From Blushes 31
‘Modelling.’ Mrs Birdley pronounced the word as if its meaning might be foreign to her. ‘Modelling!’
Mrs Hodges, who lived two streets away from Mavis Birdley but patronised this same corner shop, assumed a smug expression and nodded her head. Mrs Birdley did not look too pleased, and indeed the concept was not at all to her liking. Arlene Hodges! She shook her head and then seized at a straw. ‘What sort of modelling?’
‘What sort…’ echoed Arlene’s mother. ‘Well the real sort and no messing about. Oh yes, she’s a regular model, is my Arlene.’ As a clincher she added ‘London-based.’
Mavis Birdley shook her head again, though of course it was difficult to argue with London. ‘I should have thought with her shape — your Arlene — well, she’s not skin and bones, is she? And them models…’
‘My Arlene’s got a marvellous figure, as you know. Stunning. That was what the bloke said, that judge, when she was the Miss Pikes DIY Hardware. Oh yes.’ And indeed this was true, Arlene Hodges did have a very shapely shape, and was also a very pretty girl. But as Mrs Birdley was implying it really wasn’t what you thought of as a model’s figure. Too… well, curvy.
‘An’ I can tell you,’ said Brenda Hodges as a final rejoinder as she prepared to leave the shop, ‘she’s making a bit of money, is that girl.’
That certainly completed Mavis Birdley’s unhappiness. Making pots of money! Brenda Hodges’s Arlene. It made you want to spit.
When Brenda Hodges got home with her shopping the young lady in question was lolling in front of the fire reading The Sun: well, you didn’t need to be an intellectual to be a model. In fact Arlene had been studying the Page Three Girl and wondering how much she got for grinning and brandishing her tits before a few million readers. She turned the page as her mother came in. Brenda Hodges did not approve of Page Three Girls. ‘Disgusting!’ She was now full of her encounter with Mrs Birdley.
‘You should have seen her face. Green. When I told her how well you were getting on. What I’d like of course is some photos. That’d make her open her eyes.’
Arlene said, ‘Yes Mum.’ Her mother had asked for photos before; it was only natural of course. But photos were not possible. Definitely not. Not with the chapel and all; not when her mother thought even a Page Three Girl was awful (‘Showing all she’s got like that!’). No, photos were definitely out.
‘I’ll see, Mum,’ she said. ‘But like I told you, it’s not at all easy. They’re afraid of things being copied. Exclusive designs and that.’
That more or less satisfied Brenda Hodges. She could appreciate that. Arlene went on to say she had another appointment in London tomorrow. She had just had her agent on the phone.
‘A couple of appointments,’ he had said. And maybe I’ll have one or two more when you get here. Be in the office by eleven, OK? One of ‘ems a railway nut.’
A railway nut? ‘You know,’ Mr Perbring had said, ‘nuts about railways.’ Yes, but what exactly…? ‘Uniforms. He’s got a guard’s uniform or something.’ Mr Perbring’s harsh laugh had come over the phone. ‘You know, dear; Oh Mr Porter what can I do. The nasty guard’s taken my knickers down and smacked my bottom and then sent me off to Crewe.’
Naturally none of this could be relayed to Arlene’s mum. Certainly not. Not to a mother who found Page Three Girls disgusting and degrading and who was also a stalwart of the local chapel. It sent shivers down Arlene’s spine at times when she thought about it. Not just her mother but everyone else. That Mr Midgeley at the chapel with his sharp, beady eyes and all that lot there. That Mrs Birdley. Everyone.
If they ever found out! Arlene really regretted now having mentioned modelling to her mother. She hadn’t been thinking. She had just said it: ‘modelling,’ which of course it was, sort of. And it had sort of built up, with her mum going round telling everyone. She could have thought of something else, something more ordinary, that her mother wouldn’t have got so excited about. Although it wasn’t easy to think what other job would take you off on the long train journey to London.
Being on the game would but that would hardly be acceptable. And anyway Arlene wasn’t on the game, she told herself. It was artistic modelling. Posing the body beautiful, for selected gentlemen of taste.
That was what Mr Perbring said. Though he sometimes gave that nasty laugh of his afterwards. Arlene liked to think they were gentlemen, with an artistic appreciation of the female body. Some of them certainly had gentleman’s accents, though not all. And some of them didn’t always want to do gentlemanly things. Well, no one’s job was perfect. But there was no doubt that you had to have a beautiful face and body for it. Which Arlene certainly had. And if you had these why not use them for artistic purposes? It was just unfortunate that her mum and a lot of other people round here were so narrow-minded.
