Agent Eve Read online

  Julie Huleux

  Agent Eve

  Translated by Sophie Elizabeth Murten

  “Agent Eve”

  Written By Julie Huleux

  Copyright © 2017 Julie Huleux

  All rights reserved

  Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

  www.babelcube.com

  Translated by Sophie Elizabeth Murten

  “Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

  1

  “On stage in ten minutes!” a short man in a suit and tie shouted in English.

  Backstage the atmosphere was electric. Native tongues mixed in a slew of international curses, whilst the bodies of half-naked women bustled.

  Here, a makeup artist gave a last brushstroke on a charming face, like a perfectionist artist.

  There, two hairdressers coordinated their movements to curl up a bun of incredible style on the head of a sylph blonde.

  The last touch ups were given to clothes, to the skin of the still models themselves. A well-hidden needle, a foolish snip of the scissors, everything must be perfect. Perfectly magnificent.

  The 2000’s, the Asian market awakened. The emergence of a middle class multiplied demand for merchandises and dreams across this part of the world, notably in China, where - due to natural demand as much as capitalist causes - the nouveaux riches multiplied. They wanted the best the West had to offer. They wanted the luxury that was, until now, inaccessible to them. First came the big names and the prestigious fashion houses. Then later, they asserted their own identity through trends that resembled them.

  Before the future new wave K-pop, South Korea saw the potential of attention they could capture. And it began to attract the attention of its new clients from neighbouring countries with fashion shows of well-known, young proteges. Soon, what would be popular in the Land of Morning Calm would be in China and in Japan too.

  “Five minutes!” the suited man yelled backstage. “In line ladies!”

  The girls, each thinner than the next, tall, slender, unrealistically perfect, lined up before him in the order of the number given to their clothes. They were simply the human hat-stand, there to make them look good.

  Identical makeup, elegant hairstyles and the clothes straight from Paris or New-York. Retro-glam trends: evanescent evening gowns, satin, feathers and the rustling of silk.

  Cruise Collection.

  “Twenty-one, wait!” one of the dressmakers assistant’s cried.

  “Yes?”

  “You need more lipstick. Let’s have some lipstick added to that mouth,” she ordered the makeup artists.

  Instantly, three people swept down on the model wearing dress number 21. A young black woman, with a radiant smile and high cheek bones. Her impeccably drawn lips were enhanced with a fresh touch of lipstick. The same vibrant shade as the cocktail dress she was wearing. Long, made of chiffon, it left as much to the imagination as it followed the curves of her body. The skin of this woman, a chocolate brown, set off the sanguine colour of the dress. And that was exactly why she was hired.

  Her following outfit for the show that she would have to slip into in a hurry before the finale would be a sunny yellow. Once again, the effect would be striking.

  “One minute!” the suited man hollered.

  “That’s it, Eve, you can go,” a hairdresser clucked after adding a little hairspray to her bun.

  The black beauty winked at him complicity and went to get in line.

  Notes of music rose in the room and were heard all the way backstage, announcing the immediate start of the show.

  The small suited man held up his hands for the countdown. Ten, nine, eight…

  The dressmaker, Yann Le Goff, new talent of Yves Saint Laurent fashion house, bit his nails, glancing over the line of superb models wearing his collection. His first real high couture collection…

  Seven, six, five…

  It is Seoul, not Paris, he thought to reassure himself. But this was still his debut.

  Four, three, two…

  One!

  The girls set off one after the other, directed by the suited man who counted the seconds between each started onto the stage, to synchronise them with the music.

  It was the turn of the red dress and its black woman.

  She had swapped her luminous smile for an adorable pout of a luxury vacationer. A little haughty. Her head held high and with an intense gaze, she walked confidently with long, feline strides on the podium. She moved in an imaginary straight line, which gave her sway an uncommon allure.

  It was audacious to choose a model of African descent for a capsule collection presented in Asia. Eve knew it, she had bet everything on that, precisely, when she attended the auditions in South Korea. Once there, she was making sure to be seen by all. No one was going to regret hiring such a panther.

  Aged twenty-three, she was the oldest of the show. The others were almost babies. Some, still minors, were accompanied by their parents backstage. That is the world of fashion!

  And here, they were all playing grown-up to make the rich invitees present this evening want to buy themselves that dress, that ostrich leather clutch, those sandals with dizzyingly high heels, that detached image of femme fatale.

  At the end of the catwalk, Eve struck the ritual pose, a hand on her hip, before turning back. The camera flashed and crackled furiously. She glared at the audience with her black eyes, but in reality the violent light of the projectors set on her impedes her from distinguishing anyone. She did not see, sat in the first row somewhere between a journalist from Vogue Hong Kong and a influential fashionista, a man in his forties, with typically Asian traits flanked by two body-guards dressed in black, who had come especially for her.

  But she knew he was there, and it was for him that she flashed a crooked smile before turning around for her walk back.

  2

  That spring night was hot. Unless it was the memory of refined sheets in which a long figure stretched. Languidly, she stuck out a foot followed by a naked leg from under the white Egyptian cotton.

