Most Likely To be Famous

“So why didn’t you travel with her?” Jean Fontaine asked. Jeff Richards shrugged one shoulder.
”I’m the new photographer at the magazine,” he said. “She’s an established journalist, up for promotion soon. There’s a pecking order, even in magazines.”

“Really?” Jean asked. “I’m surprised. I had thought it would be very egalitarian there.” Jeff smiled.

“Your French accent showed on the “egalitarian”,” he said. “But there’s not a trace of it otherwise.” The shorter, sandy-haired man smiled.

“I can put it on, mon ami,” he said. “When I am wanting to impress the ladies. May I see that camera?” Jeff handed it over. He didn’t normally hand his cameras over to anyone, but this man was an artist, and his questions had shown that he knew a lot about cameras.

“I can put a French accent on too,” he said, watching as the man turned the Pentax over in his hands.

“This is very nice,” the painter said. “May I take a photograph while we are waiting for the bitch to arrive?”
”I didn’t say she was a bitch,” Jeff pointed out quickly. Although if the gossip was to be believed, she obviously was. He’d heard about her before he’d even started working on the magazine. After ten years of freelancing, of photographs from war zones to fashion shows, he’d worked with all types, but from all accounts, Catherine Winston was one of the worst journalists any photographer had worked with. Young, ambitious and sure of her own worth, she had won an early award and considered it to place her above her peers. She was a talented writer, no doubt about that, but according to Jeff’s sources, her research skills left a bit to be desired. And her attitude left a whole lot more to be desired.

She was known in the office as “the girl most likely”, a reference to the award that sat with the journalism award on the ledge behind her desk. Star-shaped, it had been given to her at school, and the gold plate on its base read “girl most likely to be famous”. It was a source of inspiration to her, and a source of great amusement to almost everyone else in the office, from what he’d heard.

“She wouldn’t travel with her photographer and she’s late to what is probably an important interview,” Jean said, with a very Gallic shrug. “A bitch.” He was right about the interview. Jean Fontaine had not given an interview in more than five years. Known for his outrageous, amazing work in painting models, he was reclusive to the point of being rude. Jeff had been amazed to find how friendly and approachable he was. He’d explained that, too.

“I don’t like to be bothered,” he said. “I like to spend my time painting beautiful women, not being interviewed. I only agreed to this one because of the show I have coming up.”

”A showing of your paintings,” Jeff nodded, feeling as if he was doing the interviewing for Miss Winston. “I didn’t know you did paintings as well as what you normally do.” Another shrug.

“I am an artist. I paint on different mediums,” he said. “May I take a photograph outside? The stairwell is a mix of interesting angles and textures.”

“Be my guest,” Jeff said. “Here, take a photo with this one as well.” Making it look casual, he lifted the camera off from around his neck.

“Your Hasselblad?” Jean asked reverently. Jeff nodded.
”Hell, if all of those expensive supermodels have been safe in your hands, I think my camera probably is.” It was a gesture of friendship, and not without cost. When the door shut between him and the man carrying his most beloved camera, one he’d worked three years to be able to afford, he shut his eyes and hoped his instincts were right.

The stairwell may have been an interesting mix of angles and textures, but it was also steep and long, and by the time Catherine Winston got to the sixth landing, she was ready to bite someone. Knowing that she had two more flights to go did not make her mood any better. It had already been bad when she arrived, late as always to this appointment. She believed that it was important to make an entrance. People didn’t remember you if you showed up on time or early, but if you were late and graciously apologetic, it made a wonderful impression.

This was a very big interview, she knew that, so she had gone all-out with her clothes, a stylish, expensive two-piece in a deep red that set off her black hair and her pale skin to perfection. She wore black patent-leather high heels and carried a matching briefcase in which the hopelessly inadequate set of questions resided, still no doubt simmering from having been the unwitting cause of an unholy fight between Catherine and her assistant. All right, so the woman was eight months pregnant and had two year old triplets – did that excuse her handing in sub-standard work? No, it did not. And how dare she suggest to Catherine that she should have done her own research for such an important interview? Catherine had won the Quentin Award four years before, at twenty-two, the youngest person ever to win it. People who reached that standard should not be expected to perform their own leg work. When she was famous, she would certainly not have to do her own leg work.

More leg work was involved as she trudged up the next flight of stairs. She was fit and in good shape, but her high heels and tight skirt made the climb difficult. She jammed an arm under her breasts to keep them from bouncing. It didn’t matter how expensive the underwear was, D cups bounced. She wondered if she could sue the manufacture who claimed their product would eliminate it. She decided she’d have Shelley research that when she got back to the office. Give the lazy woman another job to do and see if she stuffed that up as well. Two stuff-ups in a row would give her a good reason to have her fired.

And now, she was having to perform what was probably going to be the turning-point interview in her career with a new photographer. Yes, her editor had assured her that he had a good reputation, but it was all overseas work. She hadn’t seen his stuff, hadn’t heard of him, and she had no reason to trust him. And she needed a photographer she could trust. A senior journalist position was coming up, and the fact that Nelson had given Catherine this interview meant that he was putting her in the running for it, even if she did feel that it was grudging on his part. She had to make sure this went really well. And now fate was conspiring against her.

She rounded the last landing, and as she was climbing the last flight, looked up and saw the fool aiming a camera down at her.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded. The man stopped, lowered the camera. She saw mischievous blue eyes, sandy hair, a small frame and a tanned face.

“I am taking a photograph,” he said.

“Well, don’t,” she said. “The magazine doesn’t pay you to waste photographs. That’s not your film, mister. Remember that.” She finished the last two stairs, stood in front of him, noting with satisfaction that with her heels on, she was a similar height. The man, mischief still in his eyes, held his hand out to her. He had a second camera around his neck, she saw.

“I am…” he began.

“Wasting time as well as film,” she said. She knocked firmly on the door. “Do not speak to Mr Fontaine. He does not want to be bothered by people like you. Just do what you’re told, when you’re told and do try not to knock anything over or distract me. Got that?”

“Yes, I’ve got that,” he said. His name was Jeff, she remembered that now.

