Only One Naked Read online

  The pad was closed. When Clarissa opened it, the card cover rasped against Maisie's still-erect nipples, making her shiver. She shivered against when she saw Clarissa's drawing of her arse.

  Yes, her round bottom, drawn straight on, the cheeks taut and lifted apart and the little anus in the middle, looking very dark and open, like a keyhole on the inner Maisie. Gosh, had her arsehole really puckered like that? She blushed all over and felt her heart racing and her breath growing heavy. And Clarissa had seen it. Recorded it with her pencil. She hadn't missed a thing.

  “What do you think?” The knee gave her bottom a slight nudge.

  “Um … it's very … thorough ...”

  “Everyone says that.” Her tone implied that Maisie had just made one of the most boring, obvious remarks imaginable. “It's not about thoroughness or exactness. I want to capture the female form in tension.”

  The knee pressed on Maisie's backside again, more sharply this time. She's certainly got my female form in tension, Maisie thought helplessly.

  “Clarissa, let the poor girl put her robe on.” Nicole was standing there, brisk and smiling, Maisie's robe over her arm.

  “Oh, is she naked?” said Clarissa airily. “I didn't notice.”

  She closed the pad, catching Maisie's nipples once again, then sauntered off.

  “What a thrill,” sighed Nicole, “working with such talented young artists. We're so privileged, don't you think?”

  Maisie agreed with a faltering smile and put out her hand hopefully for her robe.

  “I must admit I was ever so scared, but it went alright, didn't it?”

  “You were good.”

  “That long pose, though, I found the extended arm really hard to hold ...”

  “Hmm, yes.”

  Maisie was chattering nervously in Nicole's Mini. At the end of the session, Nicole had invited her home for a drink. After two hours of being naked, alcohol had seemed like just the ticket. Now Maisie was wondering whether she should have accepted after all.

  Still keyed up and stunned by what she had done, Maisie needed to talk. But Nicole wasn't making any attempt to keep up her end of the conversation. Not the first time, Maisie got the impression Nicole wasn't very interested in anything Maisie had to say.

  Maisie lapsed into silence. Although she was now dressed in her frock and some panties she'd had in her bag, her skin tingled in a way that made her still feel naked. Just the sensation of her thighs rubbing against each other gave her what was almost a mild electric shock.

  She was struggling to come to terms with the truth. If she was honest, she had enjoyed herself. More than that. She had gotten off on her little adventure. And it wasn't about being naked. It was about being the only one naked. That was what had excited her. Not one of those other girls had shown an inch of skin, and she, older than them by a couple of years, had shown everything. God, how sick, to be turned on by something like that. She really was a despicable worm, wasn't she?

  Never mind. She wouldn't let it happen again.

  She glanced at her svelte blonde companion. It was weird that Nicole wouldn't speak. Unsettling. She'd chatted away to the students happily enough. It was as though Maisie was good for some things, for being naked and for doing what she was told, but wasn't worth talking to. But then why, she wondered, is she taking me home for drinks?

  They pulled to a stop outside a pretty mews house on the edge of the historic town centre. To Maisie's surprise, the lights were on. Strange, incoherent music rumbled. Someone was home.

  “Come and meet hubby,” said Nicole.

  The front door opened directly onto a small sitting room. There were bright rugs and throws, richly-hued paintings on the walls and some kind of weird, hyperactive jazz coming from an expensive-looking iPod docking station. Sitting among all this colour and noise were two men and two women, arguing at the tops of their voices. A man with glasses, a woman with a henna perm, a woman with cropped hair and a young man with the improbable good looks of a fantasy gigolo.

  Nicole pointed at the gigolo. “That's Manu.”

  Manu acknowledged Nicole with a kiss and went back to arguing. He didn't acknowledge Maisie, nor did the rest of the quartet. Nicole dropped into the one free chair, leaving Maisie to sink awkwardly to her knees on the Kilim rug beside her.

