Trust in Hans

Rachel escaped the hustle of the foot traffic on Rue Cermieux when she turned down the narrow cobble stoned alley. It had no signage, but it was the first left after the Cafe de Flore, as per the hand-drawn map she clutched. Wary of the uneven ground under her heels, she made her way carefully into the ever quieter, ever darker alley. Near the end she found a faded sign announcing the entrance to the famous Hans Claudelle’s studio.

Closing the stout door behind her, the world fell silent, and she was greeted by a descending wooden staircase. She spent a moment taking stock and perhaps considering her decision for the last time.

To model for such a renowned artist was an opportunity very few had ever been given. As an art student, she was more aware than most of the man’s notoriety, and how she would be immediately cast into the art world’s spotlight. Not just momentarily, as this year’s news, but forever. Her form would be preserved for centuries. She wondered if that was the reason she had second thoughts, rather than the unique artistic process itself. It had always been the process; she told herself, that was the hardest challenge to overcome. Hans could sculpt the human form so precisely and imbue it with so much life that gallery patrons could be forgiven for thinking it was a living, breathing person. And when those marveling at his work discovered he’d been blind since birth, most wouldn’t believe it.

Rachel believed it. Because she, like many in the tight-knit community of Parisian artists, knew that he sculpted such realism through touch. Not just touching the clay, of course, but the human he breathed into the clay. Could a sighted artist do the same, perhaps, if blindfolded? No they could not. It had been tried. None could create the same beauty as Hans, no matter how many or few senses they had. Anyway, she’d processed and reconciled herself to the idea that she’d have the artist’s hands all over her body as he worked. But could she also reconcile the fact that her naked form would be viewed by thousands, if not millions, over the years to come?

Checking her skirt and blouse, and blowing a loose strand of blonde hair from her face, she decided that yes, she could, and she made her way down the stairs.

Pressing the small button next to the door at the bottom of the stairs, she breathed deeply of the dusty, dry air. The bell that chimed sweetly from inside the studio sounded more like a bird chirping. And then the famous man himself opened the door to greet her.

Older than the pictures she’d seen of him, he still carried himself without a hint of frailty. He likely sensed he was a few inches shorter than Rachel, because he looked up, right into her eyes when he said, “You must be the delightful Rachel your tutors have told me all about.” His own, unseeing eyes were milky white and may have been quite disconcerting had she not been prepared.

“Yes, I am, Mister Claudelle,” she said, wondering if a handshake was appropriate. But he hadn’t offered his. One wrinkled hand held onto door frame, the other brushed absently at his linen, clay stained shirt. If his reputation didn’t proceed him, he could be any normal blind man of seventy, shambling around Paris in those baggy pants and cinched leather belt.

“Please, call me Hans, dear,” he said, and now the idle hand came up, palm outward, and she somehow knew to lean in and accept it on her face.

The facial exploration was light. A gentle patting. Only what was necessary, she assumed. He took his hand away. “Lovely cheekbones!” he surmised and turned around. “Come into my lair, said the spider to…” but he stopped, and instead chuckled. “Sorry, I promised myself I wouldn’t be silly.”

But his quip had helped put Rachel at ease. That, and the quaint little studio he was beckoning her into. Leading up to this big day, she’d volunteered as a life model for a drawing class at the Beaux-Arts de Paris. The experience had not helped steel her nerves. The studio had felt open, cold, as she’d stood on a plinth in the centre, exposed and surrounded by students behind their canvases. This was the antithesis of that. It was small, cozy and warm, courtesy of a battered bar heater glowing orange in the corner. The two naked light bulbs hanging from a rafter were of the old-fashioned variety, not the new glaring white eco-bulbs. These bathed the room in a subdued yellow of insufficient strength to chase the shadows out of the corners. Plaster was cracking and falling from the roughly rendered walls onto the workbench that circumnavigated the room. It also dusted the small two-seater sofa that rested against the far wall. Rachel assumed he either didn’t know about the mess, or he didn’t care. Probably the latter.

In the centre of the room stood a low plinth, much like the one in the life-drawing studio, but far less intimidating in this environment. Next to it, on a pinewood pallet, a tall pile of clay bricks, each wrapped in plastic film. And beside them an old, threadbare, office chair on wheels.

