Chapter 14
Peggy squealed with delight. "You mean I'll teach him to-pose?"
Jim nodded, his face clearing. "Yes, my little dove. And I expect you may teach Ken Robertson a good many other things he never knew before."
Peggy went off into a mild day dream-instructing someone in an art she had learned so recently-and yet known all her life! There were entrancing possibilities. And Peggy felt herself getting hot as she pictured some of them. But, of course, as a novice, this Ken person would probably just want a few straight shots. Just sort of every day stuff-for beginners. With the air of an expert on such matters, Peggy nodded, preparing to tone down her tentative program. It had been a bit ambitious, covering a series of poses that would have taxed the capacity of a Turk. Peggy had yet to learn the limit of capacity of her men.
She wanted to greet this Ken Robertson at the studio door in the nude-on the theory that that might speed matters, but Jim vetoed that.
"This guy is shy, kid. Scared to death of women. Has been all his life. His mother, who was a bitch, fixed him up but good. Scared him off women. Because he has-well-a rather small prick."
Peggy listened, wide-eyed-and then clouded up. "Small prick? He doesn't go far up me in poses? He doesn't make posing exciting?"
Jim shook his head. How to explain inhibitions to this delightful creature who never even knew they existed? And yet had one herself. This block against recognizing screwing as anything but posing. "His mother just made him believe his prick was very small."
Peggy was astonished. "Doesn't he know if his prick is big or little?" Peggy peered down at her crotch, still modestly clothed in the dark blue skirt. "Couldn't he tell?" Her own small cunt was not exactly measurable, but a prick! It had dimensions. She remembered Jim's, with a flush of delight. And the men who screwed the young whore across the area. Why, they were visible from across the alley and obviously measurable. Some perhaps larger than others, as she frowningly remembered, but quite definitely measurable. It was not something you could easily be fooled about. Not your own. Still, if Jim said this Ken Robertson didn't know, then that was likely to be true. She nodded acceptance.
"And we are not to discuss it. Whatever the size, Peggy. Just-no comments. Ken is paying me-paying us quite handsomely for posing- and the pictures."
This also baffled her. "If he poses, why does he need the pictures?"
Jim grinned, the weariness of a long night of wrestling with his conscience-and winning- was eased away. "For remembrance, Peggy. For remembrance."
Peggy was indignant. "If he poses with me, he will remember."
Jim nodded hearty agreement. "I'm sure he will. They will be just a sort of-record. Now, he should be here in a minute. You are to be dressed. Completely. The hat... Where's the hat. That was the crowning touch. Where..."
Peggy produced it from behind the chair. Hats were not easily come by and not discarded lightly. "Here. But why a hat? I am at home."
"Peggy, that hat is-a symbol. It crowns you. As a little girl. That and the middy blouse and the skirt." He glanced down. "And long black stockings were an inspiration."
They hadn't been an inspiration, simply the last pair she had, but she agreed happily. If long black stockings were what Jim wanted, she'd wear long black stockings forever. And wriggled with anticipation at the vision of herself, naked, wearing only long black stockings. Yes, it had its points. And her little cunt was quite warm.
"Couldn't we pose while we're waiting?" It was a wistful plea and Peggy writhed with the very idea of it.
"Later, child. Afterwards, you and I will pose. All night, if you like." It was a reckless offer, and immediately Jim wanted to withdraw it, but the swelling of Peggy's young, nubile bosom and her smile for him made him reckless. "Sure. All night. If you can stay so late."
Peggy had prepared for this. The other five dollars had bought two more bottles of gin, left where Grandma would surely find them when she came out of her present two-bottle stupor. And with two more bottles before her, Grandma would never question where the money had come from. Grandma lived in dreams that constantly pictured just such miracles-which had never, to date, been realized.
Grandma would clasp the bottles and furtively slide back to her room and the sagging bed, hiding one and lying down to nurse the other. She wouldn't even check on Peggy. Or if she did, not remember whether or not she had sent her out for something. The next day she wouldn't even remember Peggy hadn't been there. And that next day would take care of itself.
Especially since Peggy now had untold riches. A whole hundred dollars, which Jim was keeping for her. That would buy many bottles of gin and days of happy oblivion for Grandma.
The knock on James Brewster Atwood's studio door was so furtive as to pass almost unheard.
Peggy, keyed to expectation, heard it. She started up, ready to answer the door but Jim waved her back. "Stay back there in the shadows and come forward-slowly. Give him time to see and realize who you are. Oh, yes. Put on the hat. Farther back. That's it. Now stand there. And stop jiggling."
Jim left her and, suddenly shy, she tucked her chin down, peering up through sooty lashes, her hands clasped behind her-mostly to still their shaking. They threw her small bosom into prominence, just enough really to fill out a small area of the middy blouse.
She did not realize it but she made a most appealing picture-a slim, virginal schoolgirl primly waiting to meet a maiden aunt, or teacher.