  After a minute a glass of red wine found its way to her. She sipped it in silent confusion. Nicole hadn't mentioned a husband, or told her to expect a houseful of guests. She seemed to delight in wrong-footing Maisie. Oh well. The one compensation was that Manu was ever so handsome. He had a booming, thickly accented voice, a deep chest, big arms, sideburns that swooped down like sabres in front of his ears and eyes that glittered intensely under shapely brows.

  She wished she knew what they were talking about. The conversation seemed to be taking place in two or three different languages. Nicole astonished her by leaning forward and jabbering fluently in a foreign tongue. It didn't help that one word in three was masked by the raucous jazz, which showed no sign of ending or even changing tempo.

  After a while, she gathered they were debating the merits of a famous artist whose name might have been something like Ratzskywatzsky. The man with glasses and the woman with the henna perm maintained that Ratzskywatzsky was a genius, while Manu was violently opposed and Nicole and the woman with cropped hair were somewhere in between.

  A large book of Ratzskywatzky's paintings was being passed from hand to hand as each one made their case.

  Manu prodded a glossy illustration. “You're all blind! Look at this shit! How can you call this man a visionary when he can't even paint the small of a girl's back without fucking it up?”

  “There's nothing wrong with that back,” protested the man in glasses. “It's a lovely back.”

  “It isn't real. Girl's backs don't look like that.”

  “And Ingres painted in too many vertebrae. Who cares? It's about the very idea of suppleness.”

  “Fuck that! I want anatomical accuracy.”

  “I think it is anatomically accurate,” said the woman with cropped hair. “Who says it isn't?”

  Spreading the book out on the coffee table between them, the four began to argue about a rather splodgy painting of a nude female back. Maisie watched in bemusement.

  Nicole held up her hand. “All this arguing is pointless. We need to compare it to the real thing.”

  This statement in itself provoked more debate, but Nicole signalled everyone to be quiet. Then she turned to Maisie.

  Maisie hoped she wasn't going to be asked what she thought of Ratzkywatzky.

  “Maisie, get up and show us the small of your back.”

  Maisie blinked. She wasn't sure if she had heard right, or what exactly it was Nicole wanted her to do. Nicole took the glass from her hand and waited. Dubiously, Maisie climbed to her feet and turned to face the wall.

  “You'll need to take that dress off,” said Nicole.

  On any other day of her life, Maisie would have found this statement extraordinary. But after posing naked for Nicole's class and being forced into all kinds of compromising positions by Clarissa, taking off her frock so a bunch of strangers could examine the small of her back seemed like the least she could do. After all, they were artists too, she supposed, or at any rate artistic types. And it would make up for the fact that she wasn't contributing much to the conversation.

  Behind her, everyone waited in silence. Even the jazz lurched to an abrupt stop, only to start up again, with a raunchier tune. Maisie took that as her cue to step out of her little frock and bundle it against her chest.

  To her horror, and then to her amusement, they all leapt up from their places. While the man with glasses held the book open next to her, they began comparing the anatomy of her lower back to that of the girl in the illustration. There was lots of dimple-counting, measuring of proportions and good-natured swearing. Maisie forgot her embarrassment and found herself smirking at the ridiculousness of it.

  Nicole notice
d and leaned forward confidentially. Maisie smiled, anticipating a joke.

  “Go on upstairs.”

  Maisie blushed. Her eyes blazed with indignation. Go on upstairs! Who did Nicole think she was, talking to her like that? Treating her like a servant. A pet. Not even, go on upstairs, please …

  This moment of rebellion didn't register on Nicole, who was beckoning everyone else back to their seats and skilfully changing the topic of conversation. Maisie was on the sidelines again, forgotten. She suddenly felt silly, standing there in her underpants with her dress clutched to her chest.

  She stared at Nicole for a moment, then dropped her eyes and padded meekly upstairs. Manu glanced briefly in her direction, but no one seemed curious about where she was going.

  The little house had just the one bedroom. Without switching on the lights, she sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Her cotton frock was still squashed against her small, firm breasts. She wondered if she should put it on again, without actually doing so. She seemed to have lost all power of independent decision-making. Presumably Nicole would sit downstairs having a nice long chat with her friends. Then, when she was good and ready, she would come upstairs and do whatever she wanted with Maisie. And the other four would know that Nicole treated Maisie like a slave.

