I gripped the handlebars and raised my bare feet to the pedals. The rickety bike quivered slightly as I fought to attain my balance. I hoped those tiny supporting rods were strong. I didn't want to take a spill onto the hard studio floor. Bare-ass naked, there was nothing to help cushion the impact of a fall.
"Lean back," Monsieur Robinet said as he gestured with his hands.
I did as instructed. The supporting rods pressed into the floor and set firmly. I was, at least for the moment, sitting still.
"Très bien," he said.
For a man in his seventies, the old photographer was most sprightly as he moved back and forth from behind to in front of his camera, directing my pose. "This leg up. This one down…. This hand on the bars…. This hand on the thigh…. Head up…. Face this way."
With the dexterity of someone who must have done it thousands of times, he poured flash powder onto a handheld tray, and then ducked his head under the draped curtain at the back of the camera.
"Hold very still," he said.
I held my breath. I hoped my nervous shivering wouldn't be visible.
The photographer opened the lens, the flash powder was ignited with an almost blinding burst of light, and the lens was closed. It was done. I had posed for my very first nude photograph. My unclothed image was going to be on those naughty French postcards. I was now a member of that notorious club of naked harlots.
Monsieur Robinet carefully replaced the exposed film plate in the back of his camera with a fresh one. He was already busy readying for the next shot. I resumed breathing and tried to relax. As I did, I couldn't help but notice that a lightning bolt hadn't shot from out of the sky to smite me. The Earth didn't divide beneath my feet to swallow me whole and suck me toward the bowels of Hell. Incensed mobs didn't break down the door and storm in, pitchforks in hand, to burn me at the stake. Everything seemed exactly as it was before the flash went off. Not a thing had changed. Nothing terrible occurred. In fact, it had all been so surprisingly businesslike.
It was obvious Monsieur Robinet knew his craft and treated it as seriously as any job should be approached. When he looked at me, his expression didn't resemble what I imagined other men's faces would look like—those who might view a naked woman seated on a bicycle in a way that was lascivious, gawking, lustful. Rather, it was as though he looked right through me, focusing instead on the totality of everything within the frame of his camera's lens—the girl, the bike, the backdrop, the leaves. I was but one element in a meticulously composed work of photographic art. But, of course, I was the key element. The thought of that made me feel special. Made me feel pretty. Made me feel sexy. It even made me feel a little artistic. How was what I was doing any different from what countless models had done through the centuries when they'd posed nude for paintings and sculptures? And weren't those works among the collections of the finest art museums in the world? Would the Louvre display anything that was shameful? No, of course not. I wasn't shaking anymore. The next shot would be easier.
The remainder of that afternoon's photo session involved my striking various poses, both on and next to the bike. In some cases, Monsieur Robinet placed a tall potted plant just off to the side and tied its branches so they would dangle directly over me. He instructed that I should reach for the branches as though attempting to pluck an overhanging leaf while I pedaled by. I chuckled to myself as the thought crossed my mind that, unless these were fig leaves, plucking one would be of little practical purpose for a naked cyclist.
Overall, the photographer did an excellent job of putting me at ease. He worked fast but maintained a calm demeanor despite his obvious haste. The only times he would break away from that calm were when we'd hear a bomb exploding in the distance. He'd shake his fist in that direction and curse the Germans. It was kind of cute to see the old man being so feisty. But it would last only a few seconds, and then he would go back to being the unruffled professional he was.
For the final series of photos, Monsieur Robinet had me scoot forward, off the seat, and rest my ass on the bicycle frame's top bar. He told me I could wedge in my right hand to help cushion my resting spot, which was much appreciated since a cold metal bar up my crack wasn't exactly comfortable. Then he had me place my right foot on the frame's lower bar—the one that spans the base of the handlebars to the place where the pedals are affixed to the large gear. The other leg went over the handlebars, my left foot resting on top of the front wheel. Naturally, this pose wasn't meant to approximate a bicycle in movement. No one could possibly ride a bike that way. However, something about that pose felt particularly and satisfyingly erotic. A sense of gratification washed over me as the flash powder burst into flame and the image was captured for posterity. I'd never felt so beautiful before.
"One more." The photographer was rooting through a box on the floor. He retrieved a small white flower from the box. It was an early blooming variety, something that could be found along the less urban streets of the area at that time when spring had only just begun. He put it in my left hand and motioned for me to hold it up approximately eye level. I felt a little precarious, balancing my ass on the bar with only one hand holding onto the bike to steady myself. However, a minor shifting of my weight allowed me to detect a position where I could hold a pose. The old man quickly loaded up his flash tray. Just as his head disappeared beneath the camera curtain, I turned my face slightly toward him and sensed a modest smile curl about my lips.
Flash.
I secretly hoped that, of all the photos shot that afternoon, the one with the flower came out the best.
Watching the old man count the francs into my hand at the end of the day was the most welcome sight I had seen in more than a month. It wasn't an ultimate solution to all my problems, but it meant financial disaster would be staved off for at least the immediate future. For the time being, I was happy.
"Would you be able to come again tomorrow?" asked the photographer as he handed me the last of my pay.
Well, whiz-bang! I guess I must have done all right. He liked me enough to invite me back for another shoot. More money! Hey, maybe I've got a whole new career here—one that doesn't involve brooms and mops.
"What time?" I beamed.
I didn't share the details of my new employment with the Bardachs. Not that it likely would have created any kind of significant stir with them. Their own lifestyle was anything but puritanical. Still, I didn't want to risk spilling too many beans. So I told them I got a job assisting a craftsman, and I left it at that.
