Only One Naked Part 2 Page 5

  Jean-Louis nodded his big, noble head good-humouredly. “Maybe one day, perhaps, on a return visit to this delightful English town.”

  “No, now, while you have this connection between you. Do you not agree, Hattie?”

  “What, do an all-nighter, like back in the old days?” Miss Tweedle, who had been knocking back the wine and looked a little red in the face as a result, gave a splutter of laughter. “Well, why not, if everyone's game? I've certainly got enough snacks and booze to last us till dawn.”

  Lise sapped her beringed hand down on the little round table, making the glasses and plates vibrate. “Then it is agreed! You will write! Maisie will be your muse!”

  The French lady smiled at Maisie, who looked down at her pudding, having suddenly lost every bit of her appetite. I would never have come to dinner if I'd known that flaunting was on the menu, she reflected miserably. And what was being suggested seemed especially abnormal. Stripping off in front of Jean-Louis, while Lise and Miss Tweedle watched? She'd rather be back in the shop window. But she couldn't see any way out. Once again events had snowballed beyond her control, and her throat had closed up, preventing her from uttering so much as a squeak of protest. She glanced up sheepishly.

  “Don't be scared,” said Lise soothingly, pulling her to her feet. “You will help create great literature, yes?”

  Was The Naked English Girl great literature? Well, it was no time to split hairs. She gave a resigned nod.

  “Excellent!” Lise squeezed her arms, then ushered her husband over to the desk and sat him down behind it. Miss Tweedle put an A4 writing pad down in front of him.

  “No, no, no lines,” he said, pushing it away impatiently. “Loose blank sheets only. I cannot be confined.”

  The tetchiness, Maisie guessed, was a symptom of fright. He, she realized, was being put on the spot just as much as she was, perhaps even more so. The thought went some way towards placing her own problems in perspective.

  Scurrying around, Miss Tweedle dumped a sheaf of blank printer paper in front of Jean-Louis, and a selection of pens from which he chose a thick felt-tip. He clicked the pen-top off and on nervously. Beads of sweat were collecting in the folds of his impressive brow.

  “Come, you must tempt him, you must bring him out of himself.”

  Lise frogmarched Maisie across the carpet until she was standing before the waiting author. She hooked her fingers under the girl's shoulder straps and was about to push them down. Then stopped. “It is better if you do it.”

  Maisie nodded. Reached for the straps. Then hesitated. Was Jean-Louis a boob man? Perhaps it would be better to start lower down? If she was going to do this, she might as well do it right. The last thing she wanted was for her and Jean-Louis to put themselves through all this for nothing.

  Standing in profile to Jean-Louis, she teasingly lifted her skirt a little on one side. Let's see how he reacts to a flash of lacy purple panties. The results were promising. All at once his eyes seemed to snap into focus and he gripped his pen with a new sense of readiness.

  She swivelled on her heels, trailing the skirt through her fingers, unveiling the lower curves of her juicy little derriere. The smallest of jiggles, not so much that it would be obvious, but enough to draw attention to the pertness of her creamy white cheeks, and the way the flimsy, near transparent material clung to their every contour seamlessly.

  A faint squeaking sound. Jean-Louis had begun to poke at the page with the felt-tip, spasmodically at first, then picking up speed. Maisie smiled to herself. Lise and Miss Tweedle exchanged a glance of triumph. Not for the first time, she wondered if they'd been plotting something like this all along. Not that it mattered. If she were honest, there was a part of her that quite liked being taken advantage … got off on it even. It was one way of making life interesting, wasn't it?

  “Would you like to undo my hair?”

  Moving round his desk, she bent forward at the waist, showing Jean-Louis the back of her slender neck.

  The author dropped his pen and fumbled with her chignon. Her hair fell loose in a sheet of glimmering tangerine shades. He played with the fine strands, enjoying the feel of them on his fingers. He looked pained when she flicked her hair away, righting herself. But almost immediately she made it up to him by resting both palms on the leather writing top. The pose stretched her forward, sliding the tight little dress up to the very tops of her thighs. The invitation was clear.

  Large brown hands alighted on her waist. Jean-Louis pushed the flimsy printed fabric up over her hips, baring her panties.

