Getting Started in Business

All the characters in this story are over 18. I'm almost 19 in this one. My name is Régine, and I live just outside Paris. I'm Dutch, actually, not French. This story ends happily. No one is really hurt, outside of what occurs in BDSM scenes. All of the sex is consensual, or at least consensual non-consent, as there is in BDSM scenes. And sometimes I enjoy holding out. And whatever happens, I always enjoy it.

I also should say I tend to use the same words in all my stories, e.g., calling my snatch my girlhood or my bunny hole. So, should you see my words in other stories, don't think I copied them. I wrote them. My stories all have the same pattern: a girl gets naked, tied up, whipped, screwed, or otherwise used, and in the end everyone is happy. This story follows the same pattern.

As we begin, I am leaving my home in Paris to join a crew working on a new film. At this point, it's just called "Guinevere", a name familiar to most folks as that of the wife of the legendary King Arthur of Camelot. I have been hired to play the title role. Well, at least when she's naked. Many people know the story. Guinevere and Arthur are happily married until Gwen falls in love with the king's best knight Lancelot. The two begin an affair, are found out, and stand guilty of treason. The penalty for treason for a woman in those days, as it was in the time of Henry VIII, was burning at the stake, as the penalty for a man, drawing and quartering, was considered too indecent to be done on a female. Women convicted of particularly heinous crimes, like killing their husbands or high treason, were bound for the stake because it was said to protect their modesty.

Sir William Blackstone, at the time, phrased it, "for the decency due to the sex forbids exposing [them] in public...". Henry VIII commuted this fearful sentence to beheading for his wives, but Arthur did not, though he died before it could be carried out. However, in our version, he doesn't die, at least not soon enough to save Gwen from the stake. He has her questioned, tortured, assaulted, and executed. In the nude of course. It is after all an X-rated film.

There was a casting problem, however. The actress who was to play the title role refused to do many of the scenes, specifically any of the sex scenes which required nudity, and any of the interrogation and torture scenes. Doubles were needed. I answered the resulting casting call and was hired. The role required a twenty-or-so-year-old female who was young, pretty, cleanly shaved down below, and had a good body. I'm kind of small in stature, only 155 cm and 50 kilos, that is five-foot-one and 110 pounds, but I have big boobs for my body size, a nice ass, and a gym-bunny, bodybuilder-type build. That's what they wanted, someone sexy who looked like she could be taken prisoner but was believable fighting back, surviving forced sex, interrogation, and torture. A second girl named Jennifer who could have been my twin except for being a little taller and having a more conventional female body was hired for the execution scene.

I knew the instant the director asked me that I wanted to do this long, hard film. I knew it would be tough, but the tougher the better, while I am young and in good shape. I have the required attributes. I'm a photo and sketch model and I've put a lot of effort into working on my body, running, swimming, and lifting weights. My boobs are ample for a girl with no fat on her. I have a flat tummy, a nice round, firm ass, and nice legs. I'm strong enough to withstand the kind of things the film requires and I have experience doing sex and nude scenes on camera.

So we're going on location. We head North from Paris on the A16 toward Amiens, and then Northeast into the countryside. Soon, we're at our venue, a wooded property often used for movie sets. There is a main building dressed to serve as a castle, complete with dungeon. There is plenty of land for the outdoor scenes. There are towns nearby large enough to provide extras, more than one thousand of which are necessary for the execution scene. The only requirement to be an extra is, as I mentioned, to be over eighteen, since Jennifer is going to play the scene in the nude. The violent nature of the scene is evidently not a bar for minors, but her complete nakedness is. Nor is being French a bar for extras of any age. The plot is of course set in England, where King Arthur reigned, so the dialog must be spoken in English. We're in France, but the extras have no dialog and will be costumed as peasants of the early sixth century.

