The Making of a Gigolo (14) - Erica Bradford

by Lubrican

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Chapter Sixteen

Will sat stiffly in his seat. He wasn't sure it had been a good idea at all to go with Christy. He felt a little like he'd been ambushed, though it didn't bring the fear and helpless feeling he usually associated with that concept. She had sat beside him during the whole show, and had leaned toward him a number of times to make a soft comment about a scene or performance. At intermission she had brought back a plate of cookies, and had asked him if he needed to be pushed anywhere. He knew she was talking about the bathroom, but he had learned to go light on fluids whenever he was going to be out like this, and declined.

He couldn't figure out what she was doing. He thought at first that it was pity, but she didn't act like she felt pity for him. She just talked to him, saying whatever was on her mind. During the last quarter of the show he had started doing the same thing. It had just seemed normal to respond in kind.

Then, as he hopped up to join the standing ovation, and her hand came to his elbow while she whistled, of all things. When it finally died down and people began to leave, she had leaned over and said, "I'd like some ice cream. You want some too?"

She'd snuck up on him. He'd said "Yes," before he could think about it.

Now they were parked at the Dairy Bee and she was at the window, ordering for them. His chair was in the back seat. Once he'd told her where to push, and it began to fold, she'd muscled it into the back, letting him get himself into the car.

It was like she gave him only as much help as he absolutely needed, and nothing more. That was strange. She was strange. She didn't act like other women did when they saw him, and he didn't know how to act with her.

She came back with a banana split and a large cup of something. He'd said he liked chocolate, when she'd asked him what he wanted. She got in and handed him the cup. She'd thought of the fact that he couldn't eat anything with a spoon, unless someone held the dish for him.

She ate in silence for a while, as he took little sips of a rich chocolate shake. That was another thing that confused him. She didn't talk nonstop to fill the uneasy silence. People usually either said nothing to him at all, or talked all the time, as if they were proving they could interact with a freakish monster and make it appear to be normal. But her silence wasn't the horrified stiff attempt to ignore the monster. It was as if she just didn't have anything to say in particular at the moment.

"I love ice cream," she sighed. "I know it will make me fat, but I love it."

"You're not fat," he said.

"Not now," she said. "But if I ate ice cream as often as I want to I would be." She took another bite. "I'll have to add a mile or two tomorrow just to work this off."

"A mile or two?"

"I walk," she said. "It's an old habit that I just got used to. I do a couple of miles a day, usually."

"It works," he said. He wondered why he's said that.

"I do believe you're flirting with me," she laughed.

He was astonished, both by her laughter, which sounded like she was genuinely happy, and by the thought that she could even begin to consider that if the monster flirted with her ... that wasn't something to scream about. It was too much. He couldn't take it.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"I told you, I love ice cream."

"I mean me. Why did you bring me here?"

"I asked you if you wanted ice cream too, and you said yes." This time her tone didn't sound quite so genuine.

"You know what I mean," he said.

"I don't know," she said. That sounded uncomfortable.

"I don't want pity," he said. It was his mantra.

"I can't help but feel some of that," she said. "Nobody could look at your situation and avoid that." The way she said it made pity sound like a natural consequence of being human. "I think I feel guilty, a little bit."

"Guilty?"

"About my ex husband."

"Oh."

"And I like you."

"Huh?" He was astonished again. "You don't even know me."

"Isn't that what we're doing?" she asked. "Aren't we getting to know one another?"

"You're beautiful," he moaned.

"Thank you," she said.

"I mean you could have any man you wanted."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves here, big boy," said Christy. "I said I like you. That doesn't mean I'm ready to hop into bed with you or anything."

He was speechless. This was insane. He had to be dreaming. She was talking to him like he was just a normal guy, who had pushed things maybe a little too far and she was reining him in. But he wasn't a normal guy. He'd never be normal again. That was why he didn't feel bad about wanting his sister. That wasn't normal ... but then he wasn't either ... not anymore.

