Laetitia Casta Pt. 01

Edited by Robert Reams

My name is Alex. Some years ago, when the international career of the top model Laetitia Casta was starting triumphantly, I happened to witness these extraordinary events.

My story begins in the heart of Africa, in the region where the Maasai tribes live. I have the task of assisting the Italian maestro photographer Federico Bertolucci, during the dauntingly hot photo shoots. We were sent to shoot a promo for swimsuits - in a desert, a hundred miles from the nearest beach! If you Google, you will find the pictures. Well... those that made it out of Africa! The French demoiselle is stunningly beautiful in these magazine spreads.

The crew and I have the task of setting up the camp and checking the gear. The site is in a rueful state, totally without proper lodging facilities. One of the rented RVs for the top models has been ditched because it broke down on the way here. Arriving in the Maasai village, we are greeted by many large smiles. The warmth of these people strikes at your heart; that unsettling feeling that you receive more than you can ever give back. If they had known that top models only care about themselves, they would have been more careful... Laetitia Casta's world is inhabited by princesses that would poison each other's lipstick!

The missing RV really torments the maestro, because one of the young ladies will have to share her space. And this cannot happen! Who would share lodging with a viper? The camp must be reorganized; a few of us will have to sleep in a tent. My tent was pulled right out of Second World War surplus. Hence, we work hard to prepare everything.

Having finally put everything in place, I walk to the village with my own camera, under the hottest Sun I have ever felt. I see first hand that the stories about the Maasai are true. They are a tall and strong people. I feel surrounded by giants! Am I a Hobbit with normal feet? Even the women are taller than I, and I am not an average size man! It is on that film that I capture the most interesting events: kids playing with home made toys, old men talking in the shadow of one of the two trees in the village -Shadows are an illusion- the heat and blazing light are constant. My forehead flows like the Nile River under a thousand suns. The Maasai do not mind it; I envy their thermal serenity.

I have to slow my pace, much slower than theirs! Walking is sluggish on the hard, dusty soil. It is hell for photography: shooting in bright light with so many highlights, then moving again, interludes of minimal effort trying not to sweat too much!

After I have spent half an hour touring the village, my boss calls me back to camp; the deities have arrived. I am so excited to see my first real top model. Not the ordinary model used for cheesy newspaper adds. Their personal assistants follow them. I could fall in love and marry any one of these girls! Like haughty Helens of Troy, any one of them could start a war with her beauty.

I think I can rest in peace now! I meet Laetitia for the first time when the producer makes the presentations. I observe her for what seems hours. It is as if she is a master's painting and I am at the Louvre. What a splendid young woman. The intense sun does not diminish her beauty. Her lightly coloured clothing makes her feel at ease in the heat. The outfit barely touches her skin, only lightly masking her delicate curves. She is charming, seems almost accessible to the common man such as I. My heart skips a beat when her tantalizing lips smile at us. My fool of a heart thinks I am the one she is smiling at!

I had first noticed her while preparing a mannequin shoot in Photography class. We were assigned to reproduce the set up from a magazine spread. Though I perused a myriad of magazines, only one image burned into my heart. Standing, sitting, lying in the middle of a bed of roses, or emerging from a bath surrounded by muscular men, Laetitia, the torrid French top model, was the only Mademoiselle I fantasized about.

-

Photo shoot

-

Night passes; the photo shoot preparation begins early in the morning. A colleague gathers a few Maasai men to surround Laetitia. I position the reflectors according to the maestro's orders. Laetitia looks straight into the lens. A few minutes later, she changes her station and so do I, reorienting panels, like my eyes following the girl of my dream. Now she lays on the ground, surrounded by tall black men, her light skin tone contrasting sharply with the Maasais' pitch-black skin. As the maestro commands me, I skip past Laetitia to remove rubble. That is as close as I will ever get to her. Worst, she does not notice me.

In her final pose, she is gazing off in the distance; supported six feet in the air by the big charcoal arms of four Maasai warriors she is looking far away Oh! I wish I could be one of them! Words fail to describe how it would feel to hold such a prodigiously curvy carnal woman. I imagine I am the warrior holding her bum, warm and barely covered by the tight bikini. Her pussy lips are so close I can smell her floral essence. Better: holding her upper body, caressing her hair and mostly peeking at her neckline. What a view, her two large breasts scarcely enveloped in a bikini. I would see her aureoles through the thin material, her nipples standing tight. That characteristic shadow down the middle of her boobs would complete the scene. Passion jutted from Laetitia.

