Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born (7 page)

They wore flamboyant colors and oddly
mismatched accessories, like striped sweaters with polka-dot
scarves. Still, they seemed very down-to-earth and, even more
importantly, raised not an eyebrow when a caramel skinned girl
stood at their door inquiring if they knew of an inexpensive room
for rent.

"Très jolie, n'est-ce
pas?"
Elie gave an approving smile at
Mendel as she patted my shoulder.

"Très,"
he nodded.

Yes, they were sizing me up. I was a
stranger who turned up unexpectedly at their door. They had every
right to be at least a little wary. Yet they were also so calm and
unassuming that I felt immediately at ease in their presence. I
knew absolutely nothing about them, having met them only one minute
before, but as I stood there, carpetbag still in hand, basking in
their warm smiles, I wanted more desperately than anything to stay
with them.

Fortunately, both the Bardachs spoke English
well. That made for a fairly easy get-acquainted conversation.
Apparently satisfied with my answers to their questions, they then
showed me a small room in the back of the second floor. It was
hardly larger than the bed that was in it, and the room had only
one tiny window. But it was clean and painted a light yellow color
that made it seem welcoming. I later learned it had been the room
of the Bardachs' only daughter, who had moved out three years
earlier after getting married. Since then, the Bardachs, in the
spirit of wanting to assist the so-called downtrodden, rented the
room to starving artists, starving students, and—like me—waifs in
need of a touch of kindness. When I told them a brief rendition of
my own story, Elie responded by taking me by the elbow and quoting
me a reasonable rental price. The deal was struck. I was home.

* * * *

Now that I was officially a "starving
Montmartre denizen," the first order of business was to eradicate
the "starving" part. My cash reserves covered the first month's
rent. The second month's was going to be a problem unless I found a
source of income. I needed a job. The war had taken so many young
men away from their regular employment that job opportunities were
actually plentiful for the females minding the home front. I was
counting on that to provide me with a means of supporting myself in
a strange land.

In addition to the gray suit I wore as my
traveling apparel, I had with me only two other dresses—the Alice
blue dress that was my fancy occasion garment, and a plainer, dark
brown dress that was wearable but was getting noticeably
threadbare. That was all I dared crush into the carpetbag. With a
mother's eye, Elie Bardach inspected my wardrobe when I announced I
would be going out to seek employment.

"This one, it is not in best condition," she
said of the brown one as it lay flat on my bed. "And this one…" She
held up the blue dress. "Is beautiful. But not for work. For
parties?"

"Yes," I agreed. "Parties or other special
occasions." It might not have been the most practical thing to pack
in the limited space of my carpetbag. However, because I'd worn
that dress on that extraordinary first night with Beau, I simply
couldn't bring myself to leave it behind.

Perhaps because she felt sorry for
me—perhaps because she was anxious for me to get a job that would
afford me the ability to pay the rent—or maybe because she was just
a genuinely nice person—Elie suggested we look through the
Bardachs' second-hand shop for something more appropriate to wear
on the job search. Even at second-hand prices, I could ill afford
the expense of a new dress, having already paid for my passage to
Europe, my train ticket to Paris, and the rent for my lodgings. I
was hesitant.

"Dexeter,
ma cherie
," counseled
Elie. "A proper dress is an investment."

She was right. Appropriate attire is an
investment when job hunting—an investment I hoped would pay off by
making me appear more employable. To soften the blow of the
expense, Elie said she would add the price of the garment to my
next month's rent, thereby giving me a little extra time to
pay.

We burrowed through the
selection of ladies' clothes in stock and selected a pretty pink
dress with a soft but durable feel to it. It was fashionable and
highlighted my feminine frame. Yet it wasn't too over the top for
everyday wear. Elie threw in a small hat with red feathers to
complement the dress, and the job-hunting ensemble was complete. I
put it on each morning in preparation for making the rounds to
shops and salons to inquire if anyone knew of a job for a girl who
could be a sales clerk or a household assistant or a delivery girl
or—
sigh
—a
cleaning woman. I'd leave my name and the telephone number for the
Bardachs' shop. They'd given permission for me to do that. Then I'd
move on and hope for a call.