  “Smoothness against smoothness,” she quoted, as fingertips plucked at her briefs and guided them down the slopes of her backside. Her flesh tingled. She had to admit, she was quite getting into writing.

  Her panties were now down over her knees. Her bottom had never looked lovelier, taut as a drum, flawless as twin pearls, framed like a work of art by the shiny folds of the frock up around her waist and the whisky-red hues of the old writing desk. He took it gently in his hands and buried his face in it.

  Oh wow! She hadn't been expecting that! Aware that Jean-Louis' wife was watching intently, she tried to keep a straight face, but she couldn't stop her back from arching like that of a cat being tickled in its favourite spot and her hips from grinding against the edge of the desk. Jean-Louis snorted, then exhaled, his breath buffeting her most intimate parts.

  Who would have thought he had it in him? And with Lise looking on too? But even as these thoughts flitted through her mind, Maisie realized that what he was doing was more than just sexual. He was breathing in her essence. Taking in her youth and beauty in one great gulp. Filling his lungs with something that was as essential to him as oxygen. Or at least she hoped that was what he was doing, and he wasn't just some sad old bum-sniffer.

  Jean-Louis sat back, sighing, his eyes sunken in thought. Was it over? Maisie glanced at Lise, who was topping up Miss Tweedle's wine glass for the umpteenth time. The little Frenchwoman signalled her to go on. Feeling slightly weak-kneed, Maisie slipped off her heels, disentangled her panties from around her ankles and tossed them casually aside. They landed on a red lampshade fringed with tassels.

  He was scribbling again – squeak, squeak, squeak. Maisie's skirt was still rumpled around her waist. She didn't bother to pull it down. She was in that state of euphoria that she always seemed to enter into sooner or later whenever she stripped off. Self-assurance wasn't something she had a great deal of usually, but she had confidence in the appeal of her nude form as an object. If the idea was to get a new novel out of Jean-Louis, surely she had the goodies to make it happen. Resting her bare bottom on the desk, she watched him until he slowed and stopped, seemingly running out of inspiration. Then she swung one smooth, slender knee against his, parting her legs invitingly wide.

  Straying from the page, his eyes followed the line of her milky inner thigh up to her smooth, hairless mound with its honey-moist cleft. Then they rose still further as she hiked the dress over her head in a swift, impulsive movement, tossing it into one of Miss Tweedle's ancient velvet chairs. He smiled fondly, eyeing her pointy little bust.

  There, there had to be a paragraph at least in that. Sure enough, he started scrawling away once more, dots, dashes and squiggles flying from his pen. Maisie nodded to herself with satisfaction, then glanced at Lise and Miss Tweedle. They had flopped down on the sofa with a plate of snacks between them, as though settling down to an evening's telly. Miss Tweedle was giggling with happiness at the sight of Jean-Louis with a writing implement in his hand.

  Things seemed to be going pretty well. Deciding that she had earned a treat, Maisie padded, naked, across the room and poured herself a glass of wine.

  “You have what I would call a smiling bottom,” Jean-Louis observed, looking up.

  Twisting at the waist, Maisie peeked at her rump complacently. She was getting to the stage where any reference to her nudity gave her a little thrill.

  “No boyfriend though?”

  �
�I've got my eye on someone,” she answered, thinking of Ben.

  He leaned forward on his elbows, peering at her shrewdly. ”Or maybe you're in love with yourself? Who could blame you?”

  “Maybe,” Maisie agreed, sipping the wine. “Whatever suits your story best, Jean-Louis.”

  The pen scratched, then stopped. “I see you... where do I see you? A beach? A hotel? A spa?”

  “Oh yes, a spa, being pampered.”

  “Good. But don't stop there. I want to know everything about you. Who are you? What do you feel? What do you want?”

  She didn't know quite what to say. She never tried to articulate what was inside her, but she was like a cat really; she just wanted a cosy home, she liked to be petted and made a fuss of; she thought of herself as willing and good-natured, but she was aware of a kind of tenuousness in her connections with other people that made it easy for her to walk away when it suited her. She couldn't tell him that though.

