Chapter 9
Rod bustled Beverly on out the window. He promised her nothing was over with. Then he flew about the room in a panic, concealing the bulge in his pants, brushing back his badly tousled hair, catching a whiff of his fingers and quickly going to the bar to wash them, first with water, then with scotch. His breath had to smell of perfume, too, and so he knocked back a belt from the bottle, again rearranged his flaming hard-on inside his pants, and went decorously to answer the door.
"Coming. I'm coming," he said, making an effort to get something like a yawn in the tone of his voice. His eyes bulged open, but only for a millisecond, when he saw Linda Patton there, for she was a lovely creation, created just for him.
She had on a red gingham blouse, farm girl style, but absolutely perfectly fitted to her, its sleeves halfway down her upper arms and fully packed, its little collar circling a swan-soft neck, its breast pockets bulging with titty. She had on denim jeans, washed perhaps twice, and perhaps the last time allowed to dry on her fine slender body, appearing for all the world, but for Rod in particular, as if someone had invented a spray gun that would shoot denim paint, complete with seams and pockets and little copper rivets, and Linda Patton had of course been selected to model the product of the spray gun.
She had little sandals on her feet, through which pink piggy toes peeked. She had stars in her blue eyes, pink primroses on her cheeks, her hair had been woven of ravens' wings, and on her lips was the softest, most timid, most yearning, most cushiony gleaming smile ever worn by a woman. "Yes, come in, dear," he said, and touched her elbow, and felt a searing new pain in his cockhead.
"Oo. Lights," she said, as her eyes caught the watts from the bulbs and reflected them back on Rod.
"The first shooting came out so good," said Rod, "that I decided to do this one right. It's gonna be hot under those lights. I'll fix you a nice cold drink while you get yourself ready, Linda."
He spilled a little scotch mixing his drink, busy as he was with his eyes watching Linda's blouse come off. Brassieres were a waste of time with her, for as soft as she was, she was resiliently firm all over, and no bra could provide a better lift to her titties than the natural lift of her youth. He watched too as she went to the cabinet for the long black gloves, pausing to look at the other things he'd placed there in subtle prelude to their future modeling sessions. And still at the bar, Rod made the decision to proceed a step faster than planned with her, and to this end he slipped an ounce and a half of vodka in Linda's grapefruit juice. She wouldn't taste it, but it might dull her sense of smell to the scotch that was on his breath. Bringing the drinks over to where they would work that evening, he could hardly keep his expression calm and professional.
She wasn't quite so shy that day. What the hell, he'd already seen her in her bra, and she trusted him fully, almost. There was only the smallest hint of trepidation in her eyes as she sipped the iced drink and said, "Mm. Good And I'm so thirsty tonight."
"Plenty more," said Rod, swallowing with her as she drained off the entire drink. Her brassiere was virginal, bridal white, chastely trimmed with lace, biting softly into shoulders and a torso of the softest shade of pink imaginable. As Rod took her glass back to refill it, she started on with her gloves, black satin, elbow length, in deliciously wicked contrast to the bra that she had on. She was smiling down at them, running her gloved fingers over her satin-shod forearms as he returned with her vodka-laced drink which she took from his hand to her lips at once. Rod stood back, studying her, frowning in spite of all the throbbing excitement within him.
"Is something. . . wrong?" she said, looking down at her perfect self.
Rod shook his head, on the brink of a decision to go still farther and faster with her that night, and then making that decision. "It's those pants," he said. "I showed the proofs of yesterday's shooting to some of my associates. They liked them. A lot. So much, in fact, that they think you should pose for our new line of hosiery, too. And just now I was thinking about what you'd look like in hose instead of those denim pants."
"Stockings?" she said, looking down at herself once again. "Just stockings?"
"Oh, you'd still have on your panties," he said.