  The movement, just like the stunning contrast with her skin, attracted the gaze of the man sat at a designer but austere desk facing the bed. He liked watching her sleep, like one savours the abandon in which a handsome cat sleeps.

  “Insomnia, my love?” the young woman whispered languidly.

  “Work,” he answered.

  He closed his laptop softly and placed his fountain pen on the three sheets occupying the desk, no doubt judging that the sales figures could wait for a few hours.

  His black silk kimono gave him the appearance of a legendary Japanese warrior. A samurai. That was at least the idea he liked to give of himself.

  The business world was ferocious. The image of the man at the head of a company counted almost as much as the corporation’s performance. Everyone wanted their slice of the cake, and the strong devoured the weak. One must show strength. Virility too, and a certain audacity.

  On the subject, his latest conquest, this stunning black model, twenty years younger than him, was a delectable whim of a rich man. Just as one would buy oneself a beautiful car or a race horse. Only the creature in question, her body sensually wrapped in the sheets, was also skilled at love…

  So yes, the figures could wait.

  And that was exactly what she wanted.

  With her eyes half closed, she watched him though her eyelashes and smiled in the subdued light of the vast bedroom when she saw him get up to join her. She sat up a little and knowingly let the sheet slide over her chest. She barely caught it by the tip of her fingertips with a look of mock surprise, part of the game.

  “Tss tss,” the man scolded her, pulling the fabric from the beauty so the roundness of her breasts appeared.

&nbs
p; He brushed her with the back of his hand, pensive and delicate. Then he traced her with the curve of his palm, like an expert, before teasing her pointed nipple with a pinch.

  The young woman sighed, subdued by her desire. Her black eyes widened by the sudden awakening of sensuality. She ventured a hand over to him, and unbuckled the silky belt that closed the kimono. Her fingers were already reaching to conquer this male body, naked under the fabric.

  “Come here,” she begged him in a murmur, her mouth reaching for kisses.

  He took her offered lips like a trophy. Conquering, he slid his tongue in with authority, and she purred under the assault.

  She knew she still had the right to touch him at this stage of foreplay. Over the past four months she had had more than enough time to grasp his mannerisms and his way of working. Even in bed. And that may be the most important part. As he took her face in both hands to kiss her, she ran her fingers over his shoulders that she uncovered with a slide of silk. The black kimono sprawled noiselessly on the edge of the bed, revealing the gnarled body of a man with a tiger tattoo. The animal, inked in colour, extended from the scapula to the chest as if it were descending from the low branch of a century-old tree. Not particularly menacing, it was nonetheless worrying with its enormous paws, open jaw and revealing white teeth.

  The dense muscles of his arms betrayed the hours of Taekwondo the business man made himself include in his timetable. His torso and well-drawn abs were a treat to skim with ones fingertips. The young woman continued her caresses lower down, in the V where muscles met, the hairs soft and short, until she reached the beginning of an erection. The man groaned against her mouth at this electric touch. He let his hands melt into her long, iron-straightened hair and freed her from his addictive kisses. She allowed herself one more initiative and retraced the path of her fingers with her full lips. The humidity of her brown mouth and the tip of her pink tongue, down his treasure trail.

  The Asian man shivered, his face lifted to the ceiling and his eyes closed, when the beauty took his penis into her mouth. Softly, at first, the sensitive tip, whilst she held the rest in her hand. Then more courageously, as soon as his erection increased. Lips like that, succulent and appealing, are a call for crime. Made for giving such pleasures, he was convinced. It was actually the first thing that pleased him about her. Never before had he taken a coloured conquest. But at the sight of that mouth, ah, the temptation to taste it was too great. And at that moment, whilst she savoured him like an ice cream with application and delight, her big black eyes open and smiling, he did not regret having given in.

  To let oneself be taken over, however, was out of the question. He felt his pleasure mounting with the rhythm of the beauty’s instances, and when he felt it was enough, he clasped her hair more firmly. The young woman regretfully stopped her caressing, and left the proudly upright penis with one last wet kiss. She had no time to sigh in frustration as the man pulled her face up to his and bit her mouth that was so adored.

  She moaned at the burning show of desire, and panted when he let go of her lips with the same harshness with which he took possession of them.

  With his steady hands, the lover gave the orders. Without a word, without any particular tenderness or anger. With a skilled manipulation of her slender ankles and delicate wrists, he guided her to her knees and then to all-fours on the pale sheets, crumpled like the foam of a rough sea. There was the opening of a condom package, and in the following instant with no more prelude, he sunk into the soaked and offered vulva with the full length of his penis. It was so tight, despite the beauty’s spread legs, that he almost came immediately.

  This girl was bewitching. He thought he was taking her, but it was she who possed him. He lost all self-control when he dove into her. Everything he was holding back and every calculation. He, in control in the day-to-day of things, was no longer anything but an animal guided by instinct between the perfect outline of her dark thighs. This observation hit him in a flash of lucidity before he started an irresistible back and forth.

