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Paulette Poses

by Robert Leslie Bellem

DESPITE her drab garb, Paullette Poincare was lovely. The dust-kerchief upon her head could not conceal the shimmery softness of her platinum-blonde hair. The dab of dirt on her cheek could not detract from the piquant wistful sweetness of her features. Nor could the faded, ragged cotton dress take away from the lilting symmetry of her body. Her legs were perfection. Her hips were slender eulogies. Her breasts stood out with youthful, saucy boldness under the faded cotton material; and anybody with half an eye could see that there was no brassiere to lend artificial support to those twin domes of delight.

With a broom in one hand and a mop in the other, Paulette went to the door of Pierre Franchard's studio. Paulette was the house slavey; the girl-of-all-work. She did the cleaning, the scrubbing and the dusting for the entire house, which, being in the Quartier Latin, was tenanted mainly by sculptors, artists, models and the like.

This Pierre Franchard, whose studio Paulette was about to clean, was a sculptor, and very handsome and young to boot. Every time she saw Pierre, Paulette's heart fluttered like a caged bird. But he never seemed to pay any attention to her. She was just another house fixture in his eyes, it seemed.

Just the same, Paulette adored him—word- lessly and without giving him a single hint of her secret feelings. At night, in her tiny basement bed, she always dreamed about his kisses and caresses. But that was all imagination, of course. By morning, she would awaken to the grey, lusterless reality that she was only a slavey, and Pierre had no time for her....

NOW HER HAND went to his doorknob and turned it. She started to enter the studio. Then she froze.

Instead of the place being unoccupied as she had assumed, Pierre was inside. He had apparently been working on a bit of sculpture. A feminine nude, life-size. The daubed, semi-shapeless figure stood upon the dais. The wire framework had been bent into proper shape, and clay was already affixed to it in lumpy chunks. In fact, Pierre's artistic, capable fingers had already begun moulding the clay into form. You could see the growing symmetry of outline; legs, hips, thighs, torso, high breasts, head.

However, he wasn't working on the statue at the moment Paulette opened the door. Au contraire, he was working—on the statue's living model!

Paulette, staring, recognized the girl. She was Heloise LaDoree, a model who lived in the house. A brazen minx of a brunette, this Heloise LaDoree. Pretty in a blatant way, of course. One hundred and fifteen pounds of sex appeal and dynamite mixed. But the type who seemed to think that posing wasn't all of her job. Kisses went along with her work, no matter what artist might hire her....

And she was certainly putting forth a gen- erous supply of kisses to Pierre Franchard when Paulette looked into the studio. It was quite evident that Heloise had been posing for Pierre's new statue. Because she wore only a series of fig-leaves placed in strategic spots.

She was pressing herself against Pierre, welding her lips to his, entwining her arms around his neck.

IN FROZEN PETRIFICATION, Paulette stared. Her eyes were wide. Tears were in them. Not that she had any right to be jealous of Pierre Franchard. Not because she had any hold on him. But seeing another girl in his arms filled Paulette with pangs of jealousy. Or perhaps it was envy....

She could hear Pierre whispering ardently into Heloise's ear. "Cherie!" he was saying. "With you as my model, I am bound to win the competition! Tonight, two of the judges will come to inspect the progress of my work. By the rules of the contest, I must have it well under way. And as you can see, I am doing splendidly—thanks to you! Thanks to the loveliness of your body, which I am mirroring imperishably with my clay...."

"I know you will win the contest mon coeur" Heloise was answering. Then she kissed Pierre again, hugging him closer....

At the doorway, Paulette Poincare silently backed out, closing the portal behind her without a sound. She didn't want to see any more. She didn't want to see Pierre's hands caressing the brunette model. Not when Paulette herself had so often dreamed of his hands caressing her own shapely figure....

She wondered how far that love scene would go. Knowing the reputation of Heloise, she had a pretty good idea.... But it didn't match up with her own preconceived notions about Pierre, He had always seemed so clear, so straightforward. And now... he had succumbed to the feminine lure of Heloise LaDoree...!

BLINKING BACK HER unshed tears, Paulette went down the stairs. Somehow she felt very weary, beaten. Not that she'd ever thought of herself as being capable of actually winning Pierre's affections. But she hated to see him linking himself to a girl like Heloise, who leaped lightly from one affaire to another....

And a little later, as she stood at the foot of the steps, Pierre himself came bouncing down, seemingly filled with joie de vivre. He-was going to dinner at the corner bistro; and his eyes sparkled as if he'd just sampled an aperitif far more potent than mere alcohol. The appetizing cocktail of Heloise LaDoree's lips....

He cast a polite smile at Paulette; bade her good evening. And she smiled in return, hoping against hope that at last he would notice her—think of her as a woman, and not as a mere slavey.

