Chapter 5

Her little box was getting so hot it would soon demand attention. And she was no longer so sure!

What's more, Jim Atwood was mad with her. He was glowering. He looked very fierce and awfully interesting when he glowered. And he should have shaved. Or perhaps he was one of those very virile men who need to shave twice a day.

The idea intrigued Peggy, drawing her attention away from the ludicrous spot she was in. Besides, she wasn't at all sure that having to shave twice a day indicated a man was especially virile. "Virile" Peggy equated-from school playground conversations-with an infinite capacity for screwing. There really didn't seem to be any close relationship. However, applying that rather hazy rule to Jim, Peggy found she liked the idea.

It was all very confusing. Her little cunt was aching and getting hot from Peggy's own knowledge that Jim Atwood was looking at it. And her little nipples seemed to stir inside- well, one inside, one outside-her sweater. And that was all in Peggy's original plan. But this funny squeamishness in her stomach and an assortment of hair-trigger tears cancelled it all out. Besides, there was the acute embarrassment of the whole thing. She certainly hadn't figured on embarrassment, just because one bubbie was squeezed out of her sweater and her little cunt was exposed to view. And even huddling didn't really help. Two small hands just weren't adequate covering.

Jim Atwood was mad with her. And frowning. He was frowning so hard his eyes weren't really focussing up her dress, on her little box, which was by now uncomfortably hot and threatening to twitch. And, horror of horror, at any moment she was going to have to go to the bathroom! To pee! The ultimate in humiliation, for a young, nubile female who had started out with such a magnificent plan to lure a young man into her arms, saying, "My ideal! At last I have found you!" and into a prolonged session of love-making.

Peggy squeezed her legs tight together and took a large gulp of air to stifle the need to pee.

Jim Atwood's frown relaxed. He almost grinned. "Need to go to the bathroom? Oh, don't be squeamish. I've seen too many models sit around squeezing their legs and holding their breath not to know the symptoms." Jim stepped aside, indicating the door. "Two to the right and straight on till morning... Or, more prosaically, the second door on the right."

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Peggy pulled herself up by the bannister and, shame-faced, started down the stairs. But Nature won. By the time she got to the bottom she was running and she almost skidded making the turn into the studio.

Relief was great. And with it some of the burden of her embarrassment and chagrin, that heavy lump in her stomach, had dissolved and drained away. Jim Atwood had shifted remarkably, from an ogre emerging from his keep to glare and glower at her, into a very pleasant, slightly baffled young man who had an off-beat way of talking, a crooked little grin and an eyebrow that quirked. Of course, the eyebrow was sinister and the grin could be interpreted as a leer, very lascivious.

She emerged from the John more or less reassembled. The sweater was buttoned-but not likely to stay that way and anyway it outlined her bubbies rather completely-and the miniskirt tugged down over the artistically tattered panties. And her socks were straight. There was something immensely satisfactory in having her socks straight. It gave her confidence.

Jim Atwood was sprawled in a low chair, chin on his chest and his glower was almost back, but concealed or overlaid with thinking. He aimed one boney, chemical-stained finger at her. "How old are you? No, don't answer that. I'd rather not know. I only know you're as old as Eve and probably just as happily depraved. You did say this was your own idea, didn't you?" At Peggy's nod he grinned, a little lopsided. "Torn panties and open-work sweater and all? Your idea?" Again Peggy nodded. "I rather thought so. It was a bit overdone, with elements of fanciful thinking. And all that because you want to work for me? Peggy, I think you're a liar and that you had a great deal more in mind. Some of it very naughty." He lowered his finger and Peggy felt more at ease.

"Did you also dream up the 'lost' ten dollars?"

Peggy started to speak and didn't quite trust her voice. She'd cry. He was going to throw her out. Maybe even report her to the ogre of a manageress-with what dire consequences Peggy dared not contemplate. Grandma would certainly learn of her aborted effort at an expedition into sex. And life would be an utter misery from then on. Not that it wasn't already. Peggy finally nodded, signifying she had dreamed up the lost ten dollars.

