Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born (8 page)

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 face-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.