The Making of a Gigolo (6) - Christy Brown

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

Chapter Four

Bobby parked his "new" car in front of the Nickerson house. All it had needed was new plugs and plug wires. As far as he could tell, it was in pretty decent shape, or would be with a little tender loving care. He planned on giving it back to Jill, after the TLC part was done.

Christy was ready, wearing a halter top and short shorts that made his groin ache. She had a knapsack over her shoulder, and a walking stick in one hand. She didn't have her customary smile on her face, though, and looked distracted.

"We can't leave your car here," she said. "People would notice. You can drive us to a place I know of, and we can hike from there. I have a couple of ideas for pictures."

"Thanks for taking the portraits," he said.

She flashed him a weak smile. "It was fun.”

She pushed him toward the car.

Bobby didn't own a knapsack. Instead, he had taken a gunny sack, and tied a strip of cloth, torn from some old drapes, around the neck of it, so he could sling it over his shoulder.

They walked steadily, with very little talk, for an hour, and Bobby found out that there were trails in the area he didn't know about after all. She seemed to have a destination in mind, but he didn't care. He could feel the strain in his legs, from striding in longer steps than he was used to. Even though she was shorter than he was, her gait was quick. He watched her buttocks move up and down in the tight shorts, and the muscles in her legs flex. It was as much fun watching her as it was looking around at the nature they were walking through.

The area they were in was part of an old farm, which Bobby knew had belonged to a family that no longer lived in the area. They had sold the farm four or five years ago, and moved to the city. The tillable land was being worked by someone, but it had a creek running through a strip of broken, rocky ground that still had trees on it. It hadn't been cleared because the ground that was under it wasn't suitable for farming. There had been enough rain recently that the creek was flowing, and they paralleled it on what looked like a game trail of some kind. Bobby realized this was prime deer habitat, especially since it was in the middle of a group of farms that prevented easy access. There were no roads leading into it.

She stopped to rest, and take a drink of water, sitting on a rock.

"Richard called me," she said.

"That's nice," he said. "I bet he doesn't get the chance to do that very often."

"It's the first time he's ever done it," she said. "He said his commanding officer approved it."

"I'm glad you got to talk to him."

"I'm not," she said. Her face was serious. "He's staying there for another tour when this one is over."

"I'm sorry," said Bobby. He felt helpless.

"He's coming home in four months," she said. "He gets to stay for a month, and then he's going back."

"Isn't that good?" asked Bobby, carefully.

"If he was coming home to stay, that would be good," she said darkly. "I'm going to have to live with my parents for another sixteen months!"

"Oh," he said.

"He says he can make rank faster if he stays there," she said. "He's talking about staying in the Army for twenty years."

"I'm sorry," said Bobby again.

"He didn't even ask me if it was okay," she said. Bobby saw a tear roll down her cheek.

"Why don't you get a job, and rent someplace for yourself, until he gets back?" It was the only thing Bobby could think of to give her some hope.

"I might just do that!" she said, wiping her face. She stood up, obviously ready to go now.

They walked for another hour, going half the distance they'd already traveled, because the ground was so rough, and they had to climb over rocks. Twice Bobby boosted her up, putting his hands flat on her butt. She thanked him, but there was no flirting.

She took a sudden turn onto a trail that Bobby probably wouldn't have noticed, bending low to go under low hanging branches. Bobby couldn't watch her round bottom, because he had to duck even lower. They came, suddenly, out from between two red cedars, into the overgrown yard of an old house.

It was a two story house, built probably eighty years ago. On first glance, it looked like there wasn't a speck of paint left on the clapboards that covered the exterior walls, but as they got closer, Bobby could see the remnants of white paint, adhering here and there. Most of the windows were flat, glaring panes, covered in years of dirt that made them almost impossible to see through. Two windows, one upstairs and another downstairs, were missing. Even the struts between where there had been smaller panes were missing. Pale ragged cloth moved, in the desultory breeze that was blowing, coming out of the gaping holes, and then drifting back in.

An old rope hung straight from an oak tree, with the tire lying under it that had once been tied to it. There were a few small outbuildings still standing, but the barn, once large, for its time, had collapsed in on itself over the years. Bobby could see that much of the roofing had blown off of the house, and rafters showed through. He knew that the upstairs portion of the place would be a wreck.