* * *

A short break is called. Refreshments for everyone! A make-up artist rubs the dust from her lightly tanned skin. She heads to the improvised changing room, changing bikinis behind a simple white drape supported by four five foot piles.

I wish I could infiltrate that cotton booth. I would put my hands delicately on the bikini, exploring every square inch of her body, one by one, twice if necessary. The top of her naked shoulders, her delicate neck and her perpetual smile would be the only gifts visible from outside the booth. Inside, I kiss the girl of my dream. My strong hands would skim her spine north to south, sending a myriad of sparkles through Laetitia. With one swift move, I lift her in my muscular arms.

"It is only a dream Alex", she whispers.

"It should not be a dream, Laetitia. You should be mine!"

Backing up a bit in the cramped space, I take a better look at this dream. I admire her breasts: so generous, so in harmony with the proportions of her body. She has the hands of time ticking in her favour; she is young. Laetitia is always smiling as if her beauty could never diminish. I kiss her again with spirit, cupping her left breast as I drop to my knees, taking a gulp of it and of its twin nipple. With inspiration, I aim for her mons veneris. Then, my triumvirate makes contact: fingers, lips and tongue operate between her thighs. She exhales, eyes closed, savagely gripping the wood posts of the booth, yearning for more.

"Stay with me forever Alex."

My fingers are tactile antennae, searching for hot spots. They circle round and round her tits, other secret places. Mutual delight fills our bodies. Eyes shut; we give ourselves to each other without haste. In a dream, we have eternity to fondle. Any bystander would see Laetitia's silhouette stretching out and curling I toy with her heated lock. Her melodious moans now have effervesced from our secluded stand. Under the influence of my tongue and a few well-placed fingers she whispers soft words, some of them dirty. Even though I am on my knees, we are equals in this bubble of lust. Time. Laetitia grips my agile fingers. Stops. Laetitia drips.

The producer's whistle brings me back to reality. The sun really whacks me in Kenya! Time stops. Her heaving breasts make the most amazing shadow on my smile. Come on, this only happens in reverie. We get back to work for some time.

I actually am on my knees in front of Laetia, posing a light diffusor. She is wearing a new red brick bikini. Her sexy assistant removes the shoulder straps; the top stays up, but only thanks to her large bosom. Surrounded by twenty Maasai dressed as warriors (actually shepherds!), she holds a spear, not mine!

When the drums start, she turns, as if in a trance, dancing, Maasai men left and right of her. Laetitia seems extremely happy executing the traditional dance. All the men, Maasai, crew, and I are as pleased as could be. The dancers are jumping as high as possible, causing a very delightful reaction in Laetitia's breasts. The cheerful group chants at the top of their lungs.

Laetitia, or more precisely her generous characteristics, become the object of my blazing attention. I would have kept shots of this scene for myself, but I have to hold the reflectors. The hustle and bustle of the job is not the only thing getting my attention. Laetitia's body overflows with sensuality. Sincere pleasure in her performance shares her face with covert sultriness. The jumping, the strong physical exercise close to powerful men vitalizes her.

I am not only a photographer in training. I am also training my eye for the X-rated cinema of my dreams. Each time Laetitia's feet touch the earth, a small dusty cloud rises around her delicate ankles. The contraction of her thighs and calves awakens passion in me. Animal passion. As the tries to reach the sky, her hair swivels around furiously. The clinking of the camera tries to glimpse what the maestro calls, "The revelation", God only knows what that means.

Laetitia continues to jump up and down, and so do her luscious breasts, nearly leaving her bikini top on each ascent. The maestro may not be gay after all! The dance goes on and on. In the course of time, her arms lock to the spear, causing her sweet breasts to vibrate even harder. Almost out of the bikini! I wish I could put my hands on them! Reality is so much more exciting; I have completely abandoned my earlier fantasies. Her blue eyes exude sex; her level of excitement is also evident in her pointy nipples, pushing out hard under the top of the red bikini.