Hans indicated the sofa, inviting Rachel to sit down. “Can I offer you a coffee, dear?” he said, heading to the end of a workbench that held a small sink, kettle, and various jars of beverage ingredients. He flicked the kettle on. “Or a mineral water, perhaps?”

“A water would be lovely,” thank you. She began brushing plaster dust off the sofa, but then thought better of it. If he heard her, he might think she viewed the place as unclean and take offense.

As if reading her mind, Hans apologised, “I’m afraid you’ll find the studio somewhat of a shambles. You might choose clothes more casual that a skirt and blouse next time.” He swept aside a small net curtain under the bench and opened the ancient little fridge behind it.

She had to ask, “How do you know what I‘m wearing?”

He covered the distance across the hardwood floor in a few confident steps and held the bottle of water out to her, before explaining. “From the sound your thighs make when they rub together as you walk. They are bare. So you’re not wearing trousers, or jeans, or whatever today’s fashion is.” He waved his hand dismissively. “And you’re in heels, of course. So that also suggests a skirt or a dress. But you’re visiting a blind man, so the need for an elegant, or even just pretty dress is quite redundant. Therefore, a practical skirt.” He smiled at her, his cheeks wrinkling around the corners of his mouth to match the permanent crow’s feet at either side of his eyes. “The blouse was easier. My hand brushed the collar when I felt your face. I doubt it’s a business shirt. It will be a very simple, modest blouse to match the skirt,” he nodded, satisfied with himself, and did an about turn to tend to his boiling kettle.

“You’re right.” Rachel said, “And under it all, a bathing suit. As per your instructions.” She unscrewed the cap of her bottle and took a swig of cool water.

“Yes, the modesty suit, I call it.” Hans said as he prepared his cup of coffee, deftly finding everything by touch. “You might prefer to wear it during the early sessions when the work is being formed without granular detail.” He poured the steaming water into his ceramic mug, stopping when it reached a centimeter from the rim. Rachel couldn’t help but be impressed by his precision. And even more so when he took the seat beside her without spilling a drop.

“Later,” he said more seriously, resting the mug on the arm of the sofa. “You’ll be nude. If I haven’t scared you off by then.” He sighed and turned to face her. “It pains me to ask the following, but it must be asked. If you decide against our little venture, can you do so as early as possible? There’s only so much sculpting left in these old hands. I think I have one more in me. And if we’re nearing the end and my beautiful butterfly flits away, well, that would be a very sad thing, no?” he took a sip of hot coffee, upper lip quivering before the anticipated heat.

Rachel promised herself she wouldn’t do that to him. Was it an unfair request, though? Could anyone predict how they’d react to an unfamiliar experience? She’d endured the life drawing class, but this was an entirely different thing. Anyway, she wasn’t about to reprocess all that now. Instead, she answered, “I won’t let you down, Mister Claudelle.”

“Hans, remember,” he said gently, “Perhaps after today you’ll know for sure, or decide you’re not the one. And then I’ll just be out a bottle of mineral water.” He chuckled.

Rachel smiled. “Maybe you’ll decide I’m not the one?”

“Hmm… I have an intuition.” He leaned back on the sofa, relaxing. “I know all old fossils say that. But mine tells me you’re the one. My last.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, and so it was him that spoke again. “Today, then, is measuring up. Relatively painless. We’ll cement all of your proportions in my old brain.” He tapped the side of his balding head. “Oh, some housekeeping notes — there are amenities in the Cafe de Flore. You might get to know them if you grab a bite before or after our sessions. And nobody will interrupt us down here either. You can be assured of that. But we’ll lock the door too. Hmm… what else? Oh, are you warm enough? Too warm? You have to tell me all these things. For all I know, this place feels like an oven to you.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Rachel said, easing into the situation.

He nodded. “Good. Well, keep me informed because I may forget to ask. Okay, let’s have the skirt and blouse off, please. Shoes too. There’s a hanger somewhere on that other wall, or at least there was, its been a while.”

Spying it, Rachel said, “I got it,” and stood, leaving the mineral water where she’d sat. Unbuttoning the blouse and unzipping her skirt didn’t make her nearly as self conscious as it might have if she’d been in her underwear rather than a swimsuit. She hung them on the hook, kicked her shoes off under it, and went to stand beside the clay bricks.