Speaking of costuming, the largest part of the venue is devoted to facilities and materials needed to support the actual creation of the film. The main building had to be made to look like a castle which required construction which meant men and women, materials, tools, furniture, etc. All the people involved in this advance preparation had to be fed and housed while they did their work. Horses were required for the King's knights to ride, and the animals, and the people attending them, had to be housed and fed and the horses dressed to appear on camera. Similarly, the actors had to be cared for and costumed and provided equipment like swords and taught how to use them, or at least how to appear familiar with them. Then there were the people involved in actually making the film. Anyone who has seen a major film has seen the length of the credits that follow the screening of it. All this was a revelation to me and I spent much time just roaming about watching what went on around me.

Before we actually get to the film some detailed background about me is necessary. Just prior to my agreeing to do it I had been working in Amsterdam, where I was born, at a BDSM club with my Dutch cousins. That is where I got started stripping and making films but there was never any sex work. I just wasn't going to do that. I might have been short but I was too pretty and had too good a body to not get a real worthwhile boy. In the summer, I went back to visit my family who were vacationing in the South of France. Being home was marvelous. After the eight-hour drive from Amsterdam, I was exhausted. Mummy made me a steak dinner and my sisters sat at the table while I ate which was great. I wanted to see my Dad, but he was out. I headed upstairs to take a shower and get into bed.

I emerged from the shower to find my Dad waiting in my room to surprise me. We embraced joyfully. Well trained by my Dutch-born mother, who never in my experience had ever tried to hide her nudity from any of her family, I made no move to cover myself. Daddy never turned a hair. All he saw was the beautiful body of the lovely young woman his daughter had become. He patted me on my bare ass, as was his usual custom, and gave me a quick feel. Then he sat there on the edge of my bed talking to me while I dried my hair with a towel, the rest of me presented to him in total innocence. I knew he enjoyed seeing me naked, all fifty kilos of me. I wasn't voluptuous but what there was of me was nice. I did some bodybuilding poses for him to show him what great shape I was in, a necessity for me to have become a successful stripper back in our home country. I treasured the experience of posing for Dad. If I couldn't show all of me to the man who gave me life who could I show myself to?

The next day I was up at six to run, came back and ate breakfast, took my shower, and washed my hair. I put on underpants and a shift and clogs. I called my photographer and asked if I could come over. He was waiting for me when I arrived at a quarter to eight. I had been working with him for a number of years. We started with catalog work, sportswear, tennis togs, and gymnastics stuff, and got lots of work. I fancied myself as kind of a poor man's Livvy Dunne. After all, I looked like and was an athlete. Then we started doing bikini work. Swimwear modeling was a big earner. Part of the bikini work was bodybuilding stuff. That was in high demand. Then one day I turned eighteen. Now I could do more. I couldn't wait to show my bare breasts and bum.

A popular female bodybuilding pose was from behind with no top on. Now that I was of age I could do that. My big break was my first nude shot, a bodybuilding pose from behind. It didn't show much, just my bum. But I had nothing on. I was on my knees, back to, my head turned to the camera, and flexing. I have a great ass and showing it like that made us a lot of euros. I wanted to do nude work. For art's sake, to show what God had given me, and what I had worked in the gym for, but also for the money. It was a bit scary at first. I admit I gave a little shiver when I first heard the shutter open for a shot where I was nude. But after I got some experience I would just stand there in solitary ecstasy as my photographer fired away. My nipples would harden to stone and my girlhood would get damp enough to shine. I wasn't sure nude pictures of my gym bunny body would sell well. My boobs and ass were nice, but I had dieted away some size to get a bodybuilding look. Not to worry.

We expanded our operation to topless stuff and it sold well to my photographer's regular private customers and the photo outlets. It was easy for me. Topless stuff was never a problem, my photographer never noticed my tits, he had seen so many, and I didn't mind showing them. I inherited a nice pair. My mother has big boobs and so do my sisters, though as I had dieted so much fat off mine were a tad smaller. Then we went to bare ass. At first, my photographer gave me tape to cover my genitals but soon I ditched the snatch tape and just stripped all the way. So when we graduated to full nude I was comfy completely naked. He'd compose the shots with a carefully placed thigh or flower pot concealing my mountain flower. He said that when he was young all nudes were done like that. Even today in Jennifer Lawrence's movie Red Sparrow when she sits naked in front of the group with the guy who assaulted her in the shower six feet away there's always something obscuring her snatch.

