Agent Carter Peggys Girl

Outside, the rain lashed at the tiny automat like it was Noah's Ark. Inside, Angie was appropriately dramatic for the latter, not the former.

"Peggy, please, I

need

it!" Angie pleaded. Put her palms together and everything, like Peggy was one of her mother's saints.

"Because otherwise you won't get the part?" Peggy reiterated sourly.

"Yes!"

A sigh. "Angie, you and only you are responsible for whether or not you get the part. Your talent, your confidence, and your preparation. You have all my support, but I—"

"Then do the thing! C'mon, English... I need all the help I can get. Not getting any younger, you know."

Peggy barely held in a sigh. After the war, she'd felt a million years old. Angie was, in comparison, a pup that'd just finished being house-trained. "I shouldn't have done it with you in the first place, Ang. That's the truth. I know you wanted to research your role, but you didn't even get the part. And yet—"

"Because we liked it! We both did!"

"You cried," Peggy reminded her pointedly.

"I'm a girl! I like crying! Why do you think I've read Little Women four times, for my health?" Now showing no sign of being a waitress, Angie threw herself into the booth, across from Peggy. "Please, English. Please. I just know if you don't help me, I'll blow it. But after we do the thing, I will be so calm and so on point, I'll get the part for sure! I'll... I'll bet you! Five bucks says you do this and I will get that gosh-darn part."

"Well, if there's five dollars on the line... no, I shan't bet against you."

"I'll lose out on a lot more money not getting the part than I would losing a bet."

"Oh, so I'm robbing you now?"

"Miss, can I get some coffee over here?" someone asked.

Angie whirled to face him. "As soon as my friend here starts being a good friend and agrees to help her friend out!"

Periodically, Peggy had to roll her eyes. It was becoming as much a defense mechanism with Angie as it was with Howard. The two had far too much in common. Peggy would have to make sure they never met.

"Angie." She lowered her voice seriously. "The last time, you got hurt."

"And I knew that going in, and I healed, and I liked it, all of it, so don't you go thinking you're some corrupting monster out of a dimestore pulp and I'm an innocent young maiden who just needs the love of a good man." Angie lowered her voice hurriedly. "I need this and I need you, and you know that if you were asking for this or for anything else, I would be giving it to you already."

Peggy looked at her, unwilling to relinquish her seriousness no matter how charmingly Angie smiled at her. "Promise me that if you think it's too much for you, or if anything else seems amiss or uncomfortable, that you will tell me immediately."

"Of course."

"I won't be disappointed. I will not think any less of you. I just have to know so I can... so things can be done properly."

"

I know.

That's how we did it last time, after all, and that worked out fine."

"Yes, well." Now Peggy looked at her coffee. "I thought you'd be smart enough to be scared off."

"Oh no, not me." Angie moved in quick to tap Peggy on the nose. "Dumb as a box of hammers, that's me."

"Miss, my coffee—"

"

Urrrggghhh

." Angie marched over to him with a hot pot. "Like you ever tip me anyway—"

The geezer scrutinized her as she poured for him. "What are you two gals cooking up, anyway?"

"Carter's going to help me run lines, that's all. I'm an actress. I need to practice staying in character."

***

"When was the last time you were spanked?" Peggy demanded, her crisp British accent low, but leaving no doubt she expected to be answered.

Angie bit her lip. She was suddenly aware of the taste of her gloss, her lipstick. Peggy would be tasting it soon. "When I was a kid. And even then, not unless I really had it coming. My parents were pretty big softies, ya know."

Not like you.

Peggy nodded absently, as if Angie's answer made no difference to her, but had nonetheless confirmed some private hypothesis. She was sitting in Angie's wicker chair, making it look like a throne with her legs crossed and a tumbler of scotch in one hand. She'd told Angie to buy it for her, though the bottle cost Angie most of her tips for that work-day, and her with a ten hour shift to cover for Roxy...

"Do you think you're a talented actress?"

Angie nodded, smiling, she loved this question. "Oh yeah, in my school plays, I made people cry like babies. Not just my parents. Old men, like."

"And do you believe you deserve to be on Broadway?"

"Yeah. Of course." Angie went slower now. A bit nervous, because she knew how Peggy could be. You didn't go up on a roller coaster without leaving your stomach at the top. And Angie was pretty attached to her stomach. "I was born for it. I can sing and dance and, and you know how good an actress I am, English, c'mon..."

