Solange and The Judgment of Paris

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Naked and Funny

Who is the sexiest girl with no clothes on

Little Jean-Claude raised his finger.

 

"Un crème," he announced as Solange came bustling past studiously ignoring the American tourist vainly trying to attract her attention by shouting "Miss! Excuse me Miss!"

 

Jean-Claude had ordered a third cup of coffee. American tourists! Bof! They could wait.

 

Little Jean-Claude and Big Jean-Claude were seated breakfasting on the pavement of the little café on the Bou Mich where Solange, together with her friends Sylvie and Nathalie, made their living ignoring the tourists who thronged to Paris in the summer.

 

"Ah Jean-Claude," said Big Jean-Claude, "Surely there is no better sight more convivial to the eye of the hard working Parisian than that which we enjoy here."

 

"You have reason," replied Little Jean-Claude, eyeing the girls as they passed.

 

The café was situated opposite the Place de la Sorbonne where the gates of the ancient university of Paris were open to admit the students. It was September and Paris was no longer closed down for the summer; but it was hot and the girls, their long bare legs tanned from the summer sun, their hips swinging under their short skirts hurried past to their first lessons of the new year.

 

"Ah yes," said Big Jean-Claude, "I do believe that the girls in Paris are the most beautiful in France."

 

"No, in that you are mistaken Jean-Claude, for they are indeed the most beautiful in the world."

 

"Who is the most beautiful in the world," asked Solange as she arrived with Jean-Claude's café crème, believing of course, as do all Parisian girls, that the men must be talking of her.

 

"The girls of Paris," replied Big Jean-Claude.

 

"And not the girls in this café?"

 

"Ah!" said Little Jean-Claude, catching on quickly, "of all the girls in Paris the girls who serve in this café are by far the most beautiful."

 

"Miss! Miss!" The American tourist bleated, "I ordered a Danish over thirty minutes ago."

 

Solange scowled. She had better go and serve him.

 

"And who is the most beautiful of we three?" she asked as they parted. Expecting of course only one answer.

 

"The question that is difficult to answer," said Little Jean-Claude, "M'mselle Solange has a sultry beauty; M'mselle Sylvie is the fiery conqueror of men's hearts and M'mselle Nathalie. Zut alors!"

 

Words could not, of course, express the allure of the blonde, blue eyed Nathalie.

 

"Eh bien," announced Solange as she threw down the plate containing the sickly sweet Viennoiserie on the table of the despairing American tourist, so that it ended up on the floor while the plate bounced onto the ground and rolled away down the street. Solange made no attempt to retrieve it. It was no longer in her café. It was no longer her responsibility.

 

"Eh bien! And who is it that is the most beautiful!" Solange was determined to extract an answer. Always provided of course that it was the correct one.

 

Big Jean-Claude looked at Little Jean-Claude for help. The matter was of the most delicate. A hasty response was not to be contemplated.

 

Little Jean-Claude however had a solution to the dilemma.

 

"This evening," he said, "after the closing of the café we will have the contest of beauty and the winner will..."

 

"Will what?" Solange posed the question.

 

Little Jean-Claude was somewhat non-plussed.

 

"An evening of delight at the expense of two gallant gentlemen," he said conspiratorially, “It is you who will see!"

 

And as Big Jean-Claude and Little Jean-Claude set off on their stroll across the gardens to the Palais de Luxembourg where they worked as fonctionnaires, Solange rushed back to her colleagues to tell them the news.

 

"Miss, Miss..." The voice of the American tourist vainly pointing out the dirt on his Danish did not interest her. There was to be a beauty contest.

 

Standing by the coffee machine in the corridor outside the office Little Jean-Claude had a worried look on his face.

 

"Jean-Claude," he said, "it is I who have made the false step."

 

"In what way?" Big Jean-Claude glanced up at the clock. It was not yet eleven. There was no rush to get started at work.

 

"I fear that my foolish suggestion of a beauty contest may have sown some disharmony among the girls at the café."

 

"It is not a question of that Jean-Claude. It is a question of how we are to stage this infamous contest. I regret to say that my dear Sister, fine lady that she is, would not permit such an occurrence within out apartment."

 

"Then it is necessary that we hold it Chez Mme Cloporte," by which he meant the small establishment where he lodged, "although it will be necessary that Mme Colporte does not become aware of the nature of the competition."

 

The look on Little Jean-Claude's face betrayed the level of his concern. His landlady, Mme Cloporte, was a lady of fearsome reputation and a close friend of Mgr Grasse, a beacon of unenlightenment within the church.