But he went past her with no other word, no other glance. And that just about completed the breaking of Paulette's heart.

AT DUSK THAT EVENING, Paulette went to the apartment of one Henri Dulac on a lower floor, to do some sweeping. But it seemed that this day was one destined for Paulette to see and hear lots of things not intended for her eyes and ears. Just as she reached Henri Dulac's door, voices floated out to her.

The female voice was undoubtedly that of Heloise LaDoree. The man's voice was Henri Dulac himself—a sculptor, like Pierre Franchard, but of far less talent and ability.

Heloise was saying: "Mais oui, my beloved Henri. I have that tool of a Franchard completely duped! He thinks that I am posing for him merely because I wish him to win the contest. He does not realize that you, my real lover, are the one I wish to win!"

"And our plan?" came Dulac's oily voice.

"It is working out perfectly. Having wormed my way into Franchard's affections, he trusts me implicitly. His statue of me shows remarkable progress. Or rather, it did show remarkable progress—before I smashed it, a few minutes ago!"

Outside the door, Paulette tensed. What was this she was hearing?

Henri Dulac chuckled inside the room. "Bien! By having him work all these days on that statue of you, he has wasted much time. And you, having complete access to his studio have smashed the statue during his absence. Oui?"

"Yes. And since it is smashed, he will have nothing to show the judges when they visit him later tonight. Therefore, under the rules, he will be out of the competition—giving you clear sailing to the prize, mon amour."

There came the sound of a long drawn out, moist kiss. Of masculine hands gently patting bare feminine flesh. An ecstatic squeal from the lips of Heloise. A grunt from Henri Dulac, then silence...

IN THE OUTER HALLWAY, Paulette was horrified. So Heloise LaDoree had deliberately conspired with her real paramour, Henri Dulac, to cheat Pierre Franchard of his chance to win a competition prize!

But that was monstrous! They could not do such a thing to Pierre!! Paulette suddenly turned, raced up the stairs to Pierre's studio. She let herself in; lighted the gas jet. It made a very poor illumination; but it was sufficient to reveal that the damage had been done!

Pierre's clay statue of Heloise lay in fragments on the floor. The wire frame was all twisted and bent, and the bits of moist clay were all over the place.

"Mon pauvre Pierre!" Paulette moaned softly. "They have ruined you!"

In another hour or two, the judges would come to examine the progress of Pierre's work. He would have nothing: to show them except wreckage. And automatically he would be ruled out of this competition in which he had entered.

Automatically and mechanically, Paulette set to work picking up the fragments of clay and setting the studio to rights. But after she had cleaned and swept up the last bit of debris, she was still reluctant to leave. What would Pierre do when he returned and found his work destroyed?

He was a moody one, Pierre Franchard. There was no telling what his reactions might be. Why—he might even contemplate... suicide!

The thought was more than Paulette could bear. "I must do something for him!!" she whispered frantically.

But what could she do? She could not replace the destroyed statue. She had no talent, no ability. She had nothing but herself, her youthfulness—

"Mais—but that is it! I have myself!" she suddenly whispered in the silence. And a daring plan leaped full-blown into her mind.

It was fantastic, of course. Absurd. Im- possible. Nobody could get away with such a thing. And yet ... there was just one slim hope....

LIKE A FLASH, PAULETTE darted to a far corner. Under the concealment of a hanging drape, she whisked off her faded frock. Yanked the kerchief away from her sleek platinum hair. Kicked off hear shapeless shoes. Peeled off her laddered hose. Stood there with nothing on save skin-tight panties that clung to her slim hips and lilting thighs like wet cellophane.

She was utterly charmant, entirely feminine and delicious as she stepped out from the drapes, practically au naturel. Her firm, full breasts were twin out-thrust minarets of loveliness. Her body was sleek, satiny purity. Her flesh rippled smoothly as she walked; and if any masculine eye had happened to see her at that moment, the eye's owner would have been filled with a strong feeling of admiration of the girl....

But there was nobody to see her; and that was a good thing, because Paulette had a hurried, desperate job to do. She raced over to the far side of the studio and came to the huge mass of prepared, gooey modeling clay that Pierre kept there. And now she began smearing the stuff all over herself, in a thin coating. First her tiny, high- arched feet Then her calves, her thighs. She patted the plastic material to her hips, over her panties. She had difficulty in getting the proper amount on her back, but she managed it somehow.

Now her breasts. She coated them with the clay, patting and moulding the stuff so that while it took on the aspect of her own contours, nevertheless it had a rough, unfinished appearance outside. Soon her whole body was daubed. And finally she smeared it on her throat, shoulders, arms and face. She even worked it into her hair....

