Chapter 8

Wiffie was lying on the bed in Peter Frenum's apartment. Each time she moved, there was a slight rustling of the waxed paper that had been placed beneath her body to protect the sheets from paint. Happily, she stretched and sighed as she watched Peter mixing his poster paints on the far side of the room. She felt no embarrassment in the fact that she wore only bra and panties. She was, after all, an artist's model, and artists were accustomed to such sights. Indeed, a good many painters were used to completely nude models. An intriguing thought, she mused.

Wiffie could safely pose nude for Peter if she wished; she was sure of that. She could be mother-naked, stripped to the buff, and have nothing to fear, Peter was so trustworthy and kind. He had painted only her thighs that first day and had done nothing but paint and occasionally touch her with reverent fingers to position her legs or to keep her from putting her knees together and smearing the work. And when he had painted her back, on another day, it had been the same: his brush playing on the vertebrae, making a mural of her sweet young flesh; his hands occasionally taking her by the shoulders to move her torso forward or back as was required. And when he had painted her belly, that had been sweet too. He had tickled her with his brushes, but he hadn't tried to molest her in any way; indeed, when she had pushed her panties down so he could do her lower abdomen, he had warned her to pull them up a bit to cover a stray wisp of pubic hair.

What would it be today? He had painted all the rest of her by now. Why not ... Why not her breasts, or her fine pretty buttocks? She wasn't embarrassed by her body any more, nor was she ashamed as long as her nudity was witnessed by someone she trusted. It seemed time to prove her faith in this man who had been so sweet and kind.

"Peter?" she called softly.

"Yes?"

"How come you've never asked me again to pose nude?"

He put his paints down and came over to the bed. He sat on the edge and held Wiffie's hand. "I don't know. I guess I thought you'd be afraid."

"I'm not afraid any more." She squeezed his hand, and felt him return the gentle pressure.

"Let's do it, then. You can undress in the bathroom if you like."

"That's all right. I don't mind doing it here." She sat up and swung her legs off the bed. "Would you undo my bra?"

Peter took the back strap in both hands and fumbled with the closure. It came unhooked, and Wiffie scrunched up her shoulders as the harness slid off. She was a tiny bit-embarrassed, but the feeling passed quickly, and she lay back down, feeling her nipples tingle slightly as they began to harden in the cool air of the room.

"Do you want to do my breasts first?" she asked.

"Why don't we try a full body mural, all at once?"

"Help me with my panties, then." Wiffie placed her fingers in the waistband and slid them down. She blushed as she saw Peter's eyes fix quickly on her bronze patch of pubic hair, then shift away.

Without asking, Peter reached up and pulled the panties down to her knees; Wiffie raised her hips to make the job easier. Then Peter paused a moment and touched Wiffie's bush with gentle fingers. He smiled. "Don't be afraid of anything," he told her.

"I'm not. I'm placing myself in your hands." She smiled back at him.

He pulled the thin underpants down to her ankles and held them there while she drew her feet from the garment, one at a time.

Peter tossed the panties to a nightstand and stood up. "I'll get the paints."

Wiffie knew she should feel a bit strange, lying there naked-not necessarily embarrassed, but perhaps a wee bit goosebumpy or uncomfortable. But after those fleeting moments of shyness while Peter had helped her undress, she felt nothing but pride; pride at pleasing a fine person like Peter, and pride at somehow proving to herself (and, were they here, to Mrs. Ardsley and her suspicious parents) that the human body was not necessarily a vessel of filth.

Now Peter began painting her, and Wiffie lay back and sighed happily as the brushes laid curlicues of color on her shoulders and spiraled down to her collarbone and the tops of her breasts. When they simultaneously encircled and dabbed at the tips of her nipples, a shiver coursed through her body; it was a delightful shiver, and Wiffie giggled and beamed up at Peter, who smiled back.

One brush gradually made its way to her navel and then tickled her lower belly as Frenum painted seraphim on the abdomen, topping things off with a line of yellow paint which traced the trail of light hair-sprouts between her bellybutton and pubic triangle. Then, without a word, Peter moved to a position closer to the foot of the bed and pushed Wiffie's legs apart, at the same time lifting her knees. "Hold it right there," he said quietly. (Wiffie failed to notice the tension in his voice.)

At first it was like being examined in a gynecologist's office, but the discomfiture passed soon enough, and she closed her eyes and relaxed as Peter's brush dabbed paint in her bush and made tiny fleurs-de-lis high on the insides of her thighs. She felt a warmth in her loins, and spread her legs slightly wider, unconsciously letting her hands tense slightly and grip the edges of the bed.

When the tip of Peter's brush touched her clitoris, Wiffie tightened up all over, and her legs opened even farther. She relaxed slightly when he pulled the brush away, but in a moment it was back again, tracing her clit from where the bud was buried in flesh to its sublimely sensitive tip. Wiffie strained against the searching fibers, and an involuntary gasp burst from her lips.

"This will be beautiful," Peter whispered softly.

Now he let the brush stroke the insides of her outer lips; it touched the edges of her labia minora as it did so, and once again Wiffie's body responded with a stiffening and an outburst of pent-up breath. When the brush moved inside, to bury its tip in her vaginal opening, Wiffie rotated her hips slightly and began to breathe more deeply.

