I look down and fiddle with the metal clip and the band. I keep my head lowered and when I get tired of pushing at my stocking, I let my fingers relax and just keep them there, the tips tucked under the band above my knee.
It is not like the nude poses for Moulin. I know the tops of my breasts are showing, pushed up by my stays, but when I go to tuck my nipple behind the edge of the fabric, he tells me not to.
“I need that bit,” he says.
a mini-scene from my novel Paris Red, forthcoming from W.W. Norton & Christian Bourgois