The Making of a Gigolo (14) - Erica Bradford

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26

Chapter Three

Two hours later, Erica Bradford felt much better about some things ... and much worse about others. She felt better, because he was saying things were possible. She felt worse, because she didn't understand half of what he was saying.

Sitting with him and going over the set notes had revealed that she knew even less about building things than she'd thought. Luckily, the jock had a brain in his head that was bigger than the walnut size she had assumed.

First of all, he seemed to be able to understand the notes better than she did. It turned into something other than what she'd planned on, as they sat there and he explained things to her ... instead of her explaining things to him.

He started saying things like "I think we could do that." Then he'd say something like "If we buttressed the primary studs with some ten gauge wire, it would be stable as long as no one climbed on it." He used words like "miter" and "ten penny nail" and other words and phrases that left a big blank in Erica's mind when she tried to visualize them. More and more he said he would need this or that thing, something he always named, and which she had no idea what actually was. It made her feel hopeful and ignorant at the same time.

They had been talking for more than an hour when she realized that she hadn't seen him ogle her ... not once! She was sure he had, and began to watch him more closely as he continued to read and talk. He was smiling now, which puzzled her, because this sounded like an impossible amount of work for a hundred people to do, much less one jock and a few children.

He looked over at her frequently, telling her something, or asking if she understood something else. She always nodded, even though it sounded like he was speaking a foreign language sometimes. She wasn't about to justify what she was sure his attitude about her was: that she was helpless.

As closely as she watched him, though, she never saw him look at her breasts.

She was having distinctly uncomfortable thoughts that maybe, as crazy as it seemed, this huge, muscular man with those astonishingly blue eyes, and that careless lock of black hair hanging on his forehead, might be ... homosexual ... when he turned those eyes on her one more time.

"You want to go get a bite to eat?" he asked.

She realized his knee was touching her thigh, and jerked, instantly on guard.

"Let's get one thing straight right now, Mister Dalton. I am not available!" she said, almost harshly.

Bobby leaned back, and his eyebrows rose.

"I didn't intend to ask you on a ... date," he said softly. "I just thought you might be hungry." His eyes narrowed as his eyebrows fell back to their original location. He looked at the papers spread out on the table in front of them. "We're about three quarters finished, I'd guess. Maybe we should continue this later, when you aren't so ... jumpy."

"I'm not jumpy!" she yipped.

"Yes ... you are." He moved away from her, scooting his chair a few inches. "I know you're under a lot of stress, Mizz Bradford." Again he emphasized the "Mizz." "I'll help you, but I have to tell you, I'm mostly doing this for Ted, because he asked me to help you. I'm not here to get into your panties, okay?"

She was astounded. No man had ever talked to her like that! No man had ever been that direct with her ... at least no man who wasn't trying to "get into her panties" as he had so boldly put it. And those men were simply crass and rude. He had spoken rudely, but in a way that was more forthright ... than actually rude! He hadn't said it snidely. Well that "Mizz" had been snide, but that was all, and she was used to that. But the rest of it had been said in a tone that was completely lacking sarcasm. It was like he was just doing what she had done ... getting things straight. He almost sounded like he was talking to ... an equal!

And he did sound like he knew what he was talking about, in terms of the sets.

"All right," she said, somewhat stiffly. Then her mouth followed that with, "Thank you," even though she didn't intend to say it.

"No problem," he said, back to his casual self.

He looked back at the set notes. She stared at him, not knowing what to think of him now. He didn't quite fit the category she'd put him into. She was aware of that ... that she'd put him in a category ... and that she probably shouldn't have. She felt a slight twinge of guilt about that.

"So," he said, still looking at the notes. "You hungry or not?"

She couldn't believe it. It was like he'd already forgotten their tense moment, and was ready to move on. She felt the tension in her shoulders, and relaxed those muscles intentionally.

"Do you really think we can do this?" she asked, ignoring his question.

"I think so," he said, simply. "It will be a lot of work, and I'll have some conditions ... but I think so."

"What conditions?" she asked, on guard again.

"Are we going to finish this tonight?" he asked. "Cause whether you're hungry or not, I am, and I think better when I'm not hungry."

"What conditions?!" she insisted.

"Well," he said, looking at her face. "The first one is that you and I have to build the first set together."

She blinked.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I'm not necessarily always going to be able to be here," he said, quite reasonably. "And when I'm not, you'll have to supervise, so I want to be sure you'll be able to do that. Like you said, we don't want any teenage fingers rolling across the stage."

"I don't have time for that," she said.

"Don't tell me you're going to make those poor kids rehearse all day Saturday," he said, smiling.

