With the left breast bared, my hope that she might be the Françoise Laval I was seeking grew. With only a pasty covering the nipple, I could see that her breast was indeed outsize for her petite figure. It was a round, zeppelin-shaped globe jutting straight out from just under the shoulder and quivering invitingly with every deep breath she drew. It seemed a safe bet that the other breast would match it, and a few minutes later I could see for myself that it did. With both of them covered only by pasties now, I could appreciate a cleavage deep enough for a man to really lose himself.
Now, suddenly, she was demure. Her fingers caressed the scanty triangle of sequins that was left in coy reluctance at the prospect of surrendering them. She had a silent argument with herself, which she finally resolved with a sort of girlish boldness. She went to the very edge of the stage and thrust the sequins toward a man seated there. He grabbed for them eagerly. As soon as they were removed, she whirled away.
Pasties and a G-string—both of glittering rhinestones—-that’s all she was wearing now. An Arabian lute sounded and she swung into a slow, sensual imitation of a woman in the act of intercourse. The movements were unmistakable. Even the simulated climax of it seemed real. And it was this that gave me just enough of a peep under that G-string to determine that the down there was the same shade of gold as her hair. Score another point for her being the real Françoise Laval.
She came out of it to kneel at the edge of the stage once again. She took a man's hand between both of hers and held it to her breast. She moved the hand about, made it stroke her, encouraged it to squeeze, pushed the fingers knuckle-deep into the cleavage. And when she finally pushed it away, one of the pasties she'd been wearing was nestling in the palm. As she straightened up, the bared nipple stood straight out, a stiffly quivering half-inch of redness with no trace of a roseate around it. On closer examination, I would find that there was a roseate which was so close in color to the ivory of her breast that it was invisible in the spotlight. But right now it was strangely exciting the way the long nipple popped out with such scarlet contrast to the breast.
A few moments later the second nipple was waving in the air. Now all she wore was that G-string. She danced slowly over to the table at which Lucky Pierre and I were seated. She stood right over me for a moment, smiling down and rotating those rhinestones with a skill that was amazing. Then, suddenly, taking me by surprise, she gave a little jump and was perched on my shoulders, her thighs gripping my neck. Still the rhinestones bounced up and down. Now the movement grew so frantic that they were scraping the tip of my nose.
I realized that she was waiting for me to pull the G-string off with my teeth. I snapped at it, felt it come loose, and flung my face aside to spit it out. Lucky Pierre stuck out a hand and caught it as it flew out of my mouth. At the same moment Frieda Fieler rose up slightly and came down determinedly to seal my lips. There wasn’t a single rhinestone between me and her quivering femininity now. Before I knew what was happening, I found myself cooperating fully in the offbeat kiss she offered. And that’s when the lights went out.
In the darkness she slid off my shoulders and into my lap. She started to stand up, but I held onto her. “Wait a minute,” I whispered. “I want to talk to you.”
“Talk?” Her fingers stroked my face wonderingly.
“Yes. Alone. When can I see you alone?”
“It can be arranged, chéri.” She blew in my ear. “But it will cost you.”
“How much?"
She mentioned a figure.
“That much?”
“I am worth it. And more.” She squeezed my thigh. “Believe me, you won’t be sorry.”
“A1l right. Where? When?"
“Tomorrow night. But not my place. That would be too dangerous. There is a man who troubles me. He needn’t concern you, but it would be best if I came to your quarters. Leave the address with the headwaiter. I will be there at eleven tomorrow evening. Between shows."
“Won’t that mean we’ll have to rush things?”
“Don’t worry about that, chéri. We will have an hour. You will find an hour with me more ecstatic than a week with other girls.” She kissed me, her mouth wide open, her lips sucking at the tip of my tongue, urging it to enter and investigate.
It was a long kiss, and I took advantage of it to do a little preliminary investigating. The place was still pitchblack, and I dropped my hand to her lap. I had only my sense of touch to go by, but the hair there seemed unusually soft and silky to me. The tendrils all leaned smoothly in one direction just as if they’d been combed. And I couldn’t be sure, but it actually felt as if the downy triangle had been parted down the middle. More and more I had cause to hope I had latched on to the right Françoise Laval.
The kiss ended. She scurried away. The lights went on. People began to leave. I paid the check, and Lucky Pierre and I left with them.
I slept well that night and woke late. I went downstairs to a local cafe and had my breakfast of coffee and brioche at an outdoor table. I was still dawdling over it when Lucky Pierre came swaggering up and joined me.
“Complications,” he announced.
“What do you mean?”
“I have found another Françoise Laval. An artists’ model.”
“I think I found the right one last night,” I told him.
“I thought so, too, but now I’m not so sure. This girl fits the description you gave me. And the man she is living with is named Pierre.”
“Yes, but is he a pimp?”
“Not anymore. But he used to be. That was before he renounced the worldly life of the procurer for the purity of art.”
“Oh, one of those, hey?”
“Exactly. As a pimp he had a reputation as a real dandy. Spats, pearl stickpin, hand-tailored suits-—the works, you know? Now he wears blue jeans, a filthy beard, and is half starving to death. But it’s all for art, and he swears he wouldn't have it any other way.”
“What about the girl‘? Is Françoise Laval her real name?”
“It’s what she calls herself. But there’s something else that should interest you. She was with Pierre when he was a pimp. That was a few years back. When he became an artist, she left him. And she left Paris. No one knew where she had gone—-and I suppose no one really cared. But it just happens that a fellow I know visited London after she left. And he claims he met her in a brothel in London.”
“That is interesting!”
“She came straight back to this Pierre, and she’s been living with him ever since. He’s very attached to her. But I don’t mean as a lover. The truth is that Pierre has renounced sex for art, along with everything else. No, his attachment to her is based on her excellence as a model. He uses her for all his painting. It is a very odd relationship.”
“It sounds it.”
“Yes. You see, she is a very healthy and lusty girl. She has a large appetite for sex. This appetite Pierre refuses to fill. Not so much as a nibble will he provide. It drives her wild.”
“Then why does she stay with him?”
“She loves him. But she also loves sex. So she cheats on him. But she is very careful, very discreet.”
“Why does she bother if he’s so disinterested?”
“Because he is jealous all the same. He doesn’t want to make love to her himself, but he doesn’t want anyone else to make love to her, either.”
“As you say, it’s a very odd relationship." I thought about it a moment. “How do I get to meet her?” I asked finally.
“Sometimes she poses for an art class in order to get a few crusts of bread for herself and Pierre. He doesn’t like it. Where painting is concerned, he considers her body his exclusive property. He won’t let her pose for individual artists, although she’s had many offers. But he has to permit her to pose for a group because they must eat. What he doesn’t know is that sometimes she does manage to sneak off to pose at some artist’s garret. The reason I mention all this is that she’s posing for the art class this morning, and if you want to see her all you have to do is pay the fee. And if you think it worthwile, you might take her aside, pass yourself off as an artist, and make a date for her to come and pose for you.”