AT LAST THE task was done. She studied herself in a mirror. In the gas-jet's dim light, she didn't look exactly like a living person. She didn't look exactly like a statue, either. She resembled something half-way between. But it was the best she could do.

Abruptly she stiffened. A sound had reached her. Footfalls coming up the outer stairs, approaching the studio! And Pierre Franchard's voice addressing two other men!

That would be the contest judges coming to examine the progress of Pierre's work!

Swiftly Paulette raced over to the dais where Pierre's smashed statue had originally stood. She leaped upon, the platform and assumed a pose. Having seen, the thing before it was destroyed, Paulette knew approximately how it had bee. So now she tried to steady herself in the same posture.

She grew rigid and motionless.

The studio door opened.

Pierre and two elderly men entered.

One of the men spoke. "We have but a moment, Monsieur Franchard. One glance at your statue is all we require. Then you may go forward to its completion day after tomorrow, when the contest ends."

Pierre smiled. "Tres bien, Messieurs. Here is the statue." And he pointed to Paulette.

In the dim light, the two judges stared. In unison they murmured: "Magnifique! Why, it is almost finished already! And such contours! Such feeling! Such—"

PAULETTE FOUGHT TO hold her pose. Fought to keep the quiver of apprehension from her limbs. Under the clay that masked her face, she blushed furiously as the two judges discussed her legs and her hips and her breasts —not knowing of course, that they were ex- amining a living person instead of an inanimate lump of modeling clay!

But at last Paulette's ordeal was over. The judges departed. And now Pierre, after closing the door, was coming forward. There was a puzzled look on his face. "I do not under- stand it!" he was whispering to himself. "It is not my statue! It is more finished than mine. And more beautiful—more graceful—more youthful—"

Something was happening to Paulette. She felt suddenly queer all over! Ill. Faint. As if some toxic poison were coursing through her veins. Abruptly, she swayed. Pitched for ward....

A startled cry came from Pierre's lips. "Mon Dieu—it is alive—!"

Then Paulette hit the floor and rolled over, moaning softly.

Instantly, Pierre seemed to realize the truth —and to know what was wrong. "A living girl, parbleu!" he panted, "Coated in clay! Why— her pores cannot breathe! She will die...!"

Lake a flash he lifted Paulette, raced with her into the adjoining bathroom. Unmindful of his own clothes, he switched on the shower faucet. Dunked Paulette under the cold spray. Started pulling the glutinous stuff away from her white lovely flesh....

Thanks to the running water and Pierre's frantic hands, Paulette soon began to emerge from the clay coating. But it took a long while. At least twenty minutes. And then, when at last the final bit of gummy composition had been scraped from her, she opened her eyes. Revived by the cold water, she drew a gasping breath. "M-monsieur Pierre—!" she cried.

THEN SHE REALIZED that he was toweling her dry. That his fingers were gently coming into contact with her soft smooth skin. And he was staring at her, too. Drinking in her sweetness. Feasting his eyes on her beauty. Ocularly devouring the sweet, girlish curves of her shapely form.

She flushed crimson; tried to cover herself with her small hands. "Monsieur Pierre— you must not stare at me that way—s'il vous plait—!" she whispered.

"You! Little Paulette! The little slavey!" he kept repeating in a dazed tone. "The most beautiful, the most lovely creature I have ever beheld! And right here in the house under my very eyes for months, yet I never realized how gorgeous—"

She tried to fight free of his embracing arms. "Let me go... please...." And her voice faltered.

But he seemed too bewildered to do anything except ask questions, "Mais—but why? Why did you take the place of my statue? What happened...?"

Slowly and timidly, Paulette answered. "That brunette girl, Heloise LaDoree, who p-posed for you, had plotted against you. She is in love with Henri Dulac, a rival sculptor. She came here to your studio this evening and destroyed the statue for which she had posed. Thus she hoped to rule you out of the competition so that Dulac could win."


"Oui. I discovered it. I found the statue destroyed. I knew the judges were coming here. So I took a desperate chance. I replaced the statue with ... myself. And now you have a chance to w- win, after all. By working speedily, you can replace the statue that was destroyed...."

"Mais—but why did you do what you did? Why should you come to my rescue, little Paulette?"

"Because I—I—" She couldn't complete the sentence, but her eyes shone with a light that was unmistakable. And Pierre Franchard was no dumb- bell, after all. He understood. He not only understood, but a surge of love welled up in his heart.

"Paulette—was it because you ... cared for me...?"


"You adorable little angel!" he panted. "Now you shall pose for me. Pose for a new statue. I will win the competition. And we will take the prize- money as your dowry...."

"You mean—"

"I mean that from now on, you are going to be my only model. My only sweetheart. In fact, my wife!" He panted his lips upon hers, kissed her eagerly, lovingly....