"Of course not," she said.

"Then Saturday we turn you into a carpenter," he said, as if that were settled.

"But ..."

"Now, I'm going to go get something to eat. I really think it would be a good idea to get this done," he said, picking up the notes. "That will be one thing that you don't have to worry about again. Wouldn't that be nice?"

She was torn. No matter what he said, if she went with him, he might perceive it as a "date" and, if he did that, he might expect more. Still ... it would be nice to know that something was well in hand in this maddening project.

"What other conditions?" she asked, stubbornly.

"We'll discuss that over the best chicken fried steak this side of the Mississippi," he said.

She tried to resist. She tried to be assertive. She tried to adopt an attitude that said they'd do things by her rules, instead of his. Nonetheless, she somehow ended up being put into her car, and being told, "Just follow me. It's not far."

And, somewhat to her dismay, she did follow his car. He parked in front of a little hole-in-the-wall called "The Wagonwheel." She'd seen it before, but had never been in. It looked like a greasy spoon. She didn't eat out much. Eating out meant going into places alone, and men hit on her when she did that, unless it was in one of the national chains, which were singularly absent in Granger.

He got out and waited for her. She realized she was sitting in the middle of the street, and pulled into a parking space several down from his. With a great deal of ambivalence, she got out. She'd brought only a light jacket, having planned on going straight home after play practice. As she shrugged into it, she looked down. Her nipples were showing in the cool air. She'd learned a long time ago that there wasn't a bra made that would disguise them in conditions like this. And she absolutely refused to put extra padding in the cups. Nobody was supposed to be looking at her anyway! She had a right to be a woman without being harrassed for it. She pulled her jacket over her chest and walked toward the man waiting for her.

It didn't smell like a greasy spoon. In fact, the minute she stepped in, frowning because Bobby Dalton held the door for her, like she was helpless, her stomach growled. It smelled delicious.

A rather large balding man in a stained white apron looked over and his face lit up. Erica was in the process of classifying him as just another man who couldn't keep his eyes off her chest when he called out: "Bobby!"

She looked at her companion, who was grinning at the cook.

"Hey, Sal, how they hangin'?"

"I owe you, my friend," said Sal. "In fact, whatever you want is on the house tonight."

"Wow," said Bobby. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"Jill told me what you said," said the man. He seemed to blush. "About us, I mean."

"I take it that things are working out?" Bobby grinned.

That kitchen was either very hot, or he was blushing harder.

"I can't thank you enough, Bobby," he said. "I mean that. You could have had her, but you let me ..." He seemed to see Erica for the first time, and, if possible, turned even darker. "Damn, Bobby. Just thanks ... okay?"

Bobby laughed. "She never wanted me, Sal," he said. "And you have nothing to thank me for. You're just irresistible, that's all."

Erica watched in disbelief as the fat, balding cook in the stained apron seemed to almost inflate with what looked astonishingly like pride. She was distracted by a teenage girl in a waitress uniform.

"Hey, Bobby!" she chirped. "It's always good to see my best tipper."

"Hi Charlotte," said Bobby. "We need a quiet table, and two of Sal's best chicken fried steaks."

Erica's head snapped toward him. Now he was ordering for her?!

"Wait just a minute!" she said.

Bobby glanced at her. "Trust me," he said. "You aren't one of those vegetarian people are you?"

"No, but ..."

"Well then just trust me. I won't steer you wrong."

Erica leaned back and groaned. She'd eaten too much. She never ate like that! But it had been so delicious, and when she was full there was only a little bit left, and they were almost finished discussing the set notes, so she just kept taking little impossibly luscious bites until, somehow, her plate was bare.

Of course maybe that's because they were interrupted, which gave her time for things to settle. That was another thing that had left her slightly stunned. A very good looking woman had come into the diner. She had honey blond hair, and the kind of figure Erica wished she had, instead of her own top-heavy appearance. That woman had gone behind the counter and kissed the cook. And it hadn't been just any old "hello" kiss either. The woman had put her heart into that kiss, and the poor cook had turned almost maroon again.

Bobby had seen her staring.

"That's Jill," he said. "They're engaged, but I don't know if he got her a ring yet. I haven't talked to either of them recently."

"You talked to him when we came in here!" objected Erica.

"Well, yeah, but I didn't want to ask him if he'd bought her a ring ... you know ... in case he hadn't."

"She is going to marry him?" Erica was astonished.

"Oh yeah," said Bobby, smiling. "They're nuts for each other."

"Is that the woman he was talking about? When we came in, I mean?"