“You may call me Miss Winston,” she said. The door opened, and her stern, scowling face melted into a smile, professional, open and friendly.

The man who opened the door looked slightly dazzled.

“Hello, I’m Catherine Winston,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m so sorry we’re late. I do hope we haven’t inconvenienced you.” The mix of the bright suit, the mass of dark hair, the lovely face with dark brown eyes, bright red lips and well defined jawline and cheekbones made quite a picture.

“And you must be Jean Fontaine,” she said, making a point of pronouncing the name carefully and correctly. He was very tall, with jet-black hair, steel grey eyes, an athletic build and skin that was even more tanned than that of the man beside her. He certainly didn’t look like he’d been starving in any garrets for a while.

“And I’m Jeff Richards,” said the photographer, holding out his hand as well. Catherine dropped her gaze to the floor in an instant of irritation, and so missed the wink that passed between the man beside her and the man who’d opened the door.

“I’m pleased to meet you.” He shook Catherine’s hand, then Jean’s, and stood back to let them both into a loft apartment that wasn’t his. Catherine sailed past him, but Jean lingered, meeting his eyes and mouthing the word “bitch” at him. Jeff nodded. He’d heard her tirade through the door, had been cringing at the way she was messing up the important interview.

“This is quite an apartment you have here, Mr Fontaine,” Catherine said.
” Thank you,” Jeff answered, wondering when Jean was going to end this. He was going to be killed for this at some stage in the future, and although he knew he’d never have any trouble getting another job, he’d rather like to keep this one for a while. He raised his eyebrows at Jean, who grinned and winked again while Catherine’s back was turned, then made an unmistakable painting gesture with his hand. Jeff looked confused.

“Do look around,” he invited the journalist, who obediently moved from painting to painting, trying to find something more to talk about other than the eight questions she had in her handbag. He moved closer to Jean.

“What?” he asked.

“Keep pretending you are me,” whispered the artist. “And insist on painting her.”
”I can’t paint,” Jeff protested quietly, looking away from the other man and smiling at Catherine as she glanced back at him. “I’ve never even put a brush to a canvas.”
”Not a canvas,” Jean corrected him. “Insist on painting – her.”

“Oh,” Jeff considered that. Then he grinned. “I couldn’t,” he said. “That would be very bad.”

”Worse than abusing a photographer just because she is in a bad mood?” Jean asked. “Worse than not even knowing what her interview subject looks like?” He was obviously astounded by this.

“Yes, worse than that,” Jeff said. “What you’re suggesting is…” He didn’t get the chance to finish that, because Catherine turned around to face him, caught him talking to the shorter man and walked over immediately to put a stop to that.

“Mr Fontaine, your work is simply divine,” she said. “I have so many questions to ask you.” Oh good, thought Jeff. Now he had the choice of calling an end to this identity game and alienating Jean Fontaine, or of giving fabricated answers to the questions of an award-winning journalist. Just great.

“Would you like some coffee first, perhaps?” he asked. He had slipped into a slight French accent himself, he noticed. Dammit.

“That would be lovely,” she said. “I’ll just have a word with…Jeff here, to talk about camera angles etc.” He was barely ten steps towards the gleaming kitchen before she started.

“I thought I told you NOT to talk to him?” she threw at Jean, who pretended to look worried. Glancing over his shoulder, Jeff decided that the other man was overplaying it a bit.

“When I give orders, I expect them to be followed,” she said. “Now, you may have taken some mildly clever little pictures while you were overseas, but you’re in the big smoke now, sonny. Follow orders and follow my lead and do not get above yourself. You may not have heard yet, but I am heading for the big time. I am going to be famous in this profession. Don’t cross me. Am I clear?” Crystal clear. The acoustics of the loft were such that Jeff heard every word from the kitchen. Clever little pictures? He’d won two international awards and been short-listed for the big one. Clever little pictures?

“On second thoughts,” he said, swinging back from the kitchen. “I’ve decided I don’t want coffee. I will paint you instead.” Catherine looked up from where Jean was attempting to apologise while keeping a smile from showing on his face.

“I’m told you only paint supermodels, Mr Fontaine,” she said, beaming at him. “How nice of you. I don’t see any portraits of them on your walls, though?” She was trying to distract him. As if she had time to sit for a portrait. It would probably be worth something but honestly, the daubs on the wall looked for all the world like the impressionist crap she’d had to study at school.

“Fontaine does not paint portraits of supermodels,” Jeff said, amazed that she didn’t know this much about Jean Fontaine. Had she done any research at all? “Fontaine paints pictures on the near naked bodies of supermodels.” Catherine controlled her facial expression. The pervert.

“Well of course I knew that,” she said, covering fast. Why hadn’t she known that? Why hadn’t Shelley said anything? Although, when she thought about it, the woman had said something about not exposing any skin. She must have assumed that Catherine knew about this.

“So, I will paint your body,” he said. Catherine laughed.

“How very flattering,” she said. He most certainly would not paint her. If he thought she was going to bare any part of her body for him to paint on, let alone almost all of it, he could think again. “But no, I don’t think so.” The tall man’s grey eyes went from warm and appreciative to hard and angry in a flash. Jeff hoped that Jean was noticing how well he was acting. He could see the other man stifling a grin, turning away.

“Do you want the interview or not?” he demanded. “Do you know how hard it is to get an interview with Fontaine?” Having tried both, he decided it was easier for him to use the third person than to refer to himself as the painter.

“Yes, I do, Mr Fontaine,” she spoke quickly. “But really, all I was after was a photograph of you and a discussion. A brief discussion, hardly anything at all really.”
”So you don’t want to understand what I do?” he asked, his eyes blazing. “You just want a little filler piece for your magazine? Bah! You waste my time. Good bye.” He turned to go.