  And with her face in the feathered pillow, her magnificent arched back, bum stuck out and her hips that the man was holding onto as he penetrated her with growing excitement, Eve, once again, smiled…

  3

  The big white sedan stopped in front of the palace door where the show would take place that night. Its driver got out calmly to open the back door. Tall, muscly with broad shoulders, the man closed the button on his black suit before inviting the passenger to get out of the vehicle.

  Eve took his hand to extract herself from the alcantra covered-seat. An electric discharge tickled her fingers at the contact and she stopped suddenly in the first step she took. That sensation was nothing but the effect of static electricity from clothes, an inconvenience due to the partially synthetic material of her blouse, worn over a simple pair of jeans. But the young woman stopped, her hand slid on the palm of her driver for the day and held his gaze.

  “Is everything okay, Miss?” the man whispered in a deep and hushed voice.

  “No. You did not make up my tardiness,” she retorted, taking back her hand with disdain.

  “Almost, Miss. Almost…”

  Fleetingly, a crooked smile flashed on the closely-shaved face.

  Il-Sung, her super-rich boyfriend of the moment, regularly changed her staff. The Korean did not give his trust easily, and clearly did not want her to get attached to the henchmen around her. In his forties, he had experience with young women. There was surely one that had been sleeping with a bodyguard. Given the build of the men of the profession and their devotion that went beyond the standard, the temptation to taste one of those morsels was understandable.

  Her chauffeur of the day was a man she had already seen with Il-Sung. A white man, a little over thirty. He had a shaved head, distinguished features with an extremely piercing watery green gaze, and his tanned complexion made it difficult to determine his background. Six foot two of chiselled body. He was an all-purpose mercenary. And even though he spoke to her with an even tone in agreement with his status and function, she had crossed his gaze over the past few months and had seemed to detect a touch of brazenness.

  Eve frowned and grabbed her luxury handbag before leaving her chauffeur without further consideration.

  She passed through the sliding door of the main entrance supremely, with arrogance and perched on stilettos. The ease of a woman used to high quality.

  “It sleeps with a big fish and thinks it can do what it likes?” one of the other models attacked her directly when she arrived backstage.

  “Are you sleeping badly at the moment, darling?” Eve answered, looking worried for her colleague. “You look peaky. Makeup is going to struggle to improve your complexion.”

  “Bitch,” the other woman hissed with a venomous half-smile.

  The black beauty simply raised an eyebrow, amused by the sting.

  This show was very different to the previous one, and she was proud to also be a part of it. It was for a famous lingerie brand. The Asian and Western elite would be there and it promised to be grandiose. South Korea was trying so hard to be ‘the place to be’ that it accepted every extravagance. Even insuring the invaluable bra that would be the key to the show. It was a tiny piece of clothing, covered in mother-of-pearl and embroidered with wild pale pink pearls and that a certain model was chosen to wear.

  Given that lingerie models were older (chosen for their feminine shapes rather than for the slenderness of young girls), the atmosphere backstage should have been more professional than at a standard show. Usually, of course. When jealousy did not flare up among them. And there, Eve noticed the nods approving the acid welcome she received.

  She would have slapped one or two of them to unwind, but instead, she lifted her chin proudly and dared to smile before regaining her titled seat.

  The season of cruise collections was short. She would not have to look for allies this time…

  An hour and a half later, to contemporary music
and in a decor that hesitated between boudoir glamour and a certain modernist outline, the models walked under the spotlights.

  The runway was not straight, as was often the case. It undulated and was long, to enable several models to circulate at once and to stop in a curve, close to the public for a few moments, so it could admire the details or take a photo.

  Beautiful lace and noble fabrics lined up in every colour. Patent leather stilettos and garters made perfect accessories. Feathered boas, golden jewellery, or a teasing smile. The clever mix of styled but tousled hair of the models and the discreet, natural-looking makeup made them look like they had recently jumped out of bed. Their lips were barely coloured, as if they were bitten by love, with sparkling gazes and fresh complexions. The untied hairstyles were decorated here and there with a few pearls. A sign that announced the grande finale.

  With a step as languid as that of her fellow-models, she arrived: the pearl of this collection. The pearls, even. Hundreds of small, perfectly round pearls, hand-sown one-by-one on the small surface a bustier offers. The changing sheen of these wild gems was further pronounced against the dark skin of the woman wearing them. And the surprise was so prodigious that smothered exclamations arose from the muted audience.

  The desire was immediate. Jaws gaped, eyes widened, and the flashes were unleashed.

  The bustier was the masterpiece. Worn with a low-cut pantie made of refined lace, enhanced with pearls sown on the front. White stilettos and a double-strand necklace of the same pearls as her only piece of jewellery. Eve’s long slender legs and her uplifted chest do the outfit honour.

  She smiled delicately, in the role of a naive young woman, and offered the public a devilishly adorable bat of the eyelashes at each of her pauses. Her gaze lowered and tame lips, one would think butter would not melt in her mouth. She was superb. Virginal and princely. Mischievous and innocent. The perfect compromise. The anticipated effect for a piece of lingerie so unique and exorbitantly priced.