"Yup," said Bobby. He went back to his meal.

"He said you could have had her ..." Erica stopped. This was gossip. She didn't do that. And it was none of her business anyway.

"We went out a few times," said Bobby, trying to make it sound like it had been a normal, ordinary relationship. "But I wasn't the man for her. She told me she was interested in Sal. I knew Sal was sweet on her, and I told her to grab him."

That also made Erica's head swim. This woman was beautiful! Men didn't go around telling beautiful women to "grab" another man! That was insane! And Bobby didn't sound hurt at all! He actually sounded like he cared what that woman felt ... cared more about what was good for her than for him.

She was also a little puzzled, because if this odd man she was with had been interested in that woman, that meant he was a normal man. Any normal man would be interested in Jill. And, logically, that meant that when they'd met, he'd have assessed her qualities too. Men always did. And yet, he had not only shown no interest ... he had actually told her he wasn't interested.

She didn't like the way that made her feel. It confused her. She was used to pushing men away ... not watching them pull back voluntarily.

Then Jill had come over, beaming at them both, and sat for a short while, asking that they forgive her for interrupting. She had held out her left hand, waving it in front of Bobby's face, to show him that Sal had, indeed, asked her to marry him. And Bobby's reaction to that had been pure joy, by everything Erica could see.

"Thank you," said Jill, even though Bobby hadn't said a word.

"I'm happy for you," said Bobby.

Erica heard the words, and the tone of voice. It was obvious that he was happy for her. The world just didn't work that way!

It only got worse.

"I know," said Jill. "That's why I'll always love you." Then she blinked and blushed and looked at Erica. "I'm so sorry!" she gushed. "I shouldn't have said that!" She looked at Bobby. "I'm always doing things like that, it seems," she sighed.

"It's no problem," said Bobby. "I should have introduced Erica sooner. She's the drama teacher at the high school. I'm helping out with one of the productions."

Erica wanted to correct him. She was the social studies teacher - not the drama teacher. But she was so shocked by what she'd witnessed that she couldn't make her mouth work.

"Really?!" said Jill, no longer embarrassed. "We usually do the publicity shots for the school shows. I'm Jill. I work at Brown Photography. I hope you have us work with you too. We love doing those shots. The kids are always so much fun."

She got up.

"I'm sorry for interrupting you, but I just had to show Bobby. Please excuse me. I'll let you two get back to work." Her eyes went to the notes in Bobby's hands. She looked at Bobby again, and Erica saw something in her eyes that she would remember later, and for years to come. What she saw was eyes that were about to cry, and eyes that were filled with emotion for the man she was looking at. "Thank you, Bobby," she said. "For everything. I mean that."

Bobby just grinned.

"The pleasure was all mine. Sal's an exceptionally lucky man."

Jill's face transformed, and her emotion changed instantly.

"He is!" she agreed, laughing.

Then she hurried away. She didn't go back to the man she was going to marry. She just waved, blew him a kiss, and left the diner.

Bobby had gone back to their discussion as if there had been no interruption at all. There had obviously been some kind of very close attraction between that woman and the man sitting beside her. It didn't make any sense, based on what she'd just seen, but she didn't have time to think about that, because he was talking about the sets again.

He was making a list of all the things they'd have to build.

"Where are we going to put all this stuff when it isn't being used?" he asked, looking at the list.

"I guess it will have to be carried off stage and put somewhere," said Erica.

"Some of this is going to be pretty heavy," he said, frowning. "Maybe we can put it on wheels or something. I'll figure something out."

"Do you really think we can do this?" asked Erica. It all seemed like too much to her. There would be four large sets that made up the village. It would take that many sets to make the New York City scene too. Then there were three large sets each needed for the McLaren home and Mr. Lundie's house. On top of that there were forest and hillside scenes too. She didn't see how it could possibly work.

"It has to be possible," he said. "You aren't the first person to put this show on. Just think of how many people have done this before."

She hadn't thought of that. It was so practical and logical. He was right. This had been done, probably thousands of times, in thousands of schools. She couldn't take the stress, and just decided to believe he was right. That only left one thing to discuss ... the thing that hadn't been brought up, but was really what had gotten her in this diner in the first place.

"You never told me the rest of your ... conditions," she said.

"Oh," he said, looking surprised. "I want you to trust me, and let me do this the way I think will work best."

He stopped, as if he had just read that off a list.

"That's it?" Erica was dumbfounded. Despite everything that had happened, she'd half expected him to make his contribution contingent on some kind of future ... date. They had chatted, just a little bit, during the first part of the meal. He'd found out, somehow, where she came from, and she'd found out he wasn't married. She still couldn't remember how that had come up, but it had.

