Surely he must know in his heart that it was all sham and fraud.
I had observed that his gaze was frequently on my legs. There are men to whom the feminine leg is almost a fetish. Also, I had not forgotten the floor-sitting inclinations. The next time he came after I had made my resolution I sat on his lap, and as he talked I worked and fumbled through the texture of my dress at my garter which I had purposely tightened until it compressed my leg unduly.
“Mr. Heely,” I murmured plaintively, “I wonder if you could fix my garter for me. The buckle is so stiff I can't loosen it and the garter is almost cutting my leg in two.” So saying, I drew my skirt up in the most casual manner, exposing the garter, the top of my hose and a tiny bit of flesh above. “Look,” I continued, “it's making a regular ring around my leg!” I pulled the garter toward my knee and turned down the upper part of my hose. There was a purple indentation around the leg.
Mr. Heely was instantly all compassion.
“My dear little girl,” he exclaimed, “why didn't you speak of it before, Why, this thing is so tight it's cutting off the blood circulation. We must open the buckle and lengthen the elastic.”
As he spoke, his fingers tenderly caressed the puckered flesh. He slipped the garter down over my knee and off my leg. It took him but a moment to pry open the buckle and lengthen the band, whereupon he replaced the garter and smoothed my hose back into place.
“How about the other one? Is it tight? Perhaps we'd better fix it, too.”
“I wish you would,” I replied. “It hurts my fingers to open those buckles.”
My other leg was laid bare above the knee and the second garter received his attention. He spent several minutes rubbing the flesh to restore the impeded circulation, adjusted the garter and put my dress down over my knees.
“You're so kind to me, Mr. Heely, I fear I shall never be able to repay you.”
“Why, Jessie, dear,” he answered, obviously pleased, “just being near you is quite payment enough. I have lived a very lonely life, my dear, and these are happy hours for me. I only wish they were half as pleasant for you as they are for me.”
What could I do with a man so ingenious and innocent that he refused to rise to such bait? It was not sufficient that I sit on his lap and let him play with my garters. Either he was the world's prize simpleton or he didn't, in truth, want anything from me. I decided to make a bolder effort.
“Indeed they are pleasant for me, Mr. Heely! I feel so comfortable with you. I like to sit on your lap this way. Sometimes… sometimes, though, I get feelings when I'm sitting on your lap that I don't understand myself…”
I felt him start slightly.
“What kind of feelings, my dear?”
“Oh, I don't know… they're hard to describe… kind of trembly, warm feelings that go all through me. Like just now, when you were rubbing my leg…”
“Are they pleasant feelings, dear?” he asked huskily.
“Oh, yes! Sometimes I think they are naughty feelings, and then again I think they can't be bad when they're so nice. Do you think they are bad feelings, Mr. Heely?” I continued, watching him covertly for his reactions.
“My dear child,” he replied finally, taking one of my hands between his and squeezing it, “I hardly know how to answer you. Madame Lafronde told me, if I remember correctly, that you are fifteen years old. At that age the promptings of Nature are to be accepted as an entirely normal manifestation of a healthy body, I would imagine. I have, I must confess, often doubted the prudency of Madame Lafronde's course in bringing you into surroundings and influences which I fear will tend to corrupt your thoughts. I wish…” he continued sadly, “that it were possible for me to remove you from this questionable atmosphere, but if I were to suggest such a thing my motives would undoubtedly be questioned. So all I can do, my dear, is to offer you such counsel and advice as my more mature years may qualify me to give. I have never had any daughters of my own, and though I was once married, my wife was taken from me while we were both quite young. So now, in my old age, I have no one to hold on my knee but little Jessie.”
“Why, you're not old at all, Mr. Heely!”
He raised my hand, which he was still holding, to his lips and kissed it. I was not so hardened as to be unmoved by his pathetic words, and I understood now for the first time with some degree of clarity, the exact situation.
Mr. Heely's interest in me was unselfish in that it was not actuated by the desire to play any fantastic sexual game, but rather by the promptings of the vague and unsatisfied longings of a man who has lived a repressed and virtuous life, and who, in the eventide of his days, realizing that something vital has been missed, gropes belatedly and blindly for that intangible sense of fulfillment which can only come through bodily and spiritual union with the opposite sex. Too late he had found a compliment which could have satisfied the longings he himself would probably have refused to recognize as merely physical, he must now warm the fibers of his being with the dying embers of a fire disguised as paternal. This he could do without suffering the loss of self-respect or at the sacrifice of dignity.
If I chose to continue accepting his bounty indefinitely without thought of compensating him in any way other than by dressing to suit his fancy and playing maidenly innocence, I could do so. He would never make any sexual advances toward me except those of the mildest and most indirect nature.
But I was not without conscience, nor did I lack an elemental spirit of gratitude. The man had been both kind and generous to me, and without hesitating long I made up my mind to find ways to provide this gentle soul with an occasional moment of happiness flavored with just that degree of lubricity which would find an echo in his being, and leave him with a few soft memories with which to dispel the loneliness of his heart.
During the week which elapsed before his next visit I gave considerable thought to the subject, casting about in my mind for some formula which would fit the peculiar circumstances. Various ideas were entertained and discarded as unsuitable. But one afternoon there chanced to cross my thoughts the recollection of Mr. Peters, the watchmaker who had boarded with us when I was a child. In a vague way, Mr. Heely reminded me of Mr. Peters. He was far more cultured and refined, but there was a certain similarity of characters which might have been much more pronounced had their social and educational status been parallel.
Submerged in memories of the past which the thought evoked I saw myself again a child of eleven, slipping surreptitiously into Mr. Peters' room to be masturbated while I stood between his knees holding my little dress up. Again I saw his congested face and the tiny beads of perspiration which testified to the vibrant emotions he must have experienced vicariously through manual stimulation of my body. Had he not actually paid me to let him masturbate me and given other evidences of pleasure in realizing the act? And it had certainly caused me more pleasure than annoyance.
And mentally I began setting the stage for Mr. Heely's next visit.
So it came to pass that after the customary exchange of banalities had been effected, I set about immediately to warm the atmosphere preparatory to the course I had elected to follow with Mr. Heely.
“Mr. Heely,” I began diffidently, “you never have seen all the pretty things you had Madame Lafronde buy for me. They're so pretty they make my heart beat faster every time I look at them, and then I think of you.”
His face glowed with pleasure.
“I thought I'd seen all of them, my dear,” he answered, fingering the hem of my dress. “I was just thinking today that perhaps you needed some new frocks. Madame Lafronde exercised very good taste in her selections and these black silk dresses become you wonderfully.”
“I don't mean the dresses alone,” I murmured, essaying a bit of bashful confusion. “There were other things, beautiful things; you've never seen them at all, Mr. Heely.”
“Ah, you mean underthings, my dear. Quite true, I didn't see them, but if they pleased you that is all that is necessary.”
“I never had such beautiful things in all my life, Mr. Heely. Some of them have got the prettiest lace trimming, it looks just like handwork. Hester, my friend, says it's machine-made lace, but I want to show you, Mr. Heely, and see if you don't think it's handmade.”
Without waiting for his answer I slipped from his knees and went to my clothes chest, extracted from among the garments stored herein a pair of dainty cambric panties, around the legs of which were attached narrow bands of expensive lace. Thrusting the intimate garment into his hands, I continued to expiate on the quality and beauty of the material.
“Don't you think that's handmade lace, Mr. Heely?”
