“Why don't you think of such things?” she asked reprovingly.
“Well, for heaven's sake! Am I the only one who's supposed to do any thinking? Anyway, nobody came in, so why worry about it now? And even if they did, this place isn't supposed to be a Sunday school exactly, you know!”
“Listen, you! Don't you ever dare tell anyone! It's something I never did before and I'm never going to do it again, either!”
“Don't be silly! You know I won't tell anyone!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The week passed by and I was waiting for Monty's second visit. He had sent me a note, couched in affectionate terms, assuring me that he would be in without fail.
Of my earlier patrons but two continued to call on me with faithful regularity; Mr. Thomas, and the effeminate Wainwright. Poor Daddy Heely was in a hospital, a nervous breakdown, according to reports. I wondered guiltily whether maybe the excitation my antics caused him had something to do with his condition. I had become quite fascinated with the Miss Innocence role I had built up for his edification, and had gone to extremes in thinking up erotic situations which could be presented to him in the guise of “maidenly” confidences. He was physically unable to savor the more material delights of concupiscence, and I had supplanted the lack with artfully designed mental and visual extravaganzas. Probably I had overstepped the mark in my enthusiasm, and sent him into a psychopathic ward.
Mr. Castle had simply disappeared. In addition to Monty I had another new patron of several weeks standing and indifferent qualities who had so far not distinguished himself by any eccentricities worth mentioning except one: he required that I be fully dressed on the occasion of his visits, and that I permit him to undress me. With ceremonial dignity by me, he divested me of my garments one by one until I stood before him, a modern Eve sans fig leaf. Thereafter, what took place was of orthodox regularity, a proceeding sanctioned by custom dating back into the most remote of prehistoric times as far as I know. In other words, he did just what men have been doing to girls since the dawn of time.
Monty had asked me to have a substantial supply of liquor available on his future visits and I had complied with the request. On a little tabouret near the bed was a quart bottle of Scotch whiskey of a mark he had indicated, together with a siphon of seltzer and glasses.
I hummed a song as I stood before the mirror for a last minute, inspection to be sure that my hair was just right and that my face was properly powdered and my lips the correct shade of red. But my thoughts were not on the song, nor more than casually on the face that was reflected from the depths of the big mirror. I was thinking, with delicious little quivers of anticipation, of the several hours of unchastity which were in the immediate perspective. I was sure he would “French” me again, for had I not confessed to him my predilection for the delicate caress? And if he did, and if he were nice to me in other ways, well, maybe I would repay him by doing again what I had done when I woke him up.
Hester said that after a girl started she was finished, because it grew on her. Nonsense. That might be true in some instances, and not in others. Hester meant well, but she didn't know me as well as she thought she did. She had a room engagement herself tonight, but had slipped away for a few minutes to speak to me.
“You be careful with that man Austin, Jessie! He's not your type!”
Not my type, indeed! What kind of a man did she think my type was? A senile old innocent like Daddy Heely, or a perverted fool like Mr. Castle, whose one ambition in life was to do it to a girl in her bottom, or a semilunatic like Wainwright, who paid a girl to let him masturbate all over her legs?
From all of which it will be seen that I was pretty well convinced I knew better what I wanted than Hester did.
Reflected in the mirror, I saw the door opening gently and the face, of the man I was thinking about appeared. I pretended not to have observed his entrance, and a second later he had clasped me from behind. With my knees hanging over his arm he lifted me into the air and buried his face in my bosom. I felt his hot breath on my breasts as he forced it through the texture of the scant garments which covered them.
“That's a nice way to come into a young lady's room, without even knocking,” I scolded playfully. “Suppose I had been doing something I didn't want you to see?”
“In that case, I'd have, shut my eyes!” he responded. “But what would you be doing that you wouldn't want me to see?”
“Sometimes girls play with themselves when they feel naughty, and they wouldn't want a man to see that!”
“Ha!” he laughed, as he set me back on my feet and drew off his gloves. “You're not confessing that you practice self-abuse, are you?”
“If I do, do you think I'd tell you?”
“Of course not! That's something no woman ever confesses to a man.”
“Well, prepare for a shock then. I do it often.”
“Amazing! I've known scores of girls and women and you're the only one that ever abused herself!”
“How do you know the others didn't?”
“Because I asked them and they said they didn't. Congratulations to you! Your score goes up another ten points!”
“Because I play with myself?”
“No! Because you admit it! Baby, you've given me an idea! I've… but wait… I'll speak of it later.”
“Tell me now!”
“No; let's get comfortable and have a drink first. I've got lots of things I want to tell you.”
“All right, but it's cruel to arouse a woman's curiosity and then make her wait.”
“Let your curiosity suffer for a few minutes. I'll dispel it pretty soon.”
“Well, then, let me hang up your things. Now sit down in this chair and make yourself comfortable. And here's that Scotch and seltzer you told me to get for you.”
“It's for you, too. You like it, don't you?”
“Yes, but the trouble is, after I've had about three glasses I lose all my maidenly modesty.”
“So much the better! Have three glasses right now!”
I laughed.
“Here goes number one. My modesty is now one third dissipated. What is it you've got to tell me first? I hope it's something nice.”
“First, I want to tell you how absolutely topping you look. You're a good-looking girl no matter what you've got on, or haven't got on, of course, but those dresses, there's a sort of sophisticated childishness about them that's irresistible. They're devilishly ingenious. Are they your own idea, or did somebody else think them up?”
The dress referred to, as you may have guessed, was another of the little-girl frocks Daddy Heely had paid for. I had worn one the previous week and as it seemed to have taken Monty's fancy, I had selected another on the present occasion. It was a single-piece frock of black silk with a white belt, and long, tight sleeves. The cuffs, neck and breasts were lined with pleated ruffles and underlaid with cream-colored lace.
To go with these dresses I had some dainty high-heeled Spanish slippers and black silk hose which I rolled just above my knees and fastened with elastic band garters. Except for one detail the costume was eminently respectable. That detail was the extreme shortness of the dress.
It barely reached to my knees when I was standing, and when I sat in a normal posture there was no surplus material to be pulled down in a ladylike fashion. The dress was juvenile, but my legs were not. When I observed Daddy Heely's liking to sit on the floor at my feet I easily guessed the reason, and you can too.
Tonight, for certain optimistic reasons related to what Monty had first done on his previous visit, I had not put on any panties, and under the black silk frock was nothing except a diaphanous silk chemise, undervest, and brassiere.
I hesitated at this last question, not wanting to tell him the exact origin of the dresses, and as he did not press the query, I let it pass unanswered.