I am not the only one enthralled. All we men talk among ourselves about the possibility of sleeping with the models, though Mastro Bertolucci has strictly forbidden fraternization and he has possession of all our passports, the ass hole! Some worry the locals might get the girls first! Gathongo Oloro, our translator, says he is very happy to be here! I guess most foreign women on safari are in their fifties, not as pretty as a pack of young top models who were teens just a year or two ago.

Then, the maestro strikes gold, achieving perfect light, perfect shots. It's a lock for the day. My colleague and I pack up the equipment as the lovely girls head to their RVs. I get to eat canned food with the staff. The top models are in the chief's house for a small reception.

-

The Sun sets and the crew goes to the village for a ceremony. Placed in a circle, the tribesmen use signs to describe the dance they will perform. The men begin as I sit down, I feel dwarfed by them. They could all have been on a basketball team. Even the teenagers are taller than I! Tattoo patterns cover their skin as they all romp in the middle of our circle. Clapping with their hands and feet, they call the women. Some seem pretty warmed up and scream back at the men bawdily. The tom-toms set the rhythm. The night heats up.

When the male dancers stop, they pick up some of the crewmembers, including me. So we join them. Gradually, the beat begins to surge strongly through our bodies. We get carried on without much pride. The pleasure is even greater for the Maasai, since I can clearly hear them laughing at our lack of talent!

As I turn and gyrate in a crazy way that could seemingly send me to the nearest mental institute, I am that bad at dancing, I spot Laetitia. The men, stop in a line that places one man in front of every woman. Each man selects the woman before him as his dance partner. The torches flickers ever so gently Laetitia's face, golden and scarlet flashes across her body. Even in the dim faltering light I can easily see she is not wearing a bra under her flimsy ivory tank top. When I lay my green eyes on hers (what color), I know something special is happening.

"Focus!" I say to myself. "Keep eye contact! Do not stare at her boobs; every guy does that. Do not!"

"Hi Laetitia. I am Alex."

"Hi Alex!"

The heat of the dance, the heat of the night and the blazing fire have not rendered her sweaty or flushed like all the others. She is exceptional. My fingers touch hers and I feel refreshed. My heart quivers as we move around without rules. My smile grows and grows; I guess I could not look more stupid. The sort of stupidity any man feels near a beautiful woman. Every man present, black or white, is jealous of my luck; I do not want to screw it up. I try to waltz. Every man envies me; watches her body float in circles, dipping and swirling in my hands. I see only her expression of bottomless pleasure. Laetitia's mischievous hair bounces around her gorgeous face. She moves like fluid through the dance as she moves inside the circle. While I, clumsy and stupid, try to not step on her feet.

The sultry meandering of her hips brings to mind a belly dance. Every man round us around knows that nothing holds her breasts in place. Holding her by my hands, I try not to look too often at her bust moving freely under the white shirt. She draws me closer like a magnet. The dim flickering lighting from the torches casts sensual shadows all over her body. Too soon, the final moment of the ritual nears, if you ask me. The deep V-neck of her white shirt reveals the gap between her lovely breasts as she raises her hands in the dance. The rhythm accelerates. We stomp our feet faster, thrust elevate our arms higher. Her jiggling breasts display their shining aureoles through the thin shirt. Laetitia's hot sexy body strikes all men, but tonight, let it be me!

For me, she is an icon. For the Maasai, the contrast of her white skin, her glorious breasts, her hips wide enough to bare children and her cascading energy portray with the ideal wife. I see the lust, the heat in their eyes, the same as in mine when Laetitia's nipples peek through the thin top. All the women breathe out scorching euphoria like lionesses in heat. Laetitia is their queen.

-

Starry night

-

Later, in my mouldy tent, the night goes on and on. I am lonely like a hermit. I sleep, but not for long, my mind is still trying to wrap itself around my lucky dance with Laetitia. The moon illuminates my lonely sleeping bag through the myriad of holes in my tent. I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep without holding Laetitia in my arms once again. I take a walk outside, wishing I had my photo bag and tripod. I would have created magnificent night pictures of the landscape.

The air is warm. As I walk, crickets talk to me like fellow travellers. After a few minutes I reach the outskirts of the village. I see the chief's big hut in the distance. The small house of the translator is the first one I pass. I know it because some crewmember has tacked up a cardboard with his name on it: "Gathongo Oloro - Translator".

