Whether or not censorship can ever be justified morally, ethically, or legally is a question that has been debated endlessly and quite possibly will never be answered to the complete satisfaction of everyone concerned. In the practical sense, however, it can be stated flatly that wherever censorship has actually existed, some ridiculous situations have been created as a direct result.
The system of rating movies in different categories developed by the Motion Picture Association of America is supposed to be a way of avoiding censorship, not a means of censorship in its own right. The idea is that a movie producer can put anything into a film that he wants to, but the film's, rating will warn the potential viewer that there is something in it he may not want to see-or, more particularly, something in it he may not want his children to see. The system as it now exists separates movies into four categories. G (General admission) and GP (General admission: Parental guidance suggested) are unrestricted, allowing anyone with the price of a ticket to see the show. R (no one under seventeen admitted unless accompanied by an adult) and X (no one under seventeen admitted under any circumstances) are the restricted classifications designed to protect our children from anything that might be harmful to them.
Exactly what is harmful, of course, depends on the point of view. For instance, one psychologist on the board of the MPAA has repeatedly said that sex concerns her far less when viewed by children than by teenagers who know more about sex but are not yet in full command of their own sexual responses. Presumably this is not the official view of the board itself, but it is an interesting point and gives a good idea of how difficult the job of categorizing every film produced must be.
Writing about films in the December, 1971, issue of Esquire, critic Jacob Brackman discusses this difficulty more fully. "If an R can cost a film a fifth or a quarter of its potential gross," Brackman says, "an X can literally cut its revenues in half. Many newspapers refuse advertising, no matter how sedate, for X-rated films. (Much of the public believes X simply means Porno Trash.) Many theatres refuse to book them; in many cities and towns they are never shown at all.
"This is not to say that X pictures can't make money-a handful, such as Midnight Cowboy, have made it big. But X is a grievous handicap, one under which increasing numbers of serious films will likely have to labor. For ratings will now become tougher than at any time since they went into effect three years ago. This is a short-run prediction-the stringency or leniency with which they get applied fluctuates oddly, almost from month to month. If Midnight Cowboy, for instance, had been released a bit later, it would most probably have garnered an R, and still heftier receipts. But if it came out today, with decisions tightening way up again, another X would likely be its fate.
"Similarly, Summer of '42 might well have received a GP (and another $5,000,000 or so in revenue) had it come up a month or two earlier. The film makers were understandably resentful. Ryan's Daughter featured an adultery with more passion and more skin, yet its rating had recently been changed from R to GP. Moreover, Ryan's daughter had left her husband's bed to deceive him, whereas the married lady who copped the moony adolescent's cherry that Summer of '42 was in fact no married woman at all, but a widow-she'd just received word of her husband's death overseas. Some rater therefore might have argued that, strictly speaking, no adultery occurred; borderline cases are often resolved on the basis of just such silly distinctions."
The greatest irony of all, however, occurs in the cases of those films that are never even submitted to the board for review-the underground movies sometimes called "blue" or "stag" and sometimes labeled with even stronger adjectives. Obviously, if these were rated at all the rating would be X. As it stands, they are unrated and unadvertised. But, while no one can say for sure exactly how much money they make, they are obviously profitable. The establishments showing them would never, of course, admit children to their performances, but their very existence conceivably creates dangers to our children of another sort entirely.
Peggy's Special Customers by Wayne Sherman is, in fact, the story of a very young girl forced to become an actress in underground movies. Peggy begins by posing for nude photographs, but the "posing" soon becomes much more than that. She is a totally innocent, even naive, child at first, but her life and experiences in this peculiar part of the entertainment business change her drastically, and the reader will see a shockingly real, vividly dramatic picture of the effects of greed and immorality on a person who started life warm, generous and naturally curious. The moral, we feel, will be obvious, and is worth considerable thought by every reader.
The Publishers
Chapter One
Peggy Stewart sat in the baking heat, only a slip around her-and that damp with her sweat. The city was undergoing one of its regular "unusually severe heat spells." Not that Peggy knew. She rarely saw a newspaper-that didn't come in Grandma's budget which was restricted to minimal groceries and maximum bottles of gin-and when Peggy did see a paper she didn't read it. Sometimes she looked at the funnies. She giggled over Pogo though she wasn't always sure she understood the sometimes funny printing and she often lingered over Li'l Abner, studying the lush forms of Daisy Mae and Moonbeam McSwine, comparing them with her own thirteen-year-old anatomy, which was skimpy-but only by comparison.
Peggy had, for instance, much more figure than the gaunt sketches of models wearing what professed to be the latest mod fashions, but not the ballooning bosom of Moonbeam or Daisy Mae. Nor their swell of hip. Peggy's hips were trim, rounded and went rather well with her small, tight rear.
At the moment, Peggy had discarded the paper as reading matter, preferring it, folded, as a fan. She could lift the edge of her slip and fan a brief breeze up her legs and over her pussy, a momentary relief from the heat. Or pull the torn lace top away from her bubbies and fan them, peering down her front.
The bubbies were small but firm, well rounded, with little amber-colored nipples that, for reasons Peggy didn't yet understand, could get hard and stand up stiffly. That happened, she noted, when her little box got hot. Or was it the other way around?
Her little box was hot now, but not the type of heat Peggy meant. The kind that made her feel excited was an inside heat, something that started in her little box and radiated out, warming her stomach and tightening her chest. And that was when her nipples got hard.
It often happened when she sat at this window watching the two whores across the alley. One of them was old and tired, with odd blue splotches, like old bruises, on her legs and across her breasts. And the breasts! Out of their confining bra the breasts sprawled and sagged.
They jiggled when she walked and flopped around as she turned, smiling coquettishly at some man, seated, Peggy assumed, on the sagging bed.
Not that Peggy had seen the bed. She just assumed it was sagging because Grandma's bed- never really made up and the sheets grimy unless Peggy changed them-was sagging. A onetime masterpiece of brass pipes in torturous design, it now leaned inward at both ends and drooped in the middle. And Grandma flung herself into it and snored with hiccupy irregularity. Especially after a bottle of gin.
Never having seen the bed, how did she know there was a man seated on it-or lying on it watching the old babe's ponderous cavortings? Well, the man usually came in with the old broad, rarely the same man twice, Peggy had noticed. Usually a little drunk. Sometimes very drunk. Knowing Grandma, Peggy was a competent judge of the degrees of drunkenness -from the swearing-at-fate stage to falling-down-blind staggers.
After a few slobbery kisses or inept pawings, the man usually staggered out of Peggy's range. By twisting and leaning, Peggy had seen the foot of a bed, not unlike Grandma's. With a gleaming brass knob and a segment of curlicued pipe.
So, since the man didn't show up again for some time-until after the old bag had played her wearied version of a strip-tease and gone out of view toward the bed-Peggy could assume that was where he was.
There was no doubt in Peggy's mind what the old bag and the man did. They screwed. They fucked. They fornicated. Peggy could recite a whole list of such words. And did, because sometimes just the words made her little box get hot and start excitements way up her belly and under her bubbies.
The younger one was lots more fun to watch. Peggy wasn't sure she was really a whore, though obviously she got paid for entertaining men. Peggy had actually seen the money change hands. But mostly the young one sort of stuck with a dark, almost handsome young man, who kind of acted as if he owned her. Peggy considered him bossy and officious, but obviously the young woman liked him. Or maybe she tolerated him. From the tired way she sometimes acted, Peggy suspected she only tolerated him.
And sometimes they had violent quarrels, usually ending when he slapped her and knocked her back on the bed.
Peggy could see that bed. And what went on. Sometimes. When the young one forgot to pull down the shade or just didn't bother.
The love-making in that apartment often got very interesting. Peggy would watch, sitting up on her couch, whenever she saw the reflection of the light from the young one's apartment. The bedroom light made a special pattern on Peggy's wall, hitting the framed motto on the wall. The motto was printed to look like somebody had done it in embroidery, but it wasn't real embroidery. The motto was kind of odd, too. It said:
"O wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursills as ithers see us.
It wad from mony a blunder free us
And foolish notion."
Peggy had thought the spelling funny. Real crazy. But teacher had said that was Scotch writing, and quite proper. But even that hadn't made the motto make sense. Except vaguely. Occasionally Peggy got a glimmer.
Just suppose the old bag across the alley could see her own ponderous cavortings. Would that change her? Would it free her from blunders? Peggy doubted it, with thirteen-year-old practicality. Seeing herself through other eyes more than likely would just make her unhappy.
So maybe the motto wasn't so smart-or Mister Robert Burns who wrote it. People don't change. Not deep down. Take Grandma. Every week, just before the check arrived and she had been rather spectacularly and nauseously sober for several hours, she studied herself in the mirror out of bleary eyes, touching her sagging mouth, her stringy, greasy hair.
"Ain't never gonna touch the stuff again. Not ever! Look what it done to me! Handsome I was. Downright handsome..." Then make those ghastly coquettish smirks at the mirror. "Men thought I was beautiful." And she'd cry a little, sloppily, the tears furrowing through the gray accumulation of dirt and old powder on her cheeks. "Could be again? If I just could kick the sauce..."
Grandma soon fell off the wagon. And for some obscure reason blamed Peggy. And Peggy's mother, long dead.
"Yeah, long dead and out of it! Left me with a brat to raise. That she did. Her own misbegotten brat." Grandma sometimes forgot Peggy was that brat and talked to her-no, talked at her as if she were somebody else, maybe even somebody who could set things right, like God.
"She coulda lived. He'd 'a married her. He was an honorable man. Why'd she have to take all them pills-and quit. And leave me with her brat. Somebody coulda changed things.... He was a fine man. Look what he done for me. And the brat. Every week, regular as clockwork, I get my check. If'n you just hadn't let her die, he'd 'a married her. And we'd all live in that fine house of his."
Like it was Peggy's fault Mommy had died. Which, in a way, it was. Even Peggy understood that, but only dimly. And as if Peggy-or whoever Grandma was talking to (aiming it at Peggy) could have changed things. Could even change them now. Grandma often pleaded with that someone to change things, to make things "right." And then send Peggy out for a fifth of gin, "to cure my ills, child, to cure my ills."
Grandma's ills needed curing at very regular intervals, like every few minutes if the gin was handy-and Peggy sent out for another bottle if it wasn't. Peggy didn't mind. Grandma was more tolerable drunk than sober. Drunk she only wept and mumbled to herself and fell into bed, to snore away the day. Or the night. Sober she blamed Peggy for all her miseries including her arthritis and her varicose veins. Or talked wildly to that someone who might have changed things. Still might.
So Peggy kept her little window on a small portion of the world and lived there, vicariously. Or watched it, as a spectator at a play. The old bag and the young whore-who just might not be a whore but was certainly liberal in her attitudes.
The young one intrigued Peggy. She had a slim body-Peggy often saw her naked, even when there wasn't a man around-with bubbies not much bigger than Peggy's. Her hips were wider and more voluptuously curved, but her legs weren't any rounder or prettier than Peggy's-and Peggy set herself some arbitrary and oddly impersonal standards, the cartoons, the few newspaper pictures she saw of fashion models and the occasional beauty queens-who were always over-endowed, as if they had entered a milk production contest and won.
But what Peggy enjoyed most were the sessions with a man. The young one did a slow strip tease as if she enjoyed it, as if she were aware of her body and proud of it, wanting to show it off.
Lots of times the man didn't let her finish the strip tease. He'd just grab her and start nuzzling at her neck and kissing her bubbies and playing with her box-which had a nice little muff over it, while Peggy's was still as bare as a baby's ass.
The man would finger that little box, opening the lips and playing inside with his finger. Peggy, watching, tried that and found it excruciatingly delightful. A kind of pain that felt so good you didn't want to stop until something happened, which it usually did.
Something very breathtaking, tightening Peggy's chest and making her legs feel weak-and fireworks going off inside her.
It probably didn't compare with the things happening to the young woman, who had a real live man playing with her and then stabbing her with his pecker, right up the little cunt. Peggy tried to imagine what that felt like and sometimes, if she worked hard enough on her own little box while watching the man screw the young woman, she thought maybe she had reached it-whatever it was.
It made the man hump very hard and very fast and the young woman writhed and twisted and slammed her little cunt right up at the man. And then they were both very still, holding each other tight, and then, with quick, jerky movements-and a final big shudder before they both went limp.
Peggy had long since decided that, if she could find a man willing and the opportunity, she would fuck. And yet she was afraid, with an oddly vague and nameless fear. A sort of "suppose something happened" fear. Not that she quite knew what might happen. Except, of course, a baby. But any silly knew how to take care of that. There were devices-they seemed clumsy and ineffectual to Peggy but some of the older girls at school said they were fine and you didn't really feel them. For her own part, Peggy preferred The Pill but had never had any occasion to dip into the small bottle of them she had swiped from a school locker.
Chapter Two
Peggy lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, her hand over her little box, one finger playing with her clit, that little knob she had recently discovered. Playing with that made fingering all the more exciting and added to the thrill of watching the man and the young whore screw and come.
Lying there, Peggy could gasp and writhe and twist, enjoying the tensions of sex, but even so, she sensed it wasn't the same. There was something missing. A man's prick. If she was ever going to know what sex really meant, there would have to be a man's prick rammed in her.
Peggy mentally listed the grown men she knew. There was the postman, of course, but he was usually tired and always complained his feet hurt. And anyway, he had to "go his appointed rounds." He was always kidding with Peggy and some of the women in the apartment who came down to stand around waiting for alimony checks or relief checks or just waiting, hopefully. He'd joke about the "swift completion of his rounds" and how nothing was supposed to stop the mailman, not "snow nor sleet nor hail nor dark of night."
And then he'd cackle. "But the motto don't say nothing about dogs that want to chase you or beautiful women that try to lure you up to their apartments," and wink at some of the "beautiful women" who were mostly tired old bags, lots of 'em as old as Grandma-but sober. Or reasonably so.
They thought the postman was funny and giggled and bridled, like he really meant they were beautiful and luring him up to their apartments. And maybe some of them wished they were and could.
Sometimes Peggy would catch him looking at her legs or the way her bubbies poked out her blouse. That made her get hot flashes and wonder-just a little-did he really mean that about getting lured up to an apartment?
Only of course she never could do any luring. Why, the old biddies hanging around for their relief and social security checks would be scandalized. And there was Grandma. She might be drunk and passed out or she might be up and prowling, looking for the gin bottle she had hid from herself the night before and forgotten where. Grandma wasn't what you'd call a stable character.
And, of course, maybe the mailman didn't mean it at all. Maybe it was just talk, to make the old biddies giggle and bridle and think themselves beautiful and young again, when guys really would want them to lure 'em up to their apartments.
No, the mailman was out.
And there was the cop who patrolled that beat, stout, amiable and suffering from bunions. He'd have come up to the apartment, but just to take his shoes off and wiggle his toes. There were a couple of places along the block where he did drop in like that, and Peggy was sure it was just to take off his shoes. Or maybe borrow the John.
His name was Mister Mulhaney and he always patted Peggy on the head and said he had a whole troop of 'em like her at home. Only sometimes he'd look at her bubbies pushing out her blouse or catch himself staring at her legs and he'd get red in the face, and walk off, swinging his nightstick.
Peggy never quite understood why they called it a nightstick, since he carried it in the day time. Not that it really made any difference. She couldn't get the policeman up the apartment, either.
For one thing, he'd spot the two whores, the old bag and the young one. And he'd most likely have to arrest them. So Peggy would feel responsible. And she liked the two women. Without ever knowing them, since their apartments opened on to the next street. They provided her with a rich source of entertainment, of which Peggy had very little.
So the policeman was out.
There was the youngish man in the tobacco and candy store down the block who always leered at her and was forever offering her candy, just so she'd come to the gap in the counter where he'd hand it to her, and put an arm around her, feeling her breasts if he could.
Now he was somebody who might do. He had a room back of the store-he was always mentioning it-just in case she needed a little rest after playing. Or on her way home from school.
He wasn't as young as he liked to make out he was because Peggy saw that his eyes were pouchy and sort of oyster-white, not real clear, and he had to brush his hair from the back to cover his bald spot. Only it didn't. Not very well. And looked a little freaky toward the end of the day when it got dry and curled off his scalp.
His name was Ladd. At least everybody called him "Ladd" and that was the name on the front of the store: "Ladd's Candy and Tobacco." Actually his name was Jules Suliman, a part Turk, part Armenian with maybe an Irishman somewhere in the background, from the time the British Tommies had occupied parts of Teheran and Armenia. Jules had bought out the original Mister Ladd some years back, only nobody remembered. In New York, neighborhoods change and the neighbors with them. Jules Suliman lived alone in the room just back of the tobacco shop. It was really four rooms and he had fitted two of them up with a third generation American's idea of what his homeland harems had looked like. And done it on a miniscule budget, since Mister Ladd had disposed of the store for a fat price just as the neighborhood had started down into being a tenement district. And Jules had never really taken a decent living out of the store. And suspected now that he never would.
So he made a lot of being a Turk when he talked to waitresses and bar girls and how he had a harem room, making out he was quite a potent fellow. Maybe he overdid it and scared them off. But none of the girls he tried to get ever came. Sometimes he'd get a whore in there. Once he got the young whore from around the block-the one Peggy watched-but she didn't come back for a second round. She pronounced him kooky, with a kink in his skull.
He had once got one of the neighborhood's multitude of little girls in there, telling her all about his harem room. And showed her his prick, hoping she'd get excited.
She hadn't. She had just stared at his open trousers and looked embarrassed. Maybe waiting for him to do something, since most boys were always trying to seduce her. And a lot of them succeeded.
But not Jules. He didn't have the courage to reach out and grab her. He was too afraid she'd scream. And he had visions of being dragged into the streets and beaten by her father. And harrowing days in jail and the vast ignominy of a trial, with everybody staring at him, the fiend who lured and raped young girls.
Of course, sometimes in these fantasies he was the hero. He'd turn up in court in a smart suit (he didn't own one) and confound all the judges and the jury and the prosecuting attorney by turning up some obscure law that not only set him free but won an indemnity from the city. Which they paid, in gratitude for showing the flaw in the law.
So Jules had just wearily rezipped his trousers and taken the little girl out and given her an inordinate amount of candy. Which naturally made her mother suspicious. So she had railed at her small, hen-pecked husband and driven him out of the house to go down to beat up that fiend who attacked children.