‘That early train I suppose,’ Arlene’s mum said, and Arlene said, ‘Yes — but you don’t have to get up, Mum.’ But she knew her mother would, and make her a cup of tea. No breakfast. Arlene couldn’t stomach breakfast at that time of the morning. Maybe a bite a bit later on the train. Although you frequently got men trying to chat you up in the buffet, businessmen-types. Even attempting to touch you up. A girl didn’t want to get involved in that sort of thing; not a girl who was in demand by top class, discerning gentlemen: Arlene Starr.
Mr Perbring had thought of that; and you had to agree it had a nice sound to it, not like Arlene Hodges which sounded a bit countrified. Arlene had several times wanted to tell her mother, but discretion had so far prevailed. She wasn’t sure if that other type of model used artistic names.
The train wasn’t too bad — it could be half an hour late — and the businessmen-types in the buffet were not too obnoxious — no overly-friendly hands on her bottom at least. The tube and then a little walk to Mr Perbring’s place. Arlene sometimes took a taxi, if the train was late, but didn’t really like wasting the money. And the short walk was good after sitting on her bottom all morning. Probably good for the figure. She was right on time: eleven o’clock.
‘Right on time,’ Mr Perbring said, getting up from his desk to greet her. Mr Perbring was all right though at times he could be rather obnoxious too. Obnoxious in the grabby sense. But he was Arlene’s agent which meant you more or less had to put up with it. Unfortunately he seemed to be in a rather obnoxious mood today. ‘Please…’ she pleaded. If he had been a proper gentleman he no doubt would have stopped. Stopped trying to get his hand up her skirt, that is. But if he had been a gentleman he presumably wouldn’t have started trying anyway — although on the other hand some of those gentlemen with proper la-di-da accents did exactly the same thing. Anyway Mr Perbring wasn’t stopping. He clearly was in one of those moods.
‘Look,’ she pleaded. ‘I’ve got this appointment, haven’t I?’ Well at least the client would be paying. Mr Perbring wasn’t paying — Arlene had to pay him, a percentage of her fees. Mr Perbring gave that nasty laugh.
‘It’s OK. You haven’t got a slot until twelve.’
Arlene stopped struggling and looked at him. Mr Perbring had said eleven on the phone. He was grinning, and she realised. He had deliberately got her here early. So that… Arlene gave a yelp; Mr Perbring had taken advantage of the pause to get his hand right up her skirt.
‘Come on. So we’ve got a little while before the first one. We’ll have a bit of fun, eh?’
Arlene didn’t want fun with Mr Perbring, it was the last thing she wanted. What she did with the clients was strictly business and Mr Perbring was her agent. Arlene Starr, top model, did not want her agent doing those things. But Arlene Starr’s agent was insisting. And he could be very persuasive. He knew that she was keeping her activities very hush-hush. So she had no real choice, except to do what he wanted. Which was first of all take her knickers off and then get over Mr Perbring’s lap. And be nice and submissive as he pulled up her skirt and then began sharply spanking Arlene’s bare bottom.
He spanked it really hard, so that in addition to being unpleasant and humiliating it really hurt. Really bloody hurt.
Spanking her bottom was of course one of the things Arlene allowed the customers to do. If they wanted it. It could be included as one of the extras in the modelling fee. She wasn’t getting paid to have her bottom spanked, she was getting paid for modelling — which might incidentally include having her bottom spanked. There was a difference — to Arlene’s way of thinking anyway. She didn’t enjoy spanking and things like that but Mr Perbring said she had to let the customers do them if they wanted and so she did. And of course it did mean a bigger fee. But Mr Perbring… it was really awful of him to insist on doing it himself.
After Mr Perbring had finished spanking he wanted something else. He said there was plenty of time for it, there was still half an hour before the first client arrived. It was of course worse than a spanking, quite a lot worse. Arlene didn’t want to, really didn’t. But… Mr Perbring insisted. And so she had to. In one of the bedrooms that were used for clients.
That was really an awful start. How could Mr Perbring be so awful. First the spanking and then that, making her screw him. In the bathroom straightening herself up Arlene tried to put it out of her mind. Anyway she had read somewhere that proper models — the sort her mother thought she was — sometimes had to screw their agents.