“Back to me, dear. Bring the chair to sit on,” Hans said. “I try to refrain from bouncing up and down off this couch like a yoyo. Now that I’ve sat here, I’ll finish my coffee, but we can start with your feet.”

Rachel had a random vision of him bouncing up and down on and off his sofa and suppressed a chuckle. She wheeled the office chair in front of him and sat on it. He leaned forward and found her calf, lifting her foot and resting it on the edge of the sofa between his legs. His wrinkled hands were surprisingly smooth against her skin, and she had no urge to flinch.

He explored her foot, tracing a line from each toe to her ankle, and then the width at its widest, and the narrowest cross sections. Then he rubbed each toe with his thumb. All the while grunting and nodding to himself. As he was doing the same with her other foot, she realised that this level of exploration would probably apply to her whole body.

“Shank’s pony, the English call feet,” Hans said after completing his examination. He drained the rest of his coffee and pushed himself up. “Strange reference, don’t you think? I mean, I understand the pony part, being a mode of transport, but who was Shank?

“Can I take that mug for you?” Rachel asked, wanting to help.

Hans raised an eyebrow over a milky eye. “You can do no such thing!” he huffed. “You’re the leading lady of this show, not a stagehand.”

Having tossed the empty vessel, clattering, into the sink, he motioned her to the centre of the room and pushed the chair back beside her. Rachel took a deep breath.

“There’s pretty much only one house rule,” he said, hands in his lap. “You tell me if you’re uncomfortable. Do not brave it out, only to mull it over years from now and regret the life choices that led to an old man feeling you up.” He grunted. “Apologies for putting it so crudely.”

“I’ll tell you if I’m uncomfortable.” Rachel said firmly.

And with that, the rest of the measuring was underway. He felt up her calves, spending quite a while on her knees, all the while nodding and mumbling. He’d circle around her in the chair with almost no effort. It seemed to orbit her by sheer force of will. At her thighs, he used both hands around each to measure their circumference. The pair of hands moved up until the one on the inside was stopped by her crotch. She breathed a little heavier, as that hand remained in position, the side of his finger pressed right where the edge of the swimsuit’s gusset met her skin. The other hand moved higher up the outside, over her hip.

And then to the other thigh, and hip, and another finger pressed there, right up in her crotch. When she checked, his face bore the same focused expression. He smiled at her, somehow knowing she’d looked down at that moment. “Hips not afraid of the work required for birthing a child. Or even the work required for the conception of one. No?” Before she could take offense, although she wouldn’t have, he continued. “You have strong legs too. I’m thinking you cycle. Please tell me you cycle through our beautiful city or the surrounding countryside, rather than just go to the gymnasium?” Another mix of formal terms in jovial quips. It was no doubt one of those endearing qualities unique to old men.

“I cycle,” she said. “On the weekends.” And then his hands were on her buttocks, palms flat against them, fingers spread. It was almost as if he were measuring the weight of things as well as the surface area. She sensed his appreciation for her form. Her shape.

She couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath when one hand slipped between her legs from behind. Now her whole mound, her sex, was contained under his four fingers. Afraid to breath out, lest it betray her bashfulness, she refused her lungs their release.

He let go, murmuring “Alas, I’m not Le Chevalier qui fist parler les cons”. And Rachel felt her face redden as he added, “But I can mold them”.

Surely he must know that, as an art student, she was well aware of that 13th century French tale. Le Chevalier qui fist parler les cons, or “The Knight who could make cunts speak.”

Again, he sensed her reaction. “That was naughty of me,” he apologised. “A clumsy icebreaker.’”

“It was clever.” She said, determined not to be a prude.

The hand withdrew, joined its partner, and they both moved up her back, at the sides, rib by rib. He had to stand to reach higher. Still behind her, cupping her breasts, he grunted again.

Her face was re-explored, and his fingers running through her hair relaxed her again in an instant. This close she cold smell his coffee, and behind that, the mellow scent of whisky. All mixed with a musky aroma she’d always described as “maleness”

Sitting back in the chair, he sighed. “You, my dear, are perfect. In body, and dare I say in soul too. I can detect as much. Now..” he patted the pile of clay next to her. “I can’t replicate your soul. I am not God. But I can replicate your body, so that it may be preserved in time. Because you deserve that, at least. If you’ll trust me?”

