Only One Naked Part 2 Read online

  “So it has happened that my work satisfies nobody. For some, ouff! Too much sex! For others, too little. For me, it is just right. Erotica is not about hard sex, after all. It's about an atmosphere of excited transgression, the sensations of the skin, the beauty of the female form. The man scarcely figures in my books, the woman is the key. I objectify women, but only to preserve what passes… didn't your Keats say a thing of beauty is a joy forever?”

  After that, there was some general talk. It couldn't be long now...

  “At this point, I want to do something different. We're used to artists drawing from the life, using a model as their inspiration. Tonight I want us all to try to do a little writing from the life, yes? Please welcome our model, the young lady who has been kind enough to assist us in our endeavour – Maisie, come on out, please.”

  This was it. Even as he had been talking, Maisie had been slipping off her robe. Now, her heart in her mouth, she stepped out of the storeroom and sauntered, as coolly and confidently as she could manage, to a spot slightly to one side of where Jean-Louis was sitting. And there she stood, in nothing but her heels and a flimsy green and purple tropical print string bikini with tie-side briefs. There was complete silence.

  Context was everything. She could have walked around like this at the beach and no one would have blinked. But this wasn't a beach, this was a literary talk in a bookshop in the centre of Dalchester. Literary talks weren't usually big on bikini babes. And a babe Maisie was, in her own quiet way – a body as slender as a moonbeam, not a whole lot of curves but enough to caress the eye, especially that swell of plump cleavage and those two scoops of smooth vanilla icecream that filled out the seat of her bikini bottoms so delectably. And all topped by a neat little face that seemed so innocent – round, doll-like eyes, flared nostrils, rosebud mouth – framed by fine, slightly wavy shoulder-length hair the colour of sun-warmed amber.

  She tried to look at ease, relaxed, weight planted on one leg, the other knee slightly bent, hands at her sides.

  Even though she was scared of what he might be thinking, she glanced across rows of curious faces to Ben, hoping for a look of support and reassurance, something to get her through what was sure to be a trying few minutes. To her surprise, his seat was empty.

  He'd gone? That was quick. In a way, she was relieved. A source of anxiety had been alleviated. Yet she couldn't help feeling completely gutted too. Obviously she wasn't as irresistible as she thought. Maybe he'd had a deadline or something? Oh well...

  Meanwhile Jean-Louis was gesturing towards her. “I look at Maisie and my head fills with questions. Who is this girl? What does she want? What is she feeling right now? What are you feeling right now, Maisie?”

  “Um, nervous?” she responded in a tiny squeak that made the audience chuckle sympathetically.

  “My own theory is that she wants to be here, that she enjoys flaunting her young body, it is a compulsion for her. Perhaps that says more about me than it does about Maisie. But the question is, what is her body telling us?”

  Maisie, who had been staring as if hypnotized at Jean-Louis during this exchange, became aware of movement out of the corner of her eye. Ben was at the door, making whispered excuses to Miss Tweedle. So he hadn't darted out in a flash after all. But he was leaving now, and the sight of the door closing behind him triggered another swell of of confused feelings.

  Buggered off without so much as a backward glance. Didn't he want to see her in her bikini? It wasn't like she had been eager to parade around in front of him, yet now he was gone she was no longer in quite the same state of high nervous excitement. The audience suddenly became slightly unreal to her, like a sea of cardboard cut-outs.

  Jean-Louis was saying, “We look all the time for the detail that quickens the reader's blood.” He stood up and raised his hand to Maisie's neck. “The pulse in her throat. See the way the bikini strap lays across her collarbone? On either side there is a gap, a sweet aperture, a lover could slide his fingertip under so...” He did just that. At the touch of his smooth fingernail against her sensitive skin, her nipples stiffened against her bra, poking through the thin cups. He pulled his finger out again with an amiable smile. “What else? What do you see?”

  Various hands went up. Christ, she hoped no one mentioned her nipples. Someone talked about the way her briefs sat snugly under her hipbones. Someone else mentioned how the side-ties were dangling against her hips and wondered if they felt tickly.