As difficult as it was finding lodgings in
Paris, finding a job proved even tougher. The language barrier was
a definite obstacle. A lack of local references was also
problematic. What's more, based on the looks I got from some, I
don't think the color of my skin helped, either. That, in
particular, was truly disheartening.

Then, while returning from
an unsuccessful day's job hunt, I happened to pass a building in
the Pigalle neighborhood. On the door was a handwritten sign.
Although I couldn't decipher much of what it said, I could figure
out the meaning of two words:
"photographie"
and
"modèle."
So
obvious.

* * * *

"Oooooohhhh!" There went Elie again. The
Bardachs' bed was on the third floor, directly above mine.

Elie was a loud lover. Often a screamer.
You'd think Douglas Fairbanks were in bed with her, considering the
way she carried on. Kudos to Mendel, whose paunch belly and balding
scalp didn't suppress his ability to satisfy his lusty wife.

"Baise-moi!"
She was shouting, "Fuck me!"

Ironically, thanks to Elie
Bardach, "fuck" was one of the first French words I learned. The
other word I knew was
"oui,"
French for "yes."

"Baise-moi"
and "
oui"—a dangerous
combination for a girl of limited vocabulary.

A series of rhythmic thumps and squeaks
penetrated the ceiling and left little to the imagination. I
wondered what it must have been like for their daughter when she
slept in the bed I currently occupied. How uncomfortable for her to
envision her father's hard penis penetrating her mother. His fleshy
balls banging up against her ass. Her reclining tits jiggling like
jellyfish with every coital thrust. Did they know their daughter
could hear every detail of their fucking? Did they even care? Or
were they the type who actually got off on the thought of doing it
within earshot of their own daughter?

I turned onto my side and pulled the blanket
a little higher. Those weren't the kind of thoughts I wanted to be
having on my first day of work. Not on a day when I'd be standing
nude in front of an old man with a camera. What if I started having
erotic thoughts while posing? What if, as a result, my nipples
started to pucker? What if my pussy lips began to open? What would
Monsieur Robinet think? Would he assume he was turning me on? Would
he see that as an invitation?

Pleasant thoughts. Think of something
pleasant. Like French pastry. Or carriage rides. Or pretty dresses.
Or dancing. Or kissing…kissing Beau.

Try as I might, Beau was never truly far
from my thoughts. He invaded them whenever my mind wandered. As I
heard the sounds of lovemaking going on above my head, I daydreamed
about those beautiful sexual encounters with my lovely boy. How I
wished he were here, climbing into bed with me now. I wouldn't even
need to undress. With the two packed dresses, undergarments, and
various necessary sundries and toiletries, there simply wasn't room
in the carpetbag to pack nightclothes. That meant I was sleeping in
the nude and hoping neither of the Bardachs would come barging in
unannounced while I was in such a state of undress. I didn't really
believe they ever would. They seemed like far too nice a couple to
invade another's privacy. Still, I couldn't help but wonder what I
would do if they did. What if both of them walked in suddenly and
saw me as I was? I'm embarrassed to say it was actually a little
titillating—the thought of it, that is. I felt familiar stirrings
in my loins.

Oh, my god! I'm getting horny! If just
thinking about that fantasy's got me aroused, what the hell's going
to happen when I'm actually bare-ass naked in front of a strange
man's camera?

I needed a release—something that would
allow me to alleviate the feelings I was having and focus on
something else. I knew what I had to do.

I rolled onto my back and allowed my legs to
spread a comfortable distance apart. My right hand reached down,
past my belly, through the furry reaches of my mound, and into the
soft folds of my pussy. The lips parted as if on cue. I felt my own
wetness dampen my fingers.

I need to do this. Need to clear my
head.

I started first with a gentle rubbing, just
tickling the outer lips. A tingling began immediately. Then a
warmth started to radiate from my sex into my thighs. I could sense
my inner lips swelling, expanding, growing ever more sensitive. I
slid my fingers in to play with those little folds.

Oh, my! What a feeling! What a feeling just
from rubbing a little fleshy opening!

I rubbed harder, more vigorously. It was
such a great sensation, both the stimulation of my clit and the
thought that I could pleasure myself with such ease.

Keep going! Play with that pussy! Play with
it good!

