The Making of a Gigolo (13) - Misty Compton

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

Chapter Two

Misty picked up the phone and looked at it. She was tempted to wipe the mouthpiece off before she used it. She sighed, remembering that what her crew, and almost everybody else in the whole tour had wasn't communicable in that way.

The reports she'd heard were that it was food poisoning. There had been a big party, after a concert in Austin, Texas. She'd had a splitting headache, and had made an appearance, before slipping back to the hotel to get some sleep. She hadn't eaten anything.

Everybody who had stayed had gotten sick. Seven of them were in the hospital! She counted herself as lucky.

Except for the fact that the rest of the tour had been cancelled.

There were three more concerts on it, but the manager had called them all off from his hospital bed. That wasn't so terrible, though. It meant less money, but it also meant she'd get some unscheduled time at home. She knew how she would spend it. She had four new songs roughed out in her mind, with the basic melodies written down. She was calling her agent to tell him about all the furor.

As it turned out, he already knew.

"Don't worry about a thing, Baby," he oozed into the phone. "I've got you covered. I got you a gig in Kansas. We turned them down at first, because you were busy, but now you can do it."

"Kansas?" Misty had visions of flat, treeless land which, after her upbringing in the mountains, seemed sterile and desolate. Texas hadn't been much of a thrill, though Austin was really nice.

"Yeah, it's some kind of festival thing they do every year. You'll be the headliner, Baby!" The enthusiasm in his voice, which she now knew was there whether he meant it or not, didn't mollify her.

"How can I play a gig in Kansas?" she complained. "Everybody in the band is sick. Josh can't drive, and Twila only gets up off the pot to throw up in it!"

"You were playing solo when I found you," said her agent smoothly. "Just take your guitar and some clothes and hop a flight. You can try out some of your new songs. I'll call the radio station that's sponsoring you and have them handle everything else. This could be a big break for you, Baby."

"Don't call me Baby!" she snapped into the phone. "I appreciate what you've done for me, but I know the only reason you're doing this is because you get a cut. That doesn't mean there's anything between us!"

She scowled fiercely at the phone, ignoring the fact that he couldn't see her. His hands had gotten entirely too friendly in the last couple of months.

"Hey, come on, Misty," he moaned into the phone. "I'm only thinking about you, honey, I promise."

"Yeah, right!" she snorted. "I know what part of me you're thinking about, and it ain't gonna happen. If I wanted to go to Hicksville I'd go home. In fact, that's exactly where I was going to go. I need to write some more songs, so I can do another album. I don't want to go play at some festival in Kansas!"

"Sorry, Babe," said the man on the other end of the line. "I already booked you. Three nights, star billing. You'll have days off to write all you want. There probably won't be anything else to do anyway. And you'll probably still have time to go home and take a break after that."

"When is it?" she moaned, knowing she had to do it.

"I was just about to dial the phone when you called," he said. "The festival opens the day after tomorrow, so you need to get moving. I'll call the station and get them on it. Either I or some woman named Amanda will call you right back. Don't go anywhere! Stay right by the phone!"

Misty put the phone down much harder than necessary. She heard retching sounds from the bathroom. At least she'd be able to have a hotel room to herself on this gig. She roomed with Twila everywhere they went. That meant having no privacy at all. Not that she needed it. If anything it was Twila and Josh who needed the privacy. She knew they were doing it together. She could tell by the way they talked, and touched each other. They pretended like everything was just friends, but Misty knew they were humping like bunnies behind her back. "Conferences", they called it.

Yeah ... right.

What was done was done, though. She went to her case and pulled out her guitar. It had pickups on it, but could also be played acoustically. That was good.

She wasn't sure they even had electricity in Kansas.

They came to him in the night, silently, like prowling cats, like pumas who were hungry. They crawled all over him ... purring ... kissing ... demanding to be pleased.

They wouldn't take turns, like their sisters had. They wanted him together. Neither had ever felt his fountain of seed in their bellies ... had never felt that from any man ... and they didn't care about that. All they cared about was feeling his thickness slide deep inside their famished pussies, and that wonderful little rotation he did, that crushed their helpless clitties, and brought such astonishing orgasms.