"I found this one day," she said. "It always makes me sad to see it."

"It is sad," Bobby agreed.

"They left all kinds of stuff behind," she said, perking up. "There's some neat stuff in there. Come on ... I'll show you."

The former occupants of the house had, indeed, left all sorts of belongings behind. The cupboards in the kitchen were full of old dishes, and the drawers were full of the kinds of implements that had been popular in about 1940. A pantry, off the kitchen, still held jars, bottles and a few rusty cans, with no labels on them. Linens had been left too, but mice had long ago chewed them up for nests.

The rooms were mostly empty, though some pieces of furniture were still where they'd been. There was a huge old dry sink against one wall, and a wardrobe looking thing, covered in tin, with holes pierced in it to make designs. The only thing in it was a stack of ten or fifteen rusty pie pans. The parlor still had a rug nailed to the floor, but it was so faded and rotten that the pattern couldn't be discerned. That room turned out to have one of the windows with no glass in it. It looked out towards what, at one time, had been the front of the property. As Bobby stood, looking out, he could see the ruts that had been a driveway. They cut off abruptly when they hit a field of stubble. The road into the place had been plowed over. That, he thought, was why he hadn't known this place existed. There was no longer any way to get to it, other than the way they had come, or driving over a wheat field.

"Stay right there," Christy commanded, taking her camera out of her knapsack. "You're backlit by the window. It's a good shot." She had him put one hand up on the side of the window, and look out, while she chose the angle she wanted to shoot from. She took the picture, and then moved.

"Back up a little," she said.

He did, and she nodded. "I can see your features now." Again, she had him stare out the window and, through the viewfinder, with the limp, torn curtains hanging there, he looked young, in the midst of ruin.

"Take off your shirt," she said.

"What?"

"Take off your shirt," she repeated.

He did, and she stood, looking at his naked chest for the first time.

"Look at all that muscle," she sighed. She pulled the camera up and looked through it. "Tense up," she ordered him.

"This is silly," he said, grinning. She snapped a shot of his grinning face.

"No it's not," she said. “The window is all straight lines. The curtains are softer lines, and you're all curves and bumps.”

He tightened his chest muscles, feeling silly. She told him to turn just his head, and look out the window. She took a picture, made an adjustment of some kind to the camera, and took another one.

"Beautiful," she said, admiring his chest.

"You take off your shirt," he said, grinning.

"I'm not wearing a shirt," she said, firmly.

"Well, whatever you're wearing, you should have to take it off too," he said. "This isn't fair at all."

"Dream on, buster," she said, smiling at him. "Now, bend over and lean out the window with your elbows on the sill."

He did, and she walked around him, taking pictures. She told him to stay there, and went outside, to take more, of his upper torso, leaning out the window.

She came back in and looked around for more shots.

"You're really good with that thing," he said. "And I really mean it when I say thank you for taking the pictures of my sisters."

"That really was fun," she said. “Your sisters are gorgeous."

"I know," he said. "It's hard on a brother, when his sisters are that good looking."

"Awwww, poor baby," she cooed. "Does Bobby have a stiffy?"

"Yes," he said dryly. "But not because of them. Bobby has a stiffy because of that outfit."

"This old thing?" she said, surveying her body. The halter top didn't bulge much.

"I notice you didn't paint in it," he said.

She dimpled at him, and then went back to looking for another shot. She looked at the dry sink. Telling him to stand there, she went and got various old dishes and jars, and arranged them on the sink. The whole thing gave the impression of faded age.

She posed him there, but wasn't satisfied. She told him to put his shirt back on, but shook her head and told him to remove it again. He grinned at her the whole time.

"Take your pants off too," she said.

"I thought I was the one trying to get you naked," he said.

"I know what I'm doing, here," she said, ignoring his banter.

He stared at her for a few seconds, and his hands went to his belt.

Christy was in the grip of something she hadn't felt in a long time. She was seeing pictures in her mind again, and it felt good. Her creative juices were going, and she knew what look she was going for with this. She just hadn't seen it yet. Her mind was more on the composition of the shot, than on what she had just told him to do. When she saw him standing in just his underwear, though, she had a little reality break. She lowered the camera and stared at him.

