Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born by Lexington Manheim Page A
Authors: Lexington Manheim
Tags: Romance, Historical, Sex, Erotic, Interracial, multiracial, nude, intercourse, international intrigue, cabaret
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
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