  Of course, Maisie didn't have to stand for any of it. She could put on her frock and go. It was only a short walk back to Aunt Barbara's house. But the truth was, she was curious, even anxious, to see what Nicole had planned for her next. At the same time, all this nudity and sexiness had left her feeling frayed and exhausted. Overwrought, she began to sob … gently and more or less silently, apart from the occasional sniff.

  “Poor little thing. Are you sitting here in the dark, crying? How tragic.”

  Nicole stood framed in the doorway. She set down a wine bottle and two glasses on a dresser, and went about turning on lamps until the room was bathed in pools of warm, gentle light.

  “Come here, my weepy little gingernut.”

  Taking Maisie by the hand, she drew her across the room to a full-length cheval mirror. Standing just behind her, she eased the frock from between Maisie's arms and tossed it onto a chair. Through eyes that were still blurry with tears, Maisie saw two beautiful girls in the glass. The taller, more confident, more striking one had all her clothes on. The other girl was naked apart from a little pair of panties. The lamplight sculpted this one's bare white flesh into delicious, succulent curves.

  Nicole wrapped her strong arms around Maisie from behind and rested her sharp chin on Maisie's shoulder.

  “You really like this, don't you? Showing off for me? It turns you on, getting out your little titties?”

  Maisie made a throaty gulping noise which might have been a yes.

  “Wanna show me your little white backside too?”

  Still crying, Maisie nodded. Nicole made her turn around. With her back to the mirror and looking over her shoulder, Maisie slowly eased the panties down off her bottom.

  “Ooooh, look at that full moon. This must be making you so wet,” Nicole whispered, “the silky feeling of sliding your panties down your lovely smooth backside … you love pushing those panties down. You want those pretty white cheeks on display ...”

  Nicole was right. It was. She did. So much so, she could hardly breathe. Heart rate accelerating wildly, Maisie eased the panties the rest of the way down. Her bottom looked meltingly good in the mirror, a tasty dessert waiting for someone to take a scoop out of it. Certainly that was the reaction she read in the gorgeous Nicole's eyes.

  The panties hung for a moment around her knees. Then they were around her ankles. She stepped out of them.

  Nicole took Maisie's face in her hands and studied it. “Pretty tears … Yum ...”

  She put out her tongue and ran it over Maisie's face. Then she frowned and said, “Stick out your tongue, too! You don't get to keep a single thing from me.”

  Maisie poked out her slender little tongue. Nicole's tongue fluttered and lapped against it. Meanwhile, her hands explored Maisie's body at will. Plucking at her nipples. Sliding between the soft, sensitive cheeks of her arse …

  Growing excited, Maisie tried to slip her hand under Nicole's T-shirt, but Nicole pushed it away. Maisie understood. She wasn't allowed to do anything. She was a passive object for Nicole's pleasure.

  They were still standing in front of the mirror.

  “Show the mirror your pussy! I want to see your beautiful pussy in my beautiful mirror.”

  Nicole spun Maisie round and guided her hands down between her legs. Bracing her pelvis, Maisie splayed her pussy as far as it would go, revealing its shiny pink walls. Nicole studied it with a tigerish look and bit her neck.

  “I love your pussy,” Nicole growled, “can I have it? I want to have it. I want to own it.”

  It took a moment for Maisie to find her voice. She said simply, “It's yours.”

  “Good girl … get up against that mirror.”

  A hand gripped Maisie's neck, shoving her forward, squashing her against the cold glass. Face in profile, breasts flattened, Maisie clung to the mirror for support. Fingers pinched her neck.

  “Stick your tongue out. Lick your reflection. Lick the fucking mirror.”

  Maisie couldn't see what she was doing and didn't really understand. But it gave her a deep jolt of pleasure, like a landslide in her stomach, every time she obeyed Nicole's commands. She thrust out her tongue and wiggled it against the glass.