 

"Jean-Claude," Big Jean-Claude as ever was a man of practical good sense, "we will explain to Mme Cloporte that we will be holding a planning meeting and it is necessary that three 'secretaries', and I put that in parenthesis Jean-Claude, that three 'secretaries' attend. It only remains then to decide upon the format of the contest and upon the prize that is to be awarded to the winner."

 

At Café de Bou Mich the word disharmony did not do justice to the relationship between the three girls.

 

"I ask myself," announced Nathalie, "what prize I will receive as victor in the contest.”

 

"The prize it will surely be an evening at the ballet" exclaimed Sylvie, "The Swan Lake set entirely in a municipal swimming bath at the Palais Garnier is not to be missed."

 

"No no," interjected Nathalie, "truly it will be an evening at the opera. The new production of Cosi Fan Tutte set entirely in a Parisian bordello is the talk of the town."

 

But Solange knew better - dinner at the Pont Neuf. She licked her lips at the thought of a meal at her favourite restaurant. After all who could beat nine chips arranged in the shape of a bridge and a snip at twenty euros.

 

At lunch Big Jean-Claude and Little Jean-Claude discussed the format of the contest.

 

"We will ask that the three girls..."

 

"Secretaries, Jean-Claude, secretaries..." Little Jean-Claude needed to be clear on that point.

 

"...the three secretaries indeed. Dress in their most - how shall I put this Jean-Claude - their most alluring costumes and we will entertain them at your apartment. We will then, Jean-Claude make the decision the most important!"

 

"Alluring! That is the suggestion the most apt, Jean-Claude! The most apt! Another coffee Jean-Claude? It has only just gone three; we are not expected back from lunch yet!"

 

In her apartment in the thirteenth Solange tried on her dress for the big occasion. Alluring was the word that Jean-Claude had used and the dress she had selected fitted that description perfectly. It was the timeless 'petite robe noire', the classic little black dress that hugged the figure of the classic French woman, showing off her curves to perfection. Allure! That was what she would have. Sylvie would dress like a conasse and Nathalie like a salope but she would have the curvaceous allure of the beautiful French woman.

 

She slipped the dress off. Underneath she was naked. One never wore anything under a petite robe noire, it would have been unforgivable. Had Piaf ever worn anything under it. Never!

 

She admired her curvaceous form. Her olive brown skin shone with the lustre of a dark pearl, her breasts were firm and ample with large dark areolas, her hips were broad enough to give a curve to her not too slim waist.

 

Bah! She thought, looking at that waist, the girls in the fashion magazines were all skin and bone, like that conasse Sylvie. True allure required a little substance. She slapped her well rounded derriere. That had substance!

 

The suggestion that Little Jean-Claude had made to Mme Cloporte that she share a glass of Cognac with Mgr Grasse as he was to be working with M. Legrand and er... um... three secretaries that evening had been met with a look of not unalloyed suspicion.

 

Three 'secretaries' eh? That sounded rather like a euphemism to Mme Cloporte, or would have done had she known the meaning of the word.

 

"Perhaps you would wish that I bake some Madeleine cakes for your meeting?" she said the word 'meeting' with some emphasis.

 

"No Mme Cloporte, that will not be necessary," Little Jean-Claude had to stand firm.

 

Mme Cloporte grunted. Spurn her Petites Madeleines indeed! She would see about that. Still, an evening with Mgr Grasse, it had its attractions, and an excuse to discuss with him the attitude of the church to gentlemen who entertained 'secretaries' in their apartments was not to be missed.

 

Solange looked with disdain at the other girls. It was just as she had thought Sylvie had dressed as a conasse and Nathalie as a salope. Bof! One as skinny as a rake, the other as thin as a haricot bean! Neither had allure!

 

The Jean-Claudes looked at the girls. The decision was impossible! They were all dressed identically in little black dresses. Obviously the Parisian girl's notion of the bon chic. They all had allure. True the figure of M'mselle Solange was perhaps a little too ample to carry it off well, but still; there was much to be said for the ample figure.

 

Little Jean-Claude looked thoughtfully at Solange. He wondered if the rumour that Parisian girls wore nothing under the dress, a rumour that was well known throughout the city, was true, and somehow this thought blotted out all others from his mind.

 

"Jean-Claude, he is looking at me," whispered Solange loud enough to be distinctly audible to everyone, "it is I who will win the prize."

 

"Bof!" Exclaimed Nathalie, "It is you who wins the prize as fattest pig in the show!"

 

"Fatter than the fattest sow who wins the show," agreed Sylvie.

 

Now, even in La Belle France where the female with ample curves is the source of much admiration, to call a lady fat and to liken her to a fat sow is an action which is unlikely to pass by without retribution.

 

"Conasse," hissed Solange, and "Salope!"

 

"Who is it that you are calling the salope," said Nathalie.