  “Sorry, Jean-Louis, I was hoping you could tell me. I'm just a bookseller really, or at least that's what I want to be.”

  “Maisie, for this to work, I need to be close to you.”

  “Fine. How's this?”

  Emboldened by the wine, she climbed onto the desk and knelt with one knee either side of Jean-Louis' untidy mound of papers.

  Now stop asking stupid questions and lose yourself in all this beautiful bare flesh. That's what she willed him to do, and it seemed to work. Something clicked at last. He clung to her thigh as he wrote, glancing up every now and then to stare straight at her holy of holies for inspiration.

  “Yes, yes,” said Lise quietly.

  “Was that how it was for the two of you?” Miss Tweedle asked her.

  “I can't really remember, I was high the whole time. Is he writing?”

  “Yes, he's writing,” Maisie told them. Words, lots of words, were forming under his pen. But not, perhaps, complete sentences.

  “No, no.” He screwed up what he had written and threw it away. He tore out his hair. “I am too old. I do not understand you, I do not see you. You are a muse, but not my muse. You are for another.”

  “No, Jean-Louis,” Lise shrilled. “The night is still young. You must not give up now.”

  Jean-Louis slapped down his pen in disgust, planted his elbows on the table and bowed down, his head almost between Maisie's legs, forgetting she was there for the moment.

  Maisie sat back on her heels, full of sympathy but uncertain what to do.

  The author looked up at her from under his feathery grey brows. “Maybe if I can't write about you, I can write on you.”

  He grabbed her wrist and pulled. The next moment she found herself stretched out on her back on his desk, her legs dangling over the side, the chilly texture of old morocco leather under her shoulder-blades and rump and a smell of beeswax reaching her nose. He lay the sheaf of printer paper on her flat tummy.

  “We begin again, yes?”

  She nodded, gave him an encouraging smile.

  Jean-Louis took a deep breath. He muttered to himself, praying to the patron saint of erotica writers perhaps, if there was such a thing. Then he put his felt-tip pen to the blank page awaiting him and began driving it furiously from side to side, down and down. Maisie felt the weight of his fist on her navel, the force of his... probably not inspiration, but certainly determination. His other hand fondled her breast as he worked, the way someone else might clutch a prized good luck charm.

  There was a deathly quiet in Miss Tweedle's bordello-style parlour. No one dared move for fear of breaking Jean-Louis' concentration. He called for strong black coffee, and while that was being served, Maisie turned over onto her front and propped her head on her folded arms. Jean-Louis drained his coffee cup, smacked his lips, eyes blinking rapidly. He hunched over her, sheaf of loose leaf paper on her bottom, heavy forearm draped across the small of her back.

  He worked and worked.

  Maisie made herself comfortable and drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER 7

  The next morning, Maisie awoke to find herself still sprawled face-down on the desk. As she stirred, something – lots of somethings – slithered off her. She swung her feet to the floor and stretched her arms above her head to work a kink out of her neck. Only then did she notice the papers lying around her on the floor, every one covered from top to bottom with a large looping scrawl.

  Jean-Louis's new book! She would have cried out in delight, if not for the eerie stillness of the room. Everyone else was still out for the count – Jean-Louis slumped back in his chair, ink-stained fingers folded over his paunch; Lise and Miss Tweedle collapsed together on the chaise longue.

  Dropping to her knees, Maisie gathered up the pages. They were out of order, but they were numbered. There seemed to be well over a hundred. She was no expert but it looked like a lot of words. A novel's worth? Perhaps, at least one of the shortish ones that Jean-Louis wrote.

  She tingled with excitement. The moment didn't seem quite real. Kneeling there naked, surrounded by these slumbering figures, she felt as if she wasn't quite awake herself, a figure of dreams. Patting the manuscript into shape, she padded silently on tiptoe over to the window, meaning to take a closer look at it.

  She tried to ease back the curtain a little way. The stiff loops resisted, then jerked back more sharply than she had intended, casting a shaft of light across the two women, who snorted and opened their eyes.

  “Did he do it?”

  “Of course I did.” Their bellows had roused the author. He grinned at Maisie. “All thanks to your delightful rump. It spoke to me like a seashell.”