Finally, we did full-on nudes, no real spread-leg stuff, but I was shaved completely clean and you could indeed see everything I had. Whenever a girl models nude there is always the question of how much, if any, pussy to actually show. My photographer had the skills to make me look naked as a jaybird without showing my bunny hole either head-on or, if that, in focus. In fact, I DID want it in at least a few shots to preserve for posterity. To show to my sisters, my parents, my brothers, and a few carefully selected boys I knew. And to hang on my bedroom wall.

We peddled my photos in accordance with a carefully planned schedule. Carefully planned, that is, to gradually show more and more of me in each set. The first sets were reminiscent of stuff from the nineteen fifties. Nudes, but with lights low, strategically placed items hiding my boobs and buns. Or me, scrunched against a convenient post. Naked, but not actually showing much. Later would come topless from the front with hands over boobs and in jeans. Then the same in panties. Then in wet, see-through panties. At long last came bare boobs, then my bare ass, then nude from the front, but with my hand covering my girlhood. And finally, all of me, head on, full-frontal, naked as the day I was born.

Some people I know who know I've posed nude think that in order to really say you've posed nude you have to show pussy. Sometimes maybe, but definitely not always. There's economics as well as your personal desires. I was shaved clean so any crotch shots were very explicit, customers possibly could not hang them up at home, and some people would not buy them or print them. So mostly we stuck to tits and ass. We could get good money for a portrait where I only showed boobs and/or buns. Real pussy shots we kept for my photographer's private clients, which helped to keep them relatively rare and thus more expensive.

There was always a demand from the regular customers to see me in person. The problem was how to manage it. Photo sessions were out because the money was coming from selling my photos. At that time a number of the Paris galleries were renting out space for sketching classes and some of my photographer's regulars mentioned that I might make a good sketching model. That would allow people to see me in the flesh, both figuratively and literally. My photographer sensed an opportunity to make more money by organizing sketching classes which might also popularize his model and increase photo sales. But we had to learn more about sketching.

My first experience with being sketched in the nude was with my older sister Lisette who took public evening classes at Les Beaux-Arts. It was a great deal of fun and she is a very competent artist for an amateur. She liked to work from the nude and I was happy to oblige. I would perch on the settee in front of the window in our room and meditate while she worked. In summer we would repair to the picnic table in the yard, me sitting on a fluffy white towel so my bare ass would not come into contact with the surface from which people ate. I would sit, lie on my side like Rose in the Titanic movie, or lie on my tummy, so she could sketch my bum. At first, my Dad looked rather askance at the alfresco drawing sessions, but he was aware of our Dutch attitude toward nudity and didn't want to send us any bad messages about our bodies. In compromise, I was careful to cross my arms over my bare chest whenever he or le facteur (the postman) came into view.

So in an effort to learn about larger classes one weekday morning my photographer and I kept an appointment with one of the gallery sketching class directors, ostensibly to inquire about my prospects as a model for their classes but in fact to check out the venue and find out what was required. My photographer did the talking about money, me being uncomfortable talking about getting paid for taking all my clothes off. The woman told us the classes they offered were work sessions, as opposed to instructional. This meant that during class she would give instructions to the model but none of any consequence to the artists. They presumably would know what to do and their task was simply to do it with my naked body providing the inspiration. That fit our business model.

I knew nothing of sketching. I had learned on the internet that a typical session involved groups of poses lasting as little as thirty seconds and as long as thirty minutes. This was indeed what these people did. The goal was not to produce a likeness of the model but to work on and appreciate form and movement. Customers would probably work for two and one-half hours with the shorter poses occupying the first two hours and then there would be a half-hour pose. The model would, of course, be naked except during breaks when she was required to cover herself to discourage ass-patting. No wandering around the studio in the nude like I did during our photo sessions. The model was to wear no jewelry except studs. She asked if I had any tattoos, which I don't, and said she preferred models with pubic hair. I have none and didn't plan on growing any.