Mister Zaparte had listened, nodding, hearing just enough of his wife's tirade to get the drift, then turned down his mental hearing aid. He did understand he was to leave the apartment and tackle some brute. For what? Seducing that lump of suet? He had glanced at his daughter, already overly pudgy and adding to it by munching on a mouthful of candy that bulged one cheek.
She took after her mother, who had gone from a cute pudgy to a grossly fat woman, of whom it was said-and not always in whispers because she wasn't popular on the block-there was plenty of good fucking all around it.
Not that Mister Zaparte knew, or could recall. It had been so long since he had had an opportunity to discover. Madam Zaparte had an obscure ailment that prevented her satisfying her husband but did not extend to the dinner table, where she continued to stuff herself. There were those in the neighborhood who said that she also satisfied other appetites with other men, but these had never been identified, largely because they were imaginary, the inflamed opinion of a neighborhood that didn't like the shrill-voiced harridan:
All Emanuel Zaparte really heard, before clamping down mentally, was that he was to go out and beat up somebody. Just who wasn't clear and Emanuel wasn't interested in finding out, since he had no intention of beating up anyone. He was interested in the proposition that he go out, since his usual status was that of hobbled pony, strictly limited in his sphere of action, lest he meet and like some other woman.
Madam Zaparte may have been fat and foolish and a harridan, but she wasn't going to let go of that meal ticket, Mister Zaparte-not that he was that good a meal ticket but he was all she had. And Madam Zaparte like to eat.
So Mister Emanuel Zaparte, released from thralldom for the first time in years, headed for the nearest bar and dug out that ten dollar bill he had been concealing in hopes of just such a freedom, however brief.
Emanuel Zaparte proceeded to get monumentally drunk, talking wildly about how he was going to mangle the man who had raped his daughter-whiskey had accelerated the processes and accomplished what Jules Suliman had only dreamed of-and rather mildly at that.
He also got into a fight with a perfectly respectable insurance man from New Jersey who had stopped in the bar to ask directions to the George Washington bridge. Into the resulting melee waded Mister Mulhaney, eventually arresting the New Jersey insurance man for rape, since that was what Emanuel Zaparte was screaming about.
Fortunately the insurance man was respectable and could prove it. And also prove he was just passing through and hadn't ever been in the neighborhood before. And Mister Mulhaney, just to be sure he wasn't a visiting rapist, so to speak, took him up to the Zaparte apartment to be identified (strictly against regulations, of course). Madam Zaparte, terrified of policemen, flatly denied the whole thing. It was absurd. She had never told her husband that their daughter had been raped. The whole thing was silly. Look at the child...
Mister Mulhaney stolidly looked at the young Maude Zaparte, pudgy, jowly and stuffed with candy, and decided Mama Zaparte was righter than she knew. That malformation had not been raped. Or if so, it might have improved her.
So Mister Mulhaney released the New Jersey insurance man, with apologies, and arrested Emanuel Zaparte, who was relieved that he didn't have to face his wife after that brouhaha. He never did. When released from jail the next morning Emanuel Zaparte disappeared.
The main result of the uproar, aside from Madam Zaparte losing her meal ticket and having to go on relief, which she did promptly, was that everybody speculated on who had raped Maude. If she had been raped. The block was divided on that, with a good eighty-two percent -if anyone had taken a pool-voting for no rape. They could point to the lumpish Maude and say, with perfect justification, "Who'd want to?"
It elevated Maude slightly among her peers, the children of the block, but only temporarily, since Maude did not know how to milk a good thing. She might have made her anomalous position a permanent mystery but she chose to tell "all" which, of course, was nothing. It did, however, make Jules Suliman an authentic bogeyman for about a week. Little girls would go in and flaunt their dresses, hoping something exciting would happen, but nothing did. Jules was terrified of the brouhaha that had developed, and its possible consequences. So he was more circumspect than ever, being very careful even to give correct change.
But at least Peggy knew he had once attempted to lure a little girl into the back room and she knew how often he had looked so hungrily at her tits and slender legs.
So Jules Suliman was on her list of possibles. He had a prick. Peggy had that word direct from Maude, who had actually seen it. So he could stick it in her.
There was only one problem. Jules was obviously not co-operating these days. He hadn't so much as glanced at Peggy's bubbies that last time she was in the candy shop. And he hadn't tried to lure her to the gap between counters for a quick feel. And there was the problem of how could a thirteen-year-old girl hint that she was available for rape?
Peggy reluctantly put Jules Suliman aside for the moment, though she would like to see the often discussed "harem rooms"-picturing them somewhat more elaborate than Jules had been able to afford.
There was Mister Saunders, the butcher, who was so fat he sat in his own lap and was therefore of little interest to Peggy. There was Jenkins, the janitor down the block who had what he called "an apartment"-actually a room for a grimy cot behind the elevator-and a distant and chilly lavatory. Jenkins-if he had another name no one in the neighborhood knew it-was as grimy as his cot and almost as gray as his sheets-with dirt and coal dust, not age. So he was off Peggy's list, especially since the "apartment" was scarcely private. Anyone going to the basement could look right in.
Peggy raised up, easing up on her masturbation to check on the progress of the man and the young whore across the areaway.
She was disappointed to see that they had finished, obviously reaching an early climax, and the young woman was almost entirely dressed, to go after her next customer.
Peggy lay down again, her own climax passing in a quick, shuddering shiver as she did. Not at all satisfactory. There just had to be a man. Somewhere.
Of course, there was the street's really distinguished gentleman, a very exalted character who had his own studio and an apartment. And right in the half-basement of the apartment-tenement where Peggy lived. A photographer. James Brewster Atwood the slightly faded sign said. "Portraits and Commercials."
But once again Peggy was stymied on an approach. Just how did a thirteen-year-old girl tell a man he could screw her. Oh, given time and propinquity, she could make it rather clear. But how to get the time-and the propinquity?
Chapter Three
Peggy fanned her fanny and her box with the hem of her skirt, feeling mildly cheated that the young woman and her man had had a climax which she had missed. Still, playing with herself had been fun. More fun than listening to Grandma's grumbling-or her snoring.
She sat, half propped in her cot, watching the panel of light disappear when the young whore went out, turning off the lights. There wouldn't be any more show until the young one got herself another man. Sometimes she didn't get two an evening. Or sometimes maybe one would stay all night. That wasn't so good. The all-nighters seemed to prefer the lights out, so Peggy missed her show.
So she needed to think seriously about her own man. James Brewster Atwood was a nice, mouth-filling name. And it looked quite elegant, even in cracked and peeling gilt letters.
It was serious thinking for a thirteen-year-old. Mostly fantasizing, of course. But then all the happiest moments she had known were fantasies-and even those hadn't been so many.
Sometimes she pretended she thought she was a princess left with a wicked old woman who kept her from her rightful heritage because of the weekly checks Grandma received, enough to keep her in gin and a desolate apartment house. So one day, a prince would come riding up-not on a white horse but in a black Jaguar. She would like to have made it a Rolls Royce but she had never seen a Rolls Royce, not to know it.
The prince would instantly recognize a princess and carry her away to a palace that blended very conveniently the best points of the Ansonia Hotel-a once-elegant place only a few blocks away-and the Castle Lichtenstein, of which she had a post-card picture. What happened afterward always got slightly blurry, since she wasn't precisely sure of the details.
It would be something like the screwing scenes she had witnessed across the area way, only much more elegant. And somehow, in these scenes, Peggy always wound up watching a man and girl doing almost exactly the same things she could see across the way. And never actually participating. Never really being the girl lying there on the elegant bed with silken sheets while the prince-he even wore his crown to bed in Peggy's fantasies-leaned over the figure on the bed, his prick out, ready to ram the princess.
This never quite satisfied, since a prince should have something very remarkable in the way of a dong. Immensely long, or very pointed, or maybe gold plated. And the only pricks she could conjure up looked remarkably like those of the men across the way. These were not always so long but they all had curious bulbs on the end.
Sometimes, abandoning the lost princess, Peggy was simply a girl whose extraordinary beauty and figure attracted the attention of a movie producer, who whisked her right off to Hollywood and a bed oddly like Grandma's, except instead of brass, the knobs were gold. And the sheets, instead of being gray and grimy and just a little gritty, were smooth, made of something that almost glittered they were so shiny.
And the man stood over the girl and aimed his prick right at her little hot box. And there again the fantasy blurred.
Just because she had watched the old bag and the young whore across the way when they screwed men didn't somehow produce the exciting climax Peggy expected. Even diddling with her clit while she day-dreamed didn't make the image any clearer. Only a vague excitement swelled at the ending.
So, she told herself, she really needed to know.
Which brought her back to the men available -the butcher, the baker, the photograph maker.... So it really did come down to James Brewster Atwood, who was certainly available -if being in the same building was any indication. Except Mister James Brewster Atwood paid little heed to the occupants of the tenement in which he worked, in the half-basement studio with an apartment.
He had models who came to pose, presumably for the "And Commercials" since obviously his portrait business in that neighborhood would not support the Jaguar he occasionally brought around and loaded with equipment for some location shooting, as he condescendingly explained to a group that invariably gathered around the Jaguar. And rode off, usually with at least two girls-very pretty girls, too-crowded among his cameras, boxes and tripods.
The illusion was almost perfect-a photographer shooting pictures for commercial advertising. But not quite. For Atwood only took pictures of ladies in the buff-which he sold to magazines and to calendar makers. He also made up a series of specials for a clientele of men and women who like their nudes with a touch of raunch.
Peggy, an alert and inquiring thirteen-year-old with few restrictions put on her by her alcoholic grandmother and only sketchy supervision of a rather lax school system, had ferreted out James Brewster Atwood's secret. She knew-by an adroit system of spying developed by a series of thirteen-year-olds extending back to the childhood of Methuselah-that James Brewster Atwood photographed the models in the buff, often with the assistance of some males. Occasionally with himself. And that the poses were reminiscent of what went on across the areaway. Sort of stop-motion fucking. And other curiosa.
To Peggy this was an interesting phenomenon. People actually got their pictures taken doing the things the old bag and the young whore did across the way. And someone obviously made money out of the proceedings. She wasn't that naive. Somebody was making a buck. But she wasn't well enough grounded in economics to understand the cash flow. Except that undoubtedly the models got paid for all that very intriguing work. Just as the old bag and the young whore got paid. The very idea gave Peggy hot flashes-right in her cunt.
There was considerable difference between knowing what was going on and getting into the act, as many Hollywood hopefuls could say.
Peggy lay back in bed, considering methods. To give her credit, she did not think of blackmail, largely because it never occurred to her that anyone would care what James Brewster Atwood was doing. Fucking was a standard phenomenon of the neighborhood. To have it committed to the undying memory of a camera seemed foolish and extravagant but not especially reprehensible. In the back of her mind there was a hazy feeling that it was illegal- but then so was so much of what went on in the neighborhood. Even the activities of the old bag and the young whore were illegal, which Peggy, if she thought of it at all, would have considered ridiculous. Everybody fucks! Or so nearly everybody as not to make any appreciable difference.
There were exceptions, Peggy knew. Her grandmother, for one, and the old biddies who gathered like harpies, waiting for their social security checks. Age, which seemed to dry up the juices, appeared to be responsible.
At the other end of the scale were the youngsters, the neighborhood kids, some of whom did not screw. Mostly again because of age. They were too young. Their juices hadn't been awakened-Peggy knew this to be true, since it was only recently that her own had begun to function, getting her interested in the old bag and the young whore-or else, as again in her own case, opportunity hadn't knocked.
That Peggy intended to remedy. That she was already planning on, with stratagems that somehow eventually struck her as impractical. She could not, for instance, have herself, nude, wrapped in an Oriental rug and delivered to James Brewster Atwood, a la Cleopatra, of whom she had recently read. The idea made some very graphic pictures in Peggy's mind, particularly the moment at which James Atwood unwrapped the rug and beheld her lush, virginal body. And clasped it to his bosom, exclaiming, "My ideal! At last I have found you!" After that the scene got hazy.
Knowing what was supposed to happen-a man's prick in her cunt and lots of sweat-producing activity is different from having some experience on which to base day dreams.
She abandoned the rug routine as impractical, since the nearest thing to an Oriental rug she had at hand was a worn piece of linoleum in the apartment's kitchenette. If, in its present state of desiccated dryness it could be bent around her, the ragged outline and mangy holes would scarcely have covered both her bubbies and her cunt, making surprise difficult.
She also abandoned having her young, full virginal body shipped in a trunk. Her one experience with shipping had convinced her that delays were a regular part of the routine and she'd probably starve before James Brewster Atwood opened the trunk and gazed on her tiny but perfect form and exclaimed, "My ideal! At last I have found you!"
Peggy's dialogue lacked originality and scope, having been borrowed, intact, from a late, late show she had seen on television in a gin mill while trying to extract Grandma from the fumes.
She also gave up the idea of being lowered nude by helicopter; naturally, with her fair, virginal body exposed to the elements; or dropping in unexpectedly from a naked sky-diving session.
Lacking a helicopter and a plane with skydiving equipment, Peggy reluctantly gave up these day-dreams but felt she was creeping up on the solution of her problem-introducing herself nude to James Brewster Atwood, so that he could exclaim in the now familiar dialogue, "My ideal! At last I have found you!"
Somehow her closest approach to practicality, yelling "Fire!" and plunging down the stairs, nude, her fair virginal body exposed to the cruel flames, seemed more likely-at a second look-to arouse the entire tenement than just James Brewster Atwood. Which would make their meeting rather more public than Peggy would care for. Her plan was for intimacy. And it was difficult to whisper "Fire!" outside a man's door and make the whisper convincing. Convincing there's a fire, that is.
Peggy sensed, however, that there was a grain of merit in that approach, an element that could be utilized. After all, she and James Brewster Atwood were occupants of the same apartment building. There should be some simple way for them to meet so that James could exclaim his by now immortal line. Even Peggy was beginning to giggle over it.
Grandma inadvertently provided the key. Waking to a particularly vicious hangover- and she had had many in a quarter century or more of alcoholism-Grandma called out hoarsely for Peggy to get her some gin. Two bottles. This, undoubtedly, was going to be a two-bottle hangover.
Peggy, still half-swamped in sleep, trudged to the door of Grandma's room, her shortie nightgown askew on one shoulder and drooping only a little past her bellybutton. It failed to cover her entrancing little rear, where her buttocks moved in a rhythm of their own as Peggy stretched, yawned, rubbed her knuckles in her eyes and tousled her hair.
The way her shortie slid off one shoulder it revealed a remarkably nice little tit with an amber-rose nipple and small, still dim coin of slightly darker flesh around it. And at the bottom Peggy's little mound emerged, only faintly covered with a golden down, and in there, a neat and as yet virginal slit. Caught up in Peggy's stretching, the little mound seemed to twitch of its own.
Grandma glared across blurred and hazy vision. "You're a slut. Just like your mother. Just like my ungrateful child! The flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood! And she done wrong! Oh, God, she done wrong. Got herself a kid by him, she did. And wouldn't marry him! She could'a made him divorce that skinny slut of a wife an' marry her. But did she? Did she think of gettin' her a rich husband who'd take care of her poor old mother in her old age? No! Nothin' but puny little child support. Pittance. Damn pittance... you still there girl? Whyn't you gone for the gin? 'Cause you're a slut, too. Letting your bubbies hang out and your privates showing! Some man'll grab you and throw it into you and we'll have another one to... ain't you gone for the gin?"
Peggy suppressed a yawn and shook her head. She scrubbed at her scalp with her knuckles. "I'll need money. The liquor store man ain't giving credit."
"Money! They all want money. All right, all right!" Grandma pawed across her scraggy bosom, withered and dingy with accumulated dirt, and came up with a small leather pouch on a long, stout string. She squinted into it, poking her shaking fingers down deep. And came up, triumphantly, with a crumpled bill.
"There, child. Git me some gin. Two bottles. Two, mind you. And don't lose the change. Hear me? Don't lose the change! Or we don't eat till next week. Don't nobody give credit." Grandma sat up suddenly, directing a fierce glare in Peggy's general direction. "And mind you don't give no credit, neither." She cackled fiendishly, at some cosmic joke. "Take cash!" And fell back on her pillow, racked with coughing, spitting and letting the spittle dribble down her chin. And then back to uneasy, alcoholic sleep.
Peggy hung on to the money without smoothing the crumpled ball, holding it tight in her fist while she struggled with socks, shoes and...
Peggy paused halfway out of her shortie, arms up and tangled in its tattered fabric. Something Grandma had said clicked.
"Lettin' your bubbies hang out and your privates showing. Some man'll grab you... and throw it into you..."
There was her sweater from last year that was too small and always threatening to pop open at the buttons, now that she had something to pop with. And a skirt. One of the wrap-arounds that came off easy. Panties? Well, if she was going to the store, panties. But did they have to be-neat? She had a pair...
Peggy skinned out of her shortie and bounced her cute, rounded little figure over to the bureau and bent to the bottom drawer, thrusting up a neatly packed rear and tightening the muscles of slim, rounded legs. Her breasts were too young and firm to dangle but they moved provocatively in rhythm to her pawing.
Peggy straightened and held up the panties for inspection. They were distinctly goat-chewed. Cheap detergents and overstrong bleaches had wrecked the flimsy material. She balanced on one foot, stepping into them gingerly, lest they disintegrate before they served their purpose.
She settled the weak elastic around her slim middle and peered down at the effect.
There was good, clear viewing from almost any angle. Her crotch, her mound, her little cunt were only sketchily covered and readily reachable by inquiring fingers. Peggy experimented gently, not wanting to destroy totally what she now considered an asset: panties with a built-in view.
Covered with a relatively modest mini-skirt she would seem to be dressed, but a little investigation... Peggy slipped into the sweater. It really was too tight. By quite a bit. In the past year Peggy had grown, particularly in the area of the sweater.
Her tits thrust out, stretching the knitting to the point where one of the nipples slipped through and poked, like an enquiring eye, through the strands. The buttons, on a quick test, proved exactly as undependable as Peggy remembered. They slid out of their buttonholes with ease, and left the whole front of the sweater open to inspection-with Peggy's cute little bubbies on view.
She consulted the bathroom mirror, standing on the broken seat of the commode for a clearer view of the extremities, swishing her skirt by flirting her slim, rounded hips. Provocatively, she hoped.
By standing on one leg and lifting the other she got a very good view of her little hot box and her rounded bottom. It wasn't nudity, but it was as near as Peggy could contrive, given the circumstances.