When she replied ”I trust you,” the unwritten contract had been signed.

— -

Rachel wasn’t required by Hans until Saturday morning, three days later. After purchasing two croissants at the cafe, one for the sculptor, she headed down the stairs. Today she wore track pants and tee shirt over her bathing suit and felt much more comfortable. Upon answering the bell, Hans presented her with a key.

“The leading lady doesn’t press doorbells.He said. “Sorry I forgot to give it to you last time.”

Over his shoulder, the tower of clay bricks had been transformed into an approximation of a young woman. More specifically, Rachel.

Her first job was to stand next to it to compare heights. It was no surprise that they were exactly the same. It also appeared that the other bodily proportions matched hers. There was no detail yet, on the face, or the rest of the anatomy. The thing reminded her of an old science fiction movie that featured humans being manufactured by aliens.

He accepted his croissant gracefully, and in turn, she accepted a cup of coffee. They sat on the sofa with their simple breakfast. When he seemed content not to say anything, Rachel tried. “You’re not going to make my bum too big, are you?”

“I’m going to make your bum exactly as it is,” he said, looking down at the subject in question as if he could see it. “Some folks say that I add interpretation into my work, because it would be impossible to render the real thing so exquisitely.” He took another sip. “I don’t. I’m less of an artist and more of a copier. Even fraudulent, No? How dare I make a carbon copy of something and present it as art?”

His latest model thought for a moment. “That’s being harsh on yourself, I think.”

He grunted. “Every artist is their own harshest critic. I’m no exception. And it’s better that I copy you exactly rather than make your bum too big.” He smiled as she giggled.

This second session was more about shape, and his hands lingered longer. She was pleased that he didn’t patronize her by repeating the warnings about how intimate the process was and how she could back out at any time. He simply went about his business. She was a consenting adult, but they both knew she could remove that consent at any time.

He would alternate between feeling her and working on the clay rendition. The feet alone took an hour, molding the toes to much closer approximations. And then the legs another half hour as pinched clay from various parts and added it somewhere else, smoothing it with a wooden trowel. Then back to her for confirmation, his fingers splayed across her thighs. They took a break, and Rachel stretched her muscles and sat down to rest her feet while Hans fussed around the clay model. It amused her when he sometimes darted over to the sofa, felt one of her knees, and then darted back. ‘He’s a bit of a yoyo after all,’ she thought.

When she stood again, he worked with her bottom, often cupping each buttock and contemplating for a while. He even pulled her swimsuit to the middle and re-tested the feel of her buttocks, now bare. After making an adjustment over on the clay figure, he returned and, with no preamble, slid his hand between her legs like the first time, from behind. But now it lingered, and felt the shape of her pubic mound, his fingers pressing gently on her. He wheeled around on his chair to the front and did the same. Hand between her legs, fingers pressed up, palm against her sex. He nodded to himself and went back to the clay.

“Just a little while longer for today,” he reassured her, as he explored the shape of her breasts. “Perfunctory only,” he said. The fabric hides the bosom’s shape from us. Our next session will address that, because it will be nude, by the way.”

“Okay” was all Rachel could think of as a reply. And then she remembered a question. “Do you want me to shave?” she asked quietly. “You know, down there.”

He shook his head. “Not until I’ve discovered what we’re working with,” he said, cryptically.

— -

On the morning of the third session, the young man behind the counter of the cafe asked if she had a busy day ahead. She was tempted to answer with, “Nope, I’m just stripping off for an old man to feel me up,” but settled for “Not really” instead.

It felt strange letting herself in with the key, so she pressed the doorbell as she did it. Hans was hovering over the kettle, preparing their coffee.

She handed him a croissant and then admired her clay doppelgänger. It was really starting to look like her now. He’d been working on the face from memory, and she could see a resemblance. The breasts and pubic area were just generic , and she supposed that today’s session would improve those.

The coffee tasted wonderful. Rich and bitter, it sent a buzz through her body. At least that’s where she told herself the buzz was coming from. She’d had a sleepless night, pondering this moment. Not so much with dread, but with anticipation. The time had come to prove her mettle. To give herself over to art. She wondered what her mother would think if she ever found out, but cast that thought from her mind. This wasn’t about her mother, or anyone else. This was about her and Hans.

