Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born

by Lexington Manheim

  Arriving in New York, I walked toward the Hudson River and wandered along West Street until I found an open office of a steamer line. There was an outbound listing of a ship scheduled to depart that evening, bound for Le Havre, France. I bought the cheapest ticket available. It still cost most of the money I had saved. But when the ship sailed that evening, I was aboard. From the deck, I watched as the light from the Statue of Liberty's torch flickered away into nothingness. At that moment, it seemed like something very permanent had occurred. Good-bye, America; bienvenue, France.

  * * * *

  Which brings us, once again, back to Monsieur Robinet's Pigalle photo studio and his naughty naked ladies.

  "I think I can use you," the photographer said. "You are a girl exotique."

  "I am?"

  "You are not like the other girls. You are different. And, as I said, different is good."

  "Different how?" I asked.

  The old man stroked his beard. "You are not French. You are not small of the chest or derriere like so many French girls. You are not the typical wife or daughter of a Frenchman. You are not the girl next door even. You are not, uh…"

  "I'm not white."

  "Exotique." The grandfatherly photographer leaned back in his chair. The point had been made. "Can you be here tomorrow at one?" he inquired. "I'd like to start shooting right after lunch."

  "Sure," I said. "What should I wear?"

  He puckered his lips to the side in a rather dopey expression that gave the answer completely.

  "Oh," I said.

  CHAPTER 2

  Naughty Ladies

  Montmartre:

  I awoke the next morning to the sound of Elie and Mendel Bardach humping in the room above me. They were…well, how can I put it? They were a randy couple. Yes, that's accurate—but not fully descriptive. How does one describe in a sentence the complexity of the Bardachs? I suppose one could say they were a stout, graying, Jewish, artistic, freethinking, bohemian, long-time married pair who also happened to have a sexual appetite that could make a sailor feel insecure about his own prowess. Yes, that sums it up nicely.

  Not that I minded. I had tasted the delicious fruits of the flesh myself. So I couldn't very well claim I didn't know what all the fuss was about. I'd say it was a justifiable fuss, and if a woman and man enjoy…well…really enjoy each other, what's wrong with that? And if they're all right with letting the world in on the nature of their love by kissing in public or hugging when others are around or allowing their hands to glide down their partner's back without first waiting until they're alone, then who's to judge? What's more, after witnessing the reserve most American married couples practice in the presence of others, I thought it refreshing to see such uninhibited passion in a husband and wife who simply didn't seem to care that anyone else knew how much they wanted each other.

  Sure, I had to endure listening to their late evening and early morning love-making, but I couldn't begrudge them. They were kind enough to rent me a small room in the upstairs of their Montmartre home on Rue Durantin. Most white people wouldn't when I approached them my first day in town. You should have seen me—the pathetic little foreign girl carrying a big carpetbag that contained everything I owned in the world. I made my way through the streets, looking for any sign of cheap, available lodgings. While growing up, I had heard that Caucasian Parisians were more liberal minded than Americans, and that was true. However, that liberal attitude was not boundless, and it often found a boundary when it came to a mixed-race person moving in. That was a little too laissez-faire, even for some Frenchmen.

  I'd almost lost hope and began to wonder where I might find shelter on the street for the impending nightfall when a dark skinned, young girl—possibly originally from Africa—asked me something in French. She carried a large breadbasket in which there were various common items such as wads of cloth, yarn, paper, ink bottles, brushes, and everything but bread. Her brow furrowed with concern. My eyes were probably tearing up when she spied me standing at an intersection, looking lost and disoriented. I mumbled something in response, and when it became apparent to her that I was an English speaker with almost no knowledge of her language, she spoke to me in a broken version of my native tongue.

  I never got that girl's name. However she was a true godsend in that, once she understood my plight, she took a pencil out of her basket and wrote an address and drew a crude map on a piece of paper. She handed it to me with verbal instructions: "Go here. Good people."

  That address, as you've probably already guessed, was the home of the Bardachs. How that girl knew them, I've no idea. Perhaps the Bardachs were just locally famous for their eccentricities, such that their whereabouts were essentially common knowledge. Whatever it was, I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I trudged up the hills of Montmartre to where the handwritten map said I'd find Rue Durantin, and there, in a modest, unpretentious neighborhood was a white three-story building with a second-hand clothing store on the first level. It was inside that shop where I initially encountered its owners, the most hospitable pair I've ever known—Elie and Mendel.

  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 ex
traordinary 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 rom
antic 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.