As I walk closer, distinct sounds come from within. The earthen walls made of earth would have normally concealed the sounds of coitus in process, but the savannah is a silent ear. In a shadow of the moon, I creep to an opening.

Peeking through the small opening, I see the very dark skin Maasai of the translator's back, his powerful stature. His long sculpted legs make an upside down V to a swinging and contracted ass, apparently pushing in and out of a woman. To be honest, this guy is hard to match. Between his legs, hangs an impressive sac of balls that swings out and slaps back, against a white girl's pussy!

-

Interracial swing

-

My heart pounds because of cries of pleasure I hear. The "Oh, Oui!" are obviously those of a French lady. Could it be Laetitia? I do not know but I hear again loud and clear the "Oh Oui!" interspersed by rough breaths. Clearly, the white woman, whoever she is, is achieving great pleasure from Gathongo's rapid thrusting. I know all the female assistants and producers. One of them must have slipped from their private RV to have an exotic experience. My heart nearly stops at the thought that the woman might be she, Laetitia! Impossible! I have the imagination of a sexually aroused man who cannot shag. I cannot bear to look and not know who she is so I make up my own story with the glimpses that I see.

Our tour manager, Isabelle Legrand, is a pretty and tiny woman. Usually sharp and stern, she is now getting it by a guy as black as the night. Just past thirty Isabelle wants a one of a kind experience in Kenya. Gathongo Oloro opens his door and sees the little woman with her reddish cheeks. A few wisps of her hair lay over her breasts, visible through her open chemisier. He looks her over greedily and draws her inside. The lonely lantern casts a shadow of her nice big tits on the wall. The French manager is eager to experience something different than her husband back in Paris.

Gathongo's smile has a double edge: a response to her captivating loveliness. He also he looks forward to the to honour he knows he must bestow on every woman that knocks on his door at One AM. He draws her to him; slowly, one button at the time, he undoes her blouse, fumbles with her large breasts. Kisses complete her greeting to the translator's shed. She is anxious; it is her first time naked in front of a black man. Her delicate hands cautiously flicker over the ebony skin of his sculpted abs. They are two white butterflies skimming with great temptations. He turns her around. Together, they look in the small mirror. He is proud of his coming conquest; she trembles with anticipation. Her bust, free of restraint, falls gently into tempting curves. Gathongo whistles like with the fever of a teen. She finds him strong and intriguing, two more reasons to get going.

"You are beautiful Isabelle. Esapuku Isabell sidai naleng," says Gathongo in his suave voice.

The primitive cadence of is voice sends shivers racing through her. He kneels before her to remove her skirt. His large hands rest on her full childbearing hips. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath; it will not be the last one. When the big black hands contact her belly, the game is on. She pushes his head against her dewy pussy and asks him:

"What do you think of me?"

"Eyeunoto oloiborry enjarwatai. Exciting white girl!"

While his tongue slips inside the French married woman, his hands rub her large breasts. He pinches her hard red nipples without asking for permission. A little shadow of a doubt tries to stop her and makes her want this even more. She pushes his head more tightly against her: her desire for the strong man does not fade away.

"Lay down," orders the ivory white woman.

She kneels right next to him and undoes his pants. Things are going so fast, too fast for the French manager. The white mom sees for the first time in her life a real black penis. She is stunned by its size and its weight; a small amount of fear catches her. Gathongo is pleased by the reaction of the soon cheating wife. Isabelle counts three hands before making the full length of the impressive summery member. He feels her fresh hands shake as she works his dick. She praises the Lord she will be able to fit it all!

"J'ai hâte de te sucer, I am loving it!"

"Nanu a-sheta o-sutua! I will fuck you all night Isabelle"

Gathongo feels like she is taking an eternity to bring her lips to his manhood. Ms. Legrand's jaws open achingly and then, she gets the tip of her moist tongue on his penis's sensitive skin. The translator exhales his relief with power: she has not changed her mind and she will be unfaithful until he is done with her. While she paints his spear with her dribble, Isabelle is fulfilling a deeply hidden desire. Events, past ones and those to come, race in head as she sucks passionately this Kenyan man. She is more and more pleased to rub her nails up and down against the hard shaft. To possess such a large apparatus is something Isabelle could only dream of. It is real and it is arousing her more at every touch of his dark skin.