“No! Mr Fontaine!” she called after him, hating that she had to debase herself like this in front of the photographer. “Mr Fontaine, we will do a long and in depth interview, certainly. I really want to understand the workings of your creative flair, to understand what makes you as talented as you are. I’m just aware that you’re a busy man and…”
”I will paint your body,” he said again. But he added more. “Or you can leave. Your choice.” Catherine stilled. Great choice. She had to either agree to take almost all of her clothes off and let this man put paint all over her, or she had to go back to the office, her tail between her legs, and admit defeat. Admit that she’d thrown an interview which every magazine in the city had been angling for. The first option was appalling, but the second was unthinkable. She forced a cheerful smile onto her face.

“Then it looks as though you paint me,” she said.

She tried for a middle ground.

“Is it possible that you could paint me on a canvas?” she asked. Jeff, seeing a quick gesture from Jean behind her back, shook his head.
”No, I prefer to paint you on that bed,” he said, pointing in the same direction as the other man had, to a plain, white plastic-covered bed over near a wall of windows.

“I wasn’t clear,” she tried again. Imbecile. “What I was suggesting was…”
”That I paint you on canvas instead of painting on you,” he finished for her. “I understood, Miss Winston. But I’m sure you are aware from your research that my canvasses are only of landscapes.”
”Well yes, of course,” she said, cursing inwardly. “I was just seeing if I could tempt you into breaking your pattern.” His expression told her that he wouldn’t be tempted.

She turned to the photographer – turned on him, to be more accurate.

“You can leave,” she said firmly. He shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “We should definitely get before and after photographs of you.”
”Before and after?” she glared at him. “No!” He nodded.

“Yes,” he disagreed. “A photograph of you now, as you are, all dressed to kill, and then a photograph of you once the artist has painted you.”

“But of course,” the tall, dark-haired man said from across the room. “Fontaine does not create masterpieces just to have them washed down the shower without them being recorded for posterity. There will be many photographs of you after I have painted you.” His voice made it clear that no argument would be entered into.

“Fine,” Catherine said quickly, tightly, glaring at the photographer. “Thank you for that suggestion, Jeff,” she said, making it clear that he had now been entered into her revenge book. “So, will I just stand here?”

“No,” he said, unconcerned by the enmity in her eyes. “Against the white wall, I think. Your black hair and your red suit will look very nice there.” He took several photographs, from front-on and in profile, and one of her with the artist. She was surprised when the artist then asked if he could take one of her with the photographer, and although she demurred, she allowed herself to be overruled. He didn’t seem to have any difficulty in using the complicated camera either, she noted.

“So, I’ll come back within three hours,” she heard her photographer say. That was the time (to Cathy’s horror) that the other man had said the painting would take.

“You do that,” she said. “But knock on the door first.”
”Of course,” he assured her. She stood awkwardly, aware that she was being scrutinised by the artist. After a while he nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “I have an idea for you. Now you may go into the bathroom and disrobe, down to your panties. Use the toilet while you are there.” She blushed, glared at the photographer again for good measure. “There will be something in there – a towel or something like that. If you wish, wrap it around you before you come out.” Wordless, wondering how the hell this had happened, she walked off to the bathroom, leaving the two of them there. As she opened the door, she turned back.

“Make sure you’re gone before I come out, Jeff,” she said.

The door shut behind her and the taller man rounded on the shorter one, who was bent over laughing, trying to keep it silent.

“What do I do now?” he demanded. Jean swallowed his laughter.

“You paint her, my friend,” he said. “We will just paint in black and white – see the boxes over there, near the bed? And the paintbrushes? You will paint all of her from the neck down in black paint, and I will paint the details on her legs, her back, her arms, maybe her breasts, yes?”
”What, are we going to tie her down?” Jeff asked. “She’s never going to fall for this.” Jean’s face grew serious for an instant. Then it lit up.

“I have an idea,” he said, smiling again.

While Jean was fiddling with some switches and setting up the paints, Jeff dived into Catherine’s handbag and dug out her list of questions. He was disgusted with them. He’d found out more from Jean in the ten minutes he’d been waiting with him than Catherine would with these questions. There was only one he needed to ask the painter. He already knew the answers to the rest.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said, walking over to the paints. “I could be arrested for this.”
”No,” Jean assured him. “I will not let that happen. I know people. We will have some fun with the bitchy little miss, yes?” Jeff hesitated. It wasn’t usually in his nature to be nasty to people, and this was definitely nasty. But then he thought of the two days he’d spent hiding under a canvas in a desert, with only water to drink and nothing to eat, waiting for the photograph that would expose an arms dealer. Clever little pictures, indeed. The little cat needed a wake-up lesson, and it appeared that he was going to be the one to give it to her.

“Make her spread her legs wide,” Jean said, obviously well in touch with the nasty side of his own nature. “I’ll leave the door off the latch so I can come back in when I’m needed.” There was a sound from the bathroom.

“Go,” Jeff said quickly. “And look after my Hasselblad!” With a grin and a wave, the painter sprinted for the door.

The photographer was gone when she came out, she noted. She was wrapped in a towel, as directed. Fontaine had set up his paints on a small table, and was arranging paintbrushes. He looked up, straightened up, and came towards her. He reached out, took her chin in his hand, and angled her face up to his.

“Nice strong features,” he said. “I will leave your face as it is. Now, you can take the towel off while I open the windows.”
”Why are you opening the windows?” she asked his back as he walked away from her. She held on to the towel.

“For light, to let the fumes from the paints out and to make sure that you don’t sweat my artwork off,” he said. He pushed open five windows. All of them opened on to a blank brick wall, she was relieved to see. He turned back.

“Why do you still have the towel on?” he asked, obviously irritated. Catherine shrugged, smiled, tried for sympathy.

“I’m a little shy,” she admitted. “I’m not someone who’s used to taking her clothes off in front of other people.” That part was true. She had little to no time for lovers, and had found them to be overrated. She got much more pleasure from winning awards. But now, under his continued, steady scrutiny, those steel grey eyes asking her how much this interview was worth to her, she undid the tuck on her towel, took a deep breath, and opened it. Holding the edges of the towel still, letting it drape onto the floor, her arms at her sides, she realised that she was still holding her breath. She forced herself to look at his eyes. He, on the other hand, was looking directly at her breasts. Her skin tightened into goose bumps and she had to fight to stop from covering herself again.