"I'm not shopping for a man," she went on. "Can't I just like you for who you are?"

"I don't know who I am," he said.

"Well then, maybe we can find out together."

She had kept him off his mental balance when she asked him if it would be all right if they picked up her daughter from the sitter's, before she took him home. The girl, named Jillian, stared at him like any normal child would, both fascinated and repelled. Christy, to deal with that, had just had him tell her daughter what had happened to make him look this way.

"I bet that hurt," said the little girl.

"Yeah, it did," he said.

"Did anybody kiss it and make it better?" asked the girl, in her innocence.

"Yeah," he said, thinking of the nurses, and Erica. "They did."

She invited him to have coffee at her house. She didn't mind all the extra effort it took to get him in there. He hopped up the steps while Jillian watched, and then she attempted to do the same thing ... on two feet instead of one. It was the first time he'd felt more or less normal for as long as he could remember.

He'd told her Erica might be wondering where he was, and she'd said they'd call once they got inside. When no one answered the phone, she said she'd try again later.

They talked for another hour and a half, sipping coffee. Of all the things they talked about, the war never came up. Nor did his physical condition.

When she stopped in his driveway, with the passenger door next to the ramp, he twisted in the seat.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," she said back.

"No, I mean it," he said. "Nobody's treated me like you did tonight in a long time."

"All I did was take you out for ice cream," she said.

"You know what I mean," he said. "You treated me like I was just a normal guy."

"Isn't there still just a normal guy inside that body?" she asked.

"I just don't get it," he sighed.

"Don't feel bad," she said, getting his chair out of the back. "I don't either. How about we just try and act normal, and see what happens."

Erica drove up while Christy was pushing him up the ramp. She got out and ran to unlock the door. She hadn't thought to give Will a key, since the only time he ever went anywhere she was with him.

"Hi," she panted. "Sorry I wasn't here. Bobby took me to get a root beer float and the time just slipped by."

Christy stood back to let Will's sister take over.

"Bobby took you out?" she asked. There was something in her voice that made Erica's mental ears stand up, like there was more to hear, but it was too far away or too soft. "Well, well, well," she added.

"Now what does that mean?" Erica wondered.

"I'd love to stay and talk with you about that," said Christy, "but I left my daughter sleeping and I need to get back. Can I borrow your brother again sometime?"

Erica was completely off balance, both because this woman had whisked Will away after the show, and because she appeared to be interested in him, at least on some casual basis that Erica had no frame of reference to compare to.

"Of course," she said, more because that was the expected response than because she meant it.

"Thanks, Will," said Christy. "I had a good time."

Then she was off to her car, leaving brother and sister both looking after her.

Erica was worried about going to bed together again. Some of that was because she was afraid he'd have another flashback. The rest of it was because she couldn't stop thinking about that penis, nudging between those slippery labia.

Will took the flashback excuse away from her.

"I'm awake now," he said. "That won't happen again."

He sat on the bed as she undressed, and she felt the now familiar zing of excitement as his eyes devoured each inch of skin she bared to him. She felt the urge to squeeze her nipples before she even had her panties off. She got him onto the bed first, with the covers pulled down so that she could reach for them when they were needed. She crawled onto the bed carefully, still nervous about touching him.

"Would you ... suck me again?" he asked, breathlessly.

Her mind whirled back to what that had been like. His penis had felt so completely foreign in her mouth. And yet, at the same time, it had felt like it was made to fit there. She remembered the smooth tight feel of the head, and the softer, more malleable skin on the shaft. She hadn't thought about taste, until it was suddenly there, in her mouth, a mixture of something musky, a little bitter, but not in an unpleasant way. It was just a hint of taste at first and she had pulled her mouth off as if looking at it would give her some clue. It had, actually. As she'd watched, a little bubble of something mostly clear had seeped out of the hole in the tip. She had seen that hole spread as ropes of white froth leap out of it many times. But, she'd never thought about it having a taste before. In the film, the woman had opened her mouth, while the men masturbated into it. She clearly remembered almost throwing up at the sight of that, and feeling like the woman couldn't possibly be debased any further.