"And this," he said, and taking another unscheduled leap forward, he touched the white strap of her bra, touching her skin in the doing, and feeling the vibrant life within her fair body. He sipped his drink to calm himself as she looked up at him through fawn-like frightened eyes, and he shrugged and said, "I told them you're only interested in modeling gloves. But they're businessmen and they want more from you. They think you've got great potential, Linda. They want me to sign you up with a contract right now, a personal management contract."
"Personal management contract?" said Linda, at just about the time Beverly and Bobby were arriving outside on the fire escape.
Bobby had been right there outside to meet Beverly when she'd come out of the alley a few minutes before, just barely back into her clothes, and still badly shaken by her near encounter with Mrs. Hanratty. She'd been about to send Bobby on to her apartment on his bicycle while she took the bus to meet him in that little place where she could go on with her fantasies of fame while he did his all to extinguish the flames that roared throughout her body. Just as they were leaving, the boy overcame his love-sick, tongue-tied adoration to wonder out loud what the lunch wagon girl was doing entering the mill at that hour.
"Who?" Beverly had said.
"You know. That tall, skinny girl with the black hair," Bobby had said. "She just went inside."
"Oh, yeah? I think I'll just take a look. Come on, bodyguard. She's probably there making arrangements for her stops here, and when she's gone, I might have to stick around and do some more of my business with the boss." That hopefulness altered quickly when Beverly, Bobby right behind her, arrived on the fire escape landing just as Rod was telling Linda about her future as a model.
"It's the usual thing to do," said Rod, taking yet another tiny step onward by touching Linda's glossy black hair as if to put it in place about her angelically wide-eyed face. "Personal management contract now, and if it all works out, a corporation built around you in the future."
"Corporation?" said Linda, sipping her drink again.
"It's frequently done," said Rod. "That's how Mary Tyler Moore worked it. But then, of course, my associates and I don't yet know if you have any other, er, assets beyond your most graceful and, well, frankly sexy hands." With this Rod turned away from her lest he lean forward and bury his nose in the soft and fully packed Y of her brassiere. And when he could turn back to face her, smiling coolly again, his heart gave a bound at the sight of her fingers toying hesitantly at the top snap of her tight but most obstructive denim pants.
"Those stockings I saw in the cabinet?" she murmured in a tiny voice.
Rod nodded, the snap came open, and he sipped his drink and said, "I'll have a rough draft of a contract up here next time you come, if you've got the legs I think you do."
Outside on the balcony, Beverly muttered, "That sonofabitch!" At her side, all but oblivious to what was going on beyond the Venetian blinds, Bobby had found the split in her wraparound dress and was feasting his eyes upon this.
And inside the room, Rod had set down his drink to fiddle with the camera on its tripod, actually framing Linda in its view-finder and taking some shots of the marvelously self-conscious strip tease she was doing, all for him. Her panties were made of heave white nylon, and they looked brand new. They were full cut, their waistband and leg holes fitting round her nubile young flesh very snugly, their front and back panels just a little loose, but not loose enough to conceal the slender young roundnesses of hip and buttock and pubis within. She kept her legs together as she wriggled out of the tight denim, keeping the treasure that lay between her silken thighs coyly out of view. Her long legs, shaven ultra smooth, were so ultra perfect in shape and in texture that Rod did indeed give a fleeting thought to making a model out of her.
"Try on those heavy black silk ones," he said in a strained, bored voice. "The ones with the elastic tops," he said, catching her full length on film in profile, with her hands fluttering protectively around her titties and her fanny bulging beautifully back at the white nylon rear of her panties. That rear panel filled up completely, and Rod caught that and her sacral dimples on film as she bent to reach inside the cabinet.
Outside, Beverly was thinking about how much money she could make managing a chick like Linda inside a women's prison. And she was thinking how much she'd like to see the stupid young bitch safely behind bars. Behind her, Bobby was happily nuzzling about at her fanny, having eased up the back of her skirt as she knelt on all fours on the iron grating.
And inside, Linda had straightened up and was timidly smiling as she held the two black silk stockings up against her near nude body, saying as she did, "They feel different than panty-hose. Real silk? How do they stay up?"