  Maisie smiled vaguely, not quite sure what to make of the compliment. Glancing at the manuscript, she noticed something that caused her thin, pretty eyebrows to shoot up. “Jean-Louis, did you write it in English?”

  “As a tribute to you, Maisie, and to this beautiful country and to my brave publisher. There might be a few infelicities, but they can be corrected umph-...”

  “Umph” because his face was being smothered in kisses from Lise, who, having gotten over her initial surprise, had hurled herself across the room on her little legs to congratulate him.

  “English, French, who cares!” Miss Tweedle was pumping her pudgy fists in triumph. “I just can't believe you actually wrote something, anything. What's it about? Let me see.”

  “No.” Jean-Louis held up an inky hand. “Maisie and her delightful bottom inspired it; it's only fitting that she should be the first to read it.”

  Maisie's sugary little mouth gaped open. “Me? Really?”

  “Yes, if you will be so kind.”

  A glance at the faces of the two other women apprised her of the enormity of the honour. His first novel in twenty years, and she would be the first to read it!

  “Jean-Louis, I don't know what to say. I'm really touched.” The manuscript made a crunching sound as she hugged it tightly to her breasts.

  “Why don't we put that in a folder for safekeeping?” said Miss Tweedle, anxiously prising it away from her and straightening the pages.

  “Well,” Lise spoke with satisfaction, “this calls for a celebratory breakfast. Some tea and toast and English marmalade!”

  “Good idea,” said Miss Tweedle. “I'll put the kettle on. Maisie, would you set the table?”

  “Okay, er, where are my clothes?

  “I hung them up. Don't worry about them for now. We've all gotten so used to you being naked all the time, none of us think anything of it.”

  That was all very well for them, but Maisie hadn't gotten used to it, not in the least. Nonetheless, she obediently padded off to the kitchen to fetch some knives and plates. She was just placing them on the dining table when she happened to glance out of the window down into the street and backed away sharply.

  “Miss Tweedle, who are all those people outside?”

  “People? What people?” Miss Tweedle set down the teapot and took Maisie's place at the window. She saw what Maisie had seen – a crow
d (well, almost a crowd; it was no more than ten or twelve strong really) gathered outside Heart's Desire, eagerly squashing their noses against the plate glass.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Isn't it obvious?” Miss Tweedle's plump face wore a strange expression Maisie had never seen on it before – an expression of complete vindication. “Our publicity blitz has finally paid off! Word's gotten round! They're Jean-Louis' fans!”

  By now, Jean-Louis and Lise were at the window too, peering down incredulously.

  Miss Tweedle frowned. “What I can't understand is what they're doing here so early. Unless –“ She glanced at her watch. “Shit! Quarter past nine! We'll have to skip breakfast, I'd better go down and open up!”

  “I will come too,” said Jean-Louis firmly. He brushed back his hair, straightened his lapels, dabbed his cheeks and the back of his neck with some cologne that Lise produced from her handbag. “I'm ready to meet my public and sign a few more books.”

  “I can come back and help later,” said Maisie, “but would you mind if I went off and rested for a couple of hours, Miss Tweedle? I'm zonked.”

  “That's fine, plus you need to read Jean-Louis' book asap and get it back to me.”

  Miss Tweedle handed Maisie the manuscript. She had put it in an old scrap folder with faded pink covers tied shut with a red ribbon. “Whatever you do, don't lose it!”

  “Will do! I mean, absolutely not!”

  While the others hurried down, Maisie went to put on her dress. By the time she followed them downstairs, Jean-Louis was surrounded by his fans, who seemed even more impressively crowd-like now they were surging about indoors. Fans? Maisie half-suspected they were just people who had heard something on social media about the shop's recent escapades, and had come to check the place out for themselves, in case they were some more naked girls hanging around. Fearful of being roped into another display of bare flesh, Maisie kept her head down and slipped quietly out of the front door.

  She couldn't resist a backwards peek. Tall and distinguished, Jean-Louis played the part of the author so well, when he was given half a chance. And the fact that she had helped to give him that chance – surely that was something she could be proud of? Even if it had meant taking all her clothes off and humiliating herself...