But having her mouth on Will just didn't feel like that. His moans of joy were so heartfelt that she couldn't think of what she was doing as debasement at all. It was just loving him with her mouth instead of her hand. The taste that had flooded her mouth as he gasped and cried out had been like his offering of thanks, rather than some sexist ritual.

Now, as she got onto her hands and knees, to stare down at his already-hard shaft, she actually licked her lips in anticipation of both the texture of it in her mouth and the taste. The first sensation of the smooth knob sliding through her lips made her feel that if she didn't pull her nipples hard, she'd just die. One hand shot between her legs, to dig into the tunnel there.

His hand came up to smooth over her butt cheek and the sound she made of appreciation was transmitted to his penis, and he jerked, driving it deeply enough into her throat that she gagged. She pulled off and coughed.

"Not so rough," she whined.

"Sorry," he panted. "You wouldn't believe how good that feels, Erica."

She had no frame of reference for that, so she just concentrated on the feel of his penis in her mouth. As a girl, one of her favorite treats had been a Tootsie Roll Pop and she treated the knob like it was one of those, sucking at it and pushing it around in her mouth with her tongue.

She felt his hand slide down the back of her thigh, then reach to slide up inside. His hand ran into hers, where her finger was slicing in and out of her sex. Unconsciously, she realized he was trying to help her, and without thinking about it, she raised one knee. Had she been standing and watching this, she would have sneered that the woman looked like a male dog, taking a leak, but she wasn't watching ... she was feeling. By the time her conscious mind realized what he was doing down there ... and how she was accommodating him ... his long middle finger was firmly embedded in her, as deep as he could get it.

His finger was thicker than hers, and longer too. The feeling of it was so strange that she stopped sucking, shocked that when someone else did that, it felt so completely different. Then the base of his finger ground into her clitty and she thought the top of her head would fly off. The next thing she thought of was that ... if his finger felt that good in her ... something even bigger ... like what was in her mouth ... would feel that much better.

Erica Bradford's virginity was spared that night by another combination of what Erica would have called bizarre circumstances. About the time she was thinking of trying to see what something thicker and longer might feel like in her vagina, the thing she was contemplating using flooded her mouth with flavor. His hips jerked again and his pubic hair hit her nose, as his penis was driven deeper than it had ever gone. It went past her gag reflex so quickly that she only registered a feeling of something stretching her throat, like she'd swallowed something without chewing, and it was stuck. While it was there it belched again. She couldn't taste it, that deep, but she could feel it, and the choking sensation caused her to jerk her head up. Again, her gag reflex was slipped past, and she concentrated on swallowing and breathing.

The next thing she was aware of was that something was beating against her clit. Her consciousness floated downwards, where his finger was going in and out of her rapidly. Each time it went in, there was an electric shock as her clit was punched. Unable to wait any longer, she fell sideways, landing awkwardly on her right shoulder, so that she could use both hands on her nipples.

She grabbed, squeezed, pulled hard ... and had an orgasm that was so intense she forgot to breathe for a full seven seconds. Again, had she been watching all this, she would have sneered at the woman who sounded like some kind of alley cat, howling at the moon.

By the time she got her breath back, and had enough energy to turn herself around and lay her head on Will's good arm and shoulder, the urge to impale herself on his penis had passed.

The next day the performance for the school assembly in the auditorium went well. There were elements in this musical that appealed to teenagers ... the magic of a town that disappears ... unrequited love ... and the lustiness of Meg trying to bed Jeff on the cot in the forest.