"Do you actually need ten dollars? I don't mean just want ten dollars. All of us do that. Do you really NEED ten dollars?"

"No." Peggy's voice was almost a whisper. "I hid the first one upstairs. For Granny's gin."

Jim Atwood sighed, as if with relief. "Okay. That's clear. You're not driven by utter poverty to offer your slim, virginal body on the altar of photography. Or had you other-altars in mind? Like a bed? From that blush, I expect you did. Okay! Since it's not utter poverty, dire necessity, I don't have to hand you a ten dollar bill-if I had one-and pat you on the head-and possibly the fanny-and send you home. I don't take that kind of advantage of girls." Jim Atwood sank deeper in the chair, contemplating a section of the ceiling that had no special interest Peggy could detect. She studied it surreptitiously herself.

"Or do I?" Jim Atwood stirred, nodding. "I expect I do. Nobody would do this kind of work unless they needed money desperately."

Peggy lowered her chin, gulping for air to make it sound authoritative. "I'd like to pose for you."

Jim nodded. "Of course-or an exhibitionist. I've known kooky females-some very rich ones... Yes!" Jim smiled at her, a warming smile. "You've saved me some soul searching, Peggy. That is your name, isn't it? Now I'll just have to search around and see if I have a soul. Which I doubt. Because I may-I just may-take you up on your offer to pose. And all because I am desperate for money. This series for an old goat... Well, it wouldn't be quite what he's expecting, but with you in the picture, I don't think he'd mind. Let's see you with your clothes off."

Peggy had had difficulty following Jim's convoluted talking. In fact, she was lost several turns back, so that she didn't really hear his final request.

Jim waited for a long moment, then slapped his knees, starting to lever his long, lanky figure into motion. "Okay, kid. I just thought that, since you were willing to exhibit yourself through open-work panties and a slide-away sweater, you wouldn't mind the altogether."

It was a funny way of talking. Sort of all around the point. But this time Peggy got it. He wanted to see her naked. Bare-assed. No openwork panties, no slide-away sweater. Just-her. And she was suddenly shy. She couldn't make her fingers undo the sweater buttons that for once were not co-operating and falling open of their own accord. And she couldn't seem to locate the fastening of her skirt. So she just stood there, looking miserably at Jim Atwood.

She thrust her chest forward suddenly. "You do it." And the buttons perversely let go their always elusive grip on the buttonholes.

And her bubbies were out. Completely out, the pinkish-amber nipples staring right at Jim Atwood.

Peggy slid her slim arms out of the sweater and dropped it on the floor, leaving her naked to the waist, her bubbies riding proudly firm and roundly pink on her chest.

Jim Atwood sucked in his breath, nodding. He reached for the band of her skirt and turned her slowly around, admiring the changing view of her bubbies while his fingers tried to locate the fastening of her skirt. He fumbled at it and the fastening opened. He held her skirt a moment in place, with hands clasped around her slim waist, her back to him.

Peggy turned her head, watching his face. It was a nice face, almost a kindly face, but now it was hardening into a mask, a mask she knew from seeing it on the men across the areaway.

He let go of the band of her skirt and it dropped around her feet. The panties followed. Slowly, with his hands on her hips, Jim turned her to face him. His eyes, darker now, it seemed, roved over her firm, jutting little breasts, brushing across the amber-pink nipples, down past her belly button and seemed to fasten a heat-producing stare right on her cunt.

"You are a beautiful little witch, aren't you?" He thrust her a little from him, his hands almost rough against her hip bones. "Back off. More... More... So I can see all of you..." And Jim nodded. "Yes. It's just what I imagined. Now, come toward me. Slowly."

Peggy kicked aside the panties and skirt and walked toward him, moving her slim hips in provocative rhythm, her little pelvis moving in and out with each step. She moved slowly at first and then, with those final steps, in a rush that stopped right at his knees.

