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.
"Formidable, oui?" I heard Nanette boast as she gave my bubs a couple of playful jostles to make them bounce.
"Oui," I heard the photographer respond. He tried not to s
ound too impressed.
Nanette's unexpected liberty with my chest made me even more uncomfortable, and that feeling was only exacerbated by the fact that, with the camisole over my face, I couldn't see what the others in the room were up to. Unwilling to endure the torment of sight deprivation any longer, I hurriedly snatched the camisole off my head. Smirking, the other girl immediately took it from me and deposited the underwear with the rest of my clothes, which were piled onto a nearby couch. Then she wedged her thumbs into the waistband of my drawers and plunged my sole remaining garment to my ankles. She tapped my shin as a signal to raise my foot and clear it from the drawers. I did as instructed, and, a moment later, I was separated from every stitch I had been wearing. I was now on full nude display for this dirty little man. I felt more naked here than I had ever felt in Monsieur Robinet's studio.
The creepy Tristan Zenglitz sauntered about me in a circle, eyeing me up and down as though he were examining goods at a market. I held a rigid pose, hoping that was the professional thing to do in such situations.
Damn it!—I've got no idea whether this is a professional situation or not! It sure as hell doesn't feel professional!
He stopped directly in front of me and squatted so that his head was right in front of my bush. I looked upward, trying to pay as little attention to him as possible.
"He wants to check your pussy." Nanette swept her hands outward in the direction of my legs, which I interpreted to mean I was to spread my feet and give the photographer a better view of my sex.
I felt like sniping, "You can tell him I've got one, if that's what he wants to know." However, I bit my tongue and did as told, distasteful though I found it.
He moved his face so close to my crotch that I expect he could smell my cunt. The thought of that disgusted me. It would have served him right had I farted and let him really get a whiff of something.
Finally, he turned to Nanette and said, "Bon. Jeudi."
That meant we had the job, and we were to be there Thursday of the following week. I can't say I was looking forward to it, but, come that Thursday, there I was, once again nude, in that second-story rat hole. The only differences were that Nanette was now equally unclothed, and Tristan Zenglitz was behind his camera.
At least that sinister little man isn't right next to me. Thank God for small favors.
He posed us for various shots, using a motley assortment of dilapidated props—a table, a chair, a vase, a wheelbarrow, a rake, a wooden box. In each case, both Nanette and I would either hold, lean, or sit on the prop, depending on what was most appropriate. He always had us both in the picture, usually first on either side of the prop. Once the flash went off and he had the initial shot, he would have us move closer together, such that we were nearly touching—feet nearly touching, legs nearly touching, shoulders nearly touching. Some of these poses I believed were artistic, and striking those gave me a little bit of the good feeling I had when I was posing for the more respectable Monsieur Robinet.
Maybe this will all work out fine, after all.
Then came the next big step—actual touching. Feet touching, legs touching, shoulders touching. Sometimes he would have us drape a hand around the other's shoulder. On some occasions, Nanette would run a hand behind me and let it rest on my waist. Bosom buddies. The photographer told us to sit back-to-back, then to lean against one another. The feel of her skin against mine was both off-putting and oddly enticing. Strange though it was to be sensing another female that way, there was something warm, soft, and comforting about that lady's bare back.
Nanette translated all the instructions for me. The photographer, I was told, spoke not a word of English. No matter. There was nothing I wanted to say to him, and I certainly didn't relish the idea of him talking directly to me. I was pleased to let a language barrier put some distance between us.
"He wants us butt-to-butt." My cohort was translating instructions as she rose to show where we were supposed to stand.
I rose from my position on the wooden box and followed to where Nanette stood. To me, butt-to-butt meant we’d be close to each other but facing in opposite directions. So that’s how I positioned myself.
“No, butt-to-butt.” Nanette scooted back until her buttocks were pressed right up against mine. “Now lean forward.”
Is this what he wants, two naked girls, titties hanging, bare ass against bare ass? Could it get any weirder than this?
It did. After the butt-to-butt shot we were instructed to face each other and hug.
Tits-to-tits! He wants us tits-to-tits! Now he’s getting close to a line I never thought to cross.
"Um…I don't know about that." I looked to Nanette for some support. "That's a little…you know…two girls."
"What?" she said, feigning disappointment as she cupped her breasts. "You don't want to touch mine with yours? Yours didn't seem to mind touching me when we were on the bicycle."