With all this there wasn’t much time before the first client. It was the railway man, the railway nut as Mr Perbring had called him. Mr Glovett. He looked all right, normal, and with quite a gentlemanly accent — though that was no guarantee, as Arlene knew, of what he would want. He did have a railway uniform and he put it on, in one of the other rooms.
Mr Glovett wanted Arlene to be a college girl. Who had got on the train without buying a ticket. Mr Glovett was the guard and he had caught her. Mr Glovett said he had to make an example of her, this sort of thing was costing the railway thousands of pounds. So he was going to do something she would remember. He was going to take all her clothes off and then he was going to cane her.
Oh Christ. The cane was worse than a spanking. The cane could really hurt. But Arlene had agreed to take the cane, or rather Mr Perbring told them she would take it. They weren’t supposed to do it very hard, but sometimes…
The college girl was taken to the guard’s house and into the bedroom — which was the bedroom where not much earlier Mr Perbring had screwed Arlene. The college girl had to plead and beg with the guard, but of course she was going to get it anyway. For this aspect of modelling you had to be something of an actress as well. Though when it was the cane, pleading that you didn’t want it was not too difficult.
Taking all her clothes off, with Mr Glovett intently watching. Blouse and skirt and then one by one the other things. You wore suspender belt and stockings in this line, not tights. Almost all the clients wanted that, unless of course you had to wear a special outfit. Mr Glovett decided in fact that the college girl would keep her suspender belt and nylons on for the cane. That and her high heels but otherwise nude. He made her bend over the side of the bed for it. Arlene told him he couldn’t do it hard but it still bloody hurt. It always did. Then there were some more with Arlene standing bent over and touching her toes.
After that Mr Glovett had some more variations he wanted to do. He went out and changed back into his suit and now Arlene had to put the guard’s shirt on. She was still being the college girl and this was what the guard made her do. First wear the guard’s shirt with the suspender belt and stockings. Then the shirt with just her knickers. Then the knickers had to come down. The college girl was also getting caned some more in all this.
And that was about it. Not really too bad except that, as usual, the cane bloody stung. But certainly not as bad as Mr Perbring had been earlier. Mr Glovett in fact was very pleased with her. He said Arlene had a lovely body and he made an appointment for another visit. There were two more clients in the afternoon. Nothing outlandish or weird, nothing even like Mr Glovett’s railway guard. All they wanted was straightforward modelling — or stripping if you wanted to put it like that and of course Arlene didn’t. Taking her clothes off in the little bedroom. And photographing the action.
Mr Perbring had persuaded Arlene that photographs were OK. She had not been at all keen at first, naturally imagining that her mother and all the people back home might somehow get to see the photos. Mr Perbring told her that was silly, there was no chance, and he also insisted because photographs were a very lucrative aspect of modelling. So Arlene had agreed, though sometimes she felt a nasty shiver as the camera clicked and she thought of it being recorded on the negative. An indelible record. Especially of course in some of the poses she was required to assume. The ones Mr Perbring called ‘pussy shots’ for instance.
When Arlene’s mother did find out it was really Arlene’s own fault and she couldn’t blame anyone else but herself. Carelessness — or just stupidity. She had put the photos in her drawer and nosy mothers will always poke around in drawers and places. Mr Perbring had given Arlene the photos. ‘Take a look at these.’ That rather unpleasant little laugh. Arlene had looked, then quickly leafed through, biting her lip. ‘Take them,’ Mr Perbring said. ‘It’s a spare set.’
She had taken them but what was she going to do with them? She didn’t think of that of course. And the only place she could think to put them was her drawer. Temporarily; Arlene hadn’t intended to leave them there. But it was long enough.
They were really awful: certainly not the sort of photographs you’d want to show your mother, even a broad-minded mother. Arlene was wearing a black German SS officer’s jacket. Plus black suspender belt and nylons and shiny black high-heeled shoes. That was all. And some of the poses… well, they were the ‘pussy shots’. Arlene lying on her back with her legs spread wide, or sitting with her leg up on the arm of the chair. That sort of thing.
Poor Mrs Hodges. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Not at first. But as she looked through the set of photos unable to avoid the compulsion of examining each and every image — she clearly had to. The pictures — the filthy pictures — swam before her eyes. Arlene, her own daughter. The top model. Brenda Hodges sat heavily down. She was going to have a heart attack. She knew she was.She didn’t, not quite. But when Arlene got home…