Peter withdrew the brush and tickled Wiffie's clitoris with it, then slid it back down and in suddenly. Wiffie's hand found his wrist and held it tightly, not in an effort to prevent his movement , but rather to encourage them. Soon she heard Peter breathing hard too, and in a moment she felt his lips touch each of her nipples in turn, and then move down to the gentle roundness of her belly.

She was quivering with excitement when his tongue replaced the brush at her vulva, and as it painted a line of saliva from her clitoris to the interior surfaces of her labia minora, she moaned and let her fingers entwine themselves in Peter's hair.

She did not object when he pulled his head away and got up on the bed, taking his fingers from her opening and pressing on the vestibule with the head of his swollen prick. The gigantic bulb of his penis lay still for a moment in the sweet, hot bath of her love juices, then slid into her, followed by the almost wrist-thick shaft.

It hurt her at first; Hamp's organ had been nowhere near this big, and she felt her female pocket being stretched, almost rent by the enormous cylinder of hardened flesh. But the pain passed quickly, to be replaced by an even greater excitement and the desire to hold, to grasp, to rhythmically caress the member in her tight, slick hole.

Her spasms were completely spontaneous, entirely beyond her control; she gripped his cock in an involuntary tightening of her cunt and held it fast a moment, finally releasing it, then squeezing it once, twice, three times, four times, again and again until the twitching, sucking motions gave way to a surge of gentle warmth and pleasure at finding Peter still bucking above her, pushing in and out in a furious effort to bring himself to climax. Wiffie tightened her arms around his back and kissed his neck as he gasped out his thanks and squirted his seed into the sweet, warm recesses of her cunt.

"Thank you!" he gaped again when it was over. She just patted him on the back and held him close as he lay exhausted on top of her. It had been good for both of them, and in her generosity there had been virtue; she had no cause for guilt.

She heard him singing while she was in the shower, and as she rubbed the soap under her arms and down over her breasts, she closed her eyes and put her face in the stream of water and hummed along with him.

Hampton Budd's job at the Regency lasted only a week and a half, but by the end of that time, he had acquired two things: considerable knowledge of how homosexual theater ushers amuse themselves, and a new job. The job didn't pay a great deal, sixty-five dollars a week, plus occasional overtimebut it was interesting. He was a clerk for the New York Anti-Smut Society, a private non-profit organization devoted to stamping out obscene literature, movies, works of art and other threats to the city's sexual morality.

Hamp's job involved filing, for the most part; "shoppers" for the society-mostly unpaid volunteers-would scour the city's bookstores, newsstands and the like in a never-ending search for erotically stimulating materials. They would bring the offending items to the Society's headquarters, for distribution to the permanent staff and Society officials. When the senior staff members and Board of Trustees had studied the material, they would decide whether legal action was in order. In most cases, they considered that it was. For example, the Society was involved in a particularly important case when Hamp began work in its offices. It seemed that a large midtown bookstore, usually considered a thoroughly respectable establishment, had stocked copies of a marriage manual which contained actual photographs of unusual coital positions, cunnilingus, fellatio and the like. The Society considered it obscene, and had immediately purchased several copies of the book, sending one to the District Attorney's office and keeping the others for its various files and speakers displays. Hamp spent considerable time filing such books in the Society's library, and he found the material very educational, though he had to be careful not to peruse the books' contents when his superiors were around.

Not long after Hamp had started work for the Society, one of the paid shoppers, an elderly Presbyterian minister, suffered a heart attack.

"Shit," Hamp's boss muttered. "How the fuck am I going to complete the file on our action against Biceptual Publications, Inc.? " He lit a cigarette and pondered his predicament for a few moments, then buzzed Hamp on the intercom. "Come in here," he commanded. "I've got an emergency on my hands."

Hamp stuck a collection of "artistic" color slides back on the library shelf and went into his superior's office. He was told that due to the minister's severe illness, the organization needed a fill-in shopper, and that he was it. "Want you to scan all the 42nd Street bookstores and see if you can find a magazine called 'Muscle Pix & Poses', " the boss said. He explained that it was a homosexual publication devoted to the glorification of the male physique.

Hamp felt rather uneasy when he entered the first store; it was filled with sailors and young male office workers and the like, and when he asked for the homosexual section, the clerk winked and pointed to an aisle in the back. Hamp walked toward the rear, his cheeks burning, and suddenly stopped in his tracks when he saw an elderly priest standing in front of one of the racks, his fly open and one hand caressing a leathery brown prick surrounded by a thicket of white hairs. Hamp tried to pretend that he hadn't seen anything, and left the store. But before leaving, he debated whether to tell the clerk of his customer's transgression. The hell with it, he decided. He'd hate to give the impression that he had anything against the Catholic Church. After all, he was no longer at FBCC. And anyway, you had to feel sorry for any normal male who couldn't get married.

The second store was less crowded, and Hamp found the magazine he was looking for after a minute or two of searching. He took three copies off the rack and took them to the front, where he paid for them and watched the clerk count out his change.

Suddenly, as his eyes absent-mindedly gazed out the front window of the store, he saw a sight that made him blink in disbelief. Wiffie! He grabbed the magazines from the clerk, who had by now placed them in a bag, and without so much as a thank you, he headed for the door and out onto the street.

"Wiffie!" he shouted, and saw the girl stop, stiffen arid turn around.

"Hamp." She said his name softly, without expression, as though she didn't know quite how to react.

He took her shopping bag from her and placed a hand on her waist. They walked along together, toward Sixth Avenue and a bright afternoon sun.