 

"It is you that is the salope," replied Solange, clarifying the fact that Sylvie was the conasse.

 

"Ladies, ladies!" admonished Big Jean-Claude alarmed by the turn that events were taking, "Ladies, please, let us have no more mention of these things."

 

But he was too late.

 

"Conasse. Salope," said Solange again.

 

Nathalie was not a girl who was wont to fits of unbridled rage, but when they did occur they were apt to be truly unbridled. There was only one thing to bring down a fat sow like Solange. She grabbed hold of the front of her dress and yanked down. The thin shoulder straps snapped and the dress dropped to the floor.

 

Little Jean-Claude gasped. That which had been said about the petite robe noire was true. Solange stood before him completely naked.

 

What does a girl do when she suddenly finds herself exposed naked in the presence of gentlemen. Solange could think of only one thing. She decided to faint. Decorously of course. One hand to her forehead, a low moan escaping the lips and a gentle descent to the floor

 

She lay in the position that she considered the most likely to gain the coveted prize: right arm behind her head, held so that her golden orbs were uplifted and shown off to greatest effect, left leg turned out to give give a glimpse of the treasure that lay beneath the triangle of dark curls that adorned her womanly charms.

 

Sylvie shrieked!

 

"M'mselle Solange has collapsed! Do something Monsieur Jean-Claude."

 

"What?" replied both Jean-Claudes simultaneously.

 

"Chest massage!" wailed Sylvie.

 

Now, a gentleman who is actually requested to massage the chest of a naked lady does not hesitate to do so, and the Jean-Claudes leapt as one to the rescue colliding in mid-air as they did so. It might be thought that the superior physical attributes of Big Jean-Claude would have triumphed in such a situation, but in fact it was the greater velocity of Little Jean-Claude that won the day. Big Jean-Claude bounced backwards and Little Jean-Claude surveyed the prize of M'mselle Solange's bare chest.

 

It was only at this point that it occurred to him that he had no idea how to do chest massage. It is true that he had seen it done on that American television programme, but that was the sum total of his knowledge.

 

Tentatively he took one golden orb in each hand and started to massage them gently. In a few moments he had somehow warmed to his task. As had been the case when he had been required to rescue M'mselle Solange by smearing her naked body with butter he felt that virtue sometimes brought its own reward. His massaging became more vigorous until...

 

Bang, crash, clatter!

 

And.

 

"Monsieur Jean-Claude. What is it that you are doing there?"

 

Little Jean-Claude looked round and his horrified gaze fell upon the stony glare of Mme Cloporte, a tray of shattered tea cups, broken plates and crumbs of Madeleine cakes at her feet. Behind her, with a glare which was not best described as stony, stood the corpulent figure of Mgr Grasse.

 

For Big Jean-Claude there was but one thing he must do. It would be a cardinal sin were the Monsignor to catch a glimpse of M'mselle Solange's 'Origine du monde' as the painter described it. Leaping towards the prostrate figure he placed his hand firmly over the offending spot hiding the raven curls from view.

 

For Solange feigning an evanouissement was proving a strange experience for she felt one hand on each of her most private areas. What was she to do! Her mind was soon made up for her.

 

"M'mselle Solange has fainted," bleated Little Jean-Claude hopelessly. He felt his tenure of the room at Mme Cloporte's would soon be at an end.

 

Mme Cloporte snorted. Secretaries indeed! And she had thought Monsieur Jean-Claude such a sober gentleman.

 

Mgr Grasse stood bouche beante at the sight of the naked lady. He had not seen such a sight since, well... A week last Tuesday.

 

"Perhaps the kiss of life! Bouche a bouche!" He added hopefully.

 

Solange felt, when confronted with the prospect of a kiss from an overweight clergyman added to the hands on her womanly charms, that the time had come to recover.

 

She sat bolt upright sending Little Jean-Claude flying. And then standing in that charming pose adopted by naked ladies in all the best pictures of the great masters, right arm across her golden orbs, left hand concealing her raven curls, leg bent and hip thrust out she whispered, "Thank you so much gentlemen. I really don't know what came over me!"

 

Big Jean-Claude and Little Jean-Claude sat at the table, faces gleaming. They had decided that the competition should be declared a tie and all should have prizes. An evening entertaining three of the most beautiful ladies in Paris. A prize for everyone indeed.

 

Across the table the girls stared morosely at each other. Men! Gourmet dinner, opera, ballet! They should have known better. As they stared across at the stage M'mselle Fifi had nearly finished her act. She had only one article of clothing left on.

 

"Miss, Miss," cried Solange vainly at the waitress walking by, "we ordered champagne thirty minutes ago."

 

But the girl walked past unconcerned. There were American tourists to serve.


Submitted: August 16, 2020

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