Sweet Soumise is an adventurous young woman living in Paris. She wrote in asking for a monthly dare, and here’s her response to her first experiment from Mr. X.
Dear Mr. X,
I am writing this from the scene of the crime, i.e., the scene of the experiment. I’ve been looking forward to this ever since you and I first spoke, and especially since receiving my first “assignment.” Finally, I’m taking the plunge—and what a plunge! I feel like I’m in the pool without a swimsuit.
Instead, I’m sitting in a Parisian café on an unusually warm day at the end of October. My long-sleeved top is soft against my skin, the fabric a deep shade of purple. The neckline falls loosely to where the top of my bra would be, if I were wearing one. My breasts are heavy against me, feeling strange and dangerous without a bra to lift them up and out. The thin black material of my skirt is all that separates me from the bench I’m sitting on. I’ve only been to this café once before, and had originally planned on sitting inside today. But the weather is so calm, I couldn’t resist choosing a spot against the alcove wall outside. From my seat I watch the cute boys to my left dig into their croque monsieurs, and to my right I watch people climb one of the many staircases of Montmartre.
I was rather naughty on that staircase a moment ago. I’m wearing thigh-high stockings (I would have gone completely bare-legged if I’d realized how warm it would be today) and on my feet are black Mary Jane-style shoes with a small heel. The strap of the shoe stretches across the top of my foot and is held together by a small bow. Well, the bow on my right shoe had come undone, and rather than sit down first, I placed a foot on the step in front of me, bent over, and did up the bow. It took me a few tries, what with balancing my bag on my shoulder, and I could feel the air graze my inner thigh as I bent over. I could feel it elsewhere, too, and I smiled at what you might make of that.
Now I uncross my legs and re-cross them, letting the hem of my skirt fall back to expose the lace at the top of my stockings. The cute boys continue eating their frites, but I leave my hem where it is. I’m not sure anyone notices anything out of the ordinary. Ordinary is the last thing I feel, and not just because of today’s pants-less mission. Mr. X, I’ve been naughtier than you know. I’m afraid I’m going to be starting things with a bang!
One evening a couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine sent me a message: Would I be available for a photo shoot the following day? The photographer, whom she knew and had worked with before, had had a cancellation, and asked for me specifically. Well, of course I was flattered, who wouldn’t be? This photographer works with nudes, and under normal circumstances I would have met him beforehand. Since my friend assured me he’d been nothing but professional and respectful when she’d worked with him, and it was all last minute due to the cancellation, I agreed to get in touch. He and I messaged back and forth—he gave my lackluster French a real workout!—and chose a time to meet. Lucky for me, the studio was only a short walk away from my apartment.
The next morning, I kissed my husband goodbye as he left for work. He knew the story behind this sudden shoot and was only sorry he was going to miss it. I told him I’d let him know how it went. I got dressed, and then made up my face, saving the bright red lipstick for when I arrived so as not to smudge it. On the bed I placed my robe, a marine blue silky thing I’ve had for years. When doing nude shoots, you’ve got to get your clothes off pretty quickly, as you don’t want any visible marks or indentations on your skin. It’s always exciting, that moment when the robe comes off. I mean, I’m a professional, but there’s no denying the charge I feel in these situations: After all, I’m about to be completely naked with a man! Not to mention his camera.
I wonder what you’re picturing right now. Do you see me with the body of a typical French girl, all slim-hipped with tiny, banana-swooped breasts? Hardly. I’m a curvy girl: Breasts, stomach, and ass all ready to give you something to hold onto. I’m also very short, and this tall, dark Frenchman towered over me. He uses very minimal lighting, so we worked in semi-darkness, with me posing on swathes of fabric while he perched precariously at the top of a ladder, clicking away. I find it oddly relaxing to be naked in front of someone who’s clothed, and I enjoyed holding my body in position while he worked to find that perfect angle. I know I’m no classic model type, and attractive photos of myself give me a little kick. Does that sound vain? Personally, I think it’s a nice change from how I used to feel about myself.
After some time, the photographer wanted to take some photos a little closer up. He climbed down from the ladder and rearranged the fabric. He was concerned that I was in pain or discomfort from resting on my knees, but I told him I was fine. I sat back on the cushions he’d placed behind me and stretched out my legs, and he took the opportunity to gently hold my foot. He pressed against it, stretching the back of my leg, and the sensation relaxed me even more. He kept his eyes on me, and I lay back, smiling. There was something about my naked skin in the semi-darkness against his fully clothed body working to make me feel more at ease. I felt luxurious. He did the same to my other foot, and then smoothed my legs with his hands. When he stood, I lay there for a moment, savoring this private thrill. Then I sat up, he repositioned me in the minimal light, and we continued.
