French Blue

by Bond, Natasha

  “If they did, they wouldn’t have been considered respectable any longer, but there are a few privately taken photographs of married women and gentlemen’s mistresses. Some of the more enlightened husbands tried to take their own pictures, but it was such a complex process that most invited a discreet professional into their homes…”

  She threw out the challenge. “And are you a discreet professional or an artist?”

  He hesitated, and Lisa rejoiced at finally having wrong-footed him.

  “What do you think, Lisa?”

  “That you’re an artist even if you don’t paint now.”

  “Maybe I need a muse,” he said quietly.

  Lisa’s heart skipped, but she kept her cool. “If that’s your way of persuading me to pose nude for erotic photographs, the answer’s no.”

  “Oh, I’m not asking, Lisa, I’m expecting you to.”

  She shook her head. “No way. This arrangement is private.”

  “I know you want to do it. Your panties are already wet in anticipation, aren’t they? You’ve been fantasising about being one of these women since I left the room.”

  Damn him, he was right. The thought of stripping for him, against her better judgement if not her will, was irresistible.

  He scooped the postcards into the boxes and put the lid on. “Come on, we’ll go up to the photographic studio.”

  He picked up the box as she processed what was going to happen. “Please don’t make me ask you again. Upstairs now, or you know what will happen.”

  “And you won’t use the pictures…”

  “Do you really have to ask that?”

  “I told you how precious my privacy is.”

  In the studio, Olivier showed the camera.

  “Okay. This isn’t a Daguerre, but it is about forty years old. It uses film, so unless I scan the images onto my laptop, there’s no way you’re going to end up on Facebook. I’ll let you have all the prints I develop and the negatives. Does that reassure you? There’s also no way I can Photoshop out any imperfections, so you’ll have to rely on the skill of the photographer.”

  Lisa shook her head at his cheek. “You bastard.”

  He reached out and touched her face. “Really, though, have you never been photographed nude before?”

  “Funnily enough, no.”

  “But you want to be?”

  “I…” She glanced round at the silken shawls, the leather chaise, the gilded mirror. Her sex stirred. There was something deeply erotic about posing nude, and she’d loved having to strip in front of him.

  “Dishonesty will attract severe consequences.”

  She shivered. “Yes, I want to.”

  “Bien. Undress, please. For the first shot, you may choose a pose from the postcards. The props are in the trunk.”

  While Olivier set up the camera, Lisa undressed. She’d already seen a pose she liked that showed a naked woman facing a mirror with only a scrap of chiffon covering her back and behind. She lifted the lid of the trunk to find the right props to recreate it. It was like playing a very naughty version of dressing up. She chose a filmy voile shawl edged with a beaded fringe that rattled when it skimmed the floorboards. The voile tantalised her bare skin as she draped it this way and that, trying to recreate the pose.

  “Sitting or standing?” she asked.

  “Standing for this shot. Let me help you.” Olivier arranged the shawl over her arms, draping the fabric so that it hung low, exposing her back but covering her bottom. Lisa was well aware that every contour was visible through the chiffon, which felt even more erotic than being completely nude. And of course, the woman who stared back at her from the mirror was naked, her hair piled messily on her head, her heavy breasts tipped by dark ruby nipples, a delicate hint of hair at the top of her neatly trimmed pussy. That wasn’t very authentic; the girls in the photos were all au naturel in the fashion of the day.

  Olivier stood back, hand over his mouth, frowning.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “Oh yes, I like it, but it’s too saucy to be authentic. We need to make you more modest so can you bring your hand around to cover your pussy. Not that I don’t think it’s a beautiful pussy, but it’s too far too wicked to be on show to just any pervy Edwardian monsieur.”

  “However, it’s perfectly fine for a pervy twenty-first-century guy like yourself?”

  “Of course. Now, get that pussy out of view, you harlot.”

  It wasn’t easy, but Lisa managed to manoeuvre her hand over her pubis without the shawl slipping from her arm.