She smoothed out the bill and saw, with surprise, that it was a ten. Two bottles of Grandma's gin wouldn't run over five. So there should be better than five dollars change.
Outside the apartment she hid the bill under a bit of broken tile she considered safe, having used it as a cache before for small sums. And headed downstairs.
Peggy's late afternoon appearances (in the morning, around mail time, it was the old crones) among the old men was enough to stop serious business talk and bring out some mildly risque banter and a few pats on Peggy's nice little rump. Nothing that really got Peggy excited, not even the rump pats, but pleasant. An attention that demonstrated she was female.
Now, in her special costume, she was setting out to prove she was female. This time she skipped the main entrance and headed back for the stairs that led down to the half-basement and the quarters of James Brewster Atwood- and, of course, a lower exit, her legitimate excuse for using the stairs.
She was already working the sweater buttons into perilous suspension and building up a very convincing set of tears, such as only imaginative little girls of thirteen can create.
By the time she was halfway down the basement stairs she was weeping pathetically, with gulpy little howls that shook the heart.
Peggy had set her trap.
Chapter Four
Reality is quite a bit different from day dreams. Peggy slumped on the stairs, her skirt hiked up and then smoothed out, as if she had tried to pull it down to give modest covering. And the top sweater button popped obligingly on its own, exposing one small, pink-and-amber breast-just barely, but enough to demonstrate it was there.
Having attended to these details, Peggy leaned her forehead against the rickety railing and let go with one of the more pathetic howls in her repertoire.
Instead of the door of James Brewster Atwood bursting open and that tousled, handsome young man emerging, to recognize instantly the virginal purity of the body so careful exposed to view, the door at the top of the stairs banged back and the raucous voice of the manageress, a lady with a large bosom and a small mustache, grated down the stairs. "Whatcher do, kid? Hurt yourself? I toldja not to run up'n down these yere stairs. Ain't my fault..."
Peggy turned a pathetic face up, pouting prettily. "I'm not hurt. I lost my money. Ten whole dollars!"
The manageress paused. The loss of ten dollars was a tragedy in that neighborhood. But replacement was, of course, no part of a manageress' duties. And rather than get entangled further, she withdrew.
Peggy once more composed herself, so that anyone opening James Brewster Atwood's door would get the full effect of tattered and revealing panties and one exposed bubbie-with the easy assumption that there was another one around. Having settled her properties to what she considered their best advantage, Peggy let go another howl of agony and squeezed out more tears, since the others had unaccountably dried up during the session with the manageress.
The photographer's door banged back against the wall and James Brewster Atwood strode out. He was an angry young man-angry even before Peggy's howls aroused him-and he appeared in the doorway outraged, his hair looking as if it had lost an argument with an electric mixer.
"Cut out that caterwauling!"
Astonished at discovering her ruse had actually produced a living breathing James Brewster Atwood, Peggy gawped. "What's caterwauling?"
"It's what you're doing. So shut up! I've got enough problems without some brat shrieking her pointy little head off..." Jim Atwood, who was lots more human than his rather formidable full name indicated, frowned at Peggy. "What were you crying for?"
It took Peggy a long, shuddering moment to re-adjust to reality. Somehow she had never really expected this ruse to work, to evoke the genuine, unmistakable and very attractive Jim Atwood. Any more than she had really expected an Oriental rug or a helicopter. The scene was playing wrong.
Still, she went into her prepared story, managing, from sheer astonishment and indignation at the combined success and failure of her scheme, to make it sound real. It was certainly gulpy enough.
"I lost all our money. For Grandma's gin and for dinner and all next week. A whole ten dollars!" Peggy didn't even wait to see how this was affecting the young man who was staring at her, frowning. She hurried on. "Granny will beat me for losing all that money..."
Jim Atwood nodded, scowling. "Your granny is that old lush up on the fourth floor? What does she do? Catch toads by the dark of the moon? Grab bats out of the attic? Snag newts when they're not looking? Grow vervain in a window box?"
She shook her head. "I tried to grow geraniums in the window box but they didn't..."
"Naturally. Geraniums won't grow with a witch around."
This was such a new concept of Grandma that Peggy had to stop to give it thought. In doing it, she eased up on the artful pose and relaxed against the open bannister, peering down at Jim Atwood. "You mean-Granny's a witch?"
"Having seen her, it's a natural assumption. So tell her to conjure up another ten dollar bill and not send a little girl down here to weep ten dollars out of me. Or if she does, to put some clothes on her. You're practically naked."
Jim Atwood's casual contempt for nudity and his attitude toward Peggy practically in the nude triggered some natural small-girl modesty in her, and she huddled on the stairs, tugging at her mini-skirt and clutching the edges of the sweater. And it also triggered indignation -mostly at having her superb plot attributed to Granny. "She did not! I came down on my own. Granny doesn't even know yet that I..."
"Scram, kid! I got problems of my own. My best lousy model didn't show up and I've got a series to finish up for... Just beat it, will you?" Jim Atwood started back into the studio, leaning to reach for the door handle, looking up at Peggy.
It gave him a perfect and, so far as Peggy was concerned, unexpected view up her legs, to her little cunt and beyond. He hung there, leaning out, peering up. And then raised his eyes to study the exposed tit and finally up to her face. Very slowly he straightened, coming toward the stairs, his eyes at about the level of Peggy's knees, so she knew he was getting the full effect of the tattered panties and her little box.
And it frightened her. She hadn't expected to be frightened. That never occurred to any of the heroines of Peggy's day dreams, who were, after all, Peggy herself. They all went to their fates with happy smiles of anticipation. Not a fear among them. And now Peggy was frightened.
Part of it was the intent look on Jim Atwood's face. Later Peggy was to recognize this as his "photographer's look," when he was sizing up a subject and mentally arranging camera angles and lighting set-ups.) Another part was that she was no longer sure she could handle the situation she had created for herself.
In her daydreams, in her planned but never carried-out assignations, she had simply swooned at about this point and things, very exciting and delightful things, happened to her, involving going to bed with a man and having his prick...
Peggy stared between the bars of the bannister at Jim Atwood's crotch. There was a large bulge there, just where his prick should be. That BIG? And shuddered. And, of all embarrassing things, sniffled. A good cry was one thing, a sniffle was another. It was so-kiddish -to sniffle.
Jim Atwood turned his eyes up to her face again, pulling them reluctantly from her exposed tit and the interesting revelations below. "Poor kid. Sorry I barked at you. But I've got problems. And your caterwauling... All right! Stop bawling. You'll get soggy. Here's a handkerchief."
To Peggy the major surprise was that it was clean. Snowy clean. Handkerchiefs in this neighborhood, when that refinement did show, were invariably crumbled, gray and generally damp. Or looked it. Peggy stared so long at the handkerchief that Jim Atwood shifted from foot to foot and finally coughed.
"It's a hand-ker-chiff. You wipe your tears with it and then blow your nose. And... Quit snuffling! Use the handkerchief. All right, blow your nose first, then. Your eyes do look rather nice and somewhat larger with tears on your lashes. They'd photograph well." Jim Atwood cocked his head to one side and studied her, nodding slowly. "Yes, you'd photograph well. All of you." He turned away abruptly, heading back for the studio. "You can keep the handkerchief. I don't do that kind of photography any more. Candy box art doesn't sell, these days. Poor little match girl. Poor little violet peddler. Just plain poor little waif. You'd be great at them all. But they don't sell. So... Scram. Beat it. And keep the handkerchief. So run along, kid. I need a model who will pose in... Oh, nothing! Beat it, kid."
Peggy, her courage oozing away, spoke very softly through the handkerchief. "How do you know I won't? Pose in-nothing, I mean."
Jim Atwood turned slowly in the doorway of his studio apartment and looked at Peggy, studying the unbuttoned sweater, where one bubbie was now almost completely exposed and the other clearly delineated. He dropped his eyes to the edge of the miniskirt.
Almost automatically, in a flash of shyness, Peggy clapped her hands in her lap, pushing the skirt down to hide her cunt.
Jim Atwood, looking at her legs and right up her skirt which was just at his eye level, walked slowly back. He tore his eyes from the scene Peggy had created and stared at her.
"Your granny didn't send you down here to con ten bucks out of me for her gin?"
Peggy caught her breath and held it, unconsciously for once, accentuating her small, firm breasts. She shook her head. "No."
"You dreamed all this up? Losing the money, Granny's vengeance-the costume? Or lack of it?"
Miserably Peggy nodded, chagrined at being caught out. She even managed a whispered "Yes."
Jim Atwood, fists on hips, his tousled hair falling on his forehead, stared up at her.
"Why?"
Acutely unhappy now, Peggy huddled tighter, into a small ball of misery, clasping her knees and pulling herself in as close as possible.
"Were you planning to seduce me?"
That was far more complicated than anything Peggy had dreamed up. The seduction, if there was to have been any, would have been the other way around. Anyway, it wasn't to have been a seduction, just a matter of two people going to bed together because they both wanted to.
"I... I wanted to work for you. I wanted you to notice me, so I could work for you..."
Jim rubbed at his chin, knuckled his nose. "Oh, I've noticed you. Who could help it. In this particular gutter, you're a flower. And by God, do you flaunt it! You've got half the old boys on the block looking at you and going home to jack off... Which you probably don't understand, I hope."
"They pat my fanny," Peggy said with a very small voice, wondering just where her beautiful script had got shot to hell. This was not at all the way it should have run. By now they should have been in each other's arms, screwing. Only now she was no longer quite so sure she knew precisely what, screwing meant.
Or if she really wanted it. Upstairs, in her narrow bed, alone, it had seemed so desirable, , so earth-shakingly original. But now, with her own near nudity practically ignored, she began to have misgivings.
And yet her little box was getting hotter, just thinking about it.
Chapter Five
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..."
Chapter Six
"Absolutely amazing, kid." He flicked his tongue at her throat, tracing out the fluttery racing of her blood in the great artery of her neck, and on down, until his tongue touched a nipple, teasing it, pushing it in and out, circling it, until Peggy wanted to scream.
She arched herself back, seeming to pull away but actually thrusting her bubbles right at him, pushing her little pelvis against the thrust of his dong. He held her, one hand behind her shoulders, one cupping the roundness of her ass, moving her in a gentle, slow rhythm up and back, against him, while his tongue played exciting tricks around her nipples.
He turned her around, so that once again her back was to him and his dong beat a slow tattoo against her little bum. One hand played with her bubbles and every now and then his tongue touched the back of her neck, stirring the tendrils of her hair.
The hand on her bubbies shifted. His other hand came up and the first trailed off, down her stomach, to her pelvis and fleetingly played at her little slit. She felt herself getting weak. Her legs didn't want to hold her. She sagged back against Jim's chest and was surprised to find it bare.
He had taken off his shirt-and undershirt if he had one-and the hairs of his chest tickled her back until she pressed tight against it, feeling the heat of his body. Jim lifted her, setting her astride one knee and somehow managed to slide out of his trousers. Underpants.
Girl and man-naked together!
And something terrific and exciting about to happen!
This was what she had dreamed of, wasn't it? Then why so much disquiet, so tight a chest, so frightened and rebellious a stomach? She tried to tell herself, inform her body-"This is what you expected. This is fucking...."
She looked down her body, between her little bubbies and could see her stomach, a few creases where she sagged against Jim-and down there, between her legs, peeping from under her little slit, the reddish-purple bulb of Jim's prick! Her body took over for her, moving back and forth, sliding on the head of his prick, seeing it wink in and out below her cunt.
Peggy shut her eyes, squeezing out all the sights of body and prick, concentrating on feeling: the slow, rhythmic motion of Jim's prick sliding along her slit, the slight movement of Jim's body against her back, the touch of his hands tracing their way across her breasts- with one of them edging down toward her cunt.
That one seemed to hypnotize her, sliding smoothly across her stomach, tracing out the sensitive creases between stomach and rounded legs-and going into a slow dive down toward her slit. Subtle fingers played across her mound-and one tapped at the entrance slit, the lips of her cunt. And she could feel her own cunt answering that knock, the lips swelling and folding back. That was allowing the head of Jim's prick to touch right inside her cunt, bringing a deep, shuddering gasp from Peggy.
She had to stop this! It had gotten out of hand. The dream had turned into incredible reality! Into an emotional splurge that shook her, literally shook her body.
With an effort she turned in his arms, throwing her legs so that she straddled his knees, her bubbies jutting at him. He supported her back with both hands while he kissed her breasts, teasing the nipples until they were stiff with passion, with excitement, sending thrilling shivers down through her body.
And Jim's prick was facing directly into her cunt, her little opening cunt. That big bulb pushed at her, plowing into the little slit.
Peggy gasped and then, with a last minute of sanity-if her actions could be considered remotely sane-she thrust herself away from him.
With his prick no longer jammed against her cunt, she could catch her breath, speak again. "Please! You said you wouldn't! You promised! Not for real! Please! I don't mind if it's only a pose-but please, not for real!"
Jim caught himself, grinned ruefully and nodded. "Only a pose. Okay, kid. That's the right form of sublimation. I wish I could think up one as good for what I'm doing." He picked her up, holding her against his hot, scratchy chest, her legs dangling on either side of his prick.
He walked her across the studio, dodging loops of cable and ladders and light standards, to a bedroom set-up and laid her gently across the bed, her legs dangling off one edge, her head flung back and rolling from side to side in denial of her own excitement, denial of all the mad, whirling chaos in her body-all the heat and excitement that seemed to concentrate in her cunt.
She wasn't really aware that Jim had left her for a moment until the lights flared on, washing the room, turning her body a startling white before the eyes adjusted and the pink and amber of her flooded back. She squinted up into the lights, seeing at least three cameras aimed at her. Three?
Jim was back, bending over her, his face looming large above her. "The cameras are remote controlled. I can handle them from here-"
His chest looked broad, formidable... his stomach a vast field of pink-brown-and down here... Peggy peered down her nose, along the whole length of her body, and saw his prick, the reddish-purple ball of it close to her little cunt, the shaft pulsing and shuddering as he leaned over.
Peggy tried to close her legs but he was between them. Then he stepped back, letting her bring them together, hot, shivery, excited. He leaned over, kissed her breasts and slid his tongue down the length of her body. He looked up, just before he closed his mouth over her little slit. "I'm going to kiss you-right in your pussy. It will be exciting but don't let it frighten you. It's just-a pose. You'll hear the cameras click."
Jim traced one of her creases down to her cunt and slid his tongue into her slit, teasing it, touching her clitoris and running his tongue across the lips of her little box.
She felt the strength seep out of her legs and they fell slowly open, until Jim could get his head down between them, thrusting his tongue deep into her slit, teasing her clit, stroking the lips of her vulva. Peggy bucked and arched as his hands slid up her body, caressing her breasts, fondling her nipples, squeezing them gently, and stirring her whole body into a frenzy of desire. Without knowing it, without even hearing her own voice, Peggy was pleading with him, begging him to thrust his shaft into her cunt.
Jim half stood, half knelt before her, adjusting the height of his prick to her cunt... and thrusting with his bulb.
Peggy gasped, feeling that huge thing pressed against the lips of her slit. It would never go in! Never! Not without splitting her wide open, not without tearing her flesh.... She was about to scream a protest when she realized that big head had already slipped in, and her cunt was closing around it, gulping at it. Dimly she was aware that somewhere, off, cameras clicked. But right then her full attention was on the astonishing things that were happening to her cunt.
So this was fucking! It was wonderful! Except that she had to correct herself. This was posing for fucking. There was a difference that Peggy understood but couldn't explain.
Jim bent over, kissing and caressing her breasts, her little bubbies with their pink-amber nipples, adding more churning emotion to the excitement down at her cunt and far up in her belly as Jim relentlessly pushed his prick deeper... deeper... deeper...
Peggy's hands clawed at the air, muscles of her arms and legs twisted and twitched. Her stomach felt as if a great hot rod was being thrust up it... up it... up it.... Oh, God! He couldn't go any farther... and there was one last thrust-and his prick slid over some knob way up her cunt and into-where did it go? Just in.
She could feel his whole shaft, the special excitement at her cunt, the lips seeming to move of their own accord, pulsing and sucking at this monstrous thing thrust into her. And her pelvis worked, setting up a rhythm that Jim happily matched, so that his prick slid in and out, riding on the juices she knew she was pumping into her passage, all along it.
His prick was buried deep in her, so deep she could feel his pelvis tight up against hers, spreading her legs, stretching every bit of her, so that now her whole body-skin, muscles, even her bones, seemed to be responding. And building to something immense, something totally outside her experience....
Peggy clawed at Jim's shoulders, trying to pull him closer. She even reached down for his buttocks, trying to shove more of that shaft up her cunt...
And then it happened. She had been feeling the growing tensions, the tightening of every nerve, the tenseness of every muscle-and now...
Far up her passage Jim's great bulb rubbed against the walls. His shaft pulsed and drove -and was suddenly still on one final, deep thrust.
Hot juices exploded into her, so deep she could fancy she tasted their hot saltiness. And her own juices let go, her nerves exploded into white, soundless explosions, blinding behind her eyes, tightening her chest beyond the point of breath-and then-wondrous release!
Complete. It was something complete. An action that had a stirring beginning, an immensely exciting middle and-completion. Satisfaction.
Peggy slumped on the bed, whimpering with the release of it, shuddering a little as Jim's prick slid out of her little cunt. She smiled tiredly up at him. "I think I'm going to like- posing."
Chapter Seven
Peggy lay very still on the bed, letting her legs dangle, enjoying the tensions of muscles pulled, of skin tautened and sensitized-of the delicious languor that held her. She breathed deep, remembering the thrust and power of Jim's great prick, the very moment it entered her little cunt.
Yes, this was far better than daydreams, than playing with her little clitoris and getting pallid imitations of the excitement that had just shaken her. This was the daydream magnified, made into something with substance, something so real she could feel, taste and touch it. No, not real. It couldn't be real. It mustn't be real. This was posing. This was just-well, putting on a play-acting show in front of a camera. Well, three cameras. Yes, all this was only a pose.
Only a pose.
She smiled up again at Jim bending solicitously above her. "I think I really am going to like-posing."
Jim caught his breath, glanced uneasily at the plastic-covered book on the table, back to Peggy and then up at the glaring lights, squinting. "Posing. Of course. Yes, you were posing." He sighed. "And I imagine we got some very interesting shots."
