Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born (9 page)

“
Très
bien
.” The old man ducked behind his
camera. He was back in his professional business
character.

Odd though it felt, and
strange as it must have appeared—two naked girls sitting on a
two-seater bicycle in what was made to look like a public
street—from this point forward, I knew I’d be in the safe hands of
an artist. I wasn’t worried—just feeling really,
really
weird.

For the first series of
shots, he posed us in a manner that suggested we were pedaling
through the street fast.
A wise way to
pedal through the streets if you happen to be a naked woman.
He had us lean forward. Leaning made our breasts
hang away from our bodies, giving a full view of the entire shape
of our dangling delights. I remember looking down for a few moments
simply to admire the fullness of my own free-swinging bubs. Sitting
where I was on the rear seat, my view of Nanette was restricted to
her back and ass. However, I assumed her tits did themselves as
proud as mine.
An artist like Monsieur
Robinet would never select a model with a lesser bosom!

Flash
.

"Lean forward more." As he loaded fresh
film, the photographer directed me to lower my shoulders. I
complied by moving a couple of inches. "More," he instructed.
"More…more…."

I was so low that my nipples were now
rubbing against Nanette's bottom.

"Bon!"
The old man had gotten what he wanted. "Hold
still."

Flash.

"C'est bon,"
the artist murmured in low tones.
"C'est érotique. Les filles nu sur la bicyclette
en la rue.
Two girls riding the bicycle
naked through the city. Can you imagine?"

This was the first time I'd heard such talk
from Monsieur Robinet, but I knew what he was up to. He was trying
to get us thinking sexy thoughts—the kind that would evoke the sort
of naughty facial expressions and body language that would make the
photographs that much more erotic and, I assume, that much more
marketable to an audience that wanted sexual titillation in its
postcards.

Although I can't speak for
Nanette, the bawdy talk was starting to have an effect on me. The
thought of actually doing it—two naughty ladies bicycling without
any clothes on through the streets of Paris—everyone seeing,
everyone staring, no place to hide. So fully, completely, and
publicly exposed.
How utterly
embarrassing!
Our big tits would be
bouncing and swinging freely as we pedaled. Our pussies would widen
with every brush against the seat, the open air cooling our
engorged sex lips. Combine that fantasy with the fact that, at that
moment, Nanette's bare ass was tickling my naked bubs, and I felt
both a stiffening of my nipples as well as a dampness on the seat.
I don't know whether my face was responding, but my tits and pussy
certainly were.

Flash.

My dark bubs resting on her white ass must
have made an especially intriguing image. He took four more shots
just like it before we moved on to another pose.

That afternoon's photo
session seemed to go more quickly than the previous day's. It was
obvious Nanette had done this several times before. So I only had
to follow her lead to be a competent and efficient model. The old
man posed us in various ways on the bicycle—sitting up, facing
forward, turned toward the camera, arms over our heads, holding
hands. There was one shot in which I was given the wicker basket to
hold while the other girl reached back as though about to extract
one of the few prop flowers that had been strategically placed into
it. After that photo was taken, Monsieur Robinet instructed me to
hold the basket out behind me, as though it were being blown away
in the breeze. With the basket out of her reach, Nanette dropped
her outstretched hand and allowed it to come to rest on my thigh. I
had never had another girl touch me there. The tingle her fingers
produced on my bare flesh made me feel incredibly wicked. My
initial reaction was to brush the uninvited hand away. But I
didn't. I was being
professional
about it. At least,
that's what I thought a professional would do.

Flash
.

Once again, the afternoon ended with me
stepping onto the street with fresh francs in my hand. Prior to the
previous day, it had been more than a month since I had earned
wages. Now it was two days in a row that I experienced the
gratification of pay—and neither payment involved the drudgery of
scrubbing, mopping, or any other type of housecleaning.

This, I could get used to!

When I exited the front door, I noticed a
woman in a dark blue dress standing on the sidewalk, leaning
against the building's outer wall. It was Nanette. She had gotten
her pay first and left the studio about a minute before. Despite
having just spent the past three hours with this woman, I almost
didn't recognize her. I wasn't accustomed to seeing her with
clothes on. I was just about to wish her a goodbye and turn toward
home when she spoke.

"You did good…for a girl with no
experience."

I was taken aback for two reasons. For one,
these were the first English words I'd heard the girl utter. Up
till then, I was under the impression she didn't speak my native
tongue. Yet, despite a strong French accent, she enunciated the
words with the verbal agility of someone who knew English well.

The second reason for my reaction was
because she was telling me she was aware of my inexperience as a
model. I had tried very hard not to let on about that.

"Who says I've got no experience?" I held a
stoic pose.

"When you've been in the
business a while, you can tell." She had a smile of awareness that
caused me to gulp. "Don't worry," she continued with a
knowledgeable air. "He doesn't care. He's just happy to have a
black girl pose. Did he tell you you're an
'exotique'?"

"So what?" I shifted my
weight uneasily.
Was there a point to this
conversation?

"So welcome to the club.
You are
exotique
because of the color of your skin. Me, I am
exotique
because…"
Smirking, she gestured toward her crotch, the location of that
amazing bush. "Some men find it erotic. Like a wild animal down
there. No accounting for taste, yes?"

Within the confines of the photo studio, I
was willing to be a naughty lady. But here on a public street, I
found this kind of talk uncomfortable.

"It was nice working with you." I was ready
to retreat.

"Would you like to work again?"

I hadn't expected her to say that.

"What?"

"If you'd like to work again, I know a
place. Not at all far from here."

"You mean
now?"
I was somewhat
flabbergasted by the suggestion of going to another modeling job
right there and then.