  “That’s perfect. Hold that pose.” Olivier’s head bobbed behind the camera.

  It was easier said than done, partly because the position was alien and partly because she was getting horribly turned on by posing almost naked in front of Olivier. She tried to imagine how the original models had felt. Had any part of them been turned on, or had the whole experience been shameful and exploitative for them? Or were they hardened to being nude by that stage and simply hoped the job would be over so they could get their fee and get fed or back to their children?

  What luxury and freedom she had now, choosing to do this for sheer pleasure.

  “Okay. That’s it. You can relax.” He popped up, a big smile on his face.

  Lisa wrapped the shawl around her and went to the camera, aware of her nudity and unexpectedly embarrassed in front of Olivier. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. In fact, it sent an extra frisson through her, and her nipples hardened.

  “Can I look?” she asked.

  “It’s not digital, remember? We’ll have to develop the prints.”

  “Doh.”

  He scooped a feather-topped headdress from the couch. “Slave girl next, I think.”

  “Where’s the snake?” asked Lisa, deliciously minxish.

  He raised an eyebrow. “That comes later.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “For me, yes, but it’s the lash for you, slave, unless you please me.”

  She looked up at him. “No, maître. Please. Anything but the lash.”

  “Then pleasure me. On your knees.”

  His eyes darkened, and instantly the game changed from light-hearted banter to real play. Lisa sank to her knees, the shawl slipping from her skin as she did so. Fully naked now, she knelt on the rug as Olivier undid the buttons of his jeans.

  Reaching up, Lisa tugged his boxer shorts over his buttocks. His penis was erect, hard and hot. He laid his hand on her hair, his soft touch in contrast to his words. “You know what to do, slave,” he said. “Satisfy me, or I’ll have you lashed in front of the rest of the harem.”

  His threat made her damp with arousal.

  “Oui, maître,” she murmured.

  She took his cock in her mouth and moved her mouth rhythmically along the shaft of his penis. She clamped her lips around him as the fantasy of being his slave melded with the reality of having his glorious cock in her mouth. In reality, she knew that she had the power to send him into ecstasy or snatch his pleasure away from him. The power made her dizzy, even as she subjugated herself at his feet. He tangled his hand through her hair, tugging at the roots until her scalp zinged, forcing her to take his cock deeper.

  She placed one hand on the back of his thigh, where the rigid tension in his hamstrings told her how close he was to his climax. The muscles tautened further as he fought it and sought release.

  Lisa withdrew her mouth and circled his cock with her fingers.

  “Stop,” Olivier said.

  “What?”

  “Not now. You don’t choose when I come, and we have work to do.” He pulled up his jeans and pulled her to her feet.

  Still pulsing with need and with the taste of him in her mouth, she waited while he opened a box and pulled out a pair of knee-length pantalettes.

  Lisa took off her headdress and fluffed up her hair. “Wow. What are those for?”

  “Virgin caught unawares while getting dressed.”

  She laughed. “Naturally
.”

  While he set up the shot, she took the pantalettes from him. They were white and made of a light, almost silky cotton, the hems edged with frothy lace. She imagined how sensual the fabric would feel against her thighs and bottom. She held them up, running her fingers down the length of the knickers. They did cover rather a lot up, so why was Olivier so keen for her to wear them?

  “Oh my God!”

  He glanced up from the tripod. “What’s the matter?”

  “These have no crotch!” Lisa pushed her finger right through the hole where the gusset should have been.

  “So?”

  “They’re disgusting!”

  “No, they’re authentic.” He winked at her. “And, I might add, practical.”

  She shoved her hands through the opening. “I sincerely hope they’re not genuine Edwardian ones.”

  “God, no, I got them from an online boutique. It sells antique reproductions. Why don’t you put them on while I rearrange the set?”

  Lisa slipped one leg, then the other into the pantalettes. The fabric did, indeed, feel gorgeous next to her skin, but the open crotch was, quite literally, a revelation. It seemed far sexier and dirtier than wearing no panties at all, and the opening, obviously designed for practical reasons back in the days when ladies wore long, heavy skirts, took on a new meaning when part of erotic foreplay.