Currently, it was Betty who was watching, torturing her own clit as Bobby loomed over Matilda, whose legs were thrown wide in welcome. She was grunting softly, in time with his thrusts, and then moaning as he occasionally stopped to rub.

"It was never like this," she groaned, feeling an orgasm marching toward her. "I love this so much."

"You feel good," said her brother, flexing his penis inside her.

"Don't stop!" she urged. "I'm almost there." She squeezed her muscles around him, trying to grip him.

"If you keep doing that I'll squirt," he warned her.

"You can't squirt!" yipped Betty. "I haven't had my turn yet!"

"You guys are killing me," groaned Bobby, pulling out of Matilda. She wailed, and complained that she wasn't finished yet. He moved back and put his face in between her legs, sucking her clit into his mouth.

"Ahhhhhh," she whined, bucking up against his face. The orgasm he'd denied her bounced through her body as her clit vibrated.

He kept sucking, sliding his hands under her butt to make his lips solid around her clit, and she flailed as he over-stimulated her for a few seconds. Then he lifted his face and grinned.

"Get up!" he ordered.

"I can't," she panted. "I can't move."

"I want to try something," he insisted.

She could move. She just didn't want to. But, when he pulled her up, she stood, while he lay on his back. He lay down, and motioned Betty to climb on top of him. They had learned this a night or two past, and she happily sank down on his stiff prick.

"Now you sit on my face," he said to Matilda.

She argued at first, thinking it was both odd and probably impossible. When she ended up, however, with her hands on the headboard, and her pussy rubbing his face, she decided it not only could be done ... it should be done. She particularly liked the fact that she could move the part of her pussy she wanted licked ... to where it was licked the best.

The only problems with his plan were that Matilda liked it too much, and he couldn't talk. Normally, that wouldn't have been a problem, but his two youngest sisters were hot as pistols, and he was affected by them on a more passionate level than he'd anticipated. It hadn't taken long for his impression of them as "little girls" to be thoroughly destroyed. When they did this with him, they were all woman.

And so, when he felt his balls signal their eruption, and tried to warn Betty to get off of him, all he was able to do was make muffled groaning sounds, which neither girl recognized as a warning. Matilda felt his hands on her hips, pushing at her, but she thought he was just trying to help her move her pussy over his nose and mouth.

Betty had ridden him through an orgasm already, and was rocking gently, just loving the feel of being full. She could still feel her pussy making little left over spasms, squeezing and then relaxing, when she felt him swell, and felt a ball of heat expand from the tip of his prick. She didn't get it, at first. It felt wonderful. Then, as her lust-fogged brain finally did realize what was going on, she tried to get her feet under her. He finished spurting in her by the time that happened and, when she was able to stand, she looked in awe as her pussy drooled thick globs of Bobby sperm, which dripped down and covered his balls, while his penis lay softening on his abdomen.

"He squirted in me!" she yipped, staring at the evidence of her outburst.

Matilda twisted her upper body to look at her sister, and also stared at the dripping strings of cum.

"Wow!" she gasped. "Why'd he do that?"

She looked down at the top of her brother's head.

"Why'd you do that, Bobby?"

It was then she realized that the pain in her thighs was because he was gripping them, pushing against her weight, which was still pressing her pussy against his face. She scooted back and was rewarded with Bobby's round, blue eyes, which matched his round, gasping mouth. He sucked in a huge breath.

"I tried ... to ... warn you," he panted. "You were ... busy ... suffocating me."

"I was not," said Matilda, trying to slide her pussy forward again. "You told me to do this."

It went downhill from there, and Bobby finally made them go back to their own room.

"What was it like?" asked Matilda, in the dark.

"Him squirting in me?"

"Of course!"

"It was warm," said Betty softly. "It felt like ... I don't know ... it was warm."

"Did you like it?"

It was silent for a few heartbeats. "Yes." It was silent for a few more heartbeats. "What if he got me pregnant, though?"

Matilda snorted. "You can't get pregnant from just once."

"You can't?"