“Magnificent,” he said, moving forward. “Models are usually flat-chested, which makes them perfect for hanging clothes and easy to paint, but I will enjoy working on a bosomy woman. A woman with curves, whose body bounces when she moves. I will like this. Your nipples are a lovely colour, Miss Winston. Perhaps I will leave them unpainted. I will see.”

Desperately uncomfortable, wishing her D cup breasts away, Catherine held her ground as he neared her. She dropped the towel to the floor, since it wasn’t doing any good where it was. He stopped a few steps away, scrutinised her from head to foot, her long legs, her shiny black hair, every inch of her smooth, exposed body, the line of skin interrupted only by her red panties. He tutted when he looked at them.

“Red will not work,” he said, in a tone which implied that she should have known.

“Why did you wear red panties?”

“They went with my outfit,” she said, knowing it sounded silly. She usually colour-co-ordinated her outfits and underwear. “And I didn’t know I was going to be…” what was it? Posing? Being turned into an artwork?

“They will have to go,” he said in a voice which brooked no argument. Before she could even open her mouth to protest, he’d crossed the distance between them, hooked a finger in the front of the panties and looked in.

“Oh good,” he said. “Just a little landing strip. That will work fine. Take the panties off.” Feeling that she’d redeemed herself slightly, she decided she didn’t want to risk annoying him again. Horribly embarrassed, setting her jaw, she took the panties off, sliding them down her legs and dropping them onto the towel.

“Good,” he said. “Now up onto the table for me. On your back.”

He turned away again, getting his breathing under control. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. He also couldn’t believe that Jean had opened the door once to peek in, had given him a thumbs up. If he hadn’t done that, then Jeff probably wouldn’t have given in to the urge to get her to take the panties off. He mused that he obviously hadn’t outgrown the need to show off to other naughty little boys. Still, he was only thirty-one. There was plenty of time to grow up later.

The table surface was cool, very cool against all of Catherine’s bare skin, but she was pleased to settle onto it, because climbing up on it had been dreadful. He had turned away as she’d sat on the edge and swung her legs up, careful to keep them together, but he’d certainly had a good look at her bare butt as she’d walked to the table. This was so humiliating.

“Now, I mentioned the fumes from the paint before,” he said as she lay down. “And I’m sure you know from all of your research on me that I make my own paints and that I always paint with a special mask on to protect my eyes.”
”Yes I did read that, of course,” Catherine lied.

“So you also know that my models are always specially blindfolded to protect their eyes too,” he asked. She nodded. Blindfolded? Good grief. He smiled at her, picked up some cotton wool and a cloth from beside the paintbrushes and approached her.

“We will put your hair up in the ponytail for now,” he said. “To keep it away from your body while I’m painting you.” He deftly captured it and twisted it into a cloth-covered band. “Now, lift your head up. This should fit under the pony tail… there. You hold the cotton wool in place over your eyes while I do this up. There. Is that comfortable?” It was actually. The blindfold was wide and not tight enough to hurt, but certainly tight enough to be firm. And she couldn’t see a thing, not even her nose at the bottom of it.

“Perfect,” he said. “Now, I will put my mask on while you lie back on the table, and put your hands under your head.” She had to feel the table to do that, and she felt very disoriented, leaning back blind, patting the edges of the table to make sure she didn’t fall off. She heard him approach.

“Wriggle further up,” he said. She wriggled, feeling her bare breasts jiggle around as she did so. A free show for the man who was looking forward to painting on a “bosomy woman”, she mused bitterly.

“Hands behind your head,” he said again. She found it difficult, even though her hands weren’t covering her, but bringing her arms up like that made her feel even more naked and vulnerable. Her breasts lifted, her body stretched out, nude and cool in the breeze blowing in through the windows.

The door opened silently and Jean, minus his shoes, walked across the room. He pointed to Catherine’s stomach. Then he dipped a big paintbrush in the black paint and handed it to him.

“We will begin with your stomach,” Jeff said.

Catherine jumped as she felt a wet paintbrush touch her skin. He chuckled.

“You will get used to it,” he promised (making it up as he went along). “The models tell me that the worst part is the tickling.” Catherine begged to differ. The worst part was lying naked on a table, knowing that he could see every inch of her. But the paintbrush was annoying too. She shifted her hips, her bottom sticking to the table as she did.

“Keep still,” he said, the brush moving in swirls over her stomach. “So what is your first name again, Miss Windsor?”
”Catherine,” she said, reflecting on the strange nature of this assignment, where the man had her stark naked on table before even remembering her first name. She knew she’d said it when she came in. It offended her that he hadn’t taken note of it.

“Cathy, I think,” he said now. “Catherine is for the perfectly dressed woman who came in. The voluptuous girl lying nude on my table is Cathy.” The voluptuous girl lying nude on his table gritted her teeth.

“And what should I call you?” she asked.

“Whatever you like,” he said. “Fontaine does not care.” This habit of speaking of himself in the third person was grating on her.

“Your first name is Jean?” she asked.
”You may call me Jean,” he said graciously. “You have lovely skin, Cathy. Very pale, very soft.” The brush was stroking it, up her sides now, and she was having to work to keep still.

It wasn’t so difficult when he painted her arms, although she squirmed about when he dipped the paintbrush into her armpits. He laughed at that.
”I cannot expect you to keep still for that,” he said. Then she jumped as his hand settled warm and flat on her belly. “Just to stop you from rolling off the table,” he said, and continued to paint into the hollows beside her breasts until she was breathless with laughter.

“And now we will give your ticklish places a rest,” he announced, taking his cue from where the real painter was pointing. She was relieved. “Your legs are next. But leave your hands under your head.”

Her relief was short-lived. She felt him move to the bottom half of the table.

“Now, you need to open your legs up,” he said. “And to bend your knees. I need to paint the front, back and sides of both legs from the knees down, and the front and sides of your thighs, so you must open them up and let me see all of them.” And not just all of her legs, obviously. Catherine found herself unable to move.