Then, that night, with a mostly different crowd, there was another performance that they would call perfect. By now the cast was on cloud nine. It was a Friday night, and nobody had to get up and do anything the next morning, so they all went out together after the show. Someone had thought ahead, because the Wagon Wheel was open late. Sal had been making pizza pies all evening, in anticipation of something like this. On the chance that the kids wouldn't show, he figured he could just freeze them and use them later, but the crowd that descended on his diner had ten people in each eight person booth, and people sitting on other people's laps at the tables.

Bobby and Erica had been swept up in the mass migration to the diner. They stood back to let all the others go in first, and when they walked in, a wave of heat, delicious smells, and noise hit them like being slapped in the face.

"You want to take the pizza out to the car?" yelled Bobby.

Erica nodded. Bobby went and got a plate with several slices of some kind of pizza on it. He grabbed two bottles of Coke from the refrigerator behind the counter and they ducked outside.

Tonight Erica had seen Christy wheeling Will up toward the foyer. She felt a twinge of worry for him. This woman could tear his heart out if she wanted to. In the car she asked Bobby about her.

"Christy?" he said, his mouth full. "If Christy took him someplace, she has a reason."

"What kind of reason?"

"She's very practical," said Bobby. "It could be anything."

"I'm nervous about them being together," she said.

"Why in the world would you be nervous?" he asked.

"What if she hurts him?"

"Why would she hurt him?" Bobby sounded confused.

"You know ... toy with his affections."

Bobby was just like anybody else. He had the capacity to overlook things, to misunderstand things, and to labor under stereotypical ways of thinking. It wasn't that odd that, while he liked Will, he might not see Will as being anybody's potential romantic interest. But Bobby had also cultivated the ability to recognize when he had screwed up and rethink things. He did that now.

"First off, if she's interested in him ... it's real. She's not just stringing him along to make him feel better. That's not her style."

"She said she would like to talk to me about you," said Erica. It was about all she could remember about the woman.

"What?" Bobby was even more confused. "Why?"

"I don't know," said Erica. "It was last night. I got home just as she was helping Will up to the house. I told her I'd been with you and she said that was interesting and that she'd like to talk to me about that. Then she said she had to get home to her daughter."

Bobby had a pretty good idea what Christy had been thinking. Christy was perfectly capable of comparing notes with one of Bobby's women, if for no other reason than to giggle and sigh about some technique Bobby had used. The last thing he needed was for people to start assuming that Erica Bradford was another of his women. If she even found out about any of his women, she'd probably never speak to him again.

Then, because Bobby was ... Bobby, he reflected for a quarter of a minute or so on why it mattered if Erica Bradford ever spoke to him again in his entire life. He decided that working on the musical had been fun, and that he might want to work on the next one too.

"I dated her for a little while," extemporized Bobby. "She may have wanted to compare notes."

"Last night wasn't a date!" said Erica.

"Yeah, I know," said Bobby. "But other people might have assumed it was."

Now it was Erica who spent fifteen seconds trying to decide whether or not it mattered, if people thought she was on a date with Bobby. She realized she was sitting in his car again, outside the Wagon Wheel, on Main Street. Their breath and the steamy pizza had made the windows go opaque white, so she couldn't look outside to see if anyone was looking at them.

"Do you think anyone might think that what we're doing right now is a date?" she asked.

"I suppose some might," he said.

"But you don't think so," she said.

"Nope," he said firmly.

"Why not?" she asked, actually trying to understand this complicated social phenomenon.

"'Cause if this was a date, these windows would be all fogged up for another reason." He grinned, thinking he'd made a joke.

It was no joke to Erica, though, as his meaning burst into her mind. She had spent enough time with Bobby Dalton to know, beyond even her own doubts, that he was no sexist male intent on getting whatever he could from a woman. What she would almost certainly have perceived as a rude and uncalled for comment from almost any other man, simply brought all the images into her head that had so tormented her over the months since she'd met him. She remembered the dreams about him, the thoughts she'd had as, in her imagination, Bobby's face had intruded on Will's, while she gave her brother love. Quite suddenly her nipples demanded to be squeezed, and she felt helpless because the fingers she wanted squeezing them were three feet away, on the hands of Bobby Dalton.