And so while he washed his hands, she took her track pants, tee shirt, bra and knickers off before he asked her to. Standing in the centre of the small, cozy studio, she felt… at home. Even though she’d never stood nude like this in the middle of her own apartment.

The session started much like the others. She wasn’t sure why she expected otherwise. Her artist spent time again on her toes and feet, then legs. His touch was no different, and yet it tingled her skin. Because she knew that higher up, there was nothing BUT skin.

And again he did not doubt her commitment. After exploring the shape of her bare buttocks without having to pull the swimsuit to the middle, his hand slid up between her legs. This time his four fingers pressed right against her bare sex, nestling in her hair, and his thumb bent back against her taint. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes. His palm felt warm, pushed firmly against her lower lips. It was sending tingles through her, spreading from her crotch to her belly and beyond. Even her fingertips tingled. There was no mistaking what it was.

Arousal. Plain and simple.

To be this exposed. This revealed. And have his hand on her. As kindly and professional as he was, he was still pretty much a stranger. She had a stranger’s hand pressed against her bare fanny. It was… surreal, dangerous, and exciting all at the same time. She felt a familiar dull burn right at the back of her sex. Deep inside her. A warmth looking for an exit. It crawled forward, fueled by re-directed blood.

‘Oh god’ she thought. ‘He’s going to make me wet.’

As the first wave of panic swept over her, Hans nodded and wheeled himself around to the front, giving her a moment’s reprieve. She realised she’d been holding her breath and exhaled. When she breathed in again, he looked up at her.

“Arousal is a natural reaction.” He said kindly. “It’s of no consequence; do not worry, dear. Although I suppose it might be rather frustrating, I’m sorry.”

She tried to smile and scolded herself for thanking the heavens he couldn’t see her scarlet face. And her shame was replaced by guilt at deriving relief from someone else’s disability. ‘Grow up!’ she yelled in her head. ‘For goodness’ sake, the man’s doing his best to help you cope. You need to come to the party. You’re not in high school anymore.’

And so she said. “Thank you. It is rather embarrassing, but I’ll survive.”

“Indeed, you will,” he said, tracing his fingertips down her belly and through her pubic hair. Her rotated his hand, so the fingers pointed down, and slid the longest between her lips, separating them gently as it made its way down. Another nod from him and a little noise, like a grunt, but softer.

He patted her on the fanny as he might on the shoulder or knee. “If I can be tediously clinical for a moment. Your female anatomy is exquisitely formed. Yes, shave before next time. We’ll present you sans-hair, in all your anatomical glory.”

The most startling feeling of the entire experience was the absolute least expected…

It was the regret she felt when he took his hand off her.

— -

The days and nights before the next session were spent trying to reject feelings of shame that resulted from her looking forward to it. She grew tired of her self-accusatory interrogations. On the morning of the session, she came to a conclusion as she left for the studio. If the work aroused her, then good! So what? There were worse things to be turned on by. Plenty of weirdos and freaks out there that got off on all kinds of stuff. She was not among them. She and Hans were creating art. And now it was turning her on. Big deal. As she unlocked the studio door, she wondered if it also turned him on. But that was a question she’d never ask, no matter how bold she’d become.

The familiar scents of clay, coffee, faint whisky and husky maleness greeted her as she walked in. Hans was sitting on the sofa with his steaming mug. Hers waited on the workbench for her. Before she joined him, she was drawn to her clay version. Now it really was almost a spitting image of her. It was remarkable. Where previously there had been hints of detail, placeholders or just generic shapes for eyes, nose and mouth, they’d been made real. And they’d been made hers. She could tell he was still working on the breasts and lower genital area, because she could see thumbprints in the clay there.

Circling around it, she thought the bottom looked complete and said so. “You didn’t make my bum too big then.”

He rolled his milky eyes in an exaggerated gesture. “Of course not. I told you. It’s YOUR bum.”

She undressed. He washed his hands, and they settled into their routine. It turned out her bum wasn’t quite finished, as he spent some time exploring the shape of her buttocks, especially where they met her upper thighs. And then further in and under. With that complete, he came around to the front. When his hand felt her hairless skin, he nodded. “Well done. A pubis mons as smooth as silk!”