“Cathy?” he asked. “What is wrong?”
”Jean, I don’t think I can do that,” she said. “Perhaps I could put my panties back on while you do this part?”
”And have them drag the paint off when they come off again? I don’t think so,” he said firmly.

“I could cut them off, perhaps?” she asked. “Or you could?”
”Oh please,” he said, sounding angry again. Honestly, the man had a very short fuse on his temper. “I am not asking you to do anything I would not ask any model to do in this position. Although they would have been sensible enough to wear a black g-string.” Jean, standing off to one side, had his hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh again.

The unfairness of that last comment stung. Had she known she was going to have to be in this ignominious, humiliating position, she would have worn a black g-string too! Or she would have refused to show up. Oh, who was she kidding. This interview was her big chance. She moved her legs apart, then slowly bent her knees up.

“Further apart and further up,” he said. Just like at the doctor, she thought to herself, feeling the cool air blowing in over the heated skin that was being revealed as she moved into the position he wanted. It did occur to her to wonder if she was being stupid, if she was actually safe here with this man she didn’t even know. But then she reminded herself that he was world-famous, that he was considered to be the pinnacle of his profession. She forced herself to calm down.

Which wasn’t easy as his hands settled on her knees and eased them still further up and out. It was hard to judge with her eyes covered, but it felt as if her thighs were now almost straight out from her hips. She felt everything down there stretch open, wide open.

And then the painting started again. First, he painted the front of her thighs, from her hips down to her knees. Then he painted the front of her lower legs, right down over the tops of her feet. Then, working on one leg at a time, he moved to each side of the table, took hold of a foot and lifted her leg up high, so he could paint each calf. With the other knee bent out, she felt that he was now seeing even more of her than her gynaecologist ever had. Even stirrups weren’t this bad. She thanked heaven for the blindfold. She couldn’t imagine how bad it would have been to see him looking at her like this. He finished the second leg, lowered it down and turned it again, bending the knee out so she was wide open again. She shifted her legs, moved to close them.

“No, no, no,” he said, the accent evident in the repeated word, in the urgency of his tone. “Until the paint dries, you stay just like that.”

“But,” Catherine grimaced. She couldn’t just keep lying like this, with everything down there on display. She couldn’t.

“It is not as if you’re showing me anything you haven’t already shown me, cherie,” he pointed out. “Now, I am going to lift one of your feet up so I can paint under the sole.” He was sending a confused look to Jean, who was pointing under her foot and nodding.

“Under the sole?” she repeated.

“Certainly,” he said. “I am nothing if not thorough. Now, this may tickle, but try to keep still.”

Obviously she couldn’t. Not when the soft paint brush started trickling across the sensitive skin under her foot, not just up the arch and out to the sides, but under and between every toe. And as she wriggled and giggled helplessly, she was mortifyingly aware that her legs were still spread wide, that all of her private parts were probably moving around as well. Despite his focus on the sole of her foot, she had the feeling that he wouldn’t be missing the opportunity to take in that particular view. She held the position as he did the other foot, too, an interminable amount of time.

“I am very pleased I hadn’t already painted your back and bottom,” he said, amusement in his voice. “With the way you are bouncing up and down, you would have wiped all of the paint off, Cathy.”

“I can’t help it,” she said crossly. “I’m ticklish.”
”I noticed,” he said, still with that laughter behind his words. “So now, just let me check that this paint is dry.” With that, he ran his hands up from her ankles, up the inside of her knees, slowly up her thighs, then round to the outside of her legs and down again.

“Yes,” he said, satisfied. “Now stay just like that while I start on the detail.”

“The detail?” she said, aghast. “Jean, I can’t stay like this any longer.”
”Why not?” he asked, and now she could hear impatience, even annoyance. It was amazing how the blindfold increased her sensitivity to tone. “Do you need to go to the bathroom? I told you to go before.”
”No, I don’t,” she said. “But it’s just…it’s undignified, Jean. Could you put the towel over me? To cover at least part of me?”
”But why?” he asked. Somehow she knew he was shrugging. He put his hands on her knees, pushed them gently apart again. “Consider,” he said. “A naked woman, her hands behind her head, her legs spread. This is something that Fontaine sees almost every day.” (He ignored the fact that Jean was shaking his head at that). “Sometimes more than once a day. A g-string doesn’t cover that much, you know. Not with the legs spread as widely as this. Why, when you are so keen to get to the bottom of my appeal, do you want to cut the experience short, Cathy?”

“I…I’m just uncomfortable,” she said. “I’m not a model. I’m not used to being undressed like this.”

“Well, you have been undressed for more than an hour already,” he said. “So you have made a good start. Now let us stop wasting time. The details. I will need to concentrate now, so I will not speak.” And that was that.

He stepped back, Jean, fine paintbrush in one hand and palette in the other, stepped forward, and Jeff had the pleasure of watching a world-renowned artist at work. At least until it was his turn to move in again.

For what felt like half a lifetime, Catherine lay there, legs akimbo, hands behind her head, paint drying tight on her stomach, her arms and legs as deft brushstrokes were daubed onto her limbs. He did her legs first, but even then, she had to stay in position while the paint dried. He painted her arms while that occurred and then, while that was drying, began, with a completely different pressure and movement, to wield a thicker paintbrush on her belly. She said nothing as swirling movements left wet strokes behind over her hips and down her loins, but she squirmed when the brush began to circle her navel, dipped into it.

“Steady,” he said. “And now lower, Cathy. Keep still.” Easy for him to say. The soft, wet brush moved lower, as he had said, down to the top of the thin line of hair, vertical strokes of paint down and up her mound, from the outside in, each gentle stroke making it even harder for her to lie motionless, particularly when the brush travelled lightly down the hair itself, teasing into it.

“What are you doing now?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady, interested, professional. Silly in the circumstances, but it was all she had.

“You hair here is just a shade lighter than the paint I am using,” he explained, glaring at Jean, who was stuffing the bottom of his own shirt into his mouth to stop from laughing out loud. “If I do not colour it, then it will stand out in the photograph that will be taken. I don’t think that you would like your readers to all be able to clearly see your little line of pubic hair, no?”