She felt shame and confusion and lust all at once ... all the things that teenage girls all feel as they thread their way through the minefield that is the onset of puberty. She hadn't tiptoed through that minefield, at least not until lately with her brother, and the overwhelming crush of not understanding what was going on inside her brought tears to her eyes.

Bobby, in the dim light that filtered through the fog on the windows, saw her crumble and he knew, instinctively, that she was in some kind of terrible pain.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly, leaning toward her.

He thought he was helping ... at least offering help ... but as he reached to touch her thigh, her senses equated that touch with what she had felt last night ... just before her brother's thick, firm finger had penetrated her and brought her so much joy.

Her fingers scrabbled for the door handle, as she sobbed convulsively twice and then held her breath, mortified that she was losing control of herself in front of this man. The door flew open, because her shoulder was leaning against it, and she almost fell out.

"Erica!" She heard her name shouted as she lurched out of the door and ran, almost blindly, because she couldn't hold her breath anymore and that meant she was sobbing again. She wiped at her eyes and narrowly missed slamming into a light pole.

"Erica?" She could hear the question in his voice, and she knew he'd gotten out of the car. She hoped against hope that he wouldn't chase her, because she had no idea what she'd do if she felt his hands on her. Her sobs subsided as she began panting for breath, just to keep running.

It was cold. The jacket she'd worn was fine for going from the house to the car, to the school and back again, but too light for staying out in weather that was ten degrees below zero - lower if you included the wind index. She could no longer feel her face, fingers or feet and she was still six blocks from home.

She had moved through phases of emotion. First was the fright of not understanding why she wanted his hands on her, then anger toward him, because it had to be his fault, somehow. That had given way to exhaustion, as she ran herself almost limp. Then her sweating body had cooled rapidly in the frigid air, and she'd begun to think again. She turned toward home hurriedly, on legs that weren't used to running and just wanted her to sit down somewhere.

She couldn't do that, so she plodded, thankful that there was no snow to trip her. Her feet didn't seem to be working right. She stared down at them as one went forward, and then the other. She'd been shivering, but now she couldn't feel anything. Her legs were so stiff, she could barely bend her knees. Her whole body was so tired. She needed to sit down. She needed to take a nap. She couldn't do that though, because something was making too much noise.

The engine noise finally registered, and then the lights, as she realized a car had pulled up beside her.

"Erica?"

It was him.

She stopped, feeling helpless. She'd already worked through the anger. She knew it wasn't his fault. She still didn't understand why she'd felt like she was falling apart, but she was too tired to think about that now. She heard the car door slam.

"What did I do?" he asked. She heard honest questioning in his voice.

"Nothing," she said dully. Her lips weren't working right either.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, her voice flat.

"You're freezing," he said.

When he said that, she heard the chattering of her own teeth.

His hands on her shoulders didn't make her fall apart. She spent a few seconds reveling at that fact ... that he could touch her and she didn't just fly apart. She let herself be moved past the front of the car and then he opened the door for her. Her feet felt like they were frozen to the ground, but finally she was able to turn in a little circle and collapse backwards. He helped her get her feet into the car.

When the door closed, the heat felt like fire on her face, but it was welcome fire, and she slumped in the seat. In two minutes it would have taken her half an hour or more to walk, they were there, and he was helping her out of the car. He hadn't spoken a word since he'd put her into it.

"Where are your keys?" he asked as she shuffled up the ramp he'd built. She still couldn't feel her feet. Tennis shoes didn't work in this kind of cold either, apparently. She tried to reach into her pocket - she didn't carry a purse - and she could get her fingers in, but couldn't grasp the ring of keys.

"I can't," she mumbled. Why didn't her lips work?

