Chapter 13

Peggy waited outside James Brewster Atwood's studio door, standing there, moving to inaudible music, trying with childish desperation, not to anticipate too much. In her small existence anticipation had only been disappointment. Her whole life was an accumulation of disappointments. Except for that first visit to the Atwood studio.

She had come down those stairs originally quite full of a very specific day dream-and had been astonished and delighted that it had materialized. Perhaps not quite as she had so neatly manicured it in her day dream, but with equally astonishing and quite satisfying results.

And here was the second time. Peggy had special qualms about this visit and its outcome. In her experience a miracle never happened once, let alone twice. So she was prepared to accept the bitterness of reality. Her young life had been rather uncomfortably stuffed with realities.

And yet she could hope, couldn't she?

So she was grinning her most impish, her heart-stopping plea for understanding when James Brewster Atwood hauled open his door and stared blearily out at her. "Huh? Who?" He consulted a hairy wrist innocent of watch, squinting sleep-drugged eyes. "Do you know what time it is? Practically dawn. Go 'way..."

"Oh!" Peggy drew a shuddering breath that crowded and shook her small chest. Another disappointment, to be borne with only a slight twist of the stomach and only a very few tears in her pillow. "I'm sorry. I thought..." And turned away, her shoulders slumping, the inaudible music fading, leaving her movements stiff and wooden.

"Hey!" Jim Atwood's voice caught her, turned her back, to see his face gradually clearing of sleep, his eyes focusing. "My God! You haunt me! Did you have to wear that Girl Scout outfit? To remind me..." He reached for her, groping.

Peggy took an uncertain step toward him, then flung herself at him, clutching at the old worn bathrobe, trying to hold back the sob of relief. She lost the hat but it didn't matter. Jim was there. He had called her back. There could be two miracles!

She clung to him, trying to talk through the gulpy effect of tears. "I was scared you wouldn't... Please. Are you sure..."

Jim Atwood shook his head, looking down at her tousled hair buried against his robe. He patted it absently, trying to drive away sleep, to concentrate on this-this apparition. He stooped and picked up her hat, holding it stupidly.

For a moment that typical schoolgirl, with sailor hat, middy blouse, knee-length blue skirt and dark stockings with patent leather slippers had seemed a mockery-a ghost sent to haunt him for the cruel thing he had done, taking a girl-child to his bed. Screwing a kid! That's what he'd been doing. Screwing a kid!

Except she wasn't a ghost. She was a very real little girl, clinging to him, begging him not to send her away.

Jim Atwood closed his door behind her and led her into his office, listening to the babble of her voice, not hearing a word of what she was saying. Except that now there was lilting joy in her voice and she was moving again to inaudible music, practically dancing on her toes, her hand warm and soft in his.

"You're not mad?"

That was the first coherent sentence he got. He managed a weak grin at her. "Yes. I'm mad. I'm furious. I haven't had my coffee and I'm always mad until..."

"I can make coffee. How do you want it? Drinking coffee? Or do you need it real strong to sober up on." She cocked her head, studying him. "You do look like you need it strong."

Jim rasped a hand over his chin, yawning. "Not liquor, Peggy. I haven't had any liquor. Just not enough sleep. I was up all night, battling my conscience." He shuddered, shaking his shoulders. "I think I knocked him out. Since you are here this morning... By the way... Is it morning?... I guess I did. Probably killed the old boy. Seen the corpse of a conscience around?"

"I'll make it strong." And Peggy headed for the kitchenette she had discovered in her previous exploration, humming to herself. Jim Atwood was talking goofy again and he had grinned at her, so everything was fine in her small world.

In a few minutes he would have his coffee and when he got over the horrors of the night-and Peggy was sure night horrors could be terrifying for she knew some pretty ghastly ones herself -he would take her back in the studio. There he would slowly take off her clothes-if they didn't prove recalcitrant as the middy blouse did occasionally-and she would be naked in front of him, his eyes moving over her bubbies, her stomach, her nicely jiggling little rump and centering on her cunt.