"By their very close fit," said Rod. "Sit down and slip them on, dear. And be careful not to snag them."
He got some shots of her crotch then, a prim little bulge between perfect long thighs, as with one knee elevated she worked the black silk up her leg. It was a very young cunt inside those panties, not at all yet the broad bulging twat of the model he'd had in his first after work session that day. It was a sweet cunt, a totally clean cunt, undoubtedly virginal and something he didn't at all deserve to despoil, but despoil it he would if the power was in him. His glass was empty and so was hers, but Rod waited till she'd worked both long stockings up to the middle of her delicately tapered thighs before taking himself and the glasses and his burning hard-on to the bar.
"They feel weird," she said as he returned. But she was smiling as she said it, and giving him a fine view inside her bra as she bent to smooth her wide black welts closer around her flawless white thighs.
He handed her her third vodka and grapefruit juice and saw that she took a healthy sip of it before saying, "You'll be experiencing a lot of what you call weird things in your career as a model. Working under hot lights like these, wearing pretty things, having someone put on your make-up for you and help you dress up. And of course, working with a photographer and being relaxed about it, not getting tense like you are right now. Tenseness is bad for the skin tone. It shows up under lights like these."
"I'll . . . try to relax," she said.
"Yes, you're among friends," he said with a smile. "Just stand there, get used to the lights, sip your drink to keep cool, and I'll put on a different hat and become your wardrobe attendant. Relax, Linda. There's nothing at all to worry about. Relax and think about the time when you're making your first movie in Hollywood."
Outside, Beverly was still muttering, "That sonofabitch." But she was too fascinated by the scene unfolding before her, and by the very pleasant sensations going on behind her, to make a move to put a stop to Rod's very obvious seduction of the stupid girl.
Inside, Rod was down on his knees before Linda, carefully tucking her sweet little feet into the black, high-heeled shoes he had bought in anticipation of seeing her in many weeks from this day. The silk feet of the stockings fit her perfectly as he buckled the tiny straps of the shoes. Never in his life had he seen calves more shapely than those which now were so close to him, the calves of a virgin clad in the hose of a whore.
"Not too tight?" he said, venturing to look up at her without taking a bite from her snatch, and kneading a sexily shod foot between his sweating hands.
"Feels fine," she said, beaming down at him past her drink.
"But your stockings are bagging a little," said Rod. "That's the trouble with silk. Hold still now, honeybunch," he said, and clasped an ankle in his shaking hands, tightening whispering silk about it and working slowly upward, while she stood high above him, softly giggling, murmuring, "Oo. That feels funny, too."
Rod giggled softly with her, heart in his mouth, hands round a sleekly lovely calf now, and said, "Yes, silk really does feel nice. It's just something you'll have to get used to. That and having men on their knees in front of you. Hold still now, Linda dear. We can't have these pretty stockings bunching up around your pretty knees."
Even her bones felt soft! Her knees reminded him of how her waist might feel, slim and firm between her titties and her hips. Still he knelt there, prick sticking up painfully hard in his pants, her adorable little cunt scantily hidden behind loose folds of white nylon right before his hungry eyes. He could smell its delicate, excruciatingly taunting scent as his hands worked the nylon smoother and smoother still over firm, sweetly contoured thighs that would someday be opened wide for him. She parted them a scant inch now and Rod's nasty old fingers touched naked angel's flesh as they tugged up the broad black welts of the gleaming black hose he had picked out for her.