And under the middy blouse her breasts suddenly ached with tension and her little cunt was heating up. It even seemed to be producing juices already, in anticipation. She gulped down some of her nervousness as she heard the door open.
Ken Robertson slid in the first opening crack of the door and thrust it shut behind him, breathing heavily. A young man-or not so young man-on his first assignation.
He was not very tall. Not so tall as Jim's six feet plus but a pleasantly constructed man. Because he had never had responsibilities nor the opportunity for decisions-or need for them, he looked younger than his forty-two years and yet somehow conveyed the impression of being old. He moved like an older man, somewhat cautiously, with guarded, careful expression. He was guarded and careful now.
His voice was a husky whisper, almost conspiratorial. "Is she here?" His eyes moved jerkily around the studio office, taking in its pseudo luxury and the array of photographs, modest by Jim's standards. Some of them were even quite legitimate portraits taken before James Brewster Atwood found his special metier and degree of affluence.
Jim led him toward the studio lounge-he would have liked to call it "salon" or even "atelier" but that was far too pretentious for his current clientele. "She's here, Ken. And She'll-pose with you..."
Ken Robertson stopped in the doorway, sighting across the room at Peggy standing back in the shadows, prim, even a little pigeon-toed. She moved forward slowly, timidly, studying this man.
He wasn't as cute as Jim but he looked-neat. A little tense. And he was looking at her-hungrily. That was nice. She wanted very much to be wanted and wasn't aware she was buying that want with her body. He wanted her. She could see that. She came almost up to him, smiling just a shade, herself a trifle shy, which added immeasurably to the schoolgirl image.
It made Ken Robertson gulp. He had seen her pictures, nude, in the very act of fornication, and she had appealed to him. That slim, schoolgirl body with its just budding voluptuousness, now encased in schoolgirl clothes, was especially alluring. A thousand times more alluring to a man who had never felt himself capable of handling a woman.
"She's just a child!" It was an involuntary exclamation. And to it he added the accolade. "But isn't she beautiful! Utterly charming. A child-woman." He held out a tentative hand, as if he still wasn't sure this vision was quite real and not just a chimera.
Peggy put out her hand and caught his, turning to tug him into the room. "Won't you sit down?"
Ken Robertson followed her dazedly, still trying to adjust to the reality of it, to his own daring in setting up this assignation. He followed her, turned and lowered himself into a big, armless chair-and then didn't know what to do with his hands, with no chair arms to grip. So he clung to Peggy's hand, small and warm and very real in his.
Peggy smiled at him. Why, he's nice. He's nice. And he's worse scared than I am. It was a novel idea that adults could be scared, shakey in situations. They always seemed to know what to do. Or else bustled assertively around as if they did.
She patted his hand holding hers and leaned against his chair, looking at him, their eyes almost on a level. His coat was a little shaggy and Peggy felt the brush of it against her arm, and shivered.
Ken looked solicitous. "Are you cold, my dear?" And slipped one arm around her, being careful not to touch her breasts now discernibly beneath the middy blouse.
Peggy, relieved by the knowledge that he was -nice, that he was also shy, moved easily into the circle of his arm, one bubbie just crushing lightly against his chest. Which seemed to interfere with his breathing. He gulped audibly. But his arm did tighten around her and his hand cupped under her bubbie-but still only tentatively.
Peggy could feel his warmth through the middy blouse, through his clothing. And she liked the roughness of his jacket. It teased something in her skin, deep in her flesh. She wriggled, moving closer, resting her head on his shoulder. The hat interfered and she swept it off, ruffling her hair, and put her head back against him.
Ken glanced around, trying to appeal to Jim, but Jim had scuttled back to the studio with a hurried, "Back in a minute... Just take your time."
Ken Robertson, for the first time with a girl in his arms, even a girl-child such as Peggy, was nervous, sweating, his hand feeling slippery against the stuff of the middy blouse. He whispered off in to the shadows, a plaintive whisper, coming from a grown man. "What do I do?"
Peggy caught the faint breath of whisper. It didn't seem odd to her that it came from a grown man. Not really. It was just someone who was asking-seeking. She nuzzled up against him. "Are you scared, too?"
Ken whipped around in surprise, and then smiled shyly. The child wasn't mocking him. She was just telling him the truth, a very real, childish truth. She was scared.
"Yes, Peggy. I am. I don't even know what to do next."
Peggy squirmed over and slid into his lap. "You take off my blouse, I think." She could feel the heat of his pecker through the cloth of his trousers, feel the swelling lump of it. Why, it couldn't be so very small. Just a nice, respectable size that would fit admirably into her little cunt, once they were under the lights and -posing. "I could help..." And Peggy and Ken struggled jointly, interfering with each other, to get her out of the middy blouse.
She was free of it, swinging it behind the chair and holding herself so that her little bubbies stood up, softly rounded, enticing.
And Ken Robertson stared at them for a moment before leaning over and kissing one very gently.
Peggy sighed. The posing had begun.