"Of course not. You have to do it a lot to get pregnant."

"Are you sure? That doesn't sound right to me." Betty frowned.

"Of course I'm sure," said Matilda loftily. "I'll even let him squirt in me next time if that will make you feel better."

Mollified by her sister's completely incorrect interpretation of the hazy lessons they hadn't really listened to all that well in High School, Betty turned to what was on her mind.

"What was it like ... sitting on his face?"

"It was so cool!" sighed Matilda. "You can wiggle around just right, and get him to do it in just the right place. You have to try that."

"Okay!"

To be honest, both girls were ready to go back to Bobby's room right then. He'd been somewhat surly, though, and had all but kicked them out. That was okay. They could wait.

After all ... they had all summer.

After her agent hung up, the phone was only silent for fifteen minutes, before it rang again. Misty picked it up. She was slightly nauseated by the sounds that kept coming from the bathroom, where Twila was constantly being sick.

"Hello!" she almost shouted in to the phone.

"Ms. Compton?" It was a female voice.

"Yes."

"This is Amanda Griggs, General Manager of KDEF Radio, in Hutchinson. Thank you so much for agreeing to come to the festival. When your agent originally told us you were too busy we didn't know what we were going to do! We had to book a couple of local acts, but now they can open for you."

Misty frowned. She could just imagine some hayseed band, croaking away ... driving the audience away. She had seen plenty of that in Hog Holler. Of course the audience didn't leave. Not in Hog Holler. Most of them were related to whoever was performing, in some way or another. They didn't leave. They just tipped the mason jars a little more frequently, and got roaring drunk. When you were that drunk, it didn't matter if someone was playing a guitar, or simply slapping their cheeks, making the note go up or down by changing the shape of the mouth. She was quite sure they didn't have moonshine in Kansas, though, and an amateur band could drive people to the concession stands.

She sighed. It had to be done. She realized the woman was still talking, and tried to remember what had been said while she wasn't listening.

"... back you up if you like. I know they'd be thrilled to play with you."

"No!" Misty almost shouted. "I can play solo just fine. That's how I started out, you know."

"Oh, of course," said the woman. "Well then, all we have to do is get you here. The station will take care of everything. You're in Austin, right?"

"Yes."

"All right. I'll find out when the next flight is and book you a seat. Give me ten minutes and I'll call you back. This is so exciting!"

Misty sat and listened to Twila retching in the toilet. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all. At least she wouldn't have to listen to Twila being sick all night.

She started packing.

In truth, Misty was having a better time already than she'd thought she would. As much money as she'd made already, and as fancy a house as her mother was now living in, she'd never been farther off the ground than an oak or sycamore tree would take her.

Flying turned out to be wonderful. The airport was a strange and exciting place, and looking out the big windows to see airplanes taking off and landing made her excitement build. She tried to act like she had done this a hundred times, as she was handed a boarding pass, and then got into an argument about her guitar case. They wanted to take it from her, which was completely unacceptable, in her opinion. She said she'd just hold it on her lap, which had gotten her some strange looks. Finally they agreed to let her take it on board, but told her it would have to be kept in a special closet once she got there.

The big planes, landing and taking off outside, fascinated her, and a woman had to come and get her from the window when it was time to get on the plane. She'd heard the announcements of people with certain seat numbers being invited to board, but hadn't paid any attention to them. The woman who came and got her said, "Thank Goodness. We thought we'd lost you," and hustled her onto the plane.

She had some vague notion that there was such a thing as "First Class", but didn't know what that meant until after the plane was in the air and she suddenly had to pee. When she went looking for something that looked like a bathroom, she went through a curtain, into a section of the airplane that was filled with smoke and noise. People there were crowded together in a state that made her cringe. She hurried back through the curtain, afraid that someone would make her sit in one of these seats for some reason. Asking for the toilet got her where she wanted to be, but even that was a tiny space, even smaller than the bathroom had been in the trailer, back home.