His chest and arms weren't the only muscled part of him. His thighs were cords of muscle, clearly defined. If she'd known the names of them, she could easily have pointed and said those names.

There also appeared to be an impressive 'muscle' inside his jockey shorts.

She lifted the camera, and looked through it. The shot was perfect. The faded, dusty furniture, with the antique items on it, were the perfect antithesis of his youthful rounded form. It looked perfect ... except for the shorts.

"The shorts have to come off too," she said, still looking through the lens.

"I know you like to flirt," he said. "But this is ridiculous."

"Just take them off!" she said, a little too loudly.

Through the lens, she saw him bend over, and saw the white slide down to his ankles. She saw him step out of them, and toss them on top of his other clothing. She saw him stand up. Everything through the lens looked small ... far away, but it looked right, to her creative mind.

"Drape one hand on the edge of the sink," she said. He did, and she had him move his feet, and then bend forward just a hair. She looked over the top of the camera, not really seeing any detail, just imagining the shot. He looked tense.

"Relax," she said. "You're all stiff."

"Not yet, but I will be soon," he said softly.

She didn't so much ignore him, as she was busy thinking about other things. The light meter said she had enough light for the f-stop she was using, but she wanted a tighter aperture, so the depth of field would be longer. She'd have to use a slower shutter speed.

"Can you stand really still for half a second?" she asked, still looking through the lens.

"I think so," he said calmly.

She took the camera down, and looked at it, while she made the adjustments, and brought it back up. She told him to freeze, and took the picture. Then she brought the camera down, and actually looked at him.

He relaxed, moving a little bit, but now it was Christy who froze.

He took her breath away. He was just beautiful. His penis was hanging ... lying on top of balls that looked swollen and full. She felt her nipples crinkle in the halter top, and her stomach did flip-flops. She stared at him so long that he spoke.

"What now?" he asked.

"What now?" her mind reverberated. What was now was for her to touch him. Her fingers almost itched at the thought of exploring that gorgeous, muscled body.

"Christy?" he probed verbally.

"I ... um ... uh ..." she stuttered. "That was ... perfect."

"So I should get dressed again?"

"No!" she yelped. "There are others ... lots of others."

"You planned all this?" he asked.

"Not exactly," she gasped. "But this is perfect. You have no idea."

She forced her mind to think about pictures, and pictures of this overwhelming male body leapt into her mind.

She had him go back to the window, and go through the same poses as before. She licked her lips, which had suddenly gone dry, as she looked over the camera at his raw male appeal.

She took him all over the house, and then outside the house, taking picture after picture of his naked form, holding tools, leaning against a tree, bent over, as if he was picking something up, and various other poses. Throughout it all, she felt more and more passion building in her, as he let her manipulate him.

Back inside the kitchen, she posed him in the pantry door, one hand up, above his head on the jamb, leaning negligently, his thick penis hanging between slightly spread legs. He was the epitome of maleness, and she was wet between her thighs.

"I still don't think it's fair that I'm the only one running around here naked," he said.

"I can't get naked with you," she moaned.

"Why not?" he asked, grinning.

"Because something will happen!" she groaned.

"I'd like to have some pictures of you too," he said. "Can you teach me how to work the camera?"

"Okay," she blurted, anxious for any task to take her mind off of his naked form. "Get dressed and I'll teach you."

"I've kind of gotten used to being naked, now," he teased.

She was so flustered that she just showed him what to do, setting the camera for the light that was there, in the kitchen. He had her lean against the counter. She felt silly, with him there, naked, and herself as the focal point of a photograph.

"Now it's you who needs to relax," he said.

She realized she was, in fact, tense. She rolled her shoulders, and tried to relax. She heard the shutter click.

He didn't have much imagination. He just posed her in some of the same places that she had posed him ... in the window ... and by the dry sink.

"I see what you mean," he said, as she stood by the dry sink.

"What?" she said.

"The clothes really ruin the effect."

"You're trying to get me naked again," she moaned.

"Yes, Ma'am, I am," he said. "I've seen you that way already, you know."

