“You can have them when we’re finished,” he said. “Do you have any that nice?”
“No I can’t say that I have any like these. In fact, I don’t have a bra.”
“You don’t?” His face and sad brown eyes and repulsive mustache seemed to leap at her, but he hadn’t moved closer, just was looking at her. “Oh, good, that’s great. Perfect. Like… this’s real, isn’t it? Your first bra.”
“Yeah, whatever. Where should I change?”
“Well… the dressing room, of course.”
She looked back at him for a moment while he touched his limp hair then touched his mustache then put three fingers over his lips and dropped his eyes.
“Of course, silly me.”
He dragged another stool over so he was sitting behind the camera. After her jeans and t-shirt were hung on the hook and her socks stuffed into her shoes (he said leave them under the stool, and let one sock come trailing out of the shoe a little), she glanced at the camera while putting on the flowered bra and underwear with her back to him, but of course she showed in the mirror, tits and trimmed bush. “Your first bra,” he murmured, the camera clicking, zipping to the next frame and clicking again. “How does it feel?”
She turned to hide a laugh as a small burp. The bra actually fit her but the underwear was not bikini style. She could see in the mirror that the high-waisted underwear made her tits look even smaller, the bra like an elastic headband put around her chest.
“Oh god,” he moaned, “god-in-heaven.” The camera clicking and clicking. Her adrenal gland released, the chemical shot through, leaving behind a vibrating hot jello-y place in her middle. She turned slowly back and forth in front of the mirror, stretching to check her ass over each shoulder which also stretched the bra.
“Oops!” One tit popped out when the bra rode up. “Where’s my personal shopper, I need to know if this one fits.”
The guy was huddled on his stool, his face almost to his lap, no longer clicking, sort of whimpering.
“Come on, please, mister? It’s my big day, help me pick one that fits.”
He slid off the stool onto his knees and shuffled towards her. His head came up to her stomach. His eyes were murky and glistening, sweat on his upper lip had dampened the disgusting little mustache. He held her around her waist with one hand, pulling the flowered underwear tight against his chest, bending her knees slightly and throwing her off balance so she had to hold onto his shoulders and lean backwards slightly. With two fingers he eased the bra back over her exposed tit.
“There, it fits like that,” he breathed.
“Are you sure?”
He moved his hands slowly up her body until he was holding her around the ribcage, a thumb on each nipple. He moved the thumbs back and forth, hardening the nipples under the stretchy purple-flowered material. His face tilted up. His two watery eyes right behind each thumb. “Yes, this is how it goes. Like this. Like this.”
“I know sixteen is a little too late for my first bra, but my mother said I wasn’t old enough,” she said, making her voice airy and higher. The flowered underwear were wet between her legs. She tried to grind her twat against his chest a little but the zingers of adrenalin were zapping her almost continuously and she was in danger of falling over backwards.
“No,” he whispered, “sixteen isn’t too old. Not too old at all. You had to be ready. You knew when you were ready.”
“I’m ready.”
“Today you were ready. Today was the day. Oh, but if only your little titties wouldn’t grow any more,” he sobbed, “so impatient for this day, but now they’ll be ruined.” He slid his hands to her back and pulled her stomach against his face, blubbering against her skin below the bra.
“Hey, mister,” she breathed softly. “Today’s not over yet.” She touched a bald spot on his crown with a single finger. “Remember, today’s my big day. And there’s still a half hour of it left.”
He lurched to his feet with her in his arms. “Like a baby,” he smiled through his tears down into her face. He bent and kissed her gently, touching her lips with the awful mustache, while carrying her out of the set and down a hall. The room they went into was dim, but after placing her on the bed, he turned on the night stand lamp and she could see the white lace canopy, the matching white lace lampshade and bedspread and curtains, antique-looking dolls in white or peach or baby-blue satin dresses lined up on a shelf, plus little troll dolls and glass princesses, horses and china puppies, a brush and comb set on the dresser, a life-sized white teddy bear sitting in a corner.
“This isn’t your room is it?” Leala asked, propping herself up on her elbows. He was kneeling again, beside the bed.
“No… it’s yours.”
“Huh? Oh.…,” she lay back slowly. “It’s the room my mother doesn’t know I left to go buy my first bra, right?”
“That’s right.” He took off his shirt. He was as skinny as Dale but not a single hair on him, except his armpits. “Just touch them against mine while they’re still little, while it’s still the big day.” He got on top of her, still wearing baggy green army-surplus pants. She couldn’t feel any hard-on, but his hips were far below hers, on the mattress between her knees, so she wouldn’t’ve anyway. He pressed his gaunt chest against hers, his head down against her neck, then without raising his body eased the bra up so her bare breasts were against his chest. He rocked slightly so their nipples brushed back and forth. And he started to tremble. She could feel his heart like a fist on a windowpane, banging to get out. His swaying continued for five or ten minutes.
Leala’s adrenalin buzz was long gone. She checked her watch by raising one arm in the air behind his shoulders.
Then he was easing the bra back over her, with his chest still pressed to hers. “Okay,” he whispered in her ear. “I didn’t hurt you.” He backed up off her and stood beside the bed. “I’ll leave you in your pretty room, with your bears and dolls.” He clicked off the light and retreated toward the door.
“Hey!” Leala sat up. “I would like a doll like one of them. Where could I get one?”
“A doll shop.” He was a shadowy form by the door, putting his shirt on.
“How much would it cost for me to get one?”
“Some of them are as much as $200.”
“I could just get a $50 one, though, couldn’t I?”
He didn’t answer, buttoning his shirt, then he looked up, but she couldn’t really see his eyes. It was too dark.
“A girl should have a doll like that before she gets too old… don’t you think?”
He slowly reached for the door knob. “Too old?”
“Yeah, like… before she’s… say, eighteen... don’t you think?”
He opened the door and a crack of light lay on the floor between him and the bed. “I… guess so.” Then he went out and closed the door.
She lay back on the bed with a suddenly thudding pulse, but not the same thing as the earlier neon lightning bolt of adrenalin. The wave of almost nauseous weakness passed, and she thought about the symptoms Dale described, then she got off the bed. Her clothes were folded on the sofa in the living room with exactly $100 in cash placed on top, a fifty, two twenties, a five and five ones. Maybe he’d forgotten about the two fifties he’d already given her at the start of the session.
December was a slow time for both student photographers and sickos. Leala got her hair cut into a pixie style and used some of her savings for white jeans, a white jean jacket, and several new tank tops. She had her ears pierced and wore just the two pearl studs which came with the piercing. She let Dale pay for the piercing and call it her Christmas present, but he also bought her a corduroy skirt and jacket set that was one size too big, so she exchanged it for a denim mini and peasant-style top with sequins, both from the girls department. Dale said she looked like a baby pop star in Teen Beat magazine.