  “The way she touches herself, touches her stomach and hips, I mean,” another voice volunteered. The audience were getting warmed to the task now.

  Maisie blushed. She hadn't even realized she had been doing that! All this time she thought her hands had been at her sides. She'd have to keep a tighter control of herself.

  Worried that her face must be looking red, she was grateful when Jean-Louis asked her to turn around.

  “For me, the seat of the bikini bottoms is an object of eternal fascination. The way it cups the derriere, but not quite perfectly. A peep of cleft here, at the top, and following it down, here the flimsy material catches between the buttocks, and suddenly the briefs seem too small, and here and here, the cheeks escape, cheekily.”

  As he described what he saw, Maisie felt Jean-Louis' words enfolding her, like a second skin that was more sensitive than her real one. It was almost like he was stroking her with his thoughts. Her pert little bottom tingled, aware of all eyes upon it. She was tortured by the urge to reach around and give her briefs a tug, freeing the fabric snagged between her cheeks that he had so acutely and so mercilessly drawn attention to. But that would be almost worse, performing such an intimate gesture in front of whole bunch of strangers. To say it would be an embarrassment was an understatement – it would be a total and utter surrender, bidding goodbye to any hint of self-respect.

  Which was why she was completely aghast when her hand shot around and pinched the right leg-hole of her briefs between finger and thumb.

  Equally as suddenly, strong, fleshy digits encircled her wrist, gently but securely, and her hand was trapped there, in place, for all to see.

  “A girl tugs on her panties. For most writers, this is beneath notice. For the erotica writer, it is poetry, it is life itself, it is like the motions of the planets. Let us pause to celebrate this gesture – everyday, common but delightful. Note the position of her finger and thumb. So it begins. So this beautiful landscape of panties and buttocks will be rewritten.”

  He released her hand. She tugged. The gesture felt exciting, momentous. The cold shivers had stopped and now she was having hot flushes. Her heart was racing, her breath came in excited snuffles.

  Jean-Louis paused and cleared his throat. “Now I must ask the audience if you would be offended if Maisie took her top off.”

  Take my top off? Who said anything about taking my top off? Her face hidden from the audience and Jean-Louis, Maisie gaped in alarm and swivelled her eyes to left and right in panic. Going topless wasn't part of the job description!

  But then they had never been a proper job description, had there? Maisie had never dared ask – afraid, perhaps, to find out what she was getting into.

  She stole a quick, resentful glance at Jean-Louis. Maybe he wasn't such a gentleman after all. He could at least have asked her if she minded going topless, rather than taking it for granted. Perhaps this was how he got his kicks – ambushing helpless females in public. More likely he hadn't even thought it was worth mentioning. He was acting so casually, it was like he was inviting her to take off her hat and coat.

  Another moment passed. She threw a mute appeal in Lise's direction. The little Frenchwoman nodded firmly, standing – coincidentally or on purpose – between Maisie and the storeroom door, blocking her way just in case she felt inclined to bolt for the exit. As for the audience, if any of them had any profound objections, they were keeping it to themselves. On the contrary, they all seemed to be sitting forward in their seats eagerly.

  Okay, it looked like the t
op was coming off. The only silver lining was that Ben would probably kick himself when he found out what he'd missed. With that cheering thought, she half-turned and reached behind her.

  “Slowly, with pauses,” Jean-Louis murmured in soothing tones, almost crooning out the words, ”so we can follow your every movement. What do we notice now? The delicate posture of her hands. The tie caught between finger and thumb. Her shoulder-blades sliding together.” He was becoming more intense and alive, leaving the audience behind, almost forgetting they were there as he narrated what he saw. Maisie felt like she was glimpsing the real Jean-Louis Robbe at last. The thought that she had wrought this change in him was – be honest – strangely arousing.

  He seemed to be able to read her mind. He paused. Laughed. “You see, even a burnt-out case such as I can become excited and feel a touch of the old creative frisson.”