Writing about my naked foot in that dark, hot room has brought my attention to that same foot now, here in the open air. Beneath the table I rotate my ankle slowly, as if to conjure up the impression of the photographer’s hands on me. As I do this, I keep my eye on the two cute boys. They each have brown hair, one with some stubble growing in along his cheeks and jawline, the other barefaced. They speak in quick French, only pausing when they hear a loud British man telling his family which direction they’ll be going once they leave the café. Then they resume their conversation over an end-of-meal café crème.
I long for their eyes on me, to catch one of them noticing my legs, my breasts…and yet, I’m surprised to realize, it’s not quite a longing. I think it would be great fun to watch them watching me, of course, but now that I’ve suddenly become some kind of naughty muse, I find myself distracted. And it is absolutely delicious to know that you’re waiting to read these wicked words of mine, Mr. X. I wonder what would happen if you were to sit down at the table next to me now. Would you notice the hem of my skirt? Would you attempt to make some sort of connection with me? I know the contents of your dirty mind, remember, and I also know you’re not afraid to take action. I shift, feeling a dampness beneath me, and look away from the boys. Distracted again…
After a while, the photographer wanted to take some shots of me from behind. He rearranged the pile of cushions and I leaned down on top of it, sinking a bit. He gently spread my legs apart so that the shadows would fall on me in exactly the right way, hiding and exposing at the same time. After he moved me, he kept his hand on my upper thigh, just for a moment. I realize now that he was testing me, testing the situation, and I have no doubt that if I’d said something he would not have pushed the issue. But feeling his hands on me was exhilarating, and I was silent…until I felt his hands further up.
My ass was raised slightly in the air thanks to the cushions supporting my body, and his fingers glided to the opening directly in front of him. I could hear him breathing softly behind me, and he slid his fingers around my outer folds, stroking. I had shaved myself completely bare and was sensitive to every touch. My emotions leapt: I was shocked and thrilled that things had taken a turn in this direction. Each time his fingers stroked me, an exquisite sensation shook me. I began to moan despite myself. I pushed my hips forward, and then rocked back towards where he was waiting behind me. His fingers moved slickly; I had gotten so wet, so fast. My breath quickened. The lower half of my body reached for his hands…
And then he stopped.
He got up and went to get his camera. I let out a half moan, half sigh. I couldn’t believe he was leaving me this way. I lowered my hips slightly, heard the camera click. He was breathing heavily, and something else surged through me. It was a sense of confidence. No, more than that: a sense of power. The thought that I could get a man that excited…a man whom I’d never met…this thought in turn excited me. In fact, I’m getting slightly breathless thinking about what might be happening to you, Mr. X, as you read these words. Back in the studio, I was completely thrown by everything that had occurred, and I let out a shaky sigh.
“Ça va?” the photographer asked quietly.
“Oui, ça va,” I answered, barely more than a breath.
New idea, new position: Now I was lying on my back, my legs raised up on the hill of cushions. I lengthened my body as best I could, my hands reaching towards the strips of light above me. He came close again, asked me to lift my head so he could spread my hair out behind me. As he leaned over, his hands reached across me and brushed against my nipples. I let out a surprised, “Oh!” He kept doing it, rubbing my breasts vigorously but not painfully. I am extremely sensitive, the slightest touch to my nipples always makes me jump, but somehow the more he touched me, the less I jumped. I tried hard not to change my overall position, which was challenging, and he ran his hands across my chest once more before standing up. I let a moaning sort of laugh escape, as if to say, you’re really going to leave me like this? I had a smile on my face when the camera clicked.
At one point we paused, as I needed to collect myself. My husband and I had had many “what if?” conversations, but this was the first time I’d been in the position of finding out the answer to that question. I was shaken by how easy it was to follow the photographer’s lead, to respond to his fingers exploring me. When I came back into the room, he asked me if I was all right. I told him I thought so.
“Do you regret?” he asked in English.
I lay down, my legs outstretched, and propped myself up on one arm, still completely naked. “No,” I answered. “I don’t.” I gave him a knowing half-smile, the left corner of my mouth rising high in a cheeky grin.
Now, nearly three weeks later, I still don’t regret. We’ve had more shoots since that first time. My husband and I, as always, are completely open with each other, and it’s incredible to explore like this. I have more photo shoot stories, and maybe some of these dares will bring them out. I expect these dares will inspire new stories, either teasing moments or more full-on discoveries.
While I was writing this, the cute boys at the café paid and left, and soon after I left, too. I took the same route home that I’d taken to get to the café, the one that leads to more steps. This staircase takes me right by the studio. The doors were closed this time. When I’d passed it earlier, they’d been open, and I’d caught sight of him. I had a vision of saying hello, him being surprised…what if he had a few minutes? I would have come in, put a leg up on a chair, said something in English he wouldn’t understand. I’d search for the words in French, not find them, and give up on words entirely. Instead I’d take his hand and slowly but surely guide it to my thigh. I’d encourage him to move his hand up. I know he would. And then he would discover what I’m missing today.
I think I know how I’m going to arrive for our next photo shoot.
Merci, Mr. X.
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