She remembered.

She felt suddenly hot ... sweltering, in fact. She looked at him, standing there looking gorgeous, and felt her pussy spasm.

Very slowly, as if in a dream, her fingers came to the knot of her halter top, and undid it. She shrugged out of it, not looking at him. It dropped from numb fingers.

"That's better," he said softly. "Much better."

She heard the shutter click. It sounded loud in the stillness of the room.

"Now look up at me," he said.

She raised her eyes, to see a naked man, with her camera against his face, and it suddenly seemed funny, instead of awkward. She smiled, and the shutter clicked again.

"It's almost perfect," he said. "Now the shorts. They have to go."

"You're right," she said, in control of her voice again. "This is way beyond flirting."

"I'm just taking pictures here," he said. "Pay no attention to me."

Taking a breath, she fumbled with the catch of her shorts, and undid it. She knew he'd make her take her panties off anyway, and pushed them down at the same time. She stepped out of them, and kicked them to the side, where her halter top lay. She felt odd, in the sense that she felt more confident now, totally naked, than she had when all he was going to see were her breasts.

She stood up, pushing her chest out, instinctively, to compensate for how small she felt they were.

"Wow!" he said softly, staring at her. She felt a rush of joy at his approval, and it was that that made her blush, rather than embarrassment. "You are so right," he breathed. "Up against all that old stuff, you look fabulous."

He took more pictures, and she didn't even think about changing the camera settings. She was able to stare at him, while he was doing this. She watched, fascinated, as his penis lengthened, and grew thicker, coming up off his balls a little, at first, and then maturing to a full-blown erection as he had her move, and took more pictures. In her mind, she couldn't help but compare him to Richard. She had, on more than one occasion, smiled to herself as she thought of him as "Dick", when she'd seen the thing that bore his nickname. Her husband had no foreskin. She knew about the concept of foreskins, but had never seen a penis other than Richard's, which hadn't, so far, looked anything like this one, either soft or hard. Soft, Richard's penis hugged his body, like it was trying to be sucked up inside him. Hard, it stood out, and she had been impressed with it ... until she saw Bobby's get hard.

It wasn't that it was so much bigger, in one sense. It was a little longer, and it looked thicker, but that wasn't what struck her about it. What struck her about it was that, against Bobby, Richard just looked like a boy, while Bobby looked all man.

She saw him drop the camera, and step toward her. The closer he came, the deeper she inhaled, until he was standing a foot from her, and was holding the camera out. She had to breathe out, and it escaped from her lungs in a slow exhale. Her hands wouldn't move, though, to take the camera. She looked down, meaning to see why her hands wouldn't work, and saw the penis that was only six inches from her body.

Up close, it looked so male ... so utilitarian ... so useful, somehow, that she felt her knees weaken too.

"Ohhhhh," she moaned, as she sank down two inches.

He put the camera on the dry sink, and his hands came to grip her under her arms.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Noooo," she moaned.

She noticed the pressure of his thumbs, on the flesh between her shoulders and breasts.

"I don't feel so good," she whispered, still staring at his penis.

"Do you want me to kiss you, and make you better?" he teased.

He was teasing. She could hear it in his voice. He wasn't trying to do anything to her. He wanted her ... that was as plain as the evidence of that want ... the evidence she was still staring at, as it bobbed, now only an inch from her belly button, as he helped her failing knees hold her up. He didn't actually intend to kiss her.

But, deep in her belly, she knew that if he did, it would make her feel better.

She tore her gaze from his phallus, and looked up. She had no way of knowing that her raw desire was painted on her face like a neon sign, and that Bobby saw that instantly.

Pulling her up as if she weighed a pound, he brought her lips to his.

If she expected this kiss to be soft and gentle, like the last one he had given her, she was sadly ... or perhaps not so sadly ... mistaken.

The passion she had felt in his earlier, tender kiss was transmitted to her lips this time by lips that were demanding and strong ... lips that felt hungry in a way that made something in her quail, like a rabbit must quail, as it feels the first touch of the wolf's teeth. In the core of her mind, she knew this would not end with a kiss.