  He wasn't the only one. Suddenly emboldened, she released the tie and pulled the ends taut for a moment, delaying the moment when the cups would slip from her breasts. Then, with a flick of her hair, she lifted the top over her head, freeing her boobs, which bobbed on her narrow ribcage, the nipples visibly puffed up and as pale pink as cherry blossoms. She held the top away from her, allowing it to slither from between her finger and thumb onto the carpet, where it lay in a crumpled heap like a discarded bouquet of flowers.

  After all the anxiety and anticipation, the nerves and the worry, it felt good to stop fighting and just give everyone what they wanted. She could breathe again. Her small, pointy tits swelled deliciously as she filled her lungs in relief.

  She was only dimly aware that Jean-Louis was talking. Her ear picked out the occasional phrase, no more. He was speaking so fast and low, she wondered if the audience could make out what he was saying. But she didn't have to hear every word to know that his frisson had now turned into something close to rapture.

  She was now fully facing front. Her eyes danced over the bookshop, trying to find a place to rest. The rows of chairs, the book-lined walls, the refreshments table, the street outside the shop window, darkening now. She didn't seem able to stop moving, to stop touching herself. Her arms rose to half-cover her breasts... which became a cupping gesture instead... then her fingers were interlaced behind her hot little neck. She smiled to herself. It was always like this when she got herself in these situations. Terror beforehand, but once she got going, there was something about exhibiting her tight little body to strangers which she found exhilarating and inexplicably moreish.

  Then a nagging thought: what would her aunt say? Was this really how a bookseller should behave? But somehow the question was unreal. The only real thing was her need to see this through to its logical conclusion, to please Jean-Louis and Lise and Miss Tweedle. She met Jean-Louis' eyes, inviting him to take this to the next level.

  The old man nodded gravely. His index finger made a circle in the air, instructing her to turn around. Then he addressed the audience, rubbing his hands.

  “For me, there is no sight so luxurious as the sight of panties being pushed down a bottom. Smoothness against smoothness, it delights and relaxes me to contemplate it. The way the fabric bunches against her thumbs. A moment of supreme tension. Then they go down.”

  Timing her actions to his words, Maisie began to ease off her bikini bottoms. A wiggle of her hips, and down they slid, inch by inch, revealing more and more of a rump that looked like a perfectly peeled apple. She couldn't see the audience's intense scrutiny, but she could feel it, striking sparks off her bare flesh. She could feel her pussy growing moist and swelling, itching for attention. Suddenly needing to hurry, she tipped forward at the waist and shoved the panties down over her hips. There was a humiliating moment as the gusset clung to her groin and the cleft of her behind. Then she quickly stepped out of the panties and righted herself, turning back towards the audience hot-faced and slightly giddy.

  She clutched her panties in front of privates. Partly this was because she didn't want everyone to see how plumped up her labia were. Not that she didn't feel an urge to share this intimate revelation, but she didn't think Miss Tweedle's literary clientele would be able to take it. The other reason was that she was tormented by an urge to finger herself. She couldn't have dragged her hand away from her pussy even if she tried. Would Jean-Louis ask her to masturbate, to fondle herself? Christ, she hoped so – that is, she hoped not – God, she didn't know what she thought!

  “Now we must release our Maisie. I believe she has given us a great deal this evening and we must be kind to her. A round of applause, if you please.”

  The audience let go of their pads and pens to clap politely. Grabbing her bra and panties, Maisie darted for the storeroom like a scalded cat. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, puffing out a deep sigh.

  The room was in darkness. A cool draft came from the half-open back door. Perfect. She reached down to touch herself. Pent-up juices spilled from her pussy over her fingers. She moaned and threw back her head, half-closing her eyes.

  Through her fluttering eyelashes, she noticed a coatstand in the corner of the room. It looked like a tall, thin man standing there in the twilight. Imagining that's exactly what it was, she cupped one nipple between her fingers and parted her slender white thighs as she delved deeper with her other hand.

  “Come on, then, coatstand man,” she murmured throatily. “Want to see me frig myself silly?” She squeezed her eyes shut and gave herself up to pleasure. Then she remembered that, actually, there wasn't a coatstand in the corner of Miss Tweedle's office. And what was the back door doing open? In which case...