He was taking so long about it that Linda's nervousness was disappearing. In its place was a warm, buzzing excitement at the very impossible thought of herself as a model, not as a lingerie model, of course, because that simply wasn't her thing. She couldn't picture herself modeling gloves and hose even in a Sears catalogue, but she could with some effort see herself on the cover of Family Circle magazine, smiling proudly, with an adorable little baby held in her arms. Babies and recipes and picture perfect cottages and flower beds, those were the things Linda Patton's dreams were made of, if she could be paid for being a part of that scene, she would be the happiest girl in the world. Modeling gloves, and these very strange silk stockings, might open the door to that world for her, and so she permitted this very nice, older man to help her along, even though it seemed very silly, even though it felt very funny to have him down there on the floor in front of her, playing at being a wardrobe mistress. She finished the last sip in her glass, sighing deeply, feeling very proud of herself for being so relaxed and at peace with it all, and hardly at all embarrassed anymore because of how little she had on in front of Mr. Hanratty. She felt so relaxed now, in fact, that she could silently hum with the radio music as she thought of herself on the cover of
Better Homes and Gardens.
"Turn around now, honey-girl, and let's check if those seams are straight." Rod had to say it twice before she responded, as drunk and as hot as she was. Between his vodka and his hands and his patience, he'd get a lot out of her this day, and more the next time and more the time after that. And when she left, she'd be so filled with hopes and dreams, she'd come back again and again. But why look to the future when there was so much of the present to be enjoyed?
Her seams were just about as straight as could be. Rod plucked and pulled and smoothed with his hot and grasping hands to make them still smoother over her ankles and calves, behind the warm hollows of the backs of her knees, on up over the thighs whose slender taper led on to her fine, fine young ass. Out of sight of her now, he could stare like the sex fiend he truly was at the very straight legs before him, more widely parted, less nervously-jumpy to the touch of his hands and his breath. He'd moved close enough to breathe against her now, and to inhale her hot young fragrance, and the girl was hot, no doubt about that, whether she knew it or not. She was swaying slightly to the music now and her legs were more and more pliable to the hands that encircled them, working and working through very thin silk against even silkier legs. And here behind her he could look right up at her ass, so thinly covered with nylon, so firm and quivery within the thin cloth.
A very warm shiver startled Linda, sweeping up from between her thighs, as it did, up through her innards and out through her brassiere via the route of her very hard nipples. Her nipples were hard from her nervousness, she decided, and, touching one and then the other with her fingers to confirm this, she caused more warm shivers to course through her body.
That body was getting increasingly warm under the very bright lights, not unpleasantly so, but warm enough so that she had to take deeper and deeper breaths while Mr. Hanratty went about the laborious business of making her just as perfect as he could for the pictures that were to come. She felt she was starting to perspire between her legs, and this she tried to ignore as she let the music and her thoughts of the future flow through her.
Rod puckered up, softly blew his breath up between Linda's legs this time, and felt his temples pound as once again she squirmed her hips in a small circle. His hands were still working on perfecting her already perfect seam lines as he softly exhaled, again and again, up under the seat of her panties, up against the crotch band of her undies. Each time he inhaled to caress her there with his breath again, he breathed more deeply of her perfumes, the rose sachet of her lingerie drawer, the lilac fragrance of her soap, the subtly penetrating scent of the virgin oil brimming now within her puffed out pussy lips. Back and forth he blew his soft breath, along the backs of the leg holes of her panties, over the lovely crescent bulges of her asscheeks peeping out at him, and again she squirmed her bottom in a circle.
"Are you. . . Are they straight yet?" Linda asked, rousing herself back to why she was standing there letting him touch her like this.
"Not quite," he said. "They keep sagging. And this has got to be right. Bend over a little. Just bend over and lean your hands against the coffee table. I'll have your seams straight in just a minute, angel girl."
Angel girl, Linda mused. Had Charlie's Angels started out like this, those beautiful, sexy girls, making all that fantastic money? Ridiculous to think of herself as a future Charlie's Angel, but no more ridiculous than to think of herself as a model for Family Circle. Or just as a model for Hanratty Mills, and this wonderful man who might make it all possible. The warm shivers were coursing through her almost constantly now as he worked very patiently with her hose, so close to her now that she realized it was his breath that was touching her there in the back, cooling her and at the same time warming her up with a fresh wave of embarrassment. But how could she be embarrassed with this good man, so fatherly, so yearning to help her in a new and exciting career?