Paris 5:1 - Sophie & the photographer
And while we're waiting for that... after many, many requests for another Sophie story, how about we slip into a new Paris chapter - you all know the ropes by now, it'll get much, much dirtier as we go along... ;)
Sophie was feeling a little bored today. She had taken a day off from the busy schedule of the cafe (simple enough to arrange, given that the cafe belonged to her), and under normal circumstances she might have strolled through the park, taken a gentle walk along the Seine, or perhaps have just caught up with her reading. Today, however, she was feeling a little wistful, a little playful - she wanted to pamper herself, to remind herself how beautiful she was, and she felt deserved a little gift to herself too.
She knew a certain photographer, a Monsieur Duchamp, with a studio not too far from the cafe. He was a regular customer (by which I mean, a customer of the cafe - Sophie had never had Duchamp in her bed), and she had seen prints of his work, and liked what she saw. His speciality appeared to be street scenes, landscapes, moody architecture - but she had long felt that perhaps a change might be as good as a rest for him. Today, as she dressed for the day, she noticed his card on her dressing table, and decided that perhaps today was the day she would pay him a visit.
He was, of course, delighted to see her. All men adored Sophie. There was not a man in the cafe who didn't want her, didn't crave the touch of her skin, didn't dream of the taste of her, didn't long for the day when he might experience the sweet relief of being nestled naked between her thighs. She had slept with many men, as I have related to you before, but few fulfilled her, few gave her what she wanted. Only recently, since my arrival in the city, was she beginning to discover that what she really craved was domination over these fawning men, the intoxicating thrill of taking, rather than being taken. Alone in bed at night, the idea of this warmed her, made her wet. Her masturbatory fantasies were becoming filled with helpless men - and often women too - held down by her as she took them, rode them, used them for her own pleasure, owned them completely. She was not going to be used by a man again, this she knew for sure.
But I digress. Sophie's sexual journey during my weeks in Paris will become clearer as I tell my own story, but this particular incident, one related to me by Duchamp himself one drunken evening at the cafe, may serve to give further insight to her changing character. And it may also help illuminate my own inevitable journey from dominant man about town to my becoming her plaything, her slut, her dirty little whore. A journey I embraced with eager satisfaction and vicarious pleasure.
The photographer, of course, doted on her the moment she arrived. Often this would annoy her, but today she was happy to be worshipped - today, she had already decided, it was all going to be about her. After enduring his flirtatious small talk, she reached the matter at hand - she desired a series of portraits of herself - something personal and intimate, to perhaps share with lovers. Although Duchamp protested that he had little experience with portraits, Sophie was insistent - the quality of the photographs was secondary to her to his own discretion, and to his ability to capture the moment, capture her mood. She wanted, it soon became clear to Duchamp, to be photographed naked.
He was, naturally, completely willing to oblige...
to be continued...