"You're not an actress." Peggy aimed a long, deadly finger at her and Angie couldn't help but remember the feel of one of those inside her. Feeling so good it nearly hurt. "You're

aspiring

. That means you've accomplished

nothing,

you've proven

nothing

, you are an

unknown quantity.

And yet you're talented. And yet you belong on Broadway."

"Peggy, c'mon, I thought you were just gonna tie me up some..."

Peggy straightened her legs, leaned forward in her seat. Angie thought of her standing up and walking to her; a keen stab of fear ran through her. Fear of how much she wanted it. "I decide what we're going to do. That's the whole point. I

asked

if you wanted to be held and kissed and had sweet nothings whispered into your ear. You said

no.

You wanted

this.

You wanted

me.

If you speak out of turn again, you won't be able to walk right for a week." Her smile was still Peggy's, but not any Peggy Angie knew. "Much less dance."

She sipped her bourbon. Angie felt funny inside, like the drink was going to her head instead of Peggy's. Peggy never spoke to her like this. Even the other time, when Angie had first asked, Peggy hadn't talked.

Just kinda... growled.

And usually she did talk. Sweet nothings, like she'd said. Always telling Angie how pretty she was and how good she felt and how good she tasted ('Nah, English, you're the one that tastes good. You give British cooking a good name!'). And Angie liked that, who wouldn't? But she needed

this.

"You're mine," Peggy continued, staring at the ice tumbling about in her drink before turning the full force of her gaze on Angie. "You said you wanted to be mine, I've taken you,

you are mine.

And as your mistress, I must attribute your failure thus far to

you.

You

failing,

you

not working hard enough,

you

being unprepared."

Angie opened her mouth to say it wasn't true, but remembered that Peggy had warned her about speaking out of turn. She closed her mouth again and Peggy gave a nod.

"And yet, you're

mine

." The word slunk out of Peggy. It was a thief, headed right for Angie. "Do you know what I do when something of mine doesn't work properly?"

"What, Peggy?"

"I fix it." Peggy stood. She drained her glass. "Strip now."

Angie shook as she did so. At first just her fingers trembling, struggling with buttons and zippers and nylons, then her whole body was quivering. It was ridiculous. She'd been naked with Peggy before. It wasn't anything she hadn't seen. But the way Peggy was looking at her...

"I can't stop shaking," she said, then looked quickly to Peggy to see if she'd displeased her.

Peggy took a step toward her. "Why?" she asked, the lilt of the word demanding an answer.

"Because of how—how you're looking at me." Angie tried a grin. "It feels different."

"You can look at people and see different things." Peggy didn't so much walk as uncoil, a long leg tracing forward across the carpet, setting its weight, drawing Angie's mistress closer, the inferno of her stare closer. "I can see my friend. My neighbor. My lover. And I can see other things, no less valid, that I normally turn a blind eye to."

Angie had to open her mouth a few times to speak. She didn't want to speak out of turn, disobey the rules, not when she'd tried so hard to get Peggy playing to begin with. But Peggy wanted her to speak. That scared her the most. A good scare, like a Lon Chaney Jr. picture. "What do you see now?"

Peggy held up the empty glass. Angie could see her face in its contours. "I see a slut. I see what she needs to be satisfied. I see what I can do to fulfill those needs." The glass was lowered and all Angie could see was Peggy. "The reason you're trembling is because there's nothing a slut loves more than to be used. And I know just how to use you."

Weakly, Angie covered her breasts with her hands. Or just held them. "Would you?" A helpless smile flickered on her face. "I'd like that, Peg. I'd like it a whole lot."

Peggy pressed the cold glass against Angie's belly, birthing a moan that Angie couldn't figure out how to let go. "You haven't earned it. Where do you keep your scripts?"

"In the nightstand," Angie breathed. "But the latest one is on the kitchen table—"

"I don't care about the latest one. We're not dealing with that now. Right now, we're punishing you for the failure of your last audition. Fetch me the script for that play."

Angie did. She felt the cold weight of Peggy's gaze on her ass, remembered the fast burn of Peggy's hand striking it from last time. It hadn't been a spanking, not quite, but Peggy had eaten her out and she'd done it ignoring her breasts, her face, her hips, all the usual places her hands toured as she showed Angie the way to orgasm.