"Will you need any new clothes for the job?" asked a bubbly Elie.
"Probably not."
* * * *
I showed up at Monsieur Robinet's the next afternoon, shortly before one o'clock. I expected I'd see the old photographer inside the studio, preparing his set. However, instead of seeing his bearded face, my eyes beheld the sight of an especially hairy snatch. The bushy orifice belonged to a young, ruddy-complexioned girl, who sat nude on the floor with her back propped against the wall, her knees raised, and her feet spread. It was an ungainly position for anyone, but particularly for a naked lady. Yet she seemed to have not the slightest uneasiness about my viewing her that way. For all she knew, I could have been there to make a delivery or pick up a package or just drop in to ask directions. The front door was unlocked. Anyone could have walked in.
What would she do if I screamed?
Whatever look of surprise must have been on my face, it didn't faze the girl one bit. She sat there, coolly looking me straight in the eye, her elbows resting limply atop her knees.
"Bonjour." The nude girl's greeting was quiet and perfunctory.
Unable yet to fully comprehend the situation, I simply answered back, "Bonjour."
Considering what I had done in that very room only the day before, I suppose I shouldn't have been all that taken aback by the presence of another unclad female. I wasn't so naïve as to believe I was the first and only girl Monsieur Robinet had ever hired. Still, I hadn't anticipated coming f
ace-to-face—or, for that matter, face-to-snatch—with another model. However, if you find yourself unexpectedly running into a naked girl with her legs spread, you could do a lot worse than having her treat it so matter-of-factly as to make it seem an ordinary, everyday occurrence. If she wasn't disturbed by the situation, then I wouldn't be, either.
Monsieur Robinet sailed into the room through the back door. He had been outside gathering additional leaves, which he carried in a small wicker basket. He saw me and made the briefest of introductions.
I didn’t know what to say to the girl so, having a terribly limited French vocabulary anyway, I simply repeated, “Bonjour.”
“Enchantée,” she said with what I now deemed to be characteristic nonchalance.
“Vite. Quick, Mademoiselle Foxxe.” The photographer rapidly tossed the freshly gathered leaves about the floor. He was in a hurry to commence shooting. “The clothes. The clothes, s’il vous plait.”
I felt funny disrobing with another girl present. I hadn't expected to take my clothes off in front of anyone other than Monsieur Robinet. Having Nanette there added a little extra weirdness to what was an already bizarre circumstance for me. However, I tried alleviating my pangs of discomfort over my abandoned modesty by thinking to myself that, since I had already seen her naked, it was only fair she should see me. After all, we were both in the profession of modeling, weren't we? And professionals need to act professional. So I began by unfastening my shoes.
I noticed that Nanette had piled all of her garments into a corner of the floor. I decided to do the same and place mine just to the side of hers. There was no place better to put them. The old photographer's studio was conspicuously devoid of furniture. In fact, other than photographic equipment and the large street-scene backdrop that still hung along the far wall, there was pretty much nothing in the room other than the leaves and few props that comprised the set. The principal prop of the day was, again, a bicycle. However, this was a different bicycle than the one I'd used the day before. This was a two-seater.
Despite my reservations about having another girl there, I was fully aware, even then, that I could have kept my clothes on and walked right out the door, and not a person could have stopped me, even if they were of a mind to. My choice to stay wasn't the result of fear, intimidation, shame, false bravado, or even a desperate need for money. There are some things even money couldn't persuade me to do. No siree! I willingly chose to stay because, following the previous day's experience, I trusted Monsieur Robinet. I trusted him as an artist. Even more, I trusted him as a man—and a man devoted to his art. If he wanted a picture of two naked girls riding a bike through the streets, then I was convinced it would be an erotically tasteful work. I had no fear it would be anything else.
As I was stripping off the last of my clothing, Nanette got up, padded over to the bicycle, and mounted its front seat. Now that she was off the floor, I got a good look at her. Nanette St. Claire was a little taller than me, and she had a little more meat on her. Some might say she was even a tad pudgy, but in the good way. It gave her nice curves around the waist and buttocks. It also provided her with deliciously voluminous breasts—not as large as mine, but full, like a pair of pink sacks, each carrying a large grapefruit. Amidst small dark areolas, a red nipple jutted out from each in what almost appeared to be a constant state of arousal. Her legs were smooth, strong, and muscular, and her arms were sinewy. Her face was round, with a small nose, full lips, and deep-set hazel eyes. Pinned to the sides of her head was a dark brown crop of very full hair that highlighted the roundness of her face. And then, of course, there was that plentiful bush engulfing her crotch. Its dimensions stayed within the typical triangular pattern. But, inside that delta—long and dark and curling about the meaty folds of her pussy—was a veritable jungle of pubic sprouts. By comparison, my crotch was a sparsely vegetated open field. I thought her bush was remarkable. It even occurred to me—silly though I knew it to be—that, if only we could harvest just some of that pussy hair, we might create a toupee that could cover all of Mendel Bardach's bald spots.
Wouldn’t that be a lucrative business! That is, if you ever get tired of modeling, Nanette. I mean, do you know how many bald men are out there?
I deposited my drawers atop the rest of my discarded clothing. I was ready.
“S’il vous plait.” The photographer waved his hand toward the bike. From her perch on the front seat, Nanette turned and gave me a look of impatience. Had I taken too long undressing? Feeling somewhat flustered, and not wanting to cause a problem, I scurried to the bicycle, swung my left leg over the rear tire, and planted my ass on the back seat.
“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.
Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born Page 6
