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 sound 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 p rofessional 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