Statues in the Snow

"The studio looked no different. A bit more dust on the dust I'd breathed every day. I stood in the middle of the room as the man made space for his briefcase on one of the cluttered tables. He was very....business-like. 'My name is Marcel Gijon and I was poor Henri's agent and am now his executor'. Did I know his name was Henri? Had he ever said his name to me, or I to him? I couldn't remember. 'Henri rang me several times before he died, raving about the young model he had found locally—a model who was so free and open with her body that it had given his painting a new lease of life. Artists often say things like that—they do like to exaggerate! So I had no great hopes when I came down here to make an inventory.

"'Imagine my surprise when I saw his work—saw your work!' 'Why do you think it was me, Monsieur? It could have been any of the local girls.' He grinned at me and turned to pull a sheaf of drawings from a folder, handing them to me one by one. Oh, it was me all right. Me, naked, in all manner of obscene poses: my breasts, my vagina, my anus all drawn with marvellous energy. The last drawing was of my face. It was a very good likeness, right down to the thick gouts of sperm which adorned me.

"I shivered as I looked at that picture. I felt shame that this man had seen how defiled I had been, how sluttish. And yet I was also proud of how I looked, and newly aroused by the memories of those evenings. Henri had never shown me anything of the drawings he had made of me. Looking at them for the first time I understood that there had also been something special going on amidst the dirt and squalor and lust. We had created something.

"'They are very beautiful, these sketches, and very arousing. Don't you agree, Mademoiselle? 'Yes, they are.' 'And you must see some of the paintings he made from them. He must have finished this one just before he died.'

"Marcel crossed to the easel where a large canvas was shrouded with a dust sheet. I followed as he pulled it away and there I was, on my knees and elbows, my back arched, the really beautifully caught sheen of sweat on my widespread buttocks and the dizzyingly erotic trickle of semen from my slightly dilated anus. 'So wonderful. Henri was truly a gifted artist. And he's left all of these gems to you.'

"I turned to look at Marcel. He could read my disbelief. 'Oh yes, he updated his will not long ago. And I am a loyal executor of that will and I am here to see that you get what is now yours.' He gave me a moment to take this in. 'But, Mademoiselle, I am also his loyal agent and if I may I would like to make you a proposition.' And I heard the sound of the zip on his trousers being unfastened. He asked a question with his eyes to which he already knew the answer. Demurely, I knelt before him and accepted his penis in my mouth. He talked as I sucked. I was happy with his proposition and his cum tasted sweet after my long drought.

"So I didn't go to University. I came here to Paris with Marcel, as principal model and muse to the group of artists of which Henri had once been a part. You won't find the work of the group in galleries: we make erotic art to private commission. There are other models, of course, but I have always been their favourite since the day I arrived fresh-faced from the countryside. I work with them individually, but sometimes they get together for some particular project, and that can be quite tiring. A woman has only so many orifices."

I must have blushed as the meaning of this sank in. She laughed throatily.

"I enjoy my work, Monsieur. I've enjoyed it ever since that day Henri hauled me off the dusty road and had me strip in his studio. It took me a while to accept my enjoyment, that is all. Come here."

She stood and moved to one of the covered piles that I had noticed when we had arrived. I understood now what they were.

"I've kept most of Henri's work, for....sentimental reasons. I am well-paid by the group, but if I need a little extra, Marcel sells one for me. They fetch good prices. And I have had some outrageous offers for this one."

She pulled the sacking back, and there was the painting she had described: a beautiful young girl exhibiting her anal defloration. It was truly breathtaking, and my tumescent penis leapt anew at it. But what does an aroused man understand about anything? I bent to look closer at the painting.

"And the other model....Dora? Did she ever work with you, or was she.....?"

"I think you should leave now, Monsieur."

"I'm sorry, I...."

"Please leave now. It is late and I have work to do later."

I gathered my warm clothes in the sudden chill of the appartment. She was silent until I stepped out onto the landing.

"Her name is Dina, not Dora, and I told you that she was and is a good woman. The first time we met she saw straight through me. I blushed as if she could see me on my knees sucking men's cocks. But then she smiled at me, and that unjudgemental smile bit deep. We were both models, yes, but everything I have posed for is hidden and out of sight as if it were shameful, and she adorns the Tuileries like a modern goddess.

"Was what you have seen and heard shameful, Monsieur?"

I had no idea what to say. Her lips gave a little twitch. It might have been half a smile.

"Goodnight, Monsieur."

As the door closed the timer on the landing light went out and I realised that there was a faint glimmer from the window above. Outside, dawn was breaking. In the hours I had listened to the story, Paris had woken up and gotten on with life—snow notwithstanding. As I walked along the river towards my room, buses and lorries were churning up the streets. People were everywhere, walking carefully amidst the slush.

Paris was the same again, just whiter and dirtier.