French Blue (13 page)

What intrigued her more were the cardboard boxes covering the tops of the desks. A couple were sealed with sticky tape, but several were open, and when she lifted the lid from one, she found it full of antique postcards and photos.

She picked out a few and laid them on the table. There were sepia scenes of Paris and the south of France, mostly from the turn of the century, Paris’s Belle Époque before the First World War. They were beautiful, and after flicking through them for a few minutes, she opened the next box, wondering what gems lay inside.

Her breath hitched as she drew the first card out and held it between her fingertips. Like the previous cards, it was in sepia and fading a little, but it wasn’t of a French landmark. The card, like the others in the box, showed young women in the nude and seminude, posing in various costumes and scenarios. By contemporary standards, the shots were no more revealing than your average ad in an upmarket women’s magazine, but Lisa guessed that in their day, they would have been considered extremely risqué. Many were also quite humorous, showing a saucy French maid, a beauty “caught” in the act of undressing, and a young woman dressed as a slave girl with a large but docile-looking snake.

“You like them?”

Lisa started guiltily and turned, the card still in her hand.

“I’ve seen this type of thing before at the
bouquinistes
down by the Seine. Did you buy them from one of the dealers there?”

“No, they were part of the private collection of the house when I bought it. I don’t know if the last owners collected them or if they’ve been here since they were first taken. What do you think of them?”

“I think they’re beautiful, with a charming kind of innocence. Nothing you wouldn’t see on a billboard or a magazine now, and the girls don’t look unhappy, even though they must have been desperate…”

“Possibly, but Paris during the Belle Époque was a little more enlightened than London. In fact, Paris was the centre of the erotic photography industry, fuelled, of course, by the art scene.”

“Now why doesn’t that surprise me,” she said, treating him to an arch glance.

“If you like those, come and see this.” Olivier pulled out a large book from the shelf behind Lisa and spread it open on the table. “The first nude photographs were created almost as soon as Daguerre invented photography in the 1830s.”

“That early? I can’t believe it.”

“They were meant to be reference material for painters and sculptors. That’s why they looked like this…” he said, pointing to a blurry, grainy picture. “They posed the pictures like classic oil paintings.”

Lisa shook her head. “So that made it acceptable?”

“On the surface.” He grinned and pulled a large leather-bound volume from the shelf. “See this? It’s an early copy of
La Beaute
magazine.”

He turned the pages gently. It was full of nude photographs in similar style to the postcards.

“Those girls look…incredibly real. I mean, I know they’re real, but they seem like people you could meet in the street.”

“That may be because they have proper curves and aren’t airbrushed fantasies. They’re the kind of woman I like.”

Lisa blushed, feeling as if she’d inherited the coyness and innocence of the models.

“Why all the elaborate poses and the theatrical settings?”

“Back then it was only considered acceptable to photograph the naked body for artists’ studies, but naturally, some erotic images fell into the hands of discerning gentlemen. I guess the more the photo resembled a painting, the less likely the photographer could be accused of creating something obscene.”

Lisa took the book and turned over the pages, staring at the young women, imagining herself draped in an exotic shawl, artfully arranged to expose her breast or buttock or give a tantalising glimpse of her unshaven sex. Looking at the photos with Olivier was intensely erotic, and she could hardly keep still. “I feel a little guilty about looking at them if they had no choice but to do this,” she said.

“It’s sad, and I suppose perhaps we shouldn’t look at them now, but I’m no saint, Lisa and I don’t think you are. So maybe the best thing we can do is appreciate their efforts now.”

Lisa lingered over a picture of a seminude woman with a snake, wondering if the girl had enjoyed posing or had been forced to it out of desperation. Was she an artists’ model or a prostitute—or both? “I’m guessing ‘respectable’ women rarely posed in the nude?” she asked, fantasising about being made to strip for a photographer, who would, of course, look and sound like Olivier.

“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.”