  “Gorgeous! That's a pretty tongue! Can I have it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Keep licking. You're gonna be in so much trouble if you stop. Now work your hips. Hump that cute redhead in the mirror. Hump her with your wet, sticky pussy.”

  Still flapping her tongue, Milly slapped her hips against the mirror. Nicole's words had such power over her now, she almost believed there actually was another girl in the mirror and she was giving her the fuck of her life.

  The hand released her neck. She felt strong fingers gripping her hips and buttocks – mauling them almost. Nicole was kneeling behind her. Lifting Maisie off her toes as she sought to plant her tongue into her pussy from the rear.

  Each time the stiff long tongue lanced her, Maisie felt a moment of incandescent ecstasy. At the same time her little titties and her flushed face were being ground against the mirror as the powerful blonde bucked her about …

  Suddenly Nicole grabbed her by the knees and lifted. She planted Maisie's shins on her shoulders. Back arched, bottom in the air, Maisie clung on, while Nicole's tongue flickered across her pussy like a series of miniature lightning bolts.

  “After I've done your pussy,” Nicole explained, “I'm going to fuck you in the arse with my tongue.”

  Downstairs, the discussion went on.

  Later, they lay in bed, Maisie naked and exhausted and Nicole in bra and panties.

  Nicole cradled the drained girl in her arms.

  “Maisie ...”

  “Yes, Nicole?”

  “Remember that book I bought off you? The one about female nudes?”

  Maisie sighed contentedly. How could she forget? If it weren't for that book, she would never have met Nicole or discovered her fondness for being the only one naked.

  “Of course I remember,” she murmured.

  “Oh good. It's just … a couple of the pages are missing. Would it be okay if I returned it?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  MAISIE AND THE OLDIES

  “Maisie?”

  “Yes, Mr. Wilson?”

  “I wonder if you'd be kind enough to reach something down from the top shelf for me.”

  “Of course.”

  Maisie rose from her chair and, straightening the hem of her dainty summer frock, advanced towards the stepladder on slender legs. There was the slightest bounce of anticipation in her straight, shoulder-length red hair. They had the shop to themselves.

  Mr. Wilson was one of Aunt Barbara's regular customers. He was in his early sixtie
s, but tall, ruggedly handsome and well-turned out, with dark wavy locks, thick, expressive eyebrows and a wardrobe of immaculate blazers, cravats and twills. His natural haunt was the military memoirs section in the centre aisle.

  He had been there the week before last, when Maisie climbed the stepladder for Nicole. It had apparently caught his attention, because he'd been back almost every day since. The first time, it was rainy and he found Maisie bundled in a long, sloppy sweater. He slunk off again almost immediately. Touched by his look of disappointment, she made it up to him the following day by squeezing into a pair of brief, clingy shorts.

  So their game began. For over a week now, he had been buying lots of books and she had been climbing lots of stepladders.

  Why was she doing it? At first, Mr. Wilson's combination of old world charm and Peeping Tom tendencies was a bit of a joke. But things changed after Nicole's art class. Maisie found herself in the grip of strong, scary impulses. Even though she dreaded it and it made her feel sick, she couldn't stop thinking about being naked. When she was walking along a crowded pavement, she would imagine what it would be like if she were in the nude, her bare skin brushing against all those bustling, clothed bodies. She would select a stranger from the crowd and picture him stopping her and ordering her to undress. She moved about in a state of constant arousal that brought her to the brink of tears.

  In these circumstances, the game provided some much-needed relief. It was titillating, but safe. As he was so old and dignified, she trusted Mr. Wilson not to take it too far. And she had a feeling that by doing this, she would stop herself from doing something much more stupid.

  “Where is it, Mr. Wilson?”

  “Up there on the left … see that big encyclopedia of famous battles?”

  “I'm sorry all our books are so out of the way.”

  He waved away her apology with gentlemanly good manners. Maisie unfolded the stepladder and propelled her slim body up it, swinging her hips rather more than was necessary. As she climbed higher and reached for the encyclopedia, Mr. Wilson was able to see under her short, flaring skirt.