabriella Michaela, she had thought of him constantly. Even when her boyfriend made love to her, she imagined it was James and not Ray doing the business.

He was the kind of assured man who more than likely used his sexual magnetism and unbridled charm to charm and seduce his way around the world with countless

exotic females. All in the name of protecting the Queen and country from tyranny and dastardly masterminds.

"I need to get close enough to the site to size up the situation. How many guards, the height of the perimeter fences, and so forth? I shall pose as one of the critics and try to blend in. The outermost fence is temporarily being removed to accommodate the show, so I should have no problem getting up close."

"Are you expecting trouble then?"

"Hopefully not. But the proposed tunnel is a sore point amongst some. Years of talk and planning could be setbacks with just one stupid action. Anyway, must dash. My room is just down the hall."

Gold excused himself and Tiffany and Ray got ready for dinner.

x

The very next day, Tiff awoke with a newfound passion. She was going to join her boyfriend Ray in one of the most elite opportunities of her life by posing for Elle. The agency had made the arrangements to do the layouts against the background of the Channel Tunnel dig. A fenced-off complex on the outskirts of town.

Tiff and Ray reported to the temporary site office of the Elle shoot. The chief designer himself. Monsieur Pierre greeted them warmly, dressed in his inimitable way in bright colours such as purples, pink, and yellow. He introduced them to the principal photographer, Philippe. A lean, gangly fellow with spiky orange hair like Ziggy Stardust.

"Bonjour, bonjour. Good show, good show," he said in broken English.

Ray shook his hand and he kissed Tiffany on each rosy cheek.

"Bon-joore to you." Answered a wide-eyed Tiffany in her best French accent.

The makeshift backstage area was a scene of controlled chaos. Sixteen skinny models, eight French and eight British, were busy fixing their hair and costumes. The theme is 'Hands across the Channel' to celebrate Anglo-French relations.

Once Tiffany had her makeup and costume made good, she had red white, and blue ribbons entwined in her fair locks, and glitter stars on her cheeks.

All around, the others were dressed in patriotic clothing.

One blonde had a French flag mini dress with a unique square neckline design that revealed a charming figure. And the waist tie adds some sense of line to the whole skirt. Another had a dress with one red and one blue sleeve with a white slash across the front. A short-haired brunette wore a skimpy three bikini with the Tricolour on each breast and bottoms. Presumably an English girl, a long-haired brunette wore a broad-shouldered sleeveless minidress with half a dozen Union Flags emblazoned on the front and back. Tiffany herself was clad in a plain white tee shirt

with an awesome-looking pencil skirt with the Union Jack. The specially fabricated blend gives the garment a four-way stretch which allowed the fabric to stretch both width and length-wise. The garment tapered along the outer thigh to provide her with that signature straightened appearance.

"Action!" Cried the director and a throng of leggy models were led toward the twenty feet long catwalk.

The sound of Bowie's 'Starman' blasted out of the loudspeakers as the girls were met with blinding explosions of flashbulbs from the five cameramen. Ray looked on with pride as Tiffany strutted along with the others under the bright spotlights.

He especially liked the way she used her head to let the photographers get a good view of her retreating and swaying buttocks.

After three turns on the catwalk, they all returned to the backstage area for a quick costume change. Throughout the rest of the show, Tiffany and the other models were stripped and dressed in a variety of different outfits. Her favourite is a classic Union Jack dress in off-the-shoulder sleeves and a very short hem. This was topped off with a pair of British Flag boots with a platform heel.

"Well you can bump and grind, it is good for your mind."