“No,” she agreed, pushing down on the table with her bottom to stay still as the paintbrush danced through the curls, touching the skin underneath.

“There,” he said. “Now, you can roll over onto all fours, Cathy. Carefully now, we do not want to disturb the paint.” His hands guided her legs down, together, but kept them from touching, and his fingers slipped under her right hip, helping her to turn.
”But you haven’t done my chest yet,” she reminded him. He laughed quietly.

“Now you are an expert on this?” he asked her.

“No, it’s just that…” she couldn’t think of anything to say. She didn’t want to be on all fours with her still unpainted breasts dangling down. At least if they had paint on them, they wouldn’t be so naked. But she wasn’t going to say that to him. “I just thought you might have forgotten,” she finished lamely.

“No man would forget your breasts,” he assured her, embarrassing her even more. “No, I will do them last. Now, knees wide apart, Cathy. I need to be very thorough with your bottom.”

She had thought the last position was as bad as it could get. Now, she wasn’t so sure. The cool breeze from the window was still blowing up between her widely splayed legs, and she was displaying her bare butt as well as everything else now. And her big breasts were swinging under her, echoing every move she made. She could feel how hard her nipples were. Oh god, was this ever going to be over?

The thick paintbrush travelled down her back, from her shoulders to the top of her backside, tickling at her sides again, testing her determination to not make any unnecessary movements because her breasts would go on making those movements for some time after.

“You are doing so well,” he said. “Now I will paint the backs of your thighs and then do more of the details.” Her butt was still unpainted, and she could just visualise the image she was presenting, far too clearly for comfort. From her shoulders to her hips she was painted, from the soles of her feet to the backs of her knees, she was painted. But everything in between, her buttocks and her private parts, was still pale and bare. She shivered before she could stop herself.

“Not long now,” he said. “Not more than… an hour or so. I need to concentrate again now, Cathy.” Which meant he wouldn’t be talking again. Fine. She would think of something to distract herself from what she looked like, from what he was seeing. She would think of that senior journalist position that she was going to get after filing this story. Well, maybe after another couple of stories, but she was definitely going to get it. She had to. She couldn’t have gone through something like this for nothing. The brushstrokes were more impersonal now. He was concentrating, she could feel the difference in his painting technique, as she had when he did the detailed work earlier. He moved to her back, and again she felt the fine lines, the detailed stroked being applied to her already painted skin. Then there was a pause, a sigh. And, unseen by her, raised eyebrows from Jeff. Jean looked apologetic. The sigh had escaped him. Jeff picked up the bigger paintbrush.

“And now, I will do your lovely bottom,” he said. “Lift it up just a little higher for me, Cathy, lower your shoulders down…yes, that’s right, down until your breasts are skimming the table, that’s it.” She winced, but not because of the coldness of the surface on her already hard nipples. It was because he was obviously looking there so closely, monitoring the movements of her body. And now her bottom was up, her legs wide…she jumped as the brush ran down the right side of her butt.

“Keep still!” he snapped, and she did, even as the brush ran under her buttocks, up between them, even as he used one hand to hold her cheeks apart and trailed the wet paintbrush up between them.

“We must be careful here,” he said conversationally, perhaps to make up for his snappy tone earlier. “Otherwise people will see much more than you want them to in the photograph.”

Finally, finally, the entire back of her body was covered, the paint dry and constricting on her skin, and he helped her to step down off the table and stand. Her lower back was aching, her thighs hurt from having been held apart for so long, and her neck was stiff.

“Time for your beautiful, big breasts to be painted,” he said. Catherine felt her face heat under the blindfold. Did he have to be so graphic? Yes, it seemed he did.

“I want you to put your hands up on your head and to arch your back so your breasts are sticking right out towards me,” he said. She did it, then almost stepped back as she felt his hands cup her breasts, lift them.

“So firm,” he approved. His thumbs circled her nipples. “And hard. You make a delightful subject, Cathy.” There was nothing she could say after that. Obviously it was part of the process, too. She took a deep breath, stayed still, her breasts still held in his hands, his thumbs still touching lightly. Jean, standing beside him, drew imaginary lines, an inch out from her skin, showing him what the design would be. Jeff nodded.

“I won’t leave them unpainted, because they would stand out too much. No, both colours, I think,” he said. “The line bisecting the nipples.” His fingers did that, running diagonally across the hard, sensitive points. Then his hands left her breasts. “Yes, that is right,” he agreed with himself. “Concentration again, Cathy.”

The paint went on slowly, around and under her breasts, over all of the curves, bit by bit covering the pale, quivering skin, working steadily in to the peaks. She felt the change when he began to concentrate, realised he must have stooped to get closer to her, because the paintbrush came from a different angle, drawing a sure line down from her shoulders to her navel and then back up again, circling the exact lines of her nipples, bisecting them, as he had said, and then carefully colouring them, with the tiniest, softest of brushes. Keeping still became almost impossible again.

And then, suddenly, it was finished. She heard some movement in the room, then his hands on her hands, guiding them down. Something warm and cloth-like was slid over her right hand, then another over her left, and then he moved behind her and undid the blindfold, checking over his shoulder first to make sure that Jean was safely out of the room.

“I could do your face, but I prefer to leave it for the contrast,” he said. He untied the ponytail and caught her hair, spreading it out with his fingers, arranging it over her shoulders and down her back. Catherine blinked at the light.

“It is so good to get that blindfold off,” she said. And then she looked down. “Ohhhh.”

”You like?” he asked, smiling as he walked around to the front of her, his eyes travelling down as well. Her entire body was a glossy, shiny black, with the exception of a deep white vee that ran down the middle of her breasts to her navel. The “detail” work was white and gold stripes and spots on her legs and arms, and, she suspected, on her back and butt.

“It’s amazing,” she said, genuinely impressed. Then she collected herself. It was time to get the photograph done, get the paint washed off, get the interview and get out of here. The man had seen her naked, had touched her, and he was standing there smiling at her, the look in his eyes not totally professional, she had to say.