We inspected the posing premises, a fairly good-sized room on the second floor above an art gallery. The sketching room was a tad shabby looking, I thought. The model posed in the middle of the room on what might have been a coffee table covered by a sheet. As she posed in the middle of the room it occurred to me that at any given time a number of the artists gathered round would be staring at her bare ass. Later I was informed that after each pose she would rotate ninety degrees thus affording a changing view. On either side of the posing platform were long tables at which a portion of the artists would sit. Past these were so-called donkeys, small individual seats with lectern-type things attached upon which the artist could rest their sketching materials. Further back stood easels behind which artists would stand and then tall chairs upon which more people could sit.

Being used to photography I was more struck by the differences than the similarities. Here the model's appearance mattered little, except maybe for the absence and presence, respectively, of tattoos and pubic hair. One could be tall or short, fat or thin, pretty or not. It didn't seem to matter whether you washed your hair and made up. It didn't matter whether you had large tits or small, a big ass or not, or nice legs. Not everyone is photographed nude but being nude was required here. Of course, my sister required it too when she sketched me. The lighting was uneven and not very bright and the background was hopeless. The orientation of one's body was different for every artist. In photography, there are constant interruptions. Adjusting the hair, adjusting the light, moving this way or that, repeat. Download the results, look, point. Repeat. In sketching one assumes the pose and if it's anywhere near right holds for whatever time is required.

That day I wore a short black dress with spaghetti straps which just covered the bottom of my ass, no bra so my nipples showed prominently, black thong panties and flats. All this to show off my legs, my best features, and my behind. At any rate, I guess I looked promising because finally the woman asked my photographer to leave the room so I could strip naked. I told her I had no intention of stripping naked unless someone I knew was present and was rewarded with a dirty look. Thus my photographer was rewarded with the chance to see me naked for the nth time. I pulled my dress over my head, took off my thong, and left my flats on. The lady inspected me with a clinical air and seemed happy with my gym-bunny look. My photographer seemed indifferent which is usually what happens, then he and she talked business. She seemed confused about the relationship between him and me but I was hired.

We left the woman and went to lunch. She would not pay much, not a surprise to anyone who has ever done figure modeling. I did not have to grow pubic hair, a plus since all our older male customers enjoyed the shaved look, something unknown to women their age. I would do just one session here, we would invite all our customers who would, we hoped, appreciate my wholesome good looks as well as my tits and ass and we would form our own group. Ten days later I did my session at the gallery and met many of the men, and two women, who were interested in a new group. The arrangements were made and I became a sketch model, providing my services at my photographer's house. Wine and cheese were provided and I remained buckass naked throughout the class, the breaks, and l'après fête. I tolerated the occasional pat on the bum in a spirit of good fellowship but politely refused requests for my contact information.

Having thus established myself in photography and sketching I wanted to expand into film but I had no idea how to get started. I went to Amsterdam to visit my cousins and saw the oldest, Julia, strip in one of the downtown clubs. I could see stripping was a good way to learn to perform in the nude while actually doing something, rather than just posing for photos or sketches. It was like a bodybuilding contest only with no bikini. Julia took me to a shop to buy a costume and started giving me lessons. The immediate objective was to perform in one of the weekly tryouts the club gave to local girls. If you qualified then you could start to work lunchtime dates.

I had never done any work with a stripper's pole so that was really the center of my training. The pole was kind of a take-off and landing spot. For example, to open my shirt I practiced strutting from the pole to the front of the stage while unbuttoning the buttons. Then, with an imaginary front row of men only three feet away, I would slowly pull the two halves of the shirt open while moving my upper body from side to side, jiggling my boobs, and gradually showing my see-through bra. Then I'd open the shirt and feel myself up for half a minute, turn, and strut back to the pole jiggling my bum. At the pole, I'd drop the shirt off and execute a few basic turns on the pole like a front hook. You reach up, grab the pole with one hand, walk around it gathering some momentum, hook the leg nearest the pole around it, and spin around. Now you're shirtless and ready to go back out front and do your skirt. Keep repeating with other garments until you're down to a G-string.