And the rest of the scene would play itself out as she had anticipated. Of course, there was the sample book to consult for some very basic ideas, although Peggy had some pretty fundamental ideas of her own, all of them ending with Jim putting his prick right up her little cunt. And they'd be-posing.

She was very sedate when she brought him the coffee, her eyes on the tray with cup; a chipped cup serving as sugar bowl and a jar of coffee mix for cream. And a spoon. Hastily she checked. Yes, she had included the spoon. But she hadn't been able to find any paper napkins. However, Jim could probably survive that particular domestic crisis with no ill effects.

Jim huddled over his coffee, peering over the rim every now and then at Peggy, his wakefulness showing up in gradual stages. "You were here yesterday, weren't you? I mean, I didn't dream that up? And you and I..."

Peggy cut sharply in to that. "We posed. Twice." And licked some anticipatory cream from her lips.

Jim nodded. "That's the way I recalled it. And the automatic cameras took the pictures. Right? Only I was hoping I was wrong. You know, it could have been a nightmare. And then I wouldn't be responsible for..."

Peggy shook her head decisively. "It wasn't a nightmare. Honest. It was lots of fun, really. Or didn't you think so?"

"I thought so. God help me! I thought so. And that's been my problem all night long. I liked it. I found you the most exciting female I ever scr... posed with."

"Weren't the pictures any good?" Peggy had a moment of panic and then sighed. "We could take them over..."

"The pictures were terrific... Oh, and remind me. Your-emolument went up. Not that I have the slightest idea what a thirteen-year-old girl will do with a hundred dollars. Have you?"

Peggy felt blank astonishment. A hundred dollars? There wasn't that much money. Except maybe in a bank. What could you do with a hundred dollars?

"You could buy clothes."

The suggestion staggered Peggy. Clothes? They were bought at rummage sales and the Goodwill and the Salvation Army, where a summer wardrobe budget was a dollar fifty-nine. Except, of course for the middy blouse outfit the social worker lady had gotten for her.

Peggy solved the problem neatly. "You could keep it for me." And sat back, satisfied. This little impediment to another session of posing was disposed of. Soon Jim would finish his second cup of coffee and they would go back in the studio and look through the sample book and then Jim would undress her-maybe all but the long dark stockings. And he would ram his prick right up her cunt, for another exciting session of posing. Peggy wriggled with delighted anticipation, her little cunt getting hot just from the idea.

But Jim seemed to have something else in mind. And very hesitant about discussing.

Peggy could sense it in his several hesitations, in the way he deliberately delayed going back to the studio. In the way he nervously fingered his cup. And her heart sank. Maybe Jim wasn't going to pose anymore. Maybe that hundred dollars was a sort of-well, pay-off. So she wouldn't expect any more posing. It had sounded awfully extravagant, madly, wildly extravagant. So maybe that was it.

Finally Jim drew a deep breath, blew it out and then dragged down another, looking just over her head.

"Peggy, I showed your pictures to a man last night. He liked them. He liked you. He liked you so much he asked me if you would-pose with him."

Peggy scrootched down in the chair. "Don't you want to pose with me anymore?" Her voice sounded small and miserable.,

Jim groaned. "Of course I do, Peggy. To the damnation of my soul I do. You're the most exciting... the most disturbing... Hell, you're Peggy, Eye, Aphrodite, Psyche-womankind. Including Lilith, who leads men's souls to perdition. Of course I want to pose with you again."

During his speech, odd as it was and yet understandable, Peggy sat up straighter, amazed at Jim for finding this a problem. "I can pose with you-and him. If that's what you want. You first?"

Jim set his cup down very deliberately, as if he were afraid of breaking it, which was silly. It was plastic. He sucked in a deep breath and lowered his head, peering at Peggy through his eyebrows. "Peggy, you are incredible. I guess I just don't understand women. For certain I don't understand you." He sighed. "So I'll call Ken Robertson and tell him you will."

"If you say so, Jim. Is he as nice as you? Is he good at posing?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't think he knows one damn thing about it. But then, neither did you, yesterday."