  “I should really have laced you into a corset too, but it would be such a shame to cover up those beautiful breasts.”

  Lisa glanced down and felt a surge of pleasure. Her self-consciousness about her breasts had diminished. Jody had been a bastard to call them heavy. Olivier made her feel that she was privileged to have them. She lifted them in both hands and said, “Merci, maître.”

  He shook his head. “Please don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Flaunt your breasts at me when I’m trying to work.”

  Lisa pushed them together, aware her nipples had stiffened, and said innocently, “I’m not flaunting them, maître.”

  He held up his finger and thumb and clucked his tongue. “You are this close to a correction. Stand with your hands on your head while I set up this shot and think about how you’re going to curb your lustful thoughts.”

  Lisa placed her hands on her head, and her breasts lifted. It was impossible not to think even more sluttish thoughts.

  Olivier nodded in satisfaction. “A far more modest position for a virgin.”

  She waited, well aware that her breasts were even more on display. Her pussy tightened as a wicked idea struck her. What if Olivier made her stand in the crotchless drawers, exhibited to public view? She imagined standing on a plinth in one of the Paris galleries, tourists swarming around her, staring and pointing, clucking their tongues disapprovingly. She shifted, aware of her sex moistening and her buttocks clenching. Olivier would have placed a plaque at her feet.

  “The correction of an immodest virgin.”

  He would make her remain there all day until she turned pink with shame. If she moved, he would take her over his knee, rip the panties apart and spank her soundly in front of a crowd of jeering strangers.

  Heat scorched her cheeks. Wanting to be publicly naked and shamed seemed a whole lot kinkier than being spanked or paddled by him, and she couldn’t claim the fantasy had stemmed from Jody’s taunts about her body. She’d had it for a long time. Olivier knew, of course, but there was no way her desires could become reality. The idea of actually baring all as an act of submission at a club made her sick with fear.

  Olivier had dragged a padded boudoir chair on top of the Persian rug and glanced up at her. He frowned. “You can take your hands from your head now and come over here.”

  “Oui, maître.” Lisa kept her eyes on the rug as she obeyed.

  He tilted her chin up and eyed her with suspicion. She blushed deeper. “Your face is very red.”

  “Is it?”

  He folded his arms. “You know very well it is. Hmm. I’m not sure your thoughts have been very modest while you waited for me. We’ll have to discuss them later.”

  His look of naked lust made her instantly damp. A draught of cool air whispered over her wet pussy, and she twitched with lust. “At least you look virginal,” he said. “And I have the perfect finishing touch.” He picked up a string of creamy pearls from the dressing table and placed it over her head. The pearls hung between her breasts, cool and tantalising.

  “I always knew you’d look good with a pearl necklace,” he said, tilting up her chin with his fingers and rolling one of the beads between his fingers. The innuendo was not lost on Lisa. His fingers strayed to her nipple, and he rolled it gently between his fingers like the pearl.

  “I’m supposed to be an innocent ingénue caught in the act of my toilette.” She kept her tone demure.

  “Innocent, for now.”

  He walked back to the camera and picked up the postcard. “Place your hands on the chair.”

  Lisa bent over, feeling the silk part. Air licked at her pussy and butt cheeks. It was deliciously exposing and naughty.

  “A little lower, cherie. Let’s see more of that lovely bottom.”

  She pushed her butt into the air, and the pearls clattered on the seat of the chair. What must she look like to Olivier?

  Olivier’s erection strained against the denim of his jeans. He longed to take her now, but that would deny him the glorious pleasure of scrutinising her amazing breasts and gorgeous pussy for a little while longer. He had plans for both, and he wasn’t sure he could wait much longer. Was she ready for him yet? He didn’t want to hurt or humiliate her.