Instead, she'd hauled Angie's lower body over and smacked her bottom, never letting Angie enjoy her tongue too much. But when it was time for her to come, it'd been so intense. Like fireworks. And yeah, sure, maybe it was always like fireworks with Peggy, but there were fireworks and then there was the Chinese New Year. Cripes, how had she managed to walk back to her own room after that?

Angie came back with the script held in front of her groin, not sure if she was ready for Peggy to be looking there yet, with those eyes that burned so cold, that saw exactly how Angie could handle of pleasure and of pain. Peggy took the script from her. Her eyes traced up Angie's body after.

Angie felt so naked. She tried not to shake.

"You memorized it?"

"Only... only the scene I auditioned for."

"What role?"

"Juliet, of course. Swing for the bleachers, right?"

"Only when you're playing ball," Peggy replied curtly. "What scene did you audition?"

"Act 4, scene 1."

"Do you remember your lines?"

"I didn't get the part, Peg."

"Then I hope you have a very good memory indeed, because how you perform right now will determine the severity of your punishment. I'll be Paris. You be Juliet."

"Okay. Okay." Angie continued silently.

I can do this, I can make Peggy happy, I can be her good girl...

"Happily met, my lady and my wife," Peggy said, her voice almost back to normal, but not when coupled with her eyes. She was behind Angie now, staring at her ass again, and Angie knew she was thinking. Thinking of what that ass would look like after she was done with it.

Angie closed her eyes. She would do anything for Peggy. She could remember a few lines from a few weeks ago.

And it was like her body generated them, responded to Peggy's presence with them, like it did her quivering, her arousal. "That may be, sir, when I may be a wife."

"That 'may be' must be, love, on Thursday next."

"What must be should be."

Peggy lowered the script. "Shall be."

"What?"

"You got it wrong. It's 'shall be'. Climb onto the bed. Put your hands against the headboard.

Peggy rolled up the script into a cylinder. Angie tried smiling at her. "Yes, mistress." It didn't get her anything. She wasn't sure she wanted it to.

She crawled onto the mattress, her knees throwing the carefully folded sheets into disarray, and put her hands on the headboard.

"Do not take your hands off the headboard."

"I won't, mistress, I promise I won't."

The first blow caught her right across the buttocks, Angie crying out and pulling hard against her own grip on the headboard to free herself from the sudden pain. But she wouldn't let herself move her hands. She wouldn't let Peggy down. Peggy would never let her down.

Again and again the rolled-up script paddled her ass. Peggy didn't stop until tears were rolling down her pretty face. Then the script paused. The end of it scraped over Angie's lower back as Peggy considered her. Looking at her in the way that could only feel good when it was Peggy. Only Peggy got to look at her like Angie was hers, because she was hers. All hers...

The script unfurled. "Come you to make confession to this father?" Peggy asked, once more in character.

"To answer that, I should confess to you."

The pain lingered, seeming even stronger without additional blows to numb her to what was already there. It burnt into her flesh and sizzled in her cunt, but only because it was Peggy that had done it.

"Do not deny to him that you love me."

Because she was Peggy's, but she was Peggy's slut, and Peggy knew just how to use her. "I will confess to you that I love you."

Peggy tutted. "'That I love him.'"

Angie gave a nervous laugh. "I love you, Peggy."

"Do you think this is a game?" Angie started to turn. "Keep your hands on the goddamn headboard. I didn't give you permission to move one goddamn inch."

Angie bowed her head. Thrust her ass out. Peggy rolled the script back up.

This time, Angie had no problem keeping her hands on the headboard. She didn't try to escape the paddling. She wasn't trying to avoid more pain. Only to satisfy the raging needs inside her. The need for Peggy, the need to come, it all seemed to melt into one boiling mass inside her—

Then the script stopped. Unrolled. It seemed far too short a spanking for the mistake Angie had made, for disappointing her mistress, but perhaps Peggy was forgiving of a mistake made out of love. Angie closed her eyes and centered herself, trying to ignore the hot tears dripping off her jaw. She wished there were more of them, a fresh batch to mark her submission to Peggy.

"I will confess to you that I love him," Angie said.

"So will ye, I am sure, that you love me."

"If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back, than to your face."

Peggy came around the bed, the script held at her side, flapping in her hand. She wiped at Angie's face with gentle fingers. "Poor soul, thy face is much abused with tears."

"The tears have got small victory by that; For it was bad enough before their spite."

Having cleaned Angie's face, Peggy put her fingers at Angie's mouth. Angie cleaned Peggy's fingers of her own tears, sucking gently as Peggy continued. "Thou wrong'st it, more than tears, with that report."