She felt his hand pull hers out, and then the pressure of his hand in her pocket. He opened the door and shoved her inside.

"Bathroom." His one word was an order. The rebellion in her mind wouldn't translate into resistance, though, and she stumbled toward that room, following him. She stopped in the door and looked at him, bent over the tub, his hands on the faucets. She felt dreamy as she stared at the tight cloth stretched across his backside. Her brain was trying to tell her something, but it was too much trouble to concentrate.

She figured out what her brain was all upset about when he turned and started taking her clothes off. He intended to put her in the bathtub.

"No!" she moaned.

"If you don't have frostbite, you're very close," he said, sounding almost angry. "First you try to cook yourself to death, and now this."

She closed her eyes, hoping that would stop her from knowing what was going on, because she was quite sure that if he got her naked, he would put his long, thick penis inside her and she wouldn't be a virgin anymore. She giggled as she thought that might solve all her problems. If she wasn't a virgin anymore ... then she had nothing to protect. The penis hanging over the mouth of her vagina floated into her mind again. She leaned forward, trying to get that penis to move, and felt his hands keep her from falling.

Then there was a moment of complete disorientation as the world turned upside down, before she realized she was in his arms, at which point there was water covering her face. She felt pain in her scalp and suddenly there was air to breathe again. She coughed.

In the next thirty seconds, she moved through a very complex reaction to her new situation. First, she realized he was holding her head out of the water by lifting a fistful of her hair. That hurt. Then her body reacted to the heat of the water he had just drawn. It felt like she had been plopped down into boiling water. That hurt so much she screamed.

In fact, the water was only about eighty degrees. Bobby had mixed cold water with the hot. But her skin temperature was very near fifty degrees when it was submerged into the water that was thirty degrees hotter.

She flailed as muscle control came back.

"I know it hurts," said Bobby. "But you have to stay still!"

She used every curse word she knew, and made up a few more, but his weight was centered on the hand that was pushing against her stomach and holding her to the bottom of the tub. Still she fought, and, within three minutes, the tub was only half full and her breasts were exposed to the air in the room. It was actually that that shocked her body into submission, because her breasts felt suddenly cold. That led to the knowledge that she was naked, and that Bobby's head was right over her chest.

She quit fighting him, and covered her breasts with her hands.

"All right!" she yelled.

He held her for a few seconds longer, waiting to make sure she didn't try to surge up out of the water again. By then, though, her skin had heated up and the water only felt hot, rather than scalding. He stood up. The front of his clothes were soaked with the water she had splashed on him.

"I'm going to run more water," he said. "You need to stay submerged until you can't feel the heat in the water anymore."

She just looked at him.

He started the water running again, holding his hand under it to adjust the temperature. She felt the heat of it on her legs. Obviously it wasn't as hot as it felt, because his hand was under it. He wouldn't burn himself. "He wouldn't burn me either," she thought to herself.

The water rose back up until she was covered again. She could scoot back now, and keep her own head above the surface. She had to use her hands to do that, but she put them back on her breasts as soon as possible.

"Do you have a robe?" he asked.

"Yes." She sounded petulant, even to herself. She knew that what he'd done was the right thing to do. Her body was beginning to feel alive again.

"Which room should I start looking for it in?" There was a half smile on his face.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked, heat in her voice, if not in her bones. "There's nothing funny about this."

"No, of course not," he said. "Unless you think about how the big tough liberated woman keeps trying to kill herself, and would have succeeded both times if a man hadn't been around to save her liberated skin."

"That's not funny!" she snarled.

"It is to me," he said. "Now, where's that robe?"

"It's in my bedroom ... where you have no business being," she said, stubbornly.

He shook his head. "You're an idiot!" he said. "That has to be it. You're just retarded or something, because nobody with any intelligence would come up with the crap you come up with."

"I am not!" she shouted, but it was too late. He was already gone.

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