  Her eyes snapped wide, just in time to see a dim figure slipping out through the door into the back alley.

  CHAPTER 5

  The next day Maisie still wasn't sure what she'd seen. Nor had she told anyone about her encounter, for various reasons. As the circumstances were embarrassing to say the least, she'd much prefer not to go into them if she didn't have to. And there didn't seem to be any pressing need. Once she'd turned on the lights and thrown on her robe, a brief check of the office had revealed no drawers broken into, no filing cabinets rifled. The coatstand man didn't seem to have been a very effective burglar. If in fact he'd been there at all. Maisie had started to wonder whether she'd imagined the whole thing – symptom of a guilty conscience perhaps. As for the door, the one incontrovertible piece of evidence, it could easily have been left open by mistake.

  Upon reflection, she'd decided to wait until the following morning. If Miss Tweedle mentioned that anything was missing or not as it should be, then Maisie would speak up too, even if it meant telling the whole sorry tale of how she'd failed to notice the interloper because she'd been too, um, distracted.

  In the event, even if Maisie had wanted to say anything, Miss Tweedle probably wouldn't have let her get a word in edgewise. She was having another one of her wild hair, hollow eye days worrying about the book launch. Jean-Louis was sitting dutifully behind a desk, ready for a busy book signing, but aside from the tiny figure of Lise curled up neatly in a corner in silk pyjamas, doing some embroidery, Heart's Desire was resoundingly empty of adoring fans.

  Miss Tweedle checked Litstop and swore loudly, having discovered that a celebrity cook was doing a book signing in WH Smith's right at that very moment. “Damn, that must be where everyone is. Maybe we should postpone for an hour or two.”

  For once, Jean-Louis showed a flash of anger. “I am not postponing because of a celebrity cook, especially not an English cook. I know I am no longer fashionable, but I have my pride!”

  “Then how are we going to get the punters in? It's impossible for a proper author to compete with all these stupid people off the telly. I don't know what we can do, short of blocking off the street so they can't get to WH Smith's. What do you reckon, poppet?”

  Miss Tweedle stopped pacing and suddenly looked straight at Maisie, inviting her to come up with a solution.

  Maisie was stunned. Miss Tweedle had never shown the remotest inter
est in her opinion before. Could it be she was starting to take her more seriously, see her as more than just a pretty face? Determined to prove herself worthy, Maisie lifted a finger to her chin and knitted her brows. “I reckon there's only one thing we can do. We've got to find some way of drawing a crowd.”

  “You mean like a new window display?” asked Lise, poking a needle into place, then glancing up.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “But that's superb!” With a rustle of silk, Lise jumped up like a jack in a box from the low pouffe where she had been sitting cross-legged. “Hattie, Maisie has hit the nail on the head! That's exactly what we need, a new window display! Well done, Maisie!”

  Bouncing up and down, the little Frenchwoman planted kisses on Maisie's cheeks. Maisie, who had the feeling she was getting the credit for something she didn't deserve, smiled uncertainly.

  “Fine, I'm game,” said Miss Tweedle. “So we take out the books. What do we put in instead?”

  Lise looked to Maisie for guidance, then shared a conspiratorial grin with her, completely to Maisie's confusion. The girl listened in bewilderment as Lise said, “No, no! No need to say a word! I know exactly what you're thinking, and it's brilliant. Hattie, you're going to love it. Let's recreate the cover of The Naked English Girl in the window, with a deckchair and a real naked girl.”

  Maisie's mouth fell open. “A real naked girl?” But where are you going to get a...”

  Then she stopped, not liking the way the two women were looking at her.

  She held up her hands in horror and entreaty. “Miss Tweedle! I really don't think –“

  Lise grabbed them with chubby little paws that were surprisingly strong and tenacious. “Trust me, it will be marvellous.”

  “Please, Maisie. You're looking into the eyes of a desperate woman,” Miss Tweedle chimed in.