Nude Shots: Five Sensual Stories Celebrating the Erotic Image

By Vanessa de Sade

Since the invention of photography people have been obsessed with both taking and looking at erotic images, and this richly detailed anthology covers all our favourite voyeuristic pastimes over the last hundred years, with stories featuring a dirty postcard studio in Edwardian Paris; making stag movies in 1930s Cony Island; a beach photographer in Blackpool of the 1960s; a glamour film coming back to haunt a respectable vicar's wife in 90s middle England; and a very sexy photoshoot for an internet porn site in present day New York.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Erotica
• Release date: Jul 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781782341291

Vanessa de Sade

Vanessa de Sade is a thirty-something full-figure gal who likes to write hot stories about real women exploring the darker regions of their own sexuality. She is the author of several popular novellas plus the collection, Rubyfruit Jungle.

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Title Page

NUDE SHOTS

Five Sensual Stories Celebrating the Erotic Image

By

Vanessa de Sade

Publisher Information

Nude Shots published in 2012

by Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Vanessa de Sade 2012

The right of Vanessa de Sade to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The Cabinet of Monsieur Zee

Chapter 1

The studio of Monsieur Zee, even to the most sophisticated eye, was a dark and wondrous place, a symphony in black velvets which had never felt the caress of mid-morning sunlight. To Marie-Mathilde, though, who had walked here from the orphanage with her rosary clutched firmly in one tiny bird-like hand, her few belongings rattling in the tiny box that Madame had bequeathed her, it was a marvel far beyond mere words, and she wondered for the hundredth time why the famed photographer had picked her from all the other girls to be his ward.

Marie-Mathilde was a thin girl with thick red hair the colour of ripe berries, worn modestly today in a tight chignon; a fresh complexion but no breasts whatsoever, and her eyes were deep milky pools where men would drown if they cared to look. Though few, before Zee, ever had.

She stood, blushing, for him now, like a patient piebald mare, as he appraised her like horseflesh, his fat form tiptoeing around her with his characteristic mincing steps, like a ballerina on point. Those who remembered Zee as a youth - and there were not many of those left now - always spoke of the thinness of his ankles and of his graceful balletic stance. But his love of sweetmeats had swelled his silhouette over the ensuing years to the shape he now possessed, though his feet, in their handmade buckled shoes, were still as tiny as ever and he still pranced like a circus pony when in the presence of an object d’art that excited him.

Ah, ma cher Marie-Mathilde, the old man sighed, for how many years have you languished in that den of boiled cabbage and bad taste?

You mean the orphanage? Marie-Mathilde replied politely, neither grateful nor defensive, for as long as I can remember, Monsieur, so at least nineteen years.

Nineteen years? exclaimed the porcine Zee, visibly shocked, you are nineteen, Cherie?

This past St Margaret’s day, Monsieur, the girl replied, does this displease you?

Zee smiled, his mouth a gleaming array of golden teeth. No, no, child, I am just surprised, that is all, I took you to be no more than fourteen by your fresh complexion.

Marie-Mathilde did not answer but merely shook her head modestly, as she had been taught, and then looked at her feet.

Zee laughed softly and circled her again, reassessing her slim boyish form in her best grey cotton dress that the orphanage elders must have so grudgingly paid for. She was just what he wanted, but that rosary that never left her hand troubled him.

The old crone at the orphanage had assured him that the girl would give him unquestioning obedience, of course, but there were the expenses for the hairdresser and the dressmaker still to be considered, and the careful Zee wished to be sure of the girl’s compliance before he committed himself to her care.

Come, Cherie, he said, drawing back the heavy velvet drapes and leading her into his main studio, let us see if you can provide me with what I desire. Celeste, where are you, you tiresome girl? I told you to be ready and Marie-Mathilde is here and waiting and yet there is no sign of you.

I am here, I am here, complained a voice, all undressed and ready just as you asked. Is this the new girl, is she not sweet, and so thin and white too? Ah, you have picked this one well, Zee; come, girl, come with me. You and I shall soon be the best of friends.

***

The cool inner studio was bare except for a hefty brocade chaise lounge draped with a luxuriously deep-pile bearskin rug and Zee’s camera, it’s gleaming mahogany cabinet and polished brass lens surveying the room like a silent voyeur.

Come, said Celeste, taking Marie-Mathilde’s hand in hers, come, let me show you what will be required of you. Zee, who invited you to this meeting? Go off to the morning room and ring for Claire-Louise to bring you your chocolate and your favourite clafoutis de cerise so you can gorge yourself to your heart’s content. Go, Zee! I will summon you when we are ready for your unwelcome presence. Why are you still here, Monsieur? What are you waiting for, go!

She made a dismissive shooing movement with her tiny lily-white hand, her diminutive toy-like stature making her look like a pigmy farmer’s wife chasing a large broody fowl, and Marie-Mathilde’s heart melted in that moment.

Many years ago, she could not remember, now, how many, Madame had taken her to the Champs Elysee and they had seen a beautiful china doll in a toy shop window. Its golden hair, which was real, curled in lustrous ringlet after ringlet, and its eyes were ocean blue, gleaming like sapphires, and Marie-Mathilde had prayed to God, then and there, saying that she would sell her very soul to possess a plaything as beautiful as this. And, now, here, in this - very possibly wicked - place, here was the living and breathing doll who had haunted her dreams for so many years.

Celeste saw her looking. My appearance pleases you, Mademoiselle? she whispered in her ear, her perfume delicious, like kirsch and sweet pastry, you like being alone with me?

Marie-Mathilde blushed a delicate shade of pink but did not reply and the other laughed. What have they told you of Zee at that place?

Marie-Mathilde spread her hands. Nothing, Mademoiselle, only that when a gentleman adopts a pretty young woman he may expect some... service.

Celeste laughed, a pleasing sound like spring water