  Putain. What am I thinking? She’d hooked up with him precisely to do both those things in a controlled and safe way. Normally he wouldn’t have a second thought about taking things to a new level with a sub, but Lisa was different. He found himself second-guessing his actions when they played—and he’d asked her to the chateau? It was best she didn’t find out that she was the only woman he’d invited here since Caro.

  “Turn your head to look back at me,” he said, shaking off his doubts with a sharp command.

  “Um…I’m not sure I can from this position.”

  Two pale pink ass cheeks were neatly framed by the white pantalettes. It was all he could do not to abandon the shoot, rip them off and fuck her. Or nudge his aching cock between those cheeks. Or both. At times like this, it would be helpful to have two penises.

  “Try,” he said, forcing out the word through a throat raw with lust.

  She twisted, looking back at him.

  “Act startled and innocent.”

  “At the same time?”

  “With a subtle hint of minxiness.”

  “I’m not Meryl Streep!”

  He tried not to smile. “I do hope not, or she’d have called security by now. Do your best.”

  Lisa managed a sexy pout, and Olivier rattled off a few shots. He didn’t really care how the photos turned out, because he was surely going to explode if he didn’t take her soon. Even from a few feet away he could see the small damp patch around the edge of the knickers. He knew her pussy lips would be glistening and sticky for him. She’d loved posing for the photos, and it had been a great way of preparing her for the public displays of nudity she feared and craved so much.

  He hadn’t forgotten her words: “Bared and shamed.” If ever there was a Freudian slip, that word “shamed” was it, but how to shame her and deliver her fantasy in a way that didn’t actually violate her privacy or destroy her fragile self-esteem… That was a difficult one.

  She waggled her bottom at him, her sex pink and ripe.

  Putain…

  Right now, he wasn’t going to waste any more time worrying.

  In seconds, he’d moved behind her, and her soft “oh” of surprise and pleasure was all the encouragement he needed.

  “Open your legs, you wicked girl,” he said.

  Her knickers opened wider, exposing her pussy lips like the petals of a flower. He parted them
with two fingers, and she whimpered with pleasure.

  “I will take you now,” he growled. “And I won’t spare you an inch, despite your innocence.”

  Lisa’s hips bucked. Olivier didn’t care how cheesy the scenario had become; he just wanted to make her more wet and more desperate for him to fuck her.

  He ripped open the buttons of his jeans and yanked them down his thighs with his shorts. His cock was at the bursting point as he nudged her tight entrance, and she moaned as he pushed deeper inside. Her sigh of ecstasy drove him over the edge, and he slammed into her, grasping her hips and thrusting again and again, his pelvis slapping against her ass cheeks.

  “Olivier…”

  He heard her call his name. No “maître”. No games now. Just the bliss of his cock inside that impossibly tight, hot space, releasing the nerve-jangling tension. Just the pure pleasure of fucking a beautiful woman who wanted him. Just the joy of having fucked Lisa Archer. It was that simple.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Olivier?”

  He blinked awake, light hurting his eyes. The surface beneath him was hard yet soft, his body sticky with dried sweat. Where was he?

  “Are you back?”

  Something soft tickled his chest, and Lisa’s face came into focus, her thick hair brushing his nipples. She was propped up on one elbow next him. After taking her as she bent over the chair, he’d laid her on the Persian rug, gone down on her and then fucked her again. Now it was he who was flat out, the sun hot on his limbs through the window, the musky scent of their lovemaking perfuming the air.

  “Heloo-oo. Earth to Monsieur Lemaitre.”

  Her eyes were amused as she looked down at him. Olivier’s limbs were heavy. He had absolutely no desire to move.

  “When your body’s had enough of me, and you’re laid right out on the floor…” Lisa sang softly, out of tune.

  Does she have any idea what she does to me? He laughed. “What the fuck is that?”

  She smiled. “A very old, very cheesy song my dad used to sing to my mum.”

  “Very romantic,” he joked, but his stomach tightened with an emotion he couldn’t name. The feeling was pleasurable and painful. It lifted him with joy and dragged him down with fear. It brought back a memory. Oh Jesus.