Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born Read online

  New Dawning International Bookfair

  presents

  Escapades of an Erotic Spy

  An Adult Historical Romance

  Part One:

  A Spy Is Born

  By

  Lexington Manheim

  © 2014 Lexington Manheim

  Published by New Dawning Bookfair at Smashwords

  CHAPTER 1

  Bienvenue, Dexeter Foxxe

  Paris, 1918:

  "If you can imagine it, I've probably already done it."

  Sure, it was a boastful comment. I'm not disinclined to make them. What's more, I'll admit to the occasional embellishment. What girl doesn't massage the truth now and then when there's a useful purpose? I, Dexeter Foxxe, deemed this to be a purposeful occasion.

  I was sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair, hoping the newly purchased pink dress I was wearing would have a seductive impact on the man behind the tiny table in the corner of the room. The man was Monsieur Robinet. He'd been a professional photographer in Paris almost since the days of the old Daguerreotypes. Don't feel bad if you don't know what those are. I didn't either until he explained it to me. They were some of the earliest photographic images.

  Want to know what they took the first photos of? Buildings, mostly. They stood still long enough for those really slow cameras to capture their image. Sometimes it took several minutes for one exposure. Of course, they soon improved the process so the exposure didn't take so long and they could add people to the pictures. People still had to stay still for some time but, according to Monsieur Robinet, it was quite the technological breakthrough because now photographers could finally take pictures of what they really wanted to be shooting—naked women.

  Honestly! If you thought the 1800s were only about Queen Victoria and ladies who wrapped themselves, toe-to-chin, in several layers of heavy apparel, you really should do your homework on 19th century erotica. Bare breasts, asses, and pubic hair. The more risqué photographs featured bare vaginas, either modestly closed up like a fuzzy clam or flagrantly spread open like a rose in bloom. It doesn't take a hell of a lot of imagination to figure those blooming ladies got that way by playing with themselves for the camera. Yes, right under Victoria's puritanical nose, women were twiddling their pussies even then—and doing it for an audience of prim and proper men who paid good money to buy photos of those bedeviling females. Harlot they'd call that kind of girl in public. In private, they'd call her Sweet Dreams.

  Anyway, the Victorian age was mostly before my time. I wasn't born until 1900. In fact, it was right smack at the very beginning of the 1900s. I'm told I came into this world in my mother's home in Washington, D.C., just after midnight on January 1st. Based on the rocky relationship I had with her, I think my mother always kind of resented that I spoiled her New Year's Eve by making my entrance when I did. Good timing has never been my strong suit.

  For example, here I was in Paris, having arrived only a few weeks before the German army launched its biggest offensive since the European war began in 1914. After almost four years of a virtual stalemate, Germany was advancing rapidly—trying, with a massive push, to end the war before newly involved America could get its troops to the front lines. In Paris, you could actually hear the sounds of the distant canons, and shells were landing menacingly close to the city. A lot of Parisians fled. Me, I had nowhere else to go. I was an eighteen year old girl, new in town, new in the country, with almost no local acquaintances, very limited understanding of the French language, and a quickly disappearing supply of money.

  That brings us back to Monsieur Robinet's photography studio, where I was doing my best to sound like an eminently qualified photographer's model. I needed a job. In a land where I could barely speak the native tongue, the silent occupation of modeling seemed like a good idea.

  "You understand the kind of modeling I mean, Mademoiselle Foxxe?" Monsieur Robinet stroked his pointy gray beard as he began the interview.

  He was a short, slender man who appeared to be in his seventies. His face was very pale, yet he seemed remarkably spry for a man his age. As I later found out, he began his career shooting landscapes. Then, after a few years, he specialized in family portraits. However, as photography became more common and competition for business became fierce, he drifted into the erotic photo genre where there was a growing international market for French postcards. At first, I suspect, he made that move reluctantly. But, by the time I met him, he had been doing it for so many years that any inhibitions he'd once had about the industry were apparently long gone. This was his career, and he approached it with complete seriousness. His small, stark studio was located in Pigalle, one of Paris's most notorious neighborhoods. However, this grandfatherly figure in a pale blue shirt and loosely knotted yellow scarf seemed the very picture of trustworthiness. I wasn't the least bit afraid of him. If anything, he reminded me of the gentlemanly old men I routinely saw sipping café au lait and nibbling croissants each morning in the elegant restaurants that lined the city's nicer boulevards. With him, I felt surprisingly at ease—considering the job I was applying for.

  "You mean naked modeling." I responded to his question in a matter-of-fact manner I hoped would convey a sense of professionalism.

  "We say, in your language, nude." The old man smiled with gentle amusement. Despite his pronounced accent, he spoke English well and did so for my benefit when it became apparent he knew much more English than I knew French. "But, yes, it is, as you say, naked."

  "That was my understanding."

  "Of course, there is naked." The old man bobbed his head slightly. "And then there is…naked. Sometimes, to make a photograph stand out from all the rest, one must be…creative."

  "Creative?"

  "Creative. Imaginative. Different. A photograph of a nude girl may be pretty, but is it different from all the other nude photos of young girls? Sometimes one must put the nude in a different setting. Different place. Different."