“You can’t beat wax,” she said, her breath starting to quicken. “Painful though.”

He pressed his open hand to her. Fingertips on her belly, palm covering the rise of her pubis mons as he called it, and the heel of the palm pushed against her lips. “Well, thank you for enduring that,” he said gently, “And this too, although I’d hope this is more agreeable.”

‘Agreeable,’ Rachel thought, was the understatement of the year.

Again she mulled over how his wrinkled fingers felt so smooth against her. She cast her gaze up to the roof beams as his finger slid between her lips. There was no stopping the oncoming wetness, and she gave into it. When she glanced down to see if he’d noticed, he was wiping his hand on a towel. And of course, he sensed she was looking.

“It can colour the clay,” he explained, with no need to say what exactly. She cringed and whispered, “Sorry,”. to which he replied. “I really hope you’re not sorry, dear. There is no need to be. Of all the things I’ve ever had to wipe from these old hands, this is by far the most pleasant.” He grinned and then added, perhaps out of mischief. “And the scent of you is…divine.”

“Yes, well, “Rachel murmured bravely, “you might not be able to make them speak, but you can certainly make them wet.”

“Ha!” Hans laughed as he shifted focus to her clay form and worked on its sex.

The disappointment that descended over her when Hans said she had made it to the end of the session was overwhelming. It was going to be a depressing anti-climax, having to return to her empty apartment. With cheeks blushing, she asked. “Could I stay a while and watch you work?”

He answered with an open arm towards the sofa, without pausing his work.

“Thanks,” she said and settled into her usual side of the comfy sofa. She didn’t even want to get dressed, as that would signal the end of her involvement today and she didn’t want it to end.

The warm buzz in her crotch still hummed away. And with her legs tucked underneath her bottom, she could still sneak a hand between them, her index finger sliding just where his had.

Hans paid her no attention, or at least she thought he didn’t, as she sneakily pleasured herself. When he’d finished replicating her perfect vulva in clay, he washed his hands and came to sit next to her. She stopped her play.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he whispered. “Nature should be allowed to take its course. Even with a helping hand eh?”

With a deep breath, Rachel bit her bottom lip and said. “Sometimes you can be a very naughty old man, as well as a brilliant artist.”

He shrugged and leaned back, enjoying his rest, and wriggling the strain from his fingers.

Feeling a closeness that was more than their physical proximity, Rachel snuggled into him, her head on his shoulder, and she recommenced playing with herself.

Next to her, she could feel his breathing. Hear the slight catch with each exhale that suggested lungs at the end of their life. It seemed incongruous that a man of his age and his specific experience could feel so innocent. But that’s the sense he gave her. She couldn’t possibly bring herself to climax in his presence. It would somehow betray that innocence. She stopped her hand once again.

After a while, it became apparent she’d misinterpreted his demeanor, age, and frailty. There was an authenticity about him, a genuine good nature. But he was far from innocent and even further from being offended by what she might do. This was borne out when he sat up, abruptly lifted her some inches with a hand under each of her armpits and maneuvered her into his lap. She naturally sat forward, surprised. But he pushed her head back gently, down to his shoulder. “Let me,” he whispered, as she felt his other hand slide between her legs.

“Oh god” she moaned and closed her eyes.

His fingers. So soft. And more importantly, so… not hers.

Hans rubbed her expertly. Never too hard, but always with a firmness that drove her onward. She opened her legs wider for him, and he helped, pulling her closest leg further over by the knee. She was now completely at his mercy. She whimpered into his neck as his two fingers slid up and down between her lips. He found her clitoris with the pad of his wet forefinger and rubbed it with a touch so light that sometimes she wasn’t sure if his finger was even on it. But then a gentle press confirmed it was. Thus he brought her to the edge of climax. Her hips rocked involuntarily against his hand. She ached for fulfillment.

“Oh, Hans! Your fingers.” Rachel moaned. “I need them inside me. Please!”

“They’re yours,” he said, sliding them in. Filling her. She writhed against them, lifting her hips, as he pushed the heel of his palm firmly against her clit as an added stimulation.

“Oh, God. I’m going to cum,” she whimpered.

He smiled. “Yes, you are. And you’re going to cum well, my beautiful leading lady.”