“Come and look in the mirror,” he said. He took her hand, and she looked down at it, seeing a black glove, with claws coming out of the knuckles.

“In the photos, you will clench your fists and it will look as if you have paws,” he said, leading her across the room. She nodded, stopped before the full-length mirror. Wow. With the exception of her face and neck, from head to foot, she looked like some sort of weird cat, a cross between a panther and a tiger and some alien cat-form. Her body looked fluid and sleek and her hair fell down over her naked shoulders framing the painted skin and… she stopped herself and focused on the downside. She was standing in front of a mirror, in front of a man, wearing nothing but a thin coat of paint. Her nipples were rigid, her breasts were jiggling, her pubic hair was stiff with paint, and only the parts between her legs were not tingling and itchy from the stuff. There was a knock on the door.

“I will get the man with the camera,” he said.

She really, really didn’t want Jeff to see her like this, but she hadn’t gone through almost three hours of humiliation for nothing. She stood up straight, kept her arms at her sides and faced the door, breathing shallow. No big movements, no turning side-on, nothing that would give the new photographer any cheap thrills to gloat about back at the office. She would be professional, even if no-one else was.

He came through the door, his small face lighting up when he saw her.

“Unbelievable,” he breathed. “Man, that is amazing work.” He kept walking as he talked, and to Cathy’s annoyance, walked right round her, looking at her from every angle. Short of turning to keep facing him, she had no option but to keep still.

“Nice canvas to work on too,” he remarked, grinning, from behind her.

“That’s enough,” she said firmly. “Just take your photograph and go.”
”Not just one, Catherine,” he said. “I need to take several, in different poses. Now, let’s move you back against the white wall for contrast and we’ll begin.”

Despite her best efforts, the man took charge. She couldn’t fault his flair for the poses - he seemed to have very creative ideas for how best to display the artwork on her body, but she did object when he told her to stand in profile, one arm up behind her head, her back arched, fist clenched into claws.

“No,” she said. “That will put too much of me into profile against the white wall. I don’t want everyone seeing every single detail of me, thank you very much.” Before the man with the camera could respond, the other man spoke.

“Oh wonderful,” he snorted. “I work for three hours for free to produce an artwork and you don’t want to display it because someone might see the shape of your breast or the outline of your nipple?”

“I do wish you wouldn’t be quite so graphic in your choice of words, Jean,” she objected. He threw his hands up in the air, a very artistic gesture.

”Did I say ‘tit’?” he asked her. “Or ‘boob’ or ‘jug’? No, I said ‘breast’, the anatomically correct term. In what way am I being too graphic? Hmmm?” She didn’t reply.

“Perhaps we should just end this now,” he went on, striding away from her. “Forget the interview. Just go and wash the paint off.” He looked serious, and angry.

“No,” she said. “No. I’ll pose. Please, Jean…Mr Fontaine. I need to do the interview.”
”Remember that,” he said, turning back. “This man has some very good ideas for poses. I am getting lots of inspiration just from watching how he is posing you. If you object again, I am ending the interview, all right?” Face tight, Cathy nodded.

“Take the damned photograph,” she said quietly to the cameraman, who had watched the exchange with a glint of laughter in his eyes. He took the damned photograph. Then he instructed her to get down on all fours. She opened her mouth to object, then glanced over at the other man and sighed. She got down on all fours, staying side-on to the camera.

“I think more three-quarter,” he said. She shook her head.

“I can’t,” she said. “The bits between…parts of me haven’t been painted back there.” He grinned again, and she made a note to underline his name in her book of revenge.

“Three-quarter will work,” she heard a deeper voice say, and she turned to look back at the other man.
”Mr Fontaine?” she asked, half objecting.

“Between your buttocks has been painted,” he shrugged. So she didn’t like graphic, huh? He went on. “And under them has been painted, too. It is only your labia and the entrance to your vagina that have not been painted. And I do not think my friend was planning to take a photograph of those parts of you.”

“No, I wasn’t,” his “friend” hastened to assure them. “So, three-quarter, Catherine.”

Three-quarter was possibly the most exposed position she could be in, conscious of her bottom sticking up, her breasts swinging down, of her entire nude body stretched out, only slightly obscured by the paint, from the soles of her feet all the way up to her neck.

“Head up,” said Fontaine. “Look proud and fierce.”
”Not difficult,” said the other man just as he took the first of several photographs. He moved round to the front of her, and only the fear that Fontaine would stop the interview kept her still as he snapped several frames of her from that angle, her dangling breasts framed by her arms. When he went to walk round to the back of her, she stopped him by sitting up on her legs.

“Is that enough?” she asked, not sure which of them she was directing the question to.

“One more like that,” Fontaine said. “Stay leaning back, but lift your bottom up off your legs. Lean right back and hold on to your heels with your hands, and tilt your head back so your hair falls in a straight line down. The cameraman murmured his appreciation as she moved into the position, and he took innumerable pictures of her like that, her breasts pushed up, nipples arrow-like, her belly flat, her hips thrust forward, every line clear against the stark white backdrop.

“Beautiful,” he pronounced. “Well, I’m done. Do you want me to wait for you to finish the interview, Catherine?” He swung the camera over his shoulder and reached to help her up. She ignored his hand, narrowed her eyes at him.

“I think I can manage it on my own,” she said curtly. She turned to the other man. “Where can I shower, Mr Fontaine?” She was having trouble remembering to be gracious to him, but she hadn’t gone through all of this to lose the interview now.

The paint washed off easily, although she had difficulty stretching to reach some of the places he’d covered her. And as she smoothed the soap over herself, washed her body clean of the black and white river that flowed down the drain, she remembered the touch of the brush on each part of her, remembered lying there, open and exposed as he worked on her. She shuddered. How did all of those models put up with it?

Dressed again, with a light touch of make-up on, she walked out to see that he’d cleaned up, that the paints were all back in their boxes again, the brushes sitting in glass jars. He was wiping his hands on a rag as she came out.

“You look different now,” he commented, his wide mouth curving into a smile. He was really very good-looking, she thought again. And his eyes were wicked. She was very glad that she hadn’t had to watch him looking at her naked body while he was painting. Just the thought made her uncomfortable.