Peggy squinted her eyes, peering around at the three strategically placed cameras. Her smile was slow, a sort of inward enjoyment. She pointed around at the cameras. "I'm in them? On film?" she kicked her legs and sat up, wincing. Catching her breath.
There had been some pain. But what glorious pain and such magnificent explosions... but that was past. She straightened, cocking her head, glancing brightly at Jim. "When can I see them?"
"See them?" Jim gave the matter frowning thought. "You want to see them?"
Peggy shrugged with exasperation. Of course she wanted to see them. That was what it was all about. She'd been posing. She wanted to see the results. "Sure. How will I know I was just -posing?"
Jim turned away, grabbing up a terry cloth robe and draping it across his shoulders. He peered over his shoulder at Peggy, grinning. "You don't-know?"
"I know what we did, but I won't know it was just posing till I see the pictures, will I? And you won't know if I pose good until you see the pictures." Peggy shook her head vigorously, swirling her hair and then settling it back into place. She simply had to see those pictures. If they weren't any good, then there wouldn't be any more posing. Or, if they weren't really there, then Jim had just conned her into a quick, easy fuck. And she wouldn't let herself even think that this was fucking. It wasn't, she told herself fiercely. It was posing.
Jim caught the robe tight, lashed it into place with a cord and faced her, grinning. "You- pose very good, Peggy. We'll just have to see what the cameras did with it."
Peggy sighed, her slim figure settling back on the bed, satisfied that Jim had taken pictures, that this was really posing. Why it was so important that it was only posing was very dim but very real in her mind. It was a nicety of distinction that only she could understand. Posing gave the fucking status, removed it from the same category as the old bag across the way, or the young prostitute, who raunched around on beds without the benefit of cameras, without the solace of knowing that they were only posing. And yet having all the fun of getting fucked, as Peggy had done. Only not real fucking. Pose fucking.
She squinted through the glare of lights at Jim Atwood, wrapped in his robe. The lights were hot on her nakedness, hot but nice. They dried the sweat, warmed all her body, her little titties, her cunt and, if she rolled over, her back and round little rump. It was nice to be naked under the hot lights, nice to stretch and feel her bubbies move in sensuous enjoyment, feel the pressure of the bed and her own weight against her rump and back, the looseness in her little cunt that had been so tight. Just moving her pelvis a fraction seemed to slide the lips of her cunt against each other, stirring up warmth that had nothing to do with the lights.
Maybe the prints were over-exposed. Maybe a shutter had stuck and Jim hadn't gotten all the pictures he needed. Peggy smiled to herself. Then they would have to pose again, so as to get the right pictures.
Jim reached down to stroke her leg, starting all kinds of things going in her again. But he was only smiling at her. "We can get some wet-neg prints run off in-oh, maybe half an hour. They won't be as good, maybe a little spotted, but we can tell how well you-pose."
Peggy sat up, her slim body twisting trying to turn in all directions at once, searching out the cameras. "Now? You mean we can see the pictures in half an hour from now?" She leapt up, flinging herself at Jim. "Please. Please. Let's see how I-pose. How I look..."
Her face was turned up, appealingly, her slim body thrust against the roughness of the terry cloth robe, feeling it with her skin, her sensitive little nipples. And feeling through the cloth the heat of Jim's body. "Please."
Jim grinned down at her. "You are a tantalizing wench. And when you grow up..." He ruffled her hair. "My mistake, Eve. You are already old. Old and very, very wise."
That was silly. Her name was Peggy. Not Eve. Except, of course, Eve didn't wear clothes either. Not for a long time, and then only a fig leaf. Peggy pushed herself away from Jim and looked down at her little mound. Where on earth could you fasten a fig leaf?
Jim grinned at her inspection. "Naked or clad in fine raiment, my dear, you are Eve, the eternal woman. Of course, naked, you're a little more tempting."
He looked her over, very carefully and then shook his head. "I retract that statement, Peggy. You would be alluring wrapped in rags. Come to think of it, that's the way I first saw you. In rags. Or at least, in very ragged panties. And I knew right away you were female..."
Peggy giggled, leaning against him. "You're funny. Of course you knew I was female. You could see I didn't have a pecker."
"And baby, you can lean In the other direction or get some clothes on. Come to think of it, those you have are just about as distracting as nudity. Maybe more so." He frowned portentously at Peggy. "And of course, you were aware of the secret of partial concealment." He nodded. "Whether you're aware of it or not, you're aware of it. And if that confuses you, think what you do to me. Go wrap yourself in a sheet or something. Preferably a barrel." He grinned. "One with a very small bunghole, so I can't peep."
Peggy walked herself backward, looking slightly cross-eyed down her pink form, past the amber nipples, the nubile breasts, the nicely flattened little stomach, the pubic mound and down her legs. Suddenly she giggled, pointing.
"We forgot the shoes and socks." And slanted her eyes up at Jim. "Maybe we should take the pictures over again. I wouldn't mind posing. If you say so?" It was a question with a rather hopeful note. "Huh? Should we?"
Jim turned from working on one of the cameras to stare at Peggy, mildly baffled. "You want to pose again?"
Peggy pouted slightly, figuring out the best way to answer that. It had several neat little dilemmas tucked away in it. If she said "Yes," maybe she was being too eager and Jim wouldn't want that. On the other hand, if she said, "No," he might think she didn't want to pose again. She decided on a weasel, a very distracting weasel. She wiggled her pelvis, just enough to draw Jim's eyes and sighed. "Let's look at the prints first."
Jim nodded and turned back to the cameras, unloading them with special care... as if their contents were precious. "And while I'm developing these, try working on the theory that most people wear clothes most of the time. And practice it. If you can't find anything else, there's a robe in the dressing room. Not that you're likely to be troubled by that designation but it's that door over there."
Peggy strolled over to the dressing room, letting her small bottom express her indignation at being shunted away from the fascinating work of watching film being developed. The very film on which her very special posing was recorded.
Jim suddenly laughed. "Peggy, switch it once more to the left and you said, 'To hell wit yez,' plain as Brooklyn."
Jim talked funny, but in an odd sort of way Peggy understood him. Not the words, really, because they never quite said what he meant. And right now he was telling her he got the signals bouncing off her small rump. She tucked it in and marched into the dressing room.
Chapter Eight
The dressing room smelled of powder and perfume-and some underlying woman-smell that got through to Peggy without her being in any way able to identify it. Not just woman-smell; something distinctly female, which is considerably more emphatic and at the same time a great deal more subtle than just woman-smell. It set Peggy to feeling again, an odd new warmth creeping up in her little cunt, an itch that couldn't be scratched.
There were lights all around the large pier glass. Peggy walked over to it, studying her approach with interest. Her legs were slim and rounded, molding into small hips-but very feminine hips. Peggy waggled them slightly, cocking the right one up and drooping on the left. It threw her legs into an interesting position and made her little slit tilt cranksided, like a mild leer. If she twitched her pelvis just a shade forward the slightly crooked slit moved. Provocatively? Peggy couldn't quite answer that. Certainly this new, full-length view of her body was, in itself, intriguing. She didn't have to stand on the busted John and lift one leg to see her cunt in a blotched and wavy mirror.
It reflected not only her legs, the whole length of them, and her cunt-the slit was all she could see really, and just the tip of that- her mound and the faint dusting of silky fuzz plus, of course, her titties. She twisted a little sideways to get a better view of them, since front-on they weren't very impressive. But slightly sideways! Peggy nodded. Very nice little bubbies. She slid her hands up them, cupping and supporting them but they didn't really need that. They jutted out, tilted slightly up, even if they weren't very big. And when she drew a deep breath they were quite noticeable.
She ran her hands down her sides, tracing the curve that rounded into her small hips. Not really much of a waist. But her stomach was nice and flat, not a swelling butterball like Maude Zaparete who looked pregnant without ever getting fucked. Or at least not raped. Peggy even doubted Maude's assertion that she had been screwed-but not by Mr. Ladd (her name for Jules). That was just to make up for some of the local glamour lost when the rape bubble burst prematurely.
No, Peggy decided, turning herself around and then corkscrewing back, her stomach did not need trimming down. And it would certainly show pregnancy. Even a little bit of a pregnancy would show on that nice, flat little stomach.
She had a sudden moment of panic. Suppose she was already pregnant. Suppose Jim Atwood had given her a baby! Of course, it couldn't be. Not really. Since she hadn't really been fucking. That was just posing. And you didn't get babies from just posing. That was one of the nice things about posing. You didn't get babies from it.
Still...
Peggy turned and ran, looking for Jim, a little bewildered now that the brilliant glare of lights was gone, and only the work light showing her an intricate path through the gaunt menace of ladders and tripods and things that turned into crouching beasts threatening her. Confused, she whirled, crashed into a light standard and sent it careening into a ladder. She clutched wildly at the lamp standard but the ladder went over with a reverberating clatter. Peggy screamed.
Somewhere off to her right a door opened, letting out a path of amber light, with Jim's head outlined against it. "Are you hurt?" He hesitated, listening, "The way those lungs are going, I'd say no. Oh! You don't have to cling to that light standard. It's not going anywhere.
It'll even stand up by itself. Come here, kid. So you got startled. My God, it didn't literally scare the pants off you, did it? I thought I told you..."
Peggy ran to him, flinging herself at him, entangling her slender arms in the terry cloth robe and nearly wrenching it off him, momentarily fascinated with the revelation. His prick was swollen again and heavy-looking, not quite standing up but on the verge. He saw her staring at it and sighed. "It's those photos of you. Even in them you're raunchy. And I look at hundreds every day..."
Peggy caught her breath, leaning against him, her eyes still on his half-erect prick. "Did you give me a baby?"
Jim sighed. "Kid, you are impulsive! You should have thought of that a while back." He tousled her hair. "No, kid. Don't you remember? That was just posing. And anyway, I've been fixed that way. Temporarily." He grinned down at her. "With some that is a very good selling point. I just forgot to mention it to you..."
Immensely relieved, Peggy nodded. "Sure. And, like you say, we were just posing, anyway. So even if I had one it wouldn't count." She looked up then. "I would like to have your baby but Grandma gets so upset."
Jim shook his head and seemed to listen for something to rattle inside. "Don't explain that, kid. I might understand it. Which I hope you don't." He glanced down at her. "And if you must scratch that itch, try rubbing it under a gate. You bother me."
Peggy nodded happily. "I know. Your pecker's all stiff again. Just because I rub my titties up against you. Oh, the pictures! Did I come out good?"
Jim chuckled. "Well, 'good' isn't the operative word. But you sure came through clear, kid. And very, very merchandisable. Watch these prints. They're still wet. But if you..."
Peggy already had the first of the prints spread out on the counter, her small fingers held it open, her eyes greedily studying it.
"That's me all right..."
She stared at the print, a black and white rendering of her slim, nude body flung across a bed, her young but rounded legs dangling, her flesh drawn taut. And her eyes big with wonder -with just a tinge of fear, as that prick threatened her small, partially flowering cunt unencumbered by hair. Her small finger with a gnawed nail traced out the more intimate details. Finally she looked up at Jim. "Is that good posing?" and at his nod she sighed contentedly, knowing that she would be used to pose again. And turned back to the picture, pointing. "Most of you is lopped off."
Jim nodding, stirring the wash on the other prints, carefully avoiding seeing Peggy's young, nubile body at his side. "Sure. Who wants to see the man? It's the girl they're looking for. And what happens to her."
Peggy giggled, staring at the photograph. "That girl is sure gonna have something happen to her, isn't she? Wow!" Peggy wriggled ecstatically. "Was she ever gonna get it! That big ole prick right in her little ole cunt! Hey!" Peggy almost climbed into the washing tray in an effort to see the other prints. Jim pulled her back.
"They'll keep, kid. Just give 'em a minute."
Peggy was following the slow swirl of camera shots, lucid and explicit. "That's where you ackshully rammed it in me. And there's where... I don't remembering screaming then, but it sure looks like it, doesn't it?"
Jim hauled out the print gingerly, studying it. "A very graphic representation of a young girl having her first orgasm. You screamed, young lady. You screamed. And kicked me in the tail, and I remember it."
Peggy giggled. "Did I?" She pointed to the explicit print showing her little cunt spread wide, the shaft of a penis thrust way, deep inside. Her young face contorted in a gasping grimace. "And that's good?"
"Kid, it's fabulous. If there were Pulitzer prizes for pornography, that would take it... A virgin has an orgasm. If that were ever published, Peggy, you'd be world famous-and both of us would be in jail. Unfortunately, in separate cells."
But Peggy wasn't looking. She had lain the print on the table and was regarding it studiously, chin on small fists. "Aren't my eyes a little too big? And turned up. Rolled up, I mean."
Jim came to stand beside her, his arm draped over her bare shoulder. "Well, you have big eyes. And in this instance-and rightly so- widened by-emotion. Rolled up? Yes. A trifle. But that tends to emphasize the excitement. And you do have one crooked tooth."
Peggy pooh-poohed that. "Won't nobody notice that. Not in that picture."
"You are observant, my wench. And correct. It is doubtful if anyone would notice a herd of elephants in the background doing handstands on their trunks. That photograph is what you might call assertive."
But Peggy was through with that one. She reached into the shallow pan, stirring with her finger, mentally selecting a number of minor images, nodding. "The socks do make it more- naughty, don't they?" She turned, looking up at Jim, her young breasts brushing aside his terry cloth robe, exposing some of his chest. "Why?"
"Eve, they're your fig leaf. Which is much more intriguing than outright nudity. They also connote youth. Extreme youth. And there is an element of depravity in them, as if you were in such a hurry to get laid you didn't bother to take them off."
Peggy giggled, nodding. "Well, that's what happened, wasn't it? We forgot to take them off. Is that depraved?"
"I'm afraid it is, I hope."
"What's depraved? What's it mean?"
"It means-that." Jim leaned over her, tapping at the print. "And what you're doing to me, rubbing your libidinous breasts against my chest. And take your hand off my pecker!"
Peggy let go of his pecker reluctantly and peered down at her libidinous breasts, rather expecting some sort of sea-change. "Libidinous? Is that nice?"
"On you it wears well, child. Your titties are the embodiment of the sensuous, especially the way you stand there, moving them to some inaudible music. Bongo rhythm, no doubt."
"I just like to move 'em. It feels good. Not as good as when you play with 'em, but good. Better than just standing here, waiting."
Jim leaned over, carefully avoiding Peggy's slim young body, picking the prints up one by one and hanging them from clips. "And what are you waiting for? And why ask a foolish question? You only get a silly answer. One that would embarrass a bishop."
Peggy scowled at the prints, trying to sort all that nonsense out. She knew quite well what she was waiting for. And she was quite certain Jim knew. And how had the bishop got into it?
"Do I have to pose with a bishop?"
Jim nodded, as if something were confirmed. "Not necessarily. However, there are interesting potentials. Like, should he wear his mitre while screwing a nymphet?"
Peggy shook her head. "But I'm not screwing for real. That's just posing." The distinction was very clear in her mind, but came out hazy when she tried to put it into words. Screwing was something private and maybe ugly, the way the old bag made it, prancing around, swinging her blue-veined titties and heavy, pendulous buttocks marred with tired old bruises. But posing was something you could think about and plan and consider. And maybe even talk about. And kind of-arrange. Though admittedly the first posing had been just a shade hurried. Not, that she was finding fault. It had been very satisfactory posing, as these pictures showed.
But the next posing...-Peggy frowned, considering, running over the sample book in quick mental takes. There was one pose that had looked extremely interesting. The man had been lying down, his prick almost straight-up, and the girl had-just sat down on it. That had seemed both simple and exciting. In fact, just thinking about it had made her little cunt get hot and twitchy.
Peggy tugged at Jim's robe, pulling it aside, seeing his prick standing up and quivering. Why, he was practically ready for posing right now.
He glanced down, saw her looking and nodded. "Yup. They do that. Even to me. And if you're thinking of what I know damn well you're thinking, just give me time to reload the cameras."
Peggy sighed happily, wriggling her small, slim body, moving her titties, weaving her pelvis sinuously, anticipating moves and dreaming of sensations to come.
"I sort of thought we'd pose..."
Chapter Nine
Jim seemed to be taking forever to reload and reset the cameras. He had told her the new series of poses would call for different camera angles and a new lighting pattern but...
Peggy sighed, standing, half crouched, on the bed. That was so Jim could get the range and focus and see just how high his cameras should tilt. It was a bore, this part of posing. But the lights were warm on her naked body, and she did have moments when she knew Jim wasn't just looking at her through the viewer of a camera, as a subject. He was seeing her as female, as she would look posing with his prick rammed up her cunt, her little titties held proud as she reared back, lowering herself on his horn, feeling his bulb thrust past the lips and ride up into her....
"Aren't you ready, yet?"
"My impatient Galatea! I created you out of... like hell I did. Eve, Aphrodite-whoever you are, you sprang full-blown into sensuality. You simply blossomed under the beneficence of the arc lamp... which isn't really an arc lamp these days and you couldn't care less. Yes, my little nimble nymphet, I am coming."
She saw his legs first, emerging from somewhere above, among lights and cameras. They were hairy. It was rather exciting looking at his legs, seeing the muscles move under the skin, seeing the dark hairs ripple with the movement. But the most exciting thing was knowing what would show next. His pelvis and his prick.
Except that he had on the terry cloth robe, which flapped around his shanks as he moved carefully down the ladder. Still, the robe was easily discarded. When it came to the actual posing.
Peggy was keeping on the socks-to give the series continuity, Jim had said. And they did added a feeling of sexiness to the picture. And to the posing, now that she thought about it. As Jim had said, it gave the posing an air of the impromptu. Jim liked words like that, words you half understood and got a sort of hazy picture of. Impromptu sort of meant hurried, the way they had been about posing the first time.
This time they would take it a little slower and get more feel out of it. Let each moment hold-so the camera could get it, of course. And Jim was beside the bed, looking at her. His smile was a little crooked. "You know I'm crazy to do this, don't you? Me and a nymphet, screwing, for the camera...."
Peggy wriggled off the bed, slithering up his front and somehow getting well under the terry cloth robe. "But it's just posing. It's not screwing for real. Why don't you take off the robe."
Jim's pecker had subsided again, but it came to twitching life as she plastered her pelvis against him, moving it so that his prick, even though soft, rubbed against her little mound. Her bubbies slid up his chest, feeling the roughness of his hair, and delighting in the feeling.
Her nipples hardened just as Jim's prick was hardening down by her cunt. Jim shed the robe and put his arms around her, his hands fondling her shoulders, her back and on down to her firm, twitchy little rump.