Then, after staring out of the window until her eyes were dry, there was an announcement that they were going to land, and she got nervous again. The airport in Texas had been big and bustling. She'd had to ask three different people how to get to the place where she'd finally boarded the plane. The town flashing by beneath her looked just as big. She had no idea this Hutchinson place was so big! And she had no idea what to do when she got off the plane. She had visions of herself standing there, while everybody else went on about their business, leaving her alone.

She did have one expectation. She expected someone to be standing at the gate, to hand her back the suitcase she'd had to turn over to them, during the confrontation about the guitar. That precious instrument was safely in her hand, when she stepped off. But all anyone said to her was "Thank you for flying with us today."

Her luggage was nowhere to be seen.

Rather than trying to muster up the courage to ask someone where her suitcase was, she decided to just follow the other people getting off the plane. They didn't have their suitcases either. Maybe they knew where to go to find them.

She was distracted by a tallish man - a fan, obviously - who was standing a few feet away from the gate, holding a large cardboard sign that said "Misty Compton" on it in large, hand-scrawled letters. She hadn't been performing for so long that she was tired of signing autographs, so she walked toward him.

"You want me to autograph your sign?" she asked, smiling her best professional smile.

He looked at her blankly.

"Are you Misty Compton?" he asked.

Misty looked at him. He was probably in his mid twenties. They apparently grew them just as big out here on the plains as they did back home in the mountains. This one was big, and the checkered shirt he was wearing was filled with muscles. He had on faded jeans, and well-worn, dusty boots. There was a lock of black hair that had fallen on his forehead, and looked mildly cute.

It would have, anyway, if he'd have known who she was. What fan didn't know what she looked like?

"Of course I'm Misty Compton!" she said impatiently.

"Oh, Hi. I'm Bobby Dalton. They sent me to pick you up."

This was her chauffeur? She looked at his hands, both of which were still on the cardboard, with the name on it that looked like it had been put there by a six year old. His hands looked callused, like those of her cousins. She looked around for his hat. Everybody in Texas had worn a cowboy hat, but there hadn't been any cows. This was Kansas. Wasn't that where all the cowboys were? She didn't see his hat anywhere.

"Oh," she said, feeling ill at ease.

"Let's get your luggage, and I'll get you out of here," he said, smiling.

"Good," she said, relieved that he seemed to know where her luggage was.

He led her off down a long hallway, to one of those fascinating stairways that moved, so that all you had to do was climb on and stand there, while it took you up or down.

"Where's your claim ticket?" he asked.

"Claim ticket?" she responded.

"You know, the little thing they probably stapled to your boarding pass?"

She'd left her boarding pass on the airplane. The trip was over, so she'd thought that was just trash now.

She had the presence of mind to stop and look around, like she couldn't remember where she'd tucked the object he was asking for.

"I must have dropped it," she said carefully.

"Well, you know what your stuff looks like," he said. "We can just wait until you see it."

They went down, and she began seeing other people who had been on her flight. He took her to a big room that had another moving belt in it. As they approached, there was a thump, and she saw a suitcase appear from a little door that looked like it was made of rubber. The belt carried it along. More suitcases appeared, until the belt was clogged with them. People shoved and reached for pieces of luggage, trying to get them off the belt before it carried them along farther.

"See yours yet?" asked the man, who was pressed into her right shoulder by the crowd. His knees hit against her guitar case and she hugged it to her front, protectively.

"No. Don't bang into my guitar case, okay?"

"Sorry," he said, as he was shoved against her again. "You want to step back and let the crowd clear out a little?"

"I guess," she said, uncertainly.

They did that, and the crowd did thin out, eventually. She still hadn't seen her suitcase. Then, almost suddenly, there were only five or six suitcases on the belt, going around and around, and almost everyone was gone.

"None of those are yours?" asked the man.

"No. Mine is blue," she said.

There was another thump, and the belt stopped moving.

An airport employee had been standing at the entrance to the area, checking people's luggage as they took it away. Misty had seen them handing the man little white squares of paper, just like the one she'd left on the plane.

"Where's my suitcase?" she asked. She felt the first twinges of dread. Something was horribly wrong.

"We'll ask about it," said the man with her, whose name she had already forgotten. "I'm sure it's around here somewhere."

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