“Would you like some coffee now?” he asked her. She nodded.

“Yes, that would be lovely,” she answered. Good. A professional footing. She could work from that. She would put out of her mind the fact that she had been spread naked on a table, her legs wide, while this man brushed paint on her. She would concentrate on questions and on his answers. She would do her job. Brilliantly, as always.

…………………..

“Oh, my God,” said Nelson, drawing every word out as he looked through the photographs. Catherine looked away. She had wanted the photographs to be delivered to her so she could make the choice as to which ones anyone saw, but of course Jeff had taken them straight to her editor, middle-aged, fat, balding, past-it Nelson. She hadn’t seen the photographer since the shoot, but when she did, she was going to tear him limb from limb. That happy thought sustained her as she sat in her editor’s office, trying not to notice the look on his face as he stared at the prints.

“Whoa, Catherine!” he said now, turning a photograph round to show her. It was the one of her on all fours, from the front, her breasts hanging low.

“I can’t believe you let them see you like that!” he said. “We’re definitely using that one.” He put it to one side, ignoring her sound of protest. “Oh, and this one, too. Damn, you can even see your pubes in this one, Catherine! You didn’t even keep a g-string on? You’re a brave girl.” She snatched at the photograph, turned it round. It was the last pose, of her leaning back, and yes, there was a stiff little line of paint-blacked curls sticking up from her groin. This was a nightmare. Nelson held out his hand.

“Give it back,” he said. She held onto it.
”Nelson, not this one,” she pleaded. He raised his eyebrows at her.
”A little late to develop modesty, Catherine,” he said. “Give it back. We’re using that one.” She gave it back. He shook his head disapprovingly.

“I don’t know why you got the photograph of you and Jeff, and I do wish you’d got another one of yourself with Fontaine,” he said. “With you wearing the paint. People would have loved seeing the two of you together, knowing that he’d been all over you with his paintbrush. He did use a paintbrush didn’t he, Catherine? He didn’t just put it on with his hands?” He sounded hopeful.

“He used paintbrushes,” she said flatly.

“And did he paint ALL of you?” he asked, the emphasis clear. “Like, you know…down there?”
”No,” she replied, still flatly. “The paint he mixes has strong fumes and he probably didn’t want to put it on very sensitive skin.” Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t smelt the fumes at all. Perhaps the breeze from the windows had dissipated it, but it seemed odd.

“Well, if your words are anywhere near as good as these photographs, we’ll have a top article,” Nelson assured her. “By Friday, Catherine, and you can double the word limit. We’re going to use as many of these as we can, so we’ll take it to four pages instead of two. How’s that?” Normally, it would have thrilled her to bits. But not for this article. Not when the photographs showed her naked body from almost all angles. She made the appropriate noises of pleasure and stood up to walk out.

“Oh, and you can take Jeff on that job this afternoon too,” he said. “For all that the subject matter is great, and these photos are good, they’re nowhere near his best and the man cost us a fortune. We may as well exploit him while we can, before someone else lures him away from us. I had a beer with him the other night, and found out that he’s had two job offers already. Take him in the car with you this time and save us some gas, Catherine.” Oh great. Now she had to take the photographer with her to interview Bruce Manning, the top city news anchor. Like she wanted to spend any more time with a man who’d witnessed her embarrassment. She sighed. This was not going according to plan at all.

Late as usual, she was fuming in the car park, because he was even later. She heard the doors open from the technical area and stomped to her car, making it clear from her body language that she was not impressed that she’d had to wait for someone else to make an entrance. She opened the driver’s door and turned to face him.

“Nice of you to bother to…” she started, and then the words died on her lips. “What are you doing here?” she asked. Because the man holding a camera, another slung around his neck, was not the mischievous short man she’d worked with the previous week. This was not Jeff.

“I’m on my way to take photographs of a news anchor with a bad facelift and a worse wig,” said the man, walking towards her.

“But you’re…” she couldn’t finish it. You’re Jean Fontaine!” Although you don’t seem to have an accent any more.
”Jeff Richards,” he said, holding out his hand. “We were never properly introduced. Nice to meet you, Miss Winston. I admire your work. Would you like me to drive?” Her mouth was open, her face a picture of confusion. He snagged the keys out of her hand.

“I’ll drive,” he decided. “Need me to open the passenger door for you?” His words brought her out of a daze, and there was a clinking of cameras as he ducked to avoid the slap she aimed at his face. To make it worse, he was grinning when he straightened up again.

“We’ll talk about it in the car,” he said. “And while we’re at it, we’ll talk about a few other things. Jean always videotapes painting sessions, did you know that?” Her jaw dropped.

“Oh, we have lots to talk about,” he said, grey eyes dancing. “Get in, and let’s get started.” She reached into her handbag, and just for an instant, he thought she was going for a gun, or some mace or something like that. He was reaching for her wrist when she withdrew a phone.

“I’m calling the police,” she said firmly.

“That’s your decision, of course,” he said, looking unconcerned. “Think it through first though, won’t you? What would I get? A fine? A non-custodial sentence maybe? Hell, I might even get sacked and have to take up one of the other jobs I’ve been offered. But you. You’d be a punch line, wouldn’t you? Nelson would enjoy running an inside article on the fact that you didn’t even do enough research to know what your interview subject looked like. That you didn’t even know that he was famous for painting on skin. That you, the hard-hitting journalist, allowed herself to be conned into taking her knickers off. He doesn’t like you very much, Cathy. Something to do with being very unpleasant to the rest of his staff?”

He climbed into the car, leaned across and unlocked the passenger door. Wordlessly, having thought through everything he’d said, she walked around and opened the door slightly. She didn’t get in, though.
”Jean wants you paint you properly,” Jeff said. “He has lots of plans for you, Cathy. And I’d like to take some photos of you too.” He leaned over again, pushed the door open all the way.

“Get in, Cathy,” he urged, not unkindly. He smiled, patted her hand as she sat down. “Don’t worry. Between us, we’re going to make you famous.”

………………………..