"Not to work today," she explained. "Just an
introduction. I know a photographer. I think he could make use of
you. And, if he can…then you make more money." She leaned in
confidentially. "The pay is better than here."

"If it pays better there," I reasoned
suspiciously, "why are you here?"

"I go where the work is. Sometimes it's
here. Sometimes it's there. You cannot pose for the same
photographer every day. Or even every week. Or every month. No one
wants the same girl back. They are always looking for someone new.
You're their fondest desire today. Tomorrow you're old news."

"Monsieur Robinet invited me two days in a
row." I was proud of that.

"But did he invite you for a third time?"
Nanette raised an eyebrow. I looked downward. "So now he is through
with you," she concluded. "If you don't find another photographer,
there is no more work. That is the nature of the business."

"And you're here to save me from that?" I
asked, wary of her motive behind giving me such information.

"I'm not running a charity. You are new. If
you and I go together—a team—that makes me new, too. A new team,
yes? We both work. You like working with me today?"

"I thought you were very professional." The
response was designed to be polite yet noncommittal.

Nanette smirked. It was the marginally
suppressed grin of someone who knows more than you think she does.
She shrugged. "It's up to you. You want to work, or no?"

I wanted to work. I needed to work. No one
was calling me about any other employment opportunities. I agreed
to go with her to meet this other photographer.

Pigalle:

As Nanette had indicated, his studio was
very close—just around the corner and a couple of short blocks
down. However, despite the minor distance that separated the two
locations, we seemed to have stepped into an entirely different and
unsavory world. The street was more narrow and pockmarked.
Buildings were gray, dilapidated, and in greater disrepair. Every
shadow looked creepy. What few people we passed moved quickly and
silently along the street, never making eye contact, as though they
sensed no good could come of lingering there. I started having
second thoughts.

Is this such a good idea? How is a
photographer operating out of such a rundown part of town paying
his models better than Monsieur Robinet?

My companion stopped in front of a two-story
structure only long enough to undo a makeshift latch on a wooden
door with peeling blue paint. She ushered me inside. Immediately
before us was a dark, cramped stairway that creaked under the
weight of each step. Nanette led the way, knowingly averting the
less sturdy looking portions of the stairs as we ascended. There
was another door at the top. My guide pushed it open without
ceremony and called out.

"Tristan! Tristan!"

I heard a minor thud from behind a wall.
Then from the direction of that sound, a man appeared in the
doorway. I would come to know him as Tristan Zenglitz—the
well-paying photographer I was there to meet. He was short. He
couldn't have been more than a couple of inches taller than me. He
was of average build, perhaps in his mid twenties, with a shabby,
unkempt look about him. His rather shapeless, drab clothing needed
washing, and his long curly black hair needed combing. His swarthy,
bony face sported the stubble of four to five days of unshaved
beard. He yawned as he emerged, looking every bit a man who had
been unceremoniously awakened from a sound sleep. He recognized
Nanette right away. She began speaking as his gaze shifted toward
me. They conversed quickly and only in French. I could make out
very little of what they were saying. Only once was I able to
understand.

"Africain?"
he asked.

"Américain,"
was her answer.

Left so totally out of the conversation, I
took a moment to look about the room. "Dingy" did not begin to
describe this man's studio. The walls, which I assumed at one time
had been white, appeared stained a sallow beige. The windows were
mostly smudged panes of grime. The sun had to fight its way through
the grit on the glass to offer any help illuminating the interior.
Hanging against one wall was a pale sheet that had been strung up
to serve as a backdrop, and junky pieces of old furniture had been
piled all around the room. One could presume they were utilized as
props. Most of the upholstered chairs were discolored or torn,
giving them the look of something that had been discarded by
previous owners who had been only too happy to be rid of them.

"He wants to see you." Nanette surprised me
with her declaration.

What does that mean? He wants to see me? I'm
standing right here. Just look.

They were both staring at me. Tristan
Zenglitz looked impatient. In an attempt to comply with the
request, I turned toward the photographer, straightened myself up,
pulled back my shoulders, and stood rigidly for his inspection.

"No," corrected Nanette. "He wants to see
you…like the way you will pose."

I still didn't understand.

"Nude,"
she said.

My mouth dropped open. "Now?"

She nodded.

"But," I stammered, "what for?"

"He wants to see what he's buying."

"Monsieur Robinet didn't have to see what he
was buying before he hired me."

"Robinet is old," huffed the more
experienced model. "He is from another time. This is now. This is
how it is done. You want the job?"

"Sure, but…"

Zenglitz folded his arms and said something
that, although I couldn't interpret a word of it, sounded testy.
Nanette made some quick response to him, and then turned back to
me.

"What is he going to see now," she spoke
like a confidant, "that he isn't going to see later? Come. I will
help you."

There was a combination of things working
against me right then. I was a stranger in the land. Despite having
worked two days as a professional model, I couldn't really claim to
know the true conventions of the industry outside of the one studio
where I had posed. I was also in a neighborhood that made me feel
vulnerable, and it would have scared me to desperation if the one
and only person I knew there—Nanette—got frustrated and deserted
me. Add to that the lure of the money—significantly more than what
Monsieur Robinet paid—and I found myself unable to put up any
resistance. The result was that I remained quiet and submissive as
Nanette stripped me of every article of clothing I was wearing
while that ratty looking photographer watched with a look I had
never seen on Monsieur Robinet's face. Obediently, I raised my arms
to allow her to slip my camisole over my head. As it covered my
face, I felt two feminine hands come to rest on the underside of my
exposed breasts.