Her frustration, loneliness, and raw sexual need all burst from within her, channeled through her own lips, to signal to him what she wanted. Her tongue pushed, and was accepted, as he sucked it. She felt her body rise more, and felt the edge of the dry sink cut into her tender buttocks as he perched her, precariously there. She wanted to wiggle back, to be more comfortable, but his hands slid down her sides, to her hips, and held her there.

He pulled back, and the helpless rabbit saw the wolf's eyes then. His eyes slid downward and she thought, for a second or two, that he was just going to look at her breasts. Her eyes followed his, and she felt his hand move from her left hip. Wide rabbit eyes watched as that hand went to the stiff thing she had been staring at so avidly, only half a minute before, and gripped it ... steering it ... below the dark patch of her pubic hair, where she couldn't see.

She felt it though, as that blunt head pressed between soaking, slick labia. Then his hand went back to her hip, and she felt the strength of him in those hands, gripping. She looked back up, barely in time to see his lips coming towards hers again and, as those lips touched, his hands pulled her forward, off the dry sink.

It was good she was soaking wet. His hands had her, but they were still pulling forward, as her body weight slammed her down, and she was impaled.

"Ahhhhhh," she groaned into his mouth, her own now wide open. His tongue licked into her open mouth, and his hands slid to cup her buttocks.

Her arms went around his neck in pure defense, as she hung there. His prick in her pussy was the only thing, other than his hands, and her weak arms, holding her up off the floor. Her legs stretched, also by instinct, trying to touch the floor, but her toes swung to the sides of his ankles, hitting only air.

He walked with her, and her clit began screaming that it was being crushed, as his movement bounced her slightly. She felt dusty wallpaper impact her back, and his upper body pressed her against it, flattening her small breasts.

Then he stood and, using his hands, started bouncing her. The wall stabilized her, and her arms were not needed.

Her first orgasm slammed into her within fifteen seconds of being bounced on his prick. Her startled, "waaaaaaaaaah" sounded part whine, and part cry of distress. He kissed her again, pressing her head against the wall behind her, and another orgasm announced its arrival. She gasped for breath when his lips left hers, panting like she was running for her life. Her mind wouldn't work, and she couldn't say the things that were drifting through it. She heard the sounds her throat was making, but they didn't mean anything ... not in any known language. Another orgasm wracked her body, and still he didn't stop. Her mind flared in mild panic as some part of it told her he was going to kill her by giving her too many orgasms in a row. She had never had more than one at a time in her whole life, and now, it was like the sky was raining them down.

Her ears heard his voice, as it went "UHHHHHH!", and she felt her back sliding down the wall. Her stretched toes found purchase on the floor, and she realized his knees had bent. As her toes scrabbled instinctively to grip the floor, he stood back up, and heat exploded in her belly. She had never felt anything like this either. It was as if he was shooting liquid streams of fire into her, over and over again, as, once more, she was bounced on the wonderful strong thing that was going go fuck her to death.

He froze, leaning hard against her, and his hands slowly let her down. He was still in her, and his knees bent, until her feet were flat on the dusty floor. His forehead was on her shoulder, and she stood, feet spread wide, knees locked, leaning against the wall, as he dipped further, and pulled his half hard penis from her sheath. She looked down in amazement. She could see her pussy lips now, with her hips arched forward. They were red and looked like they should hurt, though all she felt right now were the soothing effects of being supremely satisfied, sexually, and the vast relief that she wasn't going to be fucked to death after all.

Then the semen bubbled out of her gaping lips, and made long strings of white that tried to reach the floor, but inevitably broke, and fell. Between her panting gasps, which were interrupted every once in a while by her lungs holding air in, trying to use the oxygen in it before she exhaled again, she actually heard the wet splats of his seed, dripping out of her, and hitting the floor.

His head came up off her shoulder, and his hands went to the wall, above her own, as he pushed back, leaving her standing there, leaning against the wall. He leaned forward again to kiss the corner of her mouth, and slid his lips over, fully on top of hers. These ... these were those ultra soft, ultra passionate, ultra sexual little kisses that said, "Thank you," in ways that no words could ever begin to communicate. In that instant, as she kissed him back, half of her felt like she'd been mauled by a bear, and the other half told her she had done something for that bear that he would forever be grateful for.