Jim Atwood reached for her, catching her slim shoulders, and pulling her toward him. His head came up and his mouth fastened eagerly on one of Peggy's bubbies.

It was exciting, deeply exciting, all through her being, right down to her little cunt, where new and hotter heat was generating, and on down her slim legs to her knees that were about to buckle in sweet weakness.

His tongue was teasing her nipples, rolling round and round it as his lips sucked deliriously on her bubbie. And one hand slid excitingly down her back, softly cupping her round little ass, pulling her closer. She slid between his legs, her little cunt almost up against the bulge of his prick, feeling it quiver. His hands roved her back, bringing new excitement to her skin and deep inside her stomach. Even her breath felt hot and sweet in her throat.

Suddenly, frightened by all the emotions she had aroused in herself, all the sweet, hot juices that seemed to flow through her, Peggy pushed feebly at Jim's shoulder. "Please..." And pushed herself out of his arms, more easily than she had anticipated. "Let's go in the studio. I can pose in there."

She led the way, working her route among the cables and tripods and ladders and props she couldn't identify. Only the work light was on, throwing the legs of the tripods and the cables into a fantasy of shadow figures that could turn and rend her, tearing her flesh... Peggy shivered.

The studio, the stark lighting, the gaunt, menacing shadows were all so different from her romantic, hazy dreams that had little detail and only a swelling, demanding emotion.

Here all things were black and white, sharp contrasts, with odd, hottish odors of lamps burned over-long, of flesh heated-by lights and by passion, of stale air stirred to brief life by the passing of Penny's slim, naked body.

She could hear Jim behind her, keeping pace. And she dared not look back. Then she heard his voice. "The sample book is on the table..." He touched her shoulder and it was like an electric spark, shocking and thrilling her. His finger indicated a huge plastic-bound book askew on a dingy table.

"Look through that, Peggy, and see if you still want to pose for me."

Almost gingerly she approached the table, still not looking back at Jim. He was simply there, a presence behind her and yet he had force, thrusting her forward. She touched the book, glancing over her shoulder at Jim. "I'm to look?"

Jim grinned suddenly, lowering himself into a chair by the table. "Don't you think you should? That's what you're agreeing to do." He waved at the book.

Peggy opened it, feeling self-conscious in her nakedness and then forgetting that in the series of pictures she saw. There were girls, lots of girls. All naked, all displaying their little cunts in various way, mostly with fingers holding their little boxes open so the camera could peer right up them.

And then there were others. Not just girls. Girls and men. Sometimes the man was Jim.

These could have been taken over at the young whore's apartment. They portrayed fucking. But such a variety of fucking! Her mind couldn't quite absorb it, but her little cunt apparently could, for it was getting hotter and seeming to chew at empty air and dribble juices.

Without quite meaning to, she had moved around and backed into Jim's lap, settling herself to see the book better. And to feel his arms go around her, his hands cupping her bubbies. Her breath was a hot rasp in her throat and her stomach a churning swirl of excitement. She could feel Jim's prick through his trousers, stiff, throbbing, playing along the slit of her cunt. Slowly she moved back and forth in his lap, stirring up more excitement within her cunt, within her belly. So much, that she was afraid.

She pointed blindly at a photograph. It was of a girl lying on a bed, her legs hanging over the side, her belly pulled taut, and a man's prick pushing into her hot little box. Her box looked wet in the picture, and so did the man's prick. You couldn't really see the man, just from his navel down, to that big shaft with the veins standing out, thrust halfway into the girl's cunt. From the girl's gnawed lower lip you thought of pain but she looked excited, ready, eager... expectant.

Peggy leaned back hard against Jim's prick, rubbing herself along it as she turned her head. "I kind of thought they were that kind. So I wouldn't mind. I'd-kind of like it. So long as it's just a pose. Not for real. Promise me? Only a pose-not for real."

Jim reached for and nuzzled her throat, murmuring, "Peggy, you're amazing... absolutely amazing..."