His hands kneaded her buttocks, moving them and pulling at them, drawing her close against his prick, her stomach up against his, warmed and excited by the contact, though for an instant his flesh had seemed cool.
One hand slid up her front, cupping under one bubbie, moving it, so that the nipple rasped over the hairs of his chest, stiffening and thrusting at him. His fingers slid on either side of her nipple, her little amber-pink nipple, and nibbled at it toothlessly, setting things on fire all inside her and banking the fires in her little cunt to new, deep-burning hotness.
Jim pushed her away hurriedly but not un-gently. "We better quit this. There's almost no pictorial quality in a little girl with her belly smeared with jizzum...."
Half drugged with the heat of her emotions, Peggy let herself be led to the bed. Jim stretched out on it, his pelvis raised high, his prick standing up, quivering, shiny with his juices. It was beautiful! Magnificent! A great throbbing shaft that would soon be rammed up in her cunt, shooting its delights hot and salty into her.
Almost dreamily she climbed onto the bed, standing spraddle-legged above him, looking down at his lanky body-and staring down at that great shaft aimed directly up at her.
For a moment panic racked her. Why had she chosen this pose? It was impossible to lower her little butt down on that rod, letting it stab into her cunt, ram far up her body. She licked her lips, shaking her head.
And Jim lay there waiting. Expectant. If she didn't go through with this pose, he'd never let her pose again. He'd never drive his shaft up her cunt and explode his juices in her....
Why, it wasn't so difficult, really. Just sort of-squat. And move around a bit, which was exciting in itself, until she felt his bulb right up against the lips of her cunt.
And wiggle some more, letting his bulb wet her cunt, letting her lips open up... and his bulb had slid in! It was as if her little cunt had been stretched and heated, all at once, with moist, juicy heat. And as if she could almost taste with her cunt, as if another mouth.
Jim's hands came up to caress her titties, to fondle and tease her nipples. Occasionally he would let one hand wander down along her side, across the fold of leg and pelvis and tease the edge of her cunt. Once he let his finger drift into her hole, teasing at her clitoris.
And breathing was difficult. She had to gulp for air, forgetting cameras were on her and she was trying to look glamorous. Only it wasn't glamour Jim wanted. He said he'd settle for good ole raunch and reality. So maybe it didn't matter her mouth was stretched, her eyes wide with the surprise of how deep Jim's prick was going -and how wonderful it felt.
Jim's hand slid off her breast and caressed the inside of her thighs, tight under the effort to hold herself just above Jim's prick, not letting it get too far in... and yet wanting it in, deeper and deeper.
Her own hands pressed on her knees, helping to hold herself erect, to let that glorious pecker go sliding up her tunnel. Now Jim grasped her slim hips, his fingers digging into her buttocks, moving her slightly in a wiggly motion, so that he seemed to corkscrew his pecker farther up her tunnel. And she slipped down, burying another bit of it in her. And her legs were trembling with the effort to hold herself a little bit off his pelvis. Jim had said he wanted slow penetration in a series of pictures. But she couldn't hold off much longer. And didn't want to. That prick was way up her tunnel but it could go farther.
Suddenly, with a sigh, she dropped all the way down, her little buttocks resting on his legs, her cunt pried wide open by the stretch of her legs-and his pecker rammed far up her, already pulsing.
Jim moved his pelvis, stirring her little cunt to activity, to chewing on the root of his shaft, to pulsing for itself all up her tunnel in answer to the pulsing of his shaft, the spasmodic twitch of his bulb.
Jim opened his legs and she slid down between them, her pelvis tilting, her cunt driving still deeper down on his pecker-and feeling it move way up inside her.
Now she could hold her breath, letting shivers run up her small frame, chasing each other delightfully along her spine, up her cunt. And her titties could jut proudly, ready for Jim if he wanted to play with them while she rode his shaft.
He reached for her titties, just teasing the nipples, and triggered a special tightness in her chest, a special feeling of gulpiness, of shudders that ran down her, meeting shivers that came up.
Slowly she began to move her pelvis, feeling the rod of his rigid and tight whanger within her, but quivering and pulsing with a vitality all its own. Her pelvis slid sideways, tilted a little, moving in slow rotation around and across the root of his shaft, building an excitement inside her more intense than anything she had known.
This was so prolonged! It was taking forever! And she didn't mind. No, she didn't mind. Not a bit. Let it last forever! Let it go on and on and on, building to some tender violence within her, creating some climax that seemed now as if it might tear her to pieces. And yet she knew it wouldn't. It was just part of the delightful, shivery almost-fear in her.
Jim's hands on her waist seemed to squeeze her in a rhythm, as if he were pumping her, to get more tightness up her tunnel. And beginning a slow up-and-back movement with his pelvis, signalling the final drive.
Her hips moved in rhythm to match his, until they were working in unison, panting in unison -and-in a moment, exploding in unison.
Peggy felt his bulb pulse and the long, rhythmic pulse of his shaft an instant before the hot, salty juices slammed into her belly, flooding her. And her juices let go, with a million little stars pinwheeling behind her eyes and fireworks going in her chest and deep in her stomach.
They were moving in frantic rhythm-and then that final thrust, a heave of Jim's pelvis- and explosion! And utter stillness. They held it, on a high note, his pelvis jamming up against her, his prick riding high in her cunt.
And the juices flowed.
It was wondrous release, a floodgate opened, pressure gone-and the long feeling of being drained-of, as Jim said, your heart melting and running out at your toes.
Peggy slumped over his prick, her head drooping, her eyes unfocused yet seeing the accordion folds of her slackened stomach. Slowly she unkinked one leg, stretching it gratefully along Jim's side. And then the other, sighing as her bottom sank just a little between Jim's legs.
His pecker was getting limp now. She could feel it inside her tunnel, deflating, pulling back, twitching a little, as if reluctant to leave the warmth of her cunt. Now it was sliding out, wet, limp-no longer the magnificently frightening shaft of a few moments ago.
Her little cunt was twitching-but the twitches were slowing-further and further apart. She slid off Jim's leg and curled herself up at his side, grateful for the comforting arm that dropped over her shoulder, lying almost negligently but with an assuring protectiveness across her breasts.
Her small body still shook with the excitement of the orgasm and her little wet cunt ached from the stretching. But it was a gently slowing shake and the ache was just enough to remind her that she had been-posing.
Her head drooped against Jim's shoulder and she slept, without even asking to see the photographs, though the idea did move fleetingly across her mind, got almost as far as a murmur -and she was off, asleep, undreaming.
Chapter Ten
When Peggy awoke the lights were off except for a dim one across the studio-and Jim was gone. Gone but-as she listened-close by. In the lab. Finishing up the prints from that latest pose.
Peggy wriggled her shoulders sensuously, feeling the sheet under her, writhing against it, remembering the delights of that last pose. It was slow, delicious awakening. Not only of her eyes, opening and seeing, but of her body, feeling returned to each part in happy reconstruction of that last pose.
She had never seen the old bag do it that way -or, as a matter of fact, any way, vision was cut off by the angle of the window. But even the young whore never had such pleasures, such utter use of her body. And Peggy had had it just for posing. That was the marvelous part of this, of discovering Jim Atwood and the secrets of posing. She could have all the excitement, all the hot, raunchy reaming of Jim's prick-and it was still only posing. It wasn't for real. It didn't count.
Peggy gathered herself together, slowly, savoring each movement, each little twinge of her cunt, her pelvis, her back muscles. These were good aches, pains well and truly earned. And delightful.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, resting there a moment to test any new twinges, to see how good they felt, what past delight they reminded her of. Finally she stood up, stretching and yawning, feeling the new pull of muscles, the sheer delight of wriggling her little pelvis.
Swinging it, and bouncing along to inaudible music, Peggy flounced herself into the lab. She stood in the doorway, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the amber light, her pelvis still moving to that inaudible music, her whole body freshly alive.
Jim was just lifting out the finished prints, still dripping, and holding them to the light for inspection.
"Are they any good?" Peggy started slowly across the floor, still savoring the pleasure of waggling her pelvis, of switching her hips.
Jim turned to watch her, swearing. "God damn it! I keep forgetting how beautiful you are-and how damned small and young. Even while I'm looking at these pictures."
Peggy took important things first. "Do you think I'm beautiful?" She paused to consider herself and beauty as she knew it. And nodded. It was a fact. She was beautiful. And went on to the next point. "Were the pictures good? Did I pose all right?"
Jim held a wet print out to her. "You just lost your amateur status. As a model, if nothing else-and there was a good bit else you lost but we won't discuss that. That, young lady, is professional posing. And, I may add, professional photography."
It was a clear, sharp print and showed Peggy just fitting the bulb of Jim's prick into her cunt, an intent, earnest and excited look somehow blended on the youthful face.
She aimed one finger down at her photographed cunt and the shaft about to enter. "It came out good, didn't it?"
Jim grinned at her. "That's the good photography. And what came out good is the-posing. I suspect, young lady, you have quite a career ahead of you. In either of two arts."
Peggy frowned over that, sorting it out. "You mean-either screwing or posing? But I only want to pose. I'm never going to screw. Not for real. It's all right for posing but not for real."
Jim reached out and took back the print. "You do have a point, Peggy. And as long as it works for you, stick to it. It doesn't happen to be a philosophy I can adopt, however convenient it is. And would be, in this profession."
Peggy giggled. "You talk funny. Sort of way out, like."
"And go put on some clothes. You bother me."
"I like bothering you. It's nice to be able to bother somebody. It sort of means they like you. You do like me, don't you?"
Jim turned back to the washing tank. "I like you, Peggy. Perhaps too much. In fact, I know damn well it's too much."
Peggy sighed happily, wrinkling her nose at his back. "I was scared you might not. And wouldn't want me to pose any more." She pranced a little, jiggling her small bosom. "When are we going to pose again? Soon?"
"I think you'd better go get that gin for your grandma, don't you?"
"Do I get ten dollars for posing? Or is that too much? I mean, if you don't have ten dollars," Peggy spoke with the matter-of-factness of people who often don't have ten dollars-or even a dollar. "I don't mind. I've got Grandma's ten hidden and I can get her gin with that."
Jim turned around, leaning against the sink, studying her. "Peggy, you're incredible. And stop jiggling. Things shake up-including me -when you jiggle. Put on your clothes. And you'll get ten dollars. But how will you explain it to Grandma? All that extra money."
"I won't tell her." Peggy spoke with the authority of one who had many secrets from Grandma, who was, after all, rather easy to bamboozle, since she lived in a private world peopled mostly by old grievances and fresh gin bottles.
"And what will you do with the money?"
Since Peggy had never had any money to spend, this was almost a new concept. What could one do with ten dollars? The sum seemed enormous to her. Heady visions swirled through her head and she hugged her slim arms across her bosom. "I don't know. There's so many things..."
"Some clothes that aren't so ventilated might be a good idea... And go put on those you have. Skimpy as they are, they're better than being naked. Better for me, that is."
"Okay." Peggy turned away, giving a little fillip to her rump. She turned back for one last glimpse of herself repeated in the washing tank, in miniature, in positions that were-well, exciting. "When will we pose again? Tonight?" She sighed happily. "Posing is fun."
"Tonight?" Jim appeared to consider that thoughtfully. "I don't think so, chicken. I... well, I'm going to see a man." He waved toward the prints. "About these." He waved her on. "and keep going, spriggins. I might be tempted to-shoot some more poses. No! That's a very firm NO! spriggins. Not now. Not tonight. You take Grandma her gin and go dream about posing. Maybe tomorrow. After school."
"It's vacation," Peggy said it with the great scorn of one in the know for the merely ignorant.
"I can come any time."
"And you can go any time. Like now. I've got to run these prints through the dryer and make up one of my special books... So... and get those clothes on! You're distracting." Jim made shooing motions, and Peggy trotted happily off, gathering up her scattered clothing and taking them to the dressing room.
She dressed slowly, contemplatively. Yes, she had very nice legs. Of course, they still looked like a little girl's legs-but nicely filled out. She yanked the flimsy panties up so tight they split in even more strategic places than before. But it didn't matter. They had served their purpose. Yes. Peggy sighed with the delight of memories. They had served her well. Except that she was going out, to the store, she would have abandoned them. There was something slightly risque about going out without panties. Faintly naughty.
The miniskirt barely did duty and any breeze would reveal the tattered panties. Not that it mattered. And the sweater really could be persuaded to stay together long enough for the journey to the liquor store and back. And if it didn't? Peggy shrugged. So her bubbies would show. Not a very exciting dilemma for a girl who had posed naked. With a prick in her.
Without asking again for her well-earned pay, Peggy slipped out of James Brewster Atwood's apartment and retrieved the ten dollar bill before marching boldly out the front door, skipping down the steps-to the scandalized delight of several old codgers seated slumped on the steps, dreaming of but scarcely hoping for just such a revelation.
Peggy beamed at them and skipped on down the street, a little more confident of her powers as a temptress, now that she had posed naked. So what if those old coots saw her cute little ass and even her cunt. They weren't going to do anything about it. Probably couldn't, to hear the old crones of the morning mail session complain.
The liquor store man sighed when she came in, shaking his head. "No credit, Peggy. Your grandma forgets too easy."
Peggy held out her hand with the crumpled bill. "We're paying." She pointed to the cheapest of the gin bottles, knowing their location well by now. "Two."
The liquor store man sighed, going into the familiar routine. "I ain't supposed to sell you gin. You're a minor."
"Wrap 'em up like a loaf of bread-with a piece of celery sticking out. Won't anybody know I bought gin." It was a weary game they played. And Mr. Sharpman never did put in the stalk of celery, mostly because he didn't carry it, or any green groceries.
He would think of several more arguments not to sell her gin, just so he could keep her there, enjoying the sight of her fresh young body. Today he was getting more sight-and more enjoyment-than usual because the too-tight sweater really was very revealing. And when Peggy bent over-as she did to inspect the bottom-most row of cheap candies-he got a real revelation. Especially since the panties had virtually disintegrated.
He wrapped the two gin bottles as something vaguely resembling a loaf of bread. Not that it mattered. Anyone seeing Peggy headed out of a liquor store would know Grandma's regular consignment of gin was on its way. The bundle was securely if ineptly wrapped. Mr. Sharp-man's attention wasn't on it, what with viewing Peggy's rump and her little slit in a swirl of tatters and going off into a day dream so entertaining it almost caused him to give Peggy an extra dollar in the change. Instinct alone saved him, and he re-counted before the disaster became a reality.
Peggy headed back to the tenement, her thoughts not on gin or even the correct change. They were contemplating future posing. And setting up scenes of such extraordinary concupiscence that they could only exist in day dreams.
She scarcely heard her grandmother's husky-voiced, rusty complaints. She didn't really need to hear them. They were from an old, tired tape Grandma played endlessly. And only the sight of the two bottles of gin quieted her down. She hid one from herself and scurried back to the once gaudy bed nursing the other.
And left Peggy to wander back to her tiny room and sit at the window, without even noticing the man the young whore had with her.
Peggy had had her own man. And would have him again. But only for posing, of course. The scenes she envisioned were far more entrancing than any show the young whore could put on.
Chapter Eleven
James Brewster Atwood worked with the conscientious endeavor of an artist, preparing his prints and sliding them into one of the leather-bound photo albums-as he did for those special customers of his highly specialized photography. And all the while a little sick, a little nauseated. With once in a while a truly cold cramp in his guts.
He had been a fool and knew it. Peggy was only a child. How old? He'd make a guess at- well, not more than fourteen. And developed!
Not over developed like some of these overblown cows he saw on the street, those for whom it was claimed were "going through a phase" and that was just baby fat. Looking at their mothers, Jim Atwood was certain it was either heredity or consistent overfeeding. Possibly both.
Peggy was slim, her body a masterpiece of symmetry-a true nymph, a miniature woman. And behaving, as he had said, with the knowledge and instincts of Eve, the eternal woman.
Damn! And double damn with applesauce on it! What a fool he had been! He should have sent her on her way the moment he saw that phony act on the stairs. But there had been something so appealing about her, even though he knew it was an act... and then he had been caught up in the femaleness of her.
She was Eve. She was complete temptation, a nymphet rounding into womanhood.
Of course, that didn't excuse him. "I should have been carrying my folding ten-foot pole not to touch her with. Instead, I carried my prick right into bed with her. And did touch her. Touch her, bud, you rammed her. You reamed her. But good. And damn it, she liked it. She wanted it, and wanted more." He glared at his reflection in the mirror. "And right now you will swear off Peggy, with mighty oaths and the very best of intentions-until she comes around tomorrow. And you will be a spineless jellyfish-one enormous cock attached to what used to be a man. And go for that kid again.... And what a weird notion: it's only posing. It's not fucking for real. I wish I could rationalize it that way. But I know damn well I'm a dirty old man-all right, a dirty young man-who will screw a kid because she's just too damn female for me to throw out."
He frowned at the reflection. "And James Brewster Atwood, not only will you screw her again, you'll go peddle these products of your initial seduction to a dirty old man who will huddle with them until they're tattered and grimy, looking, looking-and jacking off. Because he pays well. And because you lost your integrity years ago... so let's wrap it up."
He didn't mean the leather-bound book. He didn't wrap that. Just tucked it casually under his arm. He looked once more at his reflection. "James Brewster Atwood, you're a schnook! You're worse than a schnook..." For a moment Jim studied his reflection, frowning, trying to think of a stronger word, yet one that wouldn't offend him mortally. He finally flapped a hand at his reflection and stalked out.
Ken Robertson wasn't a dirty old man. He was remarkably clean, impeccably clean. And he wasn't so old. But very rich. With a penchant for dirty art pictures, both real art and photographs such as James Brewster Atwood specialized in. Some of the paintings that hung in his private gallery were masterpieces: two Rubens, one of the lesser known Fragonards and a Goya that may have been genuine but was certainly a nude, a voluptuous nude, and a single Lucovici of a very young Samoan girl. All nudes, of course. And all quite explicit.
His collection of photographs was growing -and some of them were overly explicit. But he liked them. He lived for them, never having married. He had a passionate desire for women and one great hindrance. He was scared to death of them.
Part of it was a domineering mother who had all but stifled him for thirty-five years-until she obligingly died and thus let go the purse strings her husband had unwisely handed her. The rest of it Ken Robertson had never admitted to anyone, except his physician. Ken Robertson was ashamed of his penis.