It was the best sex she'd ever had, bar none, and she knew, in that instant that she could not go on living without more of it.

There were no words between them. Not immediately. Their bodies had talked to one another. He took her hand, and she walked, naked beside him, to the front porch, where the breeze cooled their sweaty skin. Along the way he scooped up her knapsack from the kitchen counter. They sat on the steps of the porch, sharing from her water bottle, each thinking their own thoughts, as they looked out at the death that the field of stubble represented. Both of them felt very much alive, at that moment.

He stood up, but put a hand on her shoulder, to tell her to stay there, and went back into the house. He brought out his burlap bag, and her camera. He opened the bag first, and brought out cookies his mother had made. While she munched one, he stepped away from the porch, to take a picture of her sitting there, naked.

She felt something inside her that was foreign, but that felt like it was part of her now ... something a little wanton ... a little slutty. While he focused the camera, she let her knees swing apart, so that her pussy would show. Her smile had elements of something feral in it, as she clenched her kegel muscles, sensing when he was going to let the shutter loose.

That picture, would later fire Bobby up, time and again ... the picture of her sitting there on an old porch with that dead old house in the background, that sexual smile on her face, her legs spread, with a cookie in her hand, and his very live sperm dripping out of her pussy.

He came back to sit with her. They still hadn't said a word. She fed him a cookie, and his eyes raked over her. She made him lie back on the dusty porch, and examined his penis. It was still slick with their juices, but she didn't mind. The thought of sucking it was foreign to her mind, and didn't enter into her thoughts at all, but she stared at it, and moved it, and played with it. He pulled her up to his head for more kisses, and the wood of the porch scraped her hip. He was much softer, so she crawled up on him and they kissed each other for fifteen minutes.

She felt his renewed arousal just as he pushed her off of him and stood up. He was standing out again, as hard as before.

"Again?" she asked, her voice seeming to shatter the stillness around them.

"Oh yes," he said.

He looked around, but there was no place to comfortably lie down. He pulled her back into the house, and saw the gaping window they had taken pictures in. He positioned her in it, re-creating one of the pictures he had taken, of her, leaning out the window naked, looking into the distance. Then he approached her from behind, bent his knees, and slid into her again. She'd never been in this position. If she'd had time to think about it she would have said it was "nasty" or even "perverted" but all she could think about was how wonderful it felt to be filled.

This wasn't a raw fuck. This was lovemaking, in the deepest sense of the word. He stroked her insides with his prick, as she jutted her backside at him, and stroked her on the outside, with his hands, moving over her back, and hips, and sides, and then moving to pay attention to her breasts and nipples, as her mounting moans filled the air.

Finally, he dipped his hand to find her clit, and gently rubbed it until she cried out. It had been as different for her as night and day. She felt like she was floating in a warm cloud, and that the cloud was touching her everywhere. When the orgasm came, she felt it coming from far away, and welcomed it, anticipating it, and almost crying with happiness as it flowed through her. She felt his thrusts get more insistent, and knew she'd feel that ball of fire jetting into her again. She welcomed that too. As her orgasm faded into pleasurable tingles, she looked back over her shoulder, watching as his face went tight, and his stomach muscles bunched. He pushed his hips forward, and she pushed back with all her strength, as the jets of fire zipped into her in multiple bolts of ecstasy.

The culmination of that outing, which involved two rest stops on the way back to the car, both of which resulted in their clothing being used as a bed for him to lie on, while she rode herself to another orgasm, and accepted his seed into her womb, resulted in some changes in Christy.

The ride back to town was silent, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence, nor was it wasted. By the time they got back, Bobby's suggestion that she find a job, and get her own place, had gelled into a plan of action. She had her wits about her enough to remember that her parents might be home, by now, and had him drop her off a full mile from town, so that she could work up a sweat by the time she walked in the door. As she leaned over to kiss him goodbye, which felt completely natural and normal to her, she spoke.

"You know any place I could maybe get a job?"

"That's not one of my specialties," he said. "I know a woman. Her name is Jill. She's a waitress at the diner. She said something about Sal needing another waitress. I mean I know it's not glamorous, but it might be an option."

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