At the base of my pussy, my hole was yawning
wide with anticipation. It beckoned to my fingers, and they
responded. I inserted first one, then two, then three fingers and
stroked hard. In and out. In and out. Bending the fingers up and
down. Massaging my clit from the inside.

Oh, yes! Finger fuck that little wet
cunt!

I stretched my legs and curled my toes. It
was my way of preparing myself for the climactic moment that was on
its way.

Oh, fuck, that's so good!
So fucking good!
Baise-moi!
Baise-moi,
my magical fingers!

"Whaaaaaaaahaaaah!" I flopped about the bed
like a fish on a line, relishing the orgasm to its fullest. The
waves of pleasure cascaded throughout me, emanating from my loins
and pulsating down my legs and up my torso. How wonderful it was
that I could merely touch myself and produce such a miraculous
sensation.

As the feelings began to subside, I thought
to myself that I couldn't recall ever having enjoyed masturbation
more. It was probably the combination of everything that made it so
stupendous that morning—my nudity, the lewd thoughts, the
deliciously erotic sounds of the couple fucking upstairs.…

Oh, wait! The sounds from upstairs! They're
not there anymore! Where'd they go?

As I lay there, quietly recovering, I heard
my landlords giggle. I panicked as I wondered whether they were
just in the throes of enjoying their own afterglow, or whether they
were laughing because they'd heard me coming in my bed.

Had they heard? If I
could hear them, then certainly they could hear
me, too.

I felt myself blush.

The Studio:

Speaking of blushing… Sometimes it's a
comfort to have a darker skin tone where a reddening from
embarrassment isn't so noticeable. I was grateful for that as I
tiptoed into the shooting room of Monsieur Robinet's studio. I had
nothing on. And, while he wasn't the first man ever to see me
naked, this was not the same kind of experience. Well, of course it
wasn't the same. This wasn't a romantic interlude. It was a job—a
job where the boss said, "Please take your clothes off," and I
did.

He had me pin up my hair, just to get it off
of my shoulders. This photo shoot was about skin, not hair. Nothing
would be allowed to obscure the camera's view of any portion of my
body.

I tried to cover my rookie jitters by acting
nonchalant and inquisitive. I gazed, with what I thought conveyed
studious interest, at the large box-like black camera mounted on a
tripod. I nodded approvingly, as if I had any idea how it
worked.

Need to look professional. Need to give off
an air of professionalism that says I've done this before. Done it
a hundred times. Damn it! Why are my nipples erect? I worked so
hard to try to prevent that this morning! Oh, my god, I hope my
pussy doesn't start opening!

Monsieur Robinet had spent
his morning setting up the studio for the shoot. Against the wall
was a backdrop painted to resemble a tree-lined street. In front of
that was a bicycle mounted in place by a pair of very thin metal
rods that extended from the top of the wheels to the floorboards.
Light in color, the supports were virtually invisible against the
backdrop. Added to the setting were strewn leaves, both on the
floor and glued onto the bike's frame and the spokes of its wheels.
I knew instantly upon seeing the setup what type of "different"
Monsieur Robinet was attempting to create for his camera. It would
be the erotic image of a naked girl, bicycling down the street. In
an age when a hemline rising to calf level was considered too
scandalous for public consumption, this was definitely
different.

"Mademoiselle,
asseyez-vous."
He motioned toward the
bike. "Sit on la bicyclette."

I hadn't been on a bicycle since I was
thirteen, and then it was strictly on a ladies' bike. The bike in
the studio was a man's bike. It had that big bar anchoring the
metal structure from seat to handlebars, the bar that's removed
from a ladies' model to accommodate her long skirts. Of course,
since I wasn't wearing a skirt (or a stitch else), that wasn't
going to be an issue. Still, it felt a little awkward, lifting my
foot to straddle the bike rather than just stepping through its
frame. I was also self-conscious because raising my leg and
swinging it over the seat meant I had to indelicately, and in a
very unladylike way, spread my legs, widely presenting my vagina to
the open air. Something about that made me feel especially exposed.
When I sat, the coolness of the seat on my ass gave me a chill. How
bizarre it felt to be doing something as commonplace as sitting on
a bicycle, and yet to have it seem so otherworldly when performed
in the absence of clothing.