  "How different are we talking about?"

  “For example…there is the ordinary—nude standing, nude sitting, nude reclining. Ordinary. But what about…nude cooking? Nude sweeping the floor? Nude picking flowers in the garden?

  "You're gonna shoot these outdoors? Where anyone passing by could see?" It was my first moment of trepidation.

  “No, no,” he reassured. “We make believe outdoors. But you understand. Not ordinary. Érotique.”

  “Érotique,” I repeated as I began to interpret what he was getting at.

  “Érotique is whatever we may imagine…even if not practical in real life. Playful. Fanciful. Naughty. Comprendez, Mademoiselle Foxxe?”

  I did understand. I wasn't exactly sure what playfully, fancifully naughty meant in this context, but I surmised he wanted to know if I'd be willing to strike more than just your basic demure pose. There was, as I learned later, a market for photos of naked girls doing things like climbing trees or skinny-dipping in pools of water. Could I do that? Well, I wasn't about to lose a job over a fucking tree.

  "If you can imagine it, I've probably already done it," was, as I said earlier, my sure-sounding response. "If you need someone to be naughty for your camera, I'm your girl."

  I wanted him to think he was in the presence of a thoroughly experienced, erotic, free-spirited, sexually liberated woman, and it would be a colossal mistake not to hire me immediately. His smile confirmed that the message was received.

  All right, the fact is, I had no experience whatsoever. At least, not as a model. I had never posed nude before. I had never posed as a model—clothed or unclothed. Not here in Paris and certainly not back home where nude photogr
aphy wasn't quite the elevated and accepted art form it was in France. Still, I was running out of money, and I needed a job. Any job. Either I got one, or I'd likely soon be out on the street. What else could I do? I couldn't go home. I couldn't go back to America.

  I suppose I should tell you why returning to America wasn't an option. It all had to do with Beau.

  The Potomac:

  We met in May 1917. I had left school the year before. I was never a terribly motivated student, and the temptation to attain some independence from my often disapproving, nagging mother was all the reason I needed to find a job. Of course, there weren't that many jobs open to an untrained seventeen-year-old girl. But a neighbor knew a family by the name of Parsen that was looking for a cleaning lady, and with the neighbor's recommendation, I got my first paying clients. I'd go to their house on Mondays to mop and scrub and dust and the like. Not genteel work by any means, and I can't say I enjoyed a minute of it. But the money felt good when it rested in my hand.

  I guess I did a reasonably good job because the Parsens recommended me to the Abernathys, who recommended me to the Whitmans, who recommended me to the Trents, who recommended me to the Eldridges, and, before I knew it, I had a full schedule of work. The Trents and the Eldridges lived in Arlington, Virginia, which meant a trolley ride across the Potomac River. I didn't really mind. Their houses were the nicest of the ones I cleaned. I suppose I could have been jealous since my mother and I lived in a not-so-fashionable apartment in southeast Washington. But I tried not to think of it in a competitive way. The mere fact that I got to enter such fancy homes gave me a good feeling.

  The Eldridges, in particular, had the kind of house I've heard some call swanky. It had a fresh white coat of paint on the exterior and some rather impressive columns right outside the front entrance. As a housecleaner, I never crossed that threshold. My means of entering and exiting was through a back kitchen door. That bothered me a bit. It seemed so unfair. But I was just a maid. I didn't make the rules, and, if I wanted to keep the job—which I did—I had to follow them. And I did, every Friday, which was my regularly scheduled day of housecleaning for the Eldridges.

  I had been working for them about six weeks when the month of May rolled around, and I met Beau. He was the Edridges' oldest son, back home from the University of Virginia for the summer. I had just entered the kitchen door, ready to begin the day's cleaning. Suddenly, there he was. I actually thought my heart stopped for a few seconds when I first spotted him searching the icebox for a late-morning snack. Close to six feet tall, deep blue eyes, chiseled chin, and a muscular physique that clearly indicated he was probably an athlete. He was wearing a gold colored bathrobe that highlighted his smooth, ivory tinted skin. His blond hair had the tousled look of one who had just gotten out of bed. The thought of him in bed made me tingle. The mere sight of him caused a chill to pass through me. I had never felt anything like that before.

  He spotted me after closing the icebox door.

  "You must be the cleaning woman?" He popped something into his mouth. Even his chewing seemed seductive to me.

  I'm not sure I was able to utter an actual response, but I nodded my head.

  "From what I can tell 'round here, looks like you do good work." He smiled at me.

  "Thank you." It was all I could say before he was out of the kitchen and off to whatever else he had planned to do that day. As soon as he was gone, I took what I think was my first breath since I had entered the house.

  As I told you, I didn't enjoy the work, but I had never felt bad about it either. That is, up until that moment. For the first time, I sensed that I belonged to a world different from the beautiful boy I'd just met. My world was beneath his—so far beneath that I couldn't even hope to touch the bottom of his, even if I stood on my tiptoes. My heart sank as I pondered how distant we were from each other. He belonged to a family that could afford a sparkling white house with impressive columns—could afford to hire a person like me. I was just…a person like me. We could be under the same roof, even in the same room, and yet we might as well have been in separate galaxies. Even with a telescope, a boy like that would never see me as more than a dot in the Universe.