Oh hell! She felt my nipples stiffen against her on the bike? She must have a really sensitive ass! How embarrassing for me! Now she probably thinks I'm one of…those kinds of girls!
"Come on," she coaxed. "Just a little hug. Remember, we are a team." Before I had a chance to think, she stepped forward and wrapped her outstretched arms about me. I felt her soft, supple mammaries nestle into my big receptive bubs. "Nice, eh?" she cooed in my ear. "Now face the camera. Hold still."
Flash.
Tristan Zenglitz told us to hold for another shot like that. Nanette snuggled in a little more. Now I could feel her hairy bush brushing up against me as well as her titties. What's more, she slid her hand down until it came to rest on my backside. I felt that hand start massaging my buttocks. Though it made me emotionally uneasy, the rubbing of my ass also provided a strangely sensual feeling that wasn't exactly unpleasant. The tender stroking of that hand on the softness of my butt was actually kind of comforting—bizarre though it was for another girl to be doing that to me. There was just something soothing about being petted. I wasn't used to it, but it had an oddly calming effect on me.
"Hold still."
Flash.
I honestly don't know how it happened, but, at some point, I realized that I had my own hand on Nanette's ass, and I was gliding it almost subconsciously over those smooth, warm, and fleshy cheeks.
"Hold still."
Flash.
For the next series of shots, the photographer positioned us on a couch with Nanette to my right. I struck what I deemed to be an artistically demure pose—legs together, hands delicately crossed over my crotch. It wasn't what he wanted.
"Like this." Nanette leaned back and spread her legs. Even buried under that massive bush, in such a position her pussy was vividly on display. "Come on!" she slapped playfully at my leg. "He is waiting!"
The man at the camera scowled. I was trying his patience. The girl clamped her left hand on my right leg and unceremoniously yanked it apart from the other.
"Vite! Vite!" The photographer was gesturing madly.
"Open up, Dexeter," said Nanette. "Before you get us both in trouble."
I didn't want to cause trouble for her—or me, for that matter. I spread my legs as wide as was still physically comfortable. Emotionally, there was nothing comfortable about putting my twat so flagrantly on display.
Oh, fuck! Look at what I'm doing! Showing off my naked cunt! For money!
Flash.
"Outside foot up on the couch." Nanette was demonstrating the pose for the next shot.
Was it possible to show even more pussy by lifting a leg? How much pussy does this guy need? Come to think of it, although the other poses weren't this blatant, he's been having us flash our crotches at him all afternoon. "Shift the hips toward the camera." "Move the knee farther out." "Lift the foot up." Practically every fucking pose had the lens staring straight up our alleys. No wonder he was so insistent on checking out my pussy before he hired me. Tristan Zenglitz was a photographer whose focus was definitely on a girl's snatch.
The door opened. In
walked a light skinned man. I screamed and instantly retracted my limbs about my nude figure.
What's he doing here?! I'm naked for God's sake!
As I scrunched up, mortified, the man at the door looked perplexed. The pervert at the camera looked put out. Next to me, the bare-ass girl with the wide open cunt moved not a muscle, but burst into unrestrained laughter.
"It's all right," she guffawed. "He's one of our own."
"What do you mean?"
"A model. He's here to pose." Nanette gave the newly entered man a wave of familiarity. The man shrugged.
I sat aghast as the man began unbuttoning his shirt. He looked to be about twenty years old, of average height and build, and had light blond hair. He had his shoes and shirt off almost before I could comprehend what was happening.
"What's he doing here?" I blurted.
"I told you." Nanette was as calm as could be. "He's going to pose."
"After us?"
"With us."
"Bushwa!" I'd have put my clothes on right then if it hadn't been for the fact that they were piled up on the far side of the room, and getting to them would have meant uncrossing my arms and legs—currently the only coverings over my bare breasts and vagina.
The photographer started making angry sounds. My cohort glared at me.
"What are you making a fuss about?" she fumed. "You wanted to be a model. This is modeling. You do what the photographer wants, not what you want. And he wants us, all three, in the picture. So what is the problem?"
I was unconvinced. This wasn't what I had signed up for.
"He is a nice boy," Nanette continued more quietly. "I've worked with him before. And not bad looking. Nice penis, yes?"
Oh, my fucking god! The man was now completely undressed and walking in our direction, his flaccid dick bobbing from side to side with each step. He stopped just to the right of Nanette.
Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born Page 7