The fingers drew away, wet with Angie's saliva, to let her speak. "That is no slander, sir, which is a truth; And what I spake, I spake it to my face."

Peggy's hand withdrew from Angie's face. It crested her head, it ran through her hair, it trailed along her supine back, her spine, like Peggy was touring her property. "Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander'd it." The hand came around her hips, it went under Angie's legs. Fingers pressed against Angie's slit. It was wet. It'd been wet for as long as Peggy had been looking at her.

Angie shifted in desire, as far as she could with her hands locked to the headboard. She pressed herself against those soft, warm, wonderful fingers. She moaned.

"Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander'd it," Peggy repeated.

Angie searched her mind for the next line, but there was nothing. Her gaze went misty once more, new tears in her eyes. She didn't feel bad about being punished; she deserved it. But oh, why'd she have to let down Peggy? And right after Peggy had decided to reward her...

Peggy struck her ass with renewed vigor, but the blows stopped even faster than before. Peggy knew just how to bring Angie to the edge of release, in so many ways, but then drew back, tipping Angie over into pain instead of pleasure.

When Angie felt Peggy's hand on her ass, caressing her punished flesh, it felt like an angel. She wanted more, so much more, but the script crashed against her ass again. Peggy thrashed wildly against the headboard, moaning and groaning, smelling her own sweat and her own arousal. It was dripping down her thighs. She would sleep on it tonight, a wet spot in her sheets...

"It may be so, for it is not mine own!" Angie shouted, not caring if Mrs. Fry heard, not caring if everyone heard. She didn't know if she wanted for Peggy to stop or go on, to keep being punished or to be rewarded, she just wanted Peggy to be happy with her, Peggy to keep her, Peggy to be hers like she was Peggy's. "Are you at leisure, holy father, now; Or shall I come to you at evening mass?"

Peggy stopped paddling Angie. The pain was terrible, but so was the pleasure. Angie could remember Peggy's fingers in her sex so strongly it was like she was still there; feel the sensation of pain so hot that she could think of nothing else. Only the next line. It would make Peggy happy.

"The next line is the Friar's," Peggy started, her voice allowing no pleasure at Angie's success. "What is it?"

"My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now. My lord, we must entreat the time alone."

Peggy put her hand on Angie's right, still clawing into the headboard. She gave it a squeeze, then took it off the wood. She had to pry Angie's fingers loose. "God shield I should disturb devotion! Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye: Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss."

Peggy brought the hand down, carried it for her lover to between Angie's thighs. As soon as it was touched to her need, Angie's hand moved with a will of its own. She stroked herself. She made herself feel good. For Peggy. For Peggy to see.

As Angie did to herself what she knew Peggy wanted her to do, Peggy's hand alighted on her ass again. Stroked the tender flesh. Made the lingering heat bloom. Angie's fingers flew inside her pussy as Peggy groped her ass.

"Now I want you to count each stroke I give you," Peggy said, her voice warmer somehow, more favoring. It was like rain in the desert. "So I know you'll remember this lesson."

Angie was so hot that she didn't think she could keep an accurate count, but she still nodded frantically. No one would do right by Peggy like her, no one would be as good a friend, as good a gal, as she was to English.

As she counted off every stroke Peggy delivered to her ass, Angie barely recognized her own voice. Not with the burning pain in it, or the incredible pleasure it spoke off. And Angie didn't care how hard it was to concentrate. She didn't lose count, she didn't stop playing with herself like Peggy wanted to see.

She needed the pleasure to keep from going out of her mind with the pain, and she needed the pain to remind her she was Peggy's.

When she reached a hundred, Peggy stopped. Angie only felt pleasure, her hand a blur on her slick clit, but she felt lost. Not Peggy's. That was the one thing she really hated, the one thing she didn't like on

any

level—but then she felt Peggy's finger on her asshole.

"This is mine too," Peggy said, and penetrated her as easily as she would walk through the front door of her own home.

Angie came, harder than she ever had in her life, her cunt all clit and wetness and electricity and fingers, pelvis bucking hard against where her hand was lost inside herself. She was part of Peggy. Peggy was part of her.

"You can let go of the headboard now," a voice said, and Angie slumped down onto the mattress, still jerking in orgasm, drained of every reserve, of all discipline, of any sense she had dissatisfied Peggy. All that was left was her mistress. Her Peggy.