  I allowed myself to suppose that it wasn't impossible he could notice me—if only out of the corner of his eye…if only in passing…if only as a fleeting glimpse. I believe I'm noticeable. Yes, I know I said I can be prone to embellishing the truth a bit, but I don't think I'm stretching things when I say I've received my share of compliments about my looks. You be the judge—

  I'm five feet three inches tall with long wavy black hair, dark brown eyes, and I've been described on more than one occasion as sporting that "hourglass" shape men are so fond of. All right, my hourglass has a bit more minutes in the top half. Actually, it's a substantial number of minutes I'm packing up there. My mother said my top-to-bottom "hour's distribution" is…

  Thirty Minutes

  Ten Minutes

  Twenty Minutes

  But that's a good thing, right?

  Add to that a face that's been described by many a churchgoer—and I'm not making this up—as reminiscent of the cherubic angels floating about religious-themed paintings, and you've got a pretty good description of me. So I ask you—if I weren't a poor, simple maid, wouldn't it be possible, just maybe, that a boy like Beau would notice me? Could be attracted to me? Might want me?

  Well, if wishes were nickels, I'd be a millionaire. But life just doesn't work that way. So all the wishful thinking in the world couldn't change the fact that I was lusting for a gorgeous, rich boy I knew was way out of my league. It was disheartening, and it made Fridays more of a chore, since those were the days I'd catch periodic glimpses of Beau and wince at the gloriously enticing sight of him.

  Take me! Take me in your big, strong arms! Hold me tight! Kiss me! Let me feel what it's like to be loved!

  That's what I wanted say. I wanted to scream it. Instead, I dutifully kept my mouth shut as I worked, breaking my silence only on occasions when I might offer a, "Good morning," or, "Excuse me," in passing. He, in turn, was always polite, keeping a respectful distance while under his mother's ever-present and watchful eye. Ours was an acquaintanceship of fleeting moments of cordial behavior. Nothing more.

  May turned into June, and the sticky summer heat made work even less pleasant and more wearying. It was the workday's end on Friday, June 22nd, when, tired and sweaty, I trudged toward the Eldridge's kitchen door and the freedom from drudgery on the other side. I was nearly there when I felt someone rustling by me.

  "Here, let me get that." It was Beau. He sprinted past me to open and hold the door. He had never done that before. I wasn't sure what to make of it, but I certainly wasn't displeased.

  "Thank you," I smiled. "Very kind of you."

  "My pleasure."

  I gave a respectful head nod, and I squeezed between Beau and the doorframe. As I did, I thought I felt a gentle brushing at my hip.

  "Have a good evening," were Beau's parting words as the door closed behind me, and he disappeared.

  I stood there in the Eldridge's back garden, wondering why I had merited this unanticipated and unprecedented gesture, when my hand sensed something within the pocket of my gray work skirt. I reached in and felt a piece of folded paper that I was certain hadn't been there before. Pulling out and unfolding the paper, I saw the handwritten note:

  You do a very good job. What do you do when you're not working? What do you do for fun?

  B

  It was a note, from him! He had slipped it into my pocket as I exited. I felt flush, lightheaded, breathless. This was the last thing I expected. He was communicating with me. Smalltalk, yes. But it was a direct, personal message to me, and me alone, with the option for me to continue the conversation by answering his questions.

  My knees weakened, and walking to the trolley was difficult. The whole way, I re-read that three-sentence note over and over, my heartbeat quaking in my chest. Oh, so delicately, I allowed my finger t
o trace the outline of that "B" on the bottom—the "B" that stood for "Beau." His personal, very special way of signing the note.

  He noticed me. Thought of me. Wanted to know more about me. It was only paper, but paper is just a beginning that can lead to talking. And talking can lead to sharing feelings. And sharing feelings can lead to intimacy. And intimacy…Ah!

  But, wait! I was getting too far ahead of myself. Nothing had changed regarding our stations in life. I was still the cleaning woman. He was still the golden haired boy from the well-to-do family. Why had he written this note? And why had he snuck it into my pocket? Obviously, he was as aware as I was that we didn't reside on the same social plane. So he must have chosen this method of communication as a way to do it without arousing family suspicions, which could turn ugly and result in repercussions for him as well as me. Yes, he needed to keep it a secret—for both our sakes. Whatever interest he had in me—and there was no question about his having an interest, for why else take such a risk?—it had to remain hidden. At least for now.

  I'd never known a week to pass as slowly as the seven days I was forced to wait before my next scheduled return to the Eldridge house. I spent every one of those days laboring over how I would respond to Beau's note. Of course, it would need to be a written response, and it would need to be delivered secretly. The delivery was something I'd have to deal with when Friday rolled around. Till then, my focus was on the words I felt an urgent need to compose.

  I stayed up late night after night, avoiding long conversation with my mother so I could concentrate on my response to Beau.

  What should I say? Should it be as short as his? Or would a longer reply prompt more communication from him? Or would a long response seem too forward? Too presumptuous? Too desperate?