He wasn't impotent. He could get an erection -and did during every session with his photographs or paintings-and masturbate. But his penis was so small!
Actually, his penis was not so unusually small. Not large. Not aggressive. But neither was it small. When he was a young boy, just growing into manhood and therefore likely to slip away from his mother's tyranny, she discovered his secret. He thought his prick too small. And used it viciously as a weapon to bind him to her. He wasn't but half a man. No woman would want him. He couldn't go out into the world, face up to other men, knowing he was only half there. Only half alive. A mere half a man.
And that, just as he might have learned that he was a man! That might not have affected other men with more sense of assurance, with a bit broader knowledge of the world. But his mother had ruled and regulated all his contacts, carefully screening out any who might divert an iota of attention from her.
It was moral incest, because she hugged him to a mythical motherly bosom where, she assured him, he would never find criticism, just because he was only half a man.
Ken Robertson knew, intellectually, that he wasn't half a man. He even knew, factually, that his penis was not unduly small. But knowing it factually and throwing off the fixation of years were two different things. So he still bought packets of "special" photographs and gloated over them.
So he welcomed James Brewster Atwood, one of his better suppliers, with open arms. Well, not quite. But he did put down the book he was reading, a new translation of Queen Marguerite d'Angloueme de Valoir de Navarre's scandalous Heptameron which he found much more raunchy than Boccaccio's Decameron, probably because it was written by a woman, and a queen at that. He smiled cordially, waving Jim Atwood to a chair, but eyeing the leather-bound portfolio with avid interest. He even made a hesitant motion toward reaching for it and restrained himself.
"You have something new for me? Posed as I -er-suggested?"
Jim Atwood laid the portfolio on his knees and shook his head. "Not quite, Ken. That model didn't show up. But..." Jim could read the disappointment already clouding Ken Robertson's eagerness... "I think this series might interest you. Frankly, I never expected to get anything like it. It's-well-I'd say it's- unique." He still laid a hand on the book, studying Ken Robertson, assaying his disappointment. "I'm not trying to sell you this with a big buildup. If you don't want it, I know where I can place it."
Jim held out the leather-bound book. "Just take a look."
Ken Robertson, his slim, elegant hand reaching, betrayed little interest. Someone was always trying to sell him something unique and interesting. As if sadism were new! Why he knew a source in Paris...
He opened the book. And blinked. He flipped through several pages and then came back and went through it slowly, licking this patrician lips. Finally he closed the book over a finger, presumably at a picture he intended to study more closely at leisure, frowning at Jim.
"That is you in these pictures." He smiled tiredly. "I have seen enough pictures of you to recognize you even without a head. I am an expert on pictures. So you know the girl." One finger tapped the book as he tucked in a quiet smile. "That much is self-evident." He referred again to the book, studying the crisp delineation of Peggy's nymphet figure, and glanced up at Jim. "She is-available?" And tapped the book hurriedly. "For more photographs?"
Jim appeared to consider this and finally nodded. "I think so."
"Like these?"
"Reasonably. If you mean naked and fucking." Once he had his sucker hooked, Jim Atwood believed in being brash, with a touch of shock. It was his way of aerating this business he was in. "What had you in mind?"
Ken Robertson once again consulted the pictures, a white line of tautness around his mouth. "She is a child. A very charmingly developed child." His tongue whisked out, across his lips and withdrew. "A nymphet, I believe they're called. After Nabokov's creation."
"She's all of that. And Eve in the bargain."
Ken stroked the book with one slim, manicured hand. "She does this'-willingly? You don't-er-use pressure?"
Jim grinned. Ken's line was becoming clear, a line he had never suspected the man capable of. "No pressure. No blackmail. Except..." and Jim held that for a long, torturous moment... "she doesn't fuck."
"But..." Ken flipped the book open, whipping out a magnifying glass. He studied the pictures and finally shook his head. "They're not fakes. Not combos. Not double exposures. Or, if they are any of those, you deserve to rank with Matthew Brady as a photographer. And faker. He did some beauts."
"I've heard. No, those are not double exposures. Not combo. Not fakes. What you see is what happened. What you don't see is what happens in the torturous mind of a nymphet. She is not screwing for real. She is posing."
"But..." Ken Robertson began a protest and then sat back, smiling. "Not screwing for real? Just posing? A mental strategem worthy of my late mother, who could twist her thinking into pretzel shape to use as a measuring stick." Ken sat very still for a long time, working his thin lips. And finally nodded. "One thousand for this portfolio. Provided you guarantee me there are no other prints. And..." Ken held up a hand, taking a deep, shuddering breath, "another two thousand-if she will-er-pose with me."
Although he had seen it coming, the cold proposition was a shock to Jim Atwood. And a stumper. Would Peggy "pose" with anyone else? He started to get up. "I honestly don't know, Ken. I can ask her. I will ask her. Tomorrow."
Ken Robertson almost furtively peered into his newest treasure and shut it up again. "If she is posing, she wouldn't laugh at my-deficiency."
"Deficiency?" Jim started to say he didn't realize the guy had one... He took a deep breath. Whole hog or nothing, with not even jello for dessert. "Frankly, Ken, I rather thought you- couldn't. I figured you were one of those unfortunate guys who were-impotent."
Ken smiled bitterly. "My mother would have liked that. She would have arranged it if she could. Even having you suspect it must have her chuckling in her grave." Ken blinked. "I suppose there are a great many people-like you- who believe that of me. Yes, I can see how they would. No. I'm not impotent. I just happen to have a rather small organ. But my real deficiency, I think, is that I'm a virgin. Which my mother DID arrange."
Chapter Twelve
Peggy awoke slowly from a deep and oddly dreamless sleep, feeling slightly cheated. She had gone to bed the night before fully determined to dream her way through a complete summer re-run of the posing at Jim's studio. She mollified herself by running instant replays of the more delectable sections on the ceiling of her room, her eyes wide open, but not to the blotched and cracked ceiling.
Fucking was a very delightful pastime, if it was only for posing. There were things about it that Peggy would like to change but they were probably as immutable as the past Grandma was always begging to have changed. She would like, for instance, to have Jim's prick stay permanently hard and to shoot off his juices into her at intervals. These intervals varied with each day dream but their net effect was to prolong the fu-posing indefinitely. Peggy recognized, with one side of her very practical little nature, that such changes were not likely to be brought about and, if they could be, might not be entirely satisfactory. And, thinking practically, she recalled that she had slipped out of Jim's studio without collecting her model's fee. Now that could be arranged.
She puzzled for a moment over why, even in her day-dreaming, she recognized that indefinitely prolonged fu-posing might not be practical. And then came up with her own rather original but eminently satisfactory explanation. If fu-posing were indefinitely prolonged, she would miss a great deal of the fun, which was in the build-up, where her body responded to Jim's hands, the demands of his prick against her little cunt, his mouth against her titties, tongue teasing her nipples. All that delicious and constantly increasing excitement would be missed.
Peggy nodded. She would leave Nature's arrangement alone. And pose in snatches, accepting all the excitement of several build-ups and the glorious Fourth-of-July-Macy's-Parade- St. Patrick's-day excitement of climax for each. Peggy had carefully avoided putting Christmas on her list of excitements. Christmas, as far back as she could remember, had been a stomach-churning disappointment, what with Grandma forgetting completely promises made weeks before during her occasionally lucid moments. No, for Peggy, Christmas did not add up to excitement. Rather to tears absorbed in her pillow, sobs muffled with the edge of the blanket.
Those bleak, barren Christmases were one of the elements that had driven Peggy to thinking about fu-posing, that had prompted her to seek, anywhere she could, some evidence of interest in her as a person. She didn't really ask for love. Nor expect it. She didn't know enough even to consider it, never having had any.
The excitement of the use of her body was enough. It made up for so many other lacks. Not that Peggy really identified any of these lacks -there were just-gaps-where she felt something was missing, just dull, empty pains in her chest from time to time, from-wanting. She couldn't have recognized these lacks as a mother's love, a little crooning attention to a hurt knee, a warm, quieting hand in the dark of night when strange things menaced little girls, a happy, laughing response to a good report card, frowning-but not too formidable-disapproval of bad marks, even an occasional spanking, and plenty of hugs and kisses in between.
These were a child's rightful heritage, the unlimited magical gold with which to buy the future.
Peggy had for substitute a drunken grandmother with a grievance against the world and an insatiable thirst for gin. Plus a bitter resentment that Peggy even existed.
So Peggy lay in her bed and projected re-runs of yesterday's sex and caressed her own body languidly in anticipation of today's fu-posing. She meant to look through that sample book more carefully. There had been quick glimpses of some quite extraordinary performances, some of them involving a number of people in quite improbable poses. Except as curiosa, she could discard those. She wanted her body used, her emotions caught and impressed on film-not a mob scene. Still, there was something about... well, at least she could satisfy her curiosity today when she went to pose for Jim Atwood.
And she wouldn't have to try anything so childish as the self-opening sweater of the panties with high visibility. Jim Atwood knew what she looked like-and liked it.
Peggy swung her slim, rounded legs over the side of the bed and sat for a moment contemplating them, mentally comparing them with other legs. They weren't as full as the young whore's and certainly not as baggy and droopy and blue-veined as the old bag's. They weren't as long and thinly tapering as the fashion models' and fashion sketches. But they compared well with those she recalled seeing in the sample book. In fact, now that she thought about it, those models were quite ordinary and in a few instances just a bit lumpy. But what they were doing made you forget little deficiencies.
And between her legs-her little cunt. It ached a bit this morning. Not unpleasantly. Just enough to sort of remind her that there had been a prick rammed through it... She had almost no criterion for making cunt comparisons. Cunts, it seemed to her, were cunts. Some had hair, a soft muff covering them, others-though this was only an assumption, except in a few instances at school where she had seen other girls in her gym class naked or practically so-had no hair.
Peggy considered the aesthetics of that, and concluded she preferred her own version, with no hair. Without hair she had unobstructed view of what went on down there. And that, she felt, was part of the build-up of excitement.
Her bubbies-Peggy had to stretch her neck backward and peer down her nose and even then the view was limited-were admittedly small. But they were nicely rounded out. Peggy ran her hands over them, touching her nipples and triggering a ripple of excitement all the way down to her cunt.
The blotched and smokey-looking mirror in the cramped bathroom would give a better view but the glass itself seemed to distort, so she couldn't be sure. Well, she could wait until she got to the dressing room at Jim's and see herself in her entirety-naked, of course-in the well-lighted pier glass.
There had been no definite time set for her second session with Jim and the cameras and Peggy pondered the problem, eventually setting her mental alarm clock at noon as the earliest practical hour.
And then put her mind to the problem of clothes-every woman's permanent dilemma. Not that the choice was wide. There was a silk dress of a color Peggy privately called dishwater green and felt made her look diseased, as if marked by the plague. And a middy blouse outfit that made her look like a child. And the blue rayon with sort of neon orange piping that Grandma had snatched up at a rummage sale for 50 cents and didn't fit too well.
Jeans-her three pair-she discarded immediately as covering too much of what she had to display and being too difficult to get out of rapidly.
So it came down to the middy blouse outfit, in spite of its childishness. And a pair of cotton panties with only minor holes and reasonably taut elastic. And long dark blue stockings. The only pair that didn't have a run. And patent leather slippers-her best but still scuffed and peeling in spots.
It was an outfit Miss Carmenita Welsh, the social worker, had approved and issued the necessary vouchers to obtain. And there had once been a hat that went with it, as Peggy recalled. And, still naked, not having yet fully determined her outfit for the day, Peggy climbed on a chair and rummaged in the back of her closet shelf, eventually, and in triumph, turning up the broad-brimmed sailor.
It was dusty and a little crumpled but this didn't bother Peggy. She could dust it off and a few wrinkles might make it more intriguing. In sponging it off with a damp rag Peggy inadvertently smoothed out some of the wrinkles so that I looked quite respectable again. Almost too respectable.
Grandma came up behind her while she was sponging the hat, still naked. Her little rump was working in her intent occupation with cleaning the hat. And Grandma stung it sharply, her old, homey hands almost clacking with the slap.
"Slut! Tramp! Whore!..."
For an instant Peggy thought Grandma, by some vast mischance, had seen the photographs and then recognized it as only Grandma's usual tirade.
"... running naked through the house, inciting men to lewdness..."
There was no need to point out to Grandma that she was not running through the house but was enclosed in the smallest room of the apartment, cleaning a hat. And besides, there were no men around to incite.
"Fornicator!" Grandma could snort out the old biblical word with alcoholic resonance. And seemed to enjoy it, for she repeated, "Fornicator! Fornicator!" and went wandering off, looking for the second bottle of gin, developing a hazy idea she had hidden in under a tombstone, one bearing her daughter's name.
Peggy recovered from her momentary panic about Grandma and the photographs, stuck out her tongue at the old woman's back and started dressing, savoring her body as she covered each of her delightfully useable parts.
And then stood up, shaking herself into the middy blouse, smoothing down the blue skirt and twitching her rump to settle it more firmly around her. She clapped the hat on the back of her head and stared at herself-what she could see in the mirror. And was unhappy. It did look childish.
It not only looked childish, it was the epitome of childishness, of young girl. And she was heart-breakingly beautiful and didn't know it.
Chapter Thirteen
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."
Chapter Fourteen
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.
Chapter Fifteen
Peggy relaxed against him, feeling one leg slide down between his, touching the bulge of his prick through the cloth of his trousers. And moved slowly around, so that her bubbie was more convenient to his mouth.
He was kissing one and gently caressing the other. And one hand wandered vaguely, as if he wasn't sure just where to put it. Peggy took it gently, guiding it, without seeming to, so that it dropped on her leg. She moved it slowly back and forth until it was moving in a rhythm of its own, caressing her thigh.
Peggy sighed. Yes, this man was a very satisfactory pupil. And very exciting things were beginning to happen down in her cunt. She slumped a little just as his hand was making its upward journey, pushing it right up to her panties. She regretted briefly that Jim had not let her slip them off. But Ken was doing all right. His hand slid over the panties, cupping her little box, molding it with his fingers. And one finger slid under the edges of her panties, actually touching her pussy, sending shivers of delight through her stomach. She arched up, easing pressure on her panties, so that they would slide down at a tug. And Ken tugged. The panties slid down, pinioning her legs but freeing her little box.
Ken's hand was on that, moving lightly over it, walking his fingers across the lips-and smiling. He was caressing a female's pussy! And that of one who found him attractive, who was helpful in maneuvering his hands where, by logic, he knew they should go.
Peggy freed herself a little and undid the snaps on her dark skirt. It parted at the belt and started to slide, revealing more of her little stomach, the round, pink flare of a hip. She wriggled and it slid lower, so that she could look down her front and see her mound and the edge of her slit. And Ken's hand was entangled down there, between half-mast panties and a partially dropped skirt.
Peggy turned, whispering in his ear, "Let me stand up, and I can step out of 'em..."
Ken released her, watched with wide, shining eyes as she slid off his lap and shook herself free of the encumbering skirt, stepped out of the panties, and sighed leaning against him, naked. And waiting.
He reached for her, one hand cupping a bubbie, the other sliding between her legs, moving caressingly upward in slow strokes toward her hot little pussy. He bent forward and kissed her bubbie, and, finding a hardening pink-amber nipple between his lips, mouthed it, running his tongue around it.
Peggy gulped, started to withdraw and then thrust it hard against his mouth. She caught the wrist of his hand on her leg and moved it up, hard and tight on her box, knowing that the lips were opening, that she was already exuding juices. And he could feel them. He could feel the heat he was creating down there.
He dropped his hand, slid it under her little round ass and pulled her on to his lap, gloating over her nudity, eyeing it with growing hunger.
And there was nothing wrong with his pecker. Peggy could feel it throbbing within his trousers, anxious to get out, so it could slide into her hot little box.
Recklessly she unzipped his fly. His pecker, still encased in jockey shorts, bulged out. She let one leg fall across it, rubbing as she turned to press a bubbie against his jacket.
"Don't you want to take off your clothes? Then we'd both be naked." It sounded so innocent and hinted at so much. She slid off his lap, reluctantly surrendering the excitement of hands on her bubbies and against her little cunt -in favor of greater excitement later.
Ken's fingers fumbled at the buttons of his shirt but she brushed them aside, helping him with the mechanical care of one who has done this a hundred times-as she had in getting her drunken grandma to bed. He slid out of his jacket and shirt, half standing to working his way out of an undershirt.
Men! Peggy was scornful. They encumbered themselves with layers and layers of clothes that were awkward to get out of. Women were much more sensible. And practical. Being able to get out of clothes quickly and easily seemed immensely practical to Peggy.
Ken stepped out of his trousers and wriggled free of his jockey shorts, standing naked before her. And his pecker was stiff, ramrod hard, and erect, quivering in front of her. And there wasn't anything peculiar about it. Maybe it wasn't quite as large as Jim's, but it was long. And the bulb was already pulsing with blood. And shiny.
Ken Robertson looked down in mild surprise at his own dong and then at Peggy, reaching for her. He drew her slowly toward him watching her face rather than her breasts and little hot box-which had really caught fire.
It was still new to her in spite of her assumption of familiarity with sex. And it frightened her. She pulled back a little, glancing up at him pleadingly. "Not here. Please! Please! I'll pose but I can't just-fuck. It's posing, you know. Only posing. When it's in front of the camera."
Ken nodded. Jim had mentioned this peculiar hang-up of this kid... and what it meant. God, he couldn't estimate what this meant to him. To possess a female even a child-woman such as this. Or maybe especially such a child-woman, so gloriously nude, so magnificently-right.
Without considering that they might look a trifle absurd, even a little ridiculous, Ken took her hand and they strolled naked into the studio where Jim had positioned lights and cameras.
Peggy blinked at the brightness of the lights, squinting around, trying to locate Jim. Instead his voice came from over by the lab. "The cameras are on automatic trip. Every ninety seconds. I'll be in the lab. Have fun, kiddies." And shut the door.
Peggy stopped, frowning, trying to decide whether she regretted that Jim would not be watching her pose with Ken or pleased at the sense of privacy. Ken tugged at her hand and she moved forward, suddenly eager for the posing to begin, eager to feel Ken's long, slender prick riding up her cunt...
There was an awkward moment when they stood beside the bed, neither seeming to know quite what to do.
Ken sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. "I feel like a fool, Peggy. A grown man-having to ask 'What next?' He looked down at his prick, riding high and quivering. "I knew what happens-there. But the in-between..."
Peggy stood by his knees, wondering a little herself. And then it was easy. She leaned over and kissed him, tenderly at first and then into what Jim called her hot kiss, letting her bubbies rest against Ken's chest.
One hand went behind her little rump, cupping a buttock, and Ken pulled her on to him. Together they rolled on to the bed and lay there a moment, side by side, Peggy's bubbies brushing at his chest, his hand still lingering in a caress on her cute little derriere.
Ken's hand moved softly, roving over her little rump, starting fires anew, setting her cunt to dribbling juices that would make it easier for his dong to slide in and ride way up her. And her breasts were already swollen a little and the nipples hard and erect. Ken bent and kissed one. Peggy moaned and pulled him closer, her arms around his neck, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulder.
Under the glare of lights their bodies were washed white and it took time for her eyes to adjust to the brightness, to see color, the pinkness of her flesh, the warm tan of his-from careful sunlamp treatments. Not that it mattered. Sight was fine but feeling was paramount. Feeling took over.
Her breasts ached for pressure of his body against them and she moved, thrusting them at him. His hand, roaming across her buttocks, slid between her legs and reached her cunt from the rear, exciting them both. Their bodies writhed, twisted together and fell apart, seeking a connection.
Peggy's legs seemed to open of their own accord, offering him free access to her body. Ken was a little awkward but he slid one leg over hers and then climbed inside the V of her legs, his long, slender prick aiming at her cunt. She could sense it was open now, the faintly pinkish lips of her box folded back. Her tunnel open- and waiting.
Ken guided his prick up against her hot, wet box, either accidentally or with great wisdom holding it there, teasing her clitoris with it, until she could stand the suspense no longer and moved her pelvis, humping up to meet his prick. The bulb slid in in one ecstatic movement and her cunt closed on the shaft.
He paused again, giving himself and Peggy time. And then slowly drove into her cunt. Backing off a little and driving again. And Peggy helped, moving her pelvis, riding upward on her little rump, thrusting at him.
Propped on his elbows he looked down at her intent little face, her half-parted lips moving slightly to the quick, short breaths. Her eyes intent on some far away day dream of which this was the reality. He craned down and kissed one of the breasts slowing the motion of his pelvis, then picking up the rhythm.
They swung together toward climax, Peggy's breath whistling in her throat, a soft threnody of sound, infinitely sad, infinitely happy. And Ken was gasping for breath, gulping words that were a curious blend of prayer and curse.
The tempo built. Far up her tunnel-he did have a really long prick-it was a fleeting thought-the bulb was pulsing. Then a deep pulse ran along his shaft and burst from his bulb in a hot, creamy spray far up her.
Peggy writhed, twisted, slammed her little pelvis up against the root of his shaft-and then went limp as juices exploded up her tunnel, as she herself reached an orgasm-though she wouldn't have known it by that name.
Her hands that had been digging into his shoulders fell away, lay limp at her sides. Ken sagged above her, his head drooping to fall beside hers. He was whispering in her ear. "Oh, my darling, my darling! You have given me manhood. You have given a glorious gift... my own manhood."
Peggy smiled faintly and turned to kiss his cheek. She wasn't quite sure what he meant but it sounded sincere-deep gratitude. Well, she was grateful to Ken, too. It had been eminently satisfactory posing.
Ken rolled to one side as his prick slid out of her cunt, and they lay there, side by side, savoring the last few minutes, each in a dream world exclusive and private.
Chapter Sixteen
Peggy had no way of knowing and no criterion for judging the true meaning of the-posing- for Ken. She hadn't understood what he meant, except that it was fervent and appreciative. And she was happy. It had been very good posing. And it was good that Ken liked what had happened. He would want to pose again. But that would take time. Peggy was beginning to grasp the mechanics of the male in this posing technique. Even if she didn't know the why of it, she knew there had to be a delay. Whereas she was quite ready to start again-after a few minutes rest. She didn't understand the need for delay, though Jim explained it as a need to recharge his batteries.
She rolled her head to one side, close to Ken's ear. "How soon can we pose again?"
She didn't see the astonishment on Ken's face or the curious glance he sent down toward his prick. Again? Do this again? He had been many years nerving himself up to this, this first wild fling. And to be asked how soon-again.
And, oddly enough, felt a faint stirring in his loins, a little weary, but a feeling-a new start, perhaps. Was it really possible?
Peggy nuzzled him sleepily. "After we rest..." And yawned a small kitten yawn in his ear. And dropped off to sleep, one slim arm flung across his chest, one little bubbie pressed tight against his ribs.
She stirred sleepily when Ken moved and then, as the lights went out, sank back again, smiling dreamily. She awoke as easily, as casually as she had fallen asleep, awoke refreshed and only momentarily puzzled that she wasn't in her own bed-and then delighted that she wasn't.
She was only briefly frightened by the towering shadows from the work light and the ladders and tripods. Then they were no longer bogeymen. They were the familiar trappings of the studio where she posed. With me. Men! Yes, there were two of them, now. And there had been an implicit promise of more posing. At the moment just who with was hazy. Oh, yes. Jim had said he'd pose with her. And there had been a faint, hesitant suggestion that Ken would do a repeat.
She stood up, stretching, rising on her toes, breathing deep, enjoying the sensations of muscles stretching. She yawned, far wider than she had intended, almost cracking her jaw. But it cleared her head. Yes, very distinctly she remembered there had been promise of more fu- posing.
And she meant to see about it.
Her little cunt was already itching, giving distinct signs it was ready for use again.
She heard voices in the studio lounge and marched in, naked, her little breasts shaking with the motion, her hips swinging, her feet moving to that inaudible music. She stood in the doorway, small fists on slim, rounded hips and looked at them. Her two men. Jim ruffling his already tousled hair with chemical-stained fingers and Ken Robertson, the impeccable Ken Robertson, sitting in his jockey shorts, writing out a check. That would be for the posing. Peggy nodded approval.
Not that she was really concerned about money but it seemed only fitting that posing- and the pictures from them-should be paid for. And, of course, the model's fee.
Ken glanced around and, seeing her, looked faintly embarrassed, as if he didn't like being seen in his jockey shorts.
Jim took the check, waved it once and dropped it in the center drawer, casually, as if he regularly received two thousand dollars for a single set of pictures. And the use of a model.
Peggy approved. Business matters settled, she marched in, wagging her cute little rump with a deliberately provocative waggle. She had no idea of the sum involved. It would have baffled her completely to think anyone would pay that price for a set of photographs-even of her scr-posing.
She did nod toward the drawer. "Is that for one pose? Or does he get another?"
Coming from that childish figure, naked, small bubbies moving delicately with her own built-in rhythm, the question was astounding.
And didn't have a ready answer. Ken glanced at Peggy's slim little figure, his eyes fastening on the slow, easy motion of her bubbies, and then back at Jim, his eyebrow quirked in a question.
Jim patted the desk top, just above the check, hesitated, and then nodded. For that price the man was entitled to two-poses.
Ken drew a deep breath and nodded, letting the air out noisily. Another session with this nymphet! Now that his manhood was established... Ken went off into personal extravaganza that could never have taken place. A whole harem of nymphets each remarkably like Peggy! And Ken performing prodigiously, time after time.
Now that the question of yes or no was settled, the timing should be set. But Peggy was in no hurry. There was something gratifying in the way these two men looked at her, devouring her with their eyes, that gave the moment a special thrill.
Of course, men would be looking at the photographs of her, posing. And they would get- well, some kind of kick out of it. But Peggy wouldn't feel it. This she could feel, as if the impact of their eyes had pressure on her skin. And a special warmth. She moved slowly, tilting her pelvis, letting her hips ride in a sort of balance, rocking her small rump, moving in time to that inaudible music that was part of Peggy.
She turned and headed back for the studio, swinging her little rump with a touch of very naughty insouciance, certain the men would follow.
Ken selected a pose that Jim called "The Rocking Chair,"-in which he sat in an armless chair and Peggy sat facing him, straddling his lap, his prick jutting up, so that she slid on to it, moving her little pelvis in and out and even waggling it sideways. And Ken humped, so that his rod slammed up in to her, jolting loose new fires and skyrockets and lights brighter than the studio lights when his prick shot its load into her.
And he could play with her bubbies and run his hands down to tease the front of her little box. And it all went far too fast-and too exciting. Or so it seemed to Peggy.
Actually it had been a little slower, but the novelty of it made it seem to be over quickly.
Peggy slumped against him, and Ken kissed her forehead, smoothing back the damp tendrils of hair. "You're a lovely child. Lovely. And-desirable. What a puny word! Desirable. A miserable little word to wrap up so much delight."
Slumped, she watched his prick slide out of her little box, still quivering. And her box was still mouthing at his pecker.
He was looking down her, too, staring at her little slit. He raised his eyes, studying her whole front, the creases between legs and stomach, her little bellybutton, her flat little stomach and her bubbies. His eyes lingered longest on them and then came up to her face. He reached out and took her face in two hands, tilting it up. "Such a soft, sensitive, sensuous mouth. And such big eyes. And a delectable bit of a nose. You're a beautiful child. Beautiful. And you've given me new reason to live, my dear. You'll probably never really understand how much you've done for me, even though Jim may have told you of my-difficulty.
Peggy didn't understand. He was right. But she was glad she had helped. If just posing had helped. It was certainly simple enough.
"I want to come back, my dear. Often. And we'll-pose again. If you're willing. If you like me."
Peggy smiled at him, liking the earnestness in his eyes, the tone of his voice. "I like you. I like you very much." And kissed him. Not one of her hot kisses. Just a little-girl kiss. On one corner of his mouth.
Posing with Jim was funny. While, not ha-ha funny, just odd. He wanted her to do it like a dog. He showed her some sample photos. It looked simple but awkward. A little unhandy. But Jim said he had a gay old dog who liked his raunch haunchy.
Obediently Peggy knelt on the bed, her little rump stuck up in the air. And waited. Jim climbed up behind her and let his prick hang down between the cheeks of her ass, where her little brown hole was. She could feel it begin to stiffen even as he moved against her.
His arms went around her, cupping her bubbles, starting those old fires into hot new life, making her little cunt quiver with the opening of its lips.
And Ken, half dressed, was watching. He caught her turning her head to peer at him. "Do you mind?"
She gave it a moment's thought, then shook her head. "I kind of like it. It sort of makes things build. And makes my skin tingle, just to know you're looking at it."
And dropped her head to watch down between her bubbies, between her legs where Jim's prick was rising, tapping at her slit, moving in on her. She saw the bulb push at the lips of her box, felt them spread and the quick, hot entrance into her, wincing a little. Not from pain but from the sudden hot excitement of it. Jim slowed his motion and Peggy backed a little, driving him deeper into her. It became a sort of game with them, Jim pulling back a little and Peggy bucking backward to get more of that prick up her tunnel, to feel it sliding over the wails, going deeper and deeper.
This time it seemed to go far, far up. And Peggy caught her breath with the exciting expectancy of it, knowing that as it went the banked fires within her body were building to an outburst.
And she could wiggle a little. Up and down. And sideways. Which caused odd and wonderful motions far up her canal-way up into her belly. And now Jim was bucking with short, quick strokes, teasing her insides to greater tension.
His hands caressed her hubbies: His fingers nibbled at her amber-pink nipples until she wanted to scream, not with the pain but with the tightly contained excitement.
And Ken was watching. She wasn't really conscious of his intent look, just the knowledge that he was looking, that this was being played to a live audience, not just cameras, was enough to create new and more intense excitement.
Jim's hands roamed over her bubbies, sliding down her stomach, reaching under her to lay his finger against where his prick went into her cunt, where her little clit was sticking up like a miniature prick. His finger teased it, and Peggy moaned, squirming with the pleasure of it, and getting more motion of his prick far up her cunt.
They went slowly into the increasing tempo, a step at a time, matching rhythms as the tempo climbed and tensions built. His fingers were digging into her stomach with his excitement. It wasn't painful. Not really. Just very exciting, as if he might hurt her at any moment, rip something loose and tear her apart-but that was part of the new excitement. Jim was nibbling at her neck, and then fastening his mouth on her throat, sucking in a rhythm that throbbed with his prick up in her. And she was moving, barely conscious of it, but knowing it made for more fire within her.
Then Jim was still, holding her tight in strong arms, his hands on either side of her waist, stilling her motion, pulling her tight against him. For that moment of supreme intensity, when Peggy would...
She let go, in a vast, exciting surge of juices, of lights and drums, of pinwheels and spasmodic tightening in her stomach. And Jim's bulb shot heavy juices into her, hot and creamy, way up.
Jim clung to her, holding her tight against his pelvis, boring into her with very short, quick takes. And then stopped with a sigh, his prick still shuddering and pulsing against the sensitive walls of her tunnel.
It was over.
Except for the lingering sweetness, the last few shuddering movements, the last drops of creamy juice.
Then Peggy slid forward, almost falling out of Jim's arms to sprawl on the bed momentarily spent, while long, delicious shudders shook her slim body. And Jim fell face down beside her, gulping for air, letting the long shudders shake his body, not even trying to reach for her, just letting their warmth communicate.
Chapter Seventeen
Peggy came out of sleep slowly, realizing almost immediately that she was in the studio, lying on the big, hard bed where she had been so deliciously scr-posed. Only a low work light glowed in a corner, throwing grotesque shadows up the wall, but they no longer menaced her. Now they were familiar creatures. That was the gooseneck lamp. And that the baby brute. And that monster on stalk legs was the ladder Jim used to set the lights.
She stretched, writhing her shoulders in slow luxurious motion that pulled muscles so delightfully used only a short time ago.
Short time ago!
Peggy sat up, swinging her legs to the floor and squinted into the dark, trying to locate Jim -and Ken. She heard the murmur of voices, low, just a hair acrimonious. It had just that note of querulousness before Grandma burst into foul temper tantrums.
Her two favorite people! She now included Ken in her select little group. And about to quarrel. She knew now where they were. The studio lounge. Staggering a little from the lingering effects of sleep, Peggy wove her way among the cables and tripods and ladders to the lounge door and pushed it open quietly, having learned from experience with Grandma that if there was going to be a tirade, the best place for her was out.
Ken, dressed again and looking peculiar aggressive considering his furtive approach and uncertain maneuvers once he was with Peggy, was leaning across the desk, tapping a finger on the blotter.
"You know what you have here, don't you? A gold mine. A gold mine!"
Jim scowled down at the tapping finger. "Ken, have you ever been bitten by a tiger when you were holding the tail? That's what I've got here. A tiger by the tail. And nobody but that lousy chump, Jim Atwood, to blame. I ASKED her in. I practically LURED her in."
"She's beautiful. She's... music... and spring... youth and innocence..."
"Innocence?" Jim's voice almost bleated. "Child she is, but innocent? She knew more about Eve's apple than the snake. And I'm hooked. And so are you, Ken. Except I know I'm hooked and you think, just because you've achieved something, getting what you got today, you're freed. You're freed of one thing, but you're hooked on our thirteen-year-old Lilith."
"Of course, I am." Ken leaned back, slapping his hands on his knees. "Certainly I'm hooked on Peggy. Delightful child. Absolutely delightful. And-er-talented."
"That she is. That she is. And we haven't begun to explore her talents."
"That's just what I mean, Jim. Just what I mean. It's too much for this little shop and your set-up. Your-distribution..."
Jim spoke plaintively, "I was doing all right. I had this apartment. Sure it's crummy, but large and comfortable. Back of the studio. You haven't seen it. I have a Jaguar, comfortably old but still glamorous. I have-or had a list of models that gave satisfactory service. In several areas."
"And sold the results for peanuts. Peanuts, Jim." Ken leaned forward earnestly. "Look, Jim. I may have been only half a man for many years, but believe me, that half knew money. I had nothing else to know. I know money. I knew how to make it. I know WHAT makes it. And this will make it. Oh, not millions maybe, but for the slight investment-fabulous."
Jim sighed. "That's another thing, Ken. I don't have anything for that slight investment or even half of it, whatever it is."
"Money's my problem, Jim. And money I have. And distribution outlets I know." He chuckled. "Why shouldn't I? I've been buying through them for years. But Peggy's your problem. Can you put it up to her?"
"Put what up?" For a moment Peggy felt sheer panic. All this talk of money, the faint hints that Jim might have to give up his apartment and studio. Then-no more-posing. It shook her small frame, so that when she walked into the room her slim, naked body was quivering. "Put what up to me?"
Jim turned, a tired smile lighting his features. "Oh, Peggy, Ken has been suggesting we convert to movies. With you as our star."
Peggy shook her head so vigorously her hair whipped across her face. "No. I can't pose in movies."
Ken was about to speak when Jim held up his hand. "My problem, remember." He turned to Peggy. "In these you can. They're a new kind of movie, called adult art films which..." and gave his wry little smile, "is strictly a misnomer. They are neither adult nor art."
Peggy's face cleared. "In movies? I can pose? Like we've been doing? You won't-send me away?"
Ken leaned forward, beaming at her. "Send you away? Dear me, no. Oh, me, no! You would be the star."
Jim tucked his chin in, glowering across at Ken. "You know it's slightly illegal. With a nymphet."
Ken waved a hand around, and then beckoned Peggy to come stand beside him. "And what do you think this is? And this." He draped a cool arm around Peggy's naked shoulder. "What I propose is simply-oh, let's say, expanded illegality-at inflated prices. And profits."
It was all explained to her, very carefully. They would shift the studio over to making movies. Of Peggy posing. The posing might be a little different-sort of with a story-and there might be several men involved.
Peggy's eyes widened. "You mean-pose with several men at once? How could 1?"
"Not at once. One after the other..."
Peggy nodded, pleased. "Like today. You two." She thought it over carefully. "Will you and Jim be posing with me?"
Ken became judicial. "That we'll have to see about." He waved to Jim to take over the sales pitch.
Jim studied her lovely, slim body and bounced three times in his chair. "That's me, kicking myself for this. But here goes. Peggy, you said today you 'sort of liked' having Ken watch you and me-posing."
Peggy nodded. "I could almost feel him looking. On my skin."
"In making a movie there'll be several men watching you-pose. Seeing you naked. Are you sure you won't mind?"
Ken frowned. "How can the child be sure she won't mind? She has no idea..."
"Ken, she had ideas before Cleopatra thought up that rug trick. Lilith had ideas-and a pipeline right to the source of all evil. Maybe Peggy... has her own pipeline. She is depraved. Delightfully depraved."
Peggy wriggled with delight at this nonsense, moving her little rump and pelvis in a special rhythm which she thought she had invented. She jiggled her bubbies, feeling their motion-and seeing Jim's pecker bulge inside his trousers.
Ken came back to business, carefully keeping his eyes away from Peggy's nudity. "I rather think I could handle the scripts. I'm something of a dilettante at writing."
"Scripts?" Jim patted Peggy's fanny with a quick, hard slap. "I'm in favor of turning our Peggy loose in front of the camera with sixteen men-and letting her go on down the list. However, I see your point. Discipline."
"The scripts must necessarily be rather loose," Ken said.
"Then they should fit Peggy..." Jim grinned crookedly and rubbed Peggy's fanny, as if he would rub away the slap. Or rub it in. "You are a loose wench, my pet."
And the men went back to talking money and film stock and developing tanks and the merits of cameras, with Jim holding out for rentals until they knew which jail they'd be sitting in. Ken chuckled at that. "A pessimist. The distributors I know will protect us..."
Peggy was bored with it, even though Jim would occasionally notice her long enough to pat her fanny or stroke her back. She wandered off to the dressing room, to preen in front of the pier glass, enjoying her body and indulging in day dreams.
Sixteen men? And Peggy could just go down the list? Even to Peggy that sounded overblown if not extravagant. Still, the idea of sixteen men-all with their peckers out and standing erect-was stomach-shaking. Could her little cunt take sixteen men, one after the other? Possibly not... but still...
Chapter Eighteen
The changeover didn't take long but it bothered Peggy. There was only one opportunity for a pose with Jim and that was hurried, leaving her unsatisfied. And then there was a series of poses with a very languid blonde youth with hair longer than Peggy's and very little interest in-well, the real elements of posing.
Jim had said he needed that type of picture for a client, so Peggy had agreed to pose. But the young man had been dreamy and only half-aware through most of the posing session, so that Peggy had little satisfaction out of him.
Jim had afterwards told her the languid youth was hooked and posed only for the price of a quick fix. As if that sort of thing explained a lack of interest in-posing.
These days Peggy had Grandma comfortably ensconced with her two bottles of gin a day and coming close to regaining a long faded belief in miracles. But even with Grandma eliminated as a problem, Peggy had others. Mostly because the studio was being altered and she was practically ousted... For several days now there hadn't been any posing at all and Peggy's little cunt was bothering her. Not seriously. Just enough to know it wasn't being used.
So she wandered. That was pleasant. Even the postman with his tired feet seemed to notice a difference in her-and became more aware of her moving down the street, pausing a little longer to look after her. And sigh.
Mister Mulhaney stopped patting Peggy on the head and instead began swatting her fanny gently with his nightstick, a subtle distinction but one Peggy recognized long before the rather horrifying idea came to Mister Mulhaney and he went to confession over his sinful thoughts.
Jules Suliman had recovered from his fright over the Zaparte dust-up and was once again eyeing little girls' legs and luring them to the gap in the counter for an extra candy and an opportunity for Jules to feel a tittie or brush against a fanny.
He made decided overtures to Peggy after seeing her stroll by, her little derriere switching to that inaudible music, her pelvis rocking and tilting-only a fraction, but men like Jules would notice it-and know what they're noticing.
Peggy, smiling provocatively, moving her little rump, let Jules lure her to the gap in the counter, taking his candy and allowing him an overlong feel, right up her leg and almost to her cunt, licking the candy placidly and seeing his face grow red and his neck swell in his collar.
She tuned down his invitation to the "harem room" issued in such a husky, gasping whisper that it was almost unintelligible and left him staring hot-eyed after her, muttering to himself. "The little bitch is getting it. She's getting laid..."
These were just indications, but Peggy savored them. She knew there was an awareness of her, of her body, even of her status of getting- posing, however tenuous.
So that by the time the studio re-opened-not that many even knew it had been closed-in its new guise of movie studio Peggy had accumulated a lot of emotional impacts-and a great many stares at her legs and bosom. And had build-in urges.
Ken's first scenario for Peggy was that of a kidnapped heiress held by a gang of four men in a basement apartment (Jim's). The heiress, clad only in a towel left after they had taken her clothes, seduces her captors one by one.
So that Peggy would be more comfortable in the role Jim, wearing an unaccustomed and rather bushy mustache, would play her number one victim of seduction, and Ken-who opted for a beard but had it vetoed-her second, with two husky young men as third and forth seductees.
The opening scene went well. In that Peggy was carried in, struggling with her four captors, so that her clothes-a wardrobe supplied by Ken who thought jodhpurs being ripped off would provide more stimulating and revealing action-were torn piece by piece from her writhing body, until she faced her captors (front toward the camera) naked and seething. Peggy seethed realistically. One of the husky young men had pinched her fanny.
She was flung face downward on a bed, her hands fastened to the head board, her feet tied with her own stockings-again Ken's touch-to the foot. Jim, as head abductor, flung a towel across her small and violently wriggling rump. Violently wriggling because Peggy had gotten into her role with enthusiasm. She even sobbed, heaving and writhing on the bed so that her bubbies got plenty of action. And the action set up delightful anticipation, fresh fires being banked against the time when Jim would sit beside her, attempting to still her sobs.
The ripping off of the jodhpurs and her gradual exposure to the fierce glares of her captors had triggered interesting things in her little cunt. In addition there were audible comments from behind the bank of lights and the camera that told her other men were out there, seeing her stripped and pawed by her captors. That, too, was exciting.
Except for the almost inadvertent viewing by Ken, she had never before had an audience to her performance and it was heady stimulation.
Jim sat down on the edge of the bed, on the side away from the camera so that lights and camera could focus on Peggy's slender body, twisting and turning in her bonds.
As planned, the twisting and turning-Peggy had to do a little extra humping to effect it- the towel slipped off. As Jim leaned over to replace the towel Peggy, on instructions from behind the camera, rolled over, her little bubbies shaking, her face a mask of tragic appeal, those big eyes pleading with Jim, her soft lips trembling. She indicated her hands, mouthed, "It hurts!" and looked pathetic.
Jim, after a surreptitious glance around for his fellow conspirators-gone to arrange for ransom, undid her bonds. Slowly Peggy flexed her arms, smiling her gratitude at Jim-and sliding her arms up to encircle his neck, pulling his head down for a long, slow kiss.
After that Peggy needed no further coaching from behind the counter. Nor did Jim. His arms went around her, stroking her back, gliding down the length of her, until they grasped her little rump. Peggy half sat up, pressing her bubbies against Jim's shirt, tugging him close. And his hands under her rounded little buttocks half lifted her. She kicked helplessly at the stocking bonds around her ankles, but they didn't come loose as per the script.
Not that it mattered. Her legs were free enough to move. They were just anchored.
She caressed Jim's neck and ran her hands down the exciting muscles of his shoulders. Jim bent and kissed one bubbie, his tongue darting out to lick at her nipple. Peggy sighed, throwing back her head. Jim's tongue slid upward, caressing her throat and Peggy moaned. Thrusting her breasts tighter against Jim's shirt, she drew back, fingers reaching for buttons. Their hands entangled, and the shirt was ripped off, exposing Jim's chest.
She reached for his zipper. There was a brief struggle there. The zipper was stuck and then gave way with sudden surge, releasing Jim's prick a little prematurely-for the picture-not a moment too soon for Peggy.
Peggy watched, wide-eyed, a constantly renewed nymph, each time as fascinated and amazed by the phenomenon of a swollen, distended prick. The script, at this point, called for Peggy to have last-minute qualms-and start a struggle.
Jim started the struggle and found he had a cooperative partner, not an opponent. It may have spoiled a dramatic moment in Ken's masterpiece, but for Peggy it could not have mattered less. Jim was naked, his prick available -and she opened her legs, waiting, her cunt moist and ready, her breath coming gulpily, her hands digging into his shoulders to pull him on to her.
She saw and felt his prick go in-and that momentary hesitation before he started the long drive up her tunnel, to explode in gorgeous Technicolor and silent bombs.
She shivered with delight as they reached climax-and then fell limply back on the bed,-only her hands moving spasmodically and her chest heaving, giving motion to her little bubbies. And Jim slid down beside her-on the side away from the camera-to leave her exhausted body in view.
Dimly she heard someone say "Cut" and the general bustle of released tensions behind the camera. And then one clear voice, speaking with deep admiration. "Boy, I've seen fucking-but not like that kid can deliver."
Peggy whipped off the bed and charged toward the camera, forgetting that one leg was still anchored. And fell flat, glaring up toward the camera. "That's not fucking! That's posing -and acting. It's not fucking for real. It's not."
Behind the camera she heard Ken's voice reassuring her and reprimanding the earlier speaker, and the speaker's voice again. "Okay. If you say so. You're boss. It's posing. But you could'a fooled me. I sure thought it was some damn fine fucking."
Jim picked her up, comforting her and almost starting a second sequence that wasn't in the script.
The second sequence-as written-was with Ken in another room-another corner of the same set, where Ken was fiercely-and a bit over-dramatically-cleaning a gun. Peggy, presumably having conquered Jim with sex-or left him exhausted-is on the prowl, presumably for the way out, having neglected even to pick up the discarded towel, so that her exit, if it is to be achieved, will be somewhat spectacular. But such are the vagaries of scripts. This way gave her an opportunity to seduce Ken, a remarkable easy task the way it was handled.
Peggy conquered him with The Rocking Chair, since he was already seated and Ken's ingenuity in establishing a bed in the living room had rather petered out. It was perhaps just as well that the camera's point of view was from behind Ken, centering, as was only proper, on the brave but naked heroine. Ken's expression, from the inception of Peggy's seduction was one of fatuous affection rather than that of a criminal being lured.
And Peggy sat gingerly on his prick, watching in fascination as it drove up her cunt, happily feeling the bulb rub the sides of her tunnel and move deep into her.
She reached a twisting, open-mouthed climax, clutching at Ken, and Ken held her tight, his hands soothing and comforting her back as she laid her head on his shoulder. It was a most satisfactory pose.
For her third seduction, Peggy was to sneak into another room and close herself in, peeping out through the crack and then turn, to discover the third abductor clad only in shorts (no reason given) stretched out on a cot, staring at her. Either the young man was a competent actor or he had not really been thoroughly briefed on the fact that Peggy was to appear before him naked and still breathing heavily from her last performance. He seemed genuinely surprised.
And didn't react quite as quickly as the script called for, so that Peggy nearly strangled him. The subsequent wrestling exhilarated Peggy and made the scene quite realistic. And in the wrestling he lost his shorts. Which facilitated matters.
Peggy, seeming to attempt to strangle him, sat back on his penis and rammed it well up her cunt a little before she had intended to. But was happily not about to correct so pleasant a mistake.
They rode together to a rousing climax, and Peggy left him reluctantly. He really had a wonderful prick, long and quite large, that had given her moments of sheer delight. Perhaps, she thought, he could be re-hired for later shows.
Peggy was not really weary but she did feel that the final sequence could have been played with the fourth abductor creeping up on her. Instead, she sought him out and came upon him in the kitchen-again this one was clad only in shorts-doing something inept at the stove. He turned and caught her just as she would have leaped on his back.
This time the wrestling was standing up and pleasantly stimulating. Peggy could feel his prick through his shorts before he conveniently lost them-and laid Peggy across a table, her legs dangling, while he aimed his pecker up her little box and drove it home, continuing a form of wrestling that Peggy could appreciate. It ended with his bulb far up her tunnel, pumping hot and creamy juices into her as she spouted her juices down her tunnel, dribbling them out her little slit. And lay back, happily bushed, across the table.
Yes, she decided, acting in movies was vastly superior to posing. The action was faster and the variety greater.
Chapter Nineteen
The next script called for Peggy to play a Jewish girl in a home raided by six Nazi storm troopers who stripped her and flung her across a bed where each in turned raped her, leaving her exhausted and broken, near death.
Both she and Ken felt that the multiple rape was effective but just a shade monotonous-not that Peggy felt the rapings were monotonous. They had been a series of deep penetrations that were exciting and very, very satisfying.
However, she could agree with Ken that for the next picture her activity could be a trifle more varied and each time Peggy posed for a seduction or, as she was now doing, acted one out, each should be in a different form.
Together they scanned Jim's sample book for ideas and then went to Ken's home to look over his extensive collection of photos.
For the third script, the picture launched only a week after the first and three days after the second, called for Peggy to be a young girl left with a baby-sitter who comes on her in the bathroom wearing only a sheer shortie nightgown-and perform his seduction seated on the John, using The Rocking Chair technique.
The girl, so brutally used, goes weeping to her bedroom, holding her tattered shortie around her. To find a burglar, who takes care of her standing up, backing her against the bureau- from which she had the prints of two knobs on her fanny for hours afterwards. (The cameraman insisted on a close-up of these, and they became a minor classic in the porno league).
Disconsolate, wandering, haunted by two rapes (Peggy did not do too good an acting job being disconsolate. The rapes had been eminently satisfactory) she staggers into the kitchen, dragging around her only a remnant of the shortie nightgown. To meet the milkman- who seduces her as she sits helpless on the kitchen table. Helpless but cooperating.
The grocery boy catches her dragging herself away on all fours and seduces her dog fashion. Not as well as. Jim had done it, but it was-enjoyable.
A missionary man-one with a special and rather official-looking hat, comes to the door. Peggy drags her weary body to the door and opens it, showing herself nude. Seeing the ecclesiastical collar and the official hat, she throws herself into his arms, asking for help. He comforts her with an ecclesiastical smirk, and leads her back to her bedroom. Going down the hall we see his comforting hand sliding well down on Peggy's rump.
Shot through the door: The official hat skims across the room, the ecclesiastical collar flops across a chair... Into the bedroom and a view of Peggy, in bed with the missionary and opening her legs to his prick.
It was a good script and played well-and Peggy enjoyed every moment of it. It had variety in styles of fornication and a certain humor that no one would have suspected of Ken, wry, a little twisted, perhaps, but definitely humor.
The humor probably would not go well at the art theaters, they preferred their raunch a little stark, but it made an interesting film that Peggy sat through several times, re-enjoying those moments.
It was after the production of their fourth film that Peggy came on Jim, slumped at his desk, breathing heavily, an odor of whiskey pervading the room. Peggy stood there, naked-her usual costume around the studio-frowning at him.
"What is it, Jim? You're not going Grandma's way, are you?" She came over to stand at his side, reaching for the whiskey bottle. "At least, it's not gin."
"No..." Jim had difficulty enunciating. "No, that's not gin. That's my conscience. Found him at last. After thought killed him. Found'm in a whiskey bottle. Funny place for conscience, ain't it? Peggy, where will you find yours?"
Peggy sighed, not understanding. "What's bothering your conscience, Jim? Not these movies? You've been making those kind of pictures for a long time... What..."
"You, Peggy. You're on my conscience. Been on my conscience ever since I opened the door and saw you sitting there, so beautifully naked... Oh, I know you weren't naked... not quite, but that's how I saw you. So I'm a child molester. Yes I am. Contributing to delin... delinquency of minor... carnal knowledge of minor... Screwed you, din't I?"
Peggy stamped her foot, not a very effective gesture in bare feet, on a soft carpet. "No. You didn't screw me. That was just posing. You said so yourself."
"Yes. I did din' I. Able to fool myself. Like you. Able to fool y'self. Screwing's not screwin' if it's posing."
"But it is posing. Please, Jim... please... Let me get you some coffee. Ken should be here in a few minutes and we'll want to talk over the next script. You'll be in it. A sort of rakish pirate-and I'm captured. Ken says we can get some real way-out methods into that..."
"Look," Jim had a moment of sobriety, of absolute clarity of speech. "Peggy, you are naked. You are beautiful. Gorgeous. Come closer. Closer. Let me put my arm around you. Make love to you. Tell you how beautiful you are- and then we'll fuck. Just plain ole fucking-type fuck. Because we both love it. Then maybe my conscience will crawl back in the bottle and stay there."
"Oh, Jim. Just-fuck. You know I couldn't. Honestly... Please. Let go of me, Jim. Why, you know I wouldn't fuck! I never have. Jim... Jim..."
Jim's head had drooped forward, and he slid down, sprawling across the desk, knocking the whiskey-bottle over. Peggy caught it, from long practice at catching knocked-over gin bottles, and set it upright, looking thoughtfully down at Jim's slumped, dishevelled figure. She sighed and turned to go to hunt for Ken, who was somewhere around.
She found him, as she had expected, in his office, a room he had usurped from Jim and refurnished in ultramodern. He looked up at her and smiled. "Darling, must you go around naked? You're so beautiful, so-distracting. I can't think when you stand there like Aphrodite-the new-risen nymph."
"I like being naked." Just why she liked it was obscure even to her. Except that in that way her body was always on display-as if she were always posing. As if posing had become a way of life. As if posing had become life itself.
She looked down at Ken lounging back in his chair. "You know, Ken. I think we'll have to get rid of Jim. He's drinking far too much."
"But... Jim?" Ken swept a hand around.
"This is his. The whole place. He... Why, we can't get rid of Jim. It would be like .' ." Ken gave up on his simile and lay back in his chair, staring at Peggy. "We can't. I can't."
Peggy drew a deep breath, holding it so her bubbies stood up. "I can. I think I know the way..."
She did. It wouldn't be pretty, and Jim would hate her. It seemed a shame that he should ever hate her, when they had had so many wonderful poses together. So many, many wonderful times. And he had been the first to show her this remarkable way of posing-of having all the wonderful effects of screwing without ever getting screwed. Just because you were posing.
But Jim was weak. He was drinking. Letting drink become a prop-as it had become a prop for Grandma. And there was a way of doing it, of letting him think she would-sign a complaint: child molestation. Peggy smiled to herself. What a fitting end for Jim! He'd go. And he hadn't molested her at all. Peggy danced softly down the hall. It was the other way around.
She paused, calculating. With Jim gone, there'd be lots more money. Money she could use or squirrel away.
There was still Ken, of course. He was smart. Clever. He figured things out. He made money. He made money for everybody. But Peggy was catching on. And she knew the distributor, a coarse, heavy man who was always looking at her with his eyes half squinted, speculating. Once she was in solid with the distributor... Well, Ken had made his money back.
He wouldn't miss this little corner in his investments. Except for the opportunity it gave him to play with her once in a while. And that was getting tiresome; he was always hinting that maybe she'd go home with him. When he knew she never fucked.