"Well, I'm not all that crazy about calling the kids mister and miss whoever-they-are," he said. "This should be fun ... for all of us. Isn't that the whole point? Does it have to be so stiff and formal?"

Erica felt the first sensation of true hope that she'd felt since this whole musical debacle had started. She'd already decided he knew way more about this than she did, and that whatever he wanted to do would probably be the best way to go about things anyway. His only other condition was for her to learn how to build things, which didn't bother her. She was always interested in learning how to do things men usually reserved for themselves. If he wanted to call the children by their first names ... she could live with that.

"As long as it's only in the auditorium," she said, driving a hard bargain.

"And can I please call you Erica?" he asked. There was no sarcasm this time either.

"I'll think about that," she said.

"Okay," he said. "Was I wrong about the chicken fried steak?"

Her mind jerked a little bit. He'd changed subjects so quickly.

"You were correct," she admitted. Her hands went to her over-filled stomach. "But I won't have to eat for days."

"Got to keep your strength up," said Bobby, grinning. "I'm going to work you hard Saturday."

Erica Bradford lay in bed, staring at the ceiling she couldn't see, because it was dark. She wasn't sleepy. Once the panic had abated, now that Bobby Dalton had agreed to handle the sets ... and seemed capable of doing that ... she could concentrate on lines. If the music teacher would show up, he'd lift that problem off her shoulders. She might actually be able to pull this off.

What was bothering her right now, though, was the last thing he had said to her before they stood up, left the diner and went their separate ways.

Bobby's comment about working her hard Saturday had stuck in her mind. She was at first ashamed, and then mildly horrified, when she realized there were two ways to interpret that comment. Not that he would have thought of that the same way her unruly mind had thought of that. He had no way of knowing that she'd seen an underground movie called "The Substitute." Her girlfriends in college had come up with the reel of tape, and a projector to show it on. They'd put a sheet up on the wall and, in fits of giggles, watched the horrible thing.

That movie had been a turning point in Erica Bradford's life. It was a "blue" movie, and her friends had gotten it because they were all going to be teachers, and it was about a teacher. As the ridiculous plot had unfolded, and the woman in the "starring role" had become naked, again and again, to have man after man crawl between her legs and fill her full of horrifyingly long and stiff penises, Erica had almost gotten ill. All she had seen were sexist portrayals of men dominating the woman, who was a substitute teacher in the plot. The principal had made her have sex with him to get her job. The janitor had all but raped her in her classroom. A male teacher had taken her from behind in the teacher's lounge, while she was bent over a couch, and rutted into her like she was an animal. Then there was the final scene in which three men all took her, one after another, and she begged for it like the slut she had to be to make a movie like that.

One of those men, while taking his turn, had said "Work it, baby ... work it hard!"

She shuddered as she remembered the grainy pictures of all those penises, pulling out of that woman, to spurt their nasty seed all over her body. The slut had used her mouth on them. It had been disgusting. She had been familiar with such things, of course. It was impossible to avoid learning about such perversions as a girl growing up burdened with mammoth breasts.

She shuddered again, but this time she admitted what really caused it. With shame that almost made her cry out, her hand betrayed her and slid across her pajamas to dip into the bottoms.

That movie had horrified her most of all because it had excited her. She'd been both ashamed and personally mortified when she'd realized that she was just as excited by that horrible filth as all her empty-headed friends, who giggled and laughed and said things like "Don't you wish that was you?!"

She had managed not to think about that movie for years, and one simple comment by one simple man had brought it all back. She couldn't remember the faces of the men in the movie any more. They had tormented her for over a year, whenever she thought about it and had to do what she was doing now.

She did cry out, in shame and anger, as her body betrayed her and the orgasm she didn't want to have washed over her anyway. She might have been plagued by the faces of the men in that grainy 8mm blue movie before, but that wasn't the problem now. The problem now was that as her traitorous imagination put her in that slut's place, in that awful movie, the man who had her bent over that couch had a new face.

In her mind, as her orgasm sent streaks of forbidden pleasure through her body, she saw a face with blue eyes, under a black lock of hair that fell on his forehead.

On Saturday morning, Erica approached the school with no little trepidation. That was because she had been bothered for two more nights by thoughts of Bobby Dalton. She couldn't understand why he kept popping back into her mind, when the lights were off and she was trying to go to sleep. She didn't even try to think about the role of Nature in the world, or that her body had been designed to become excited when the right male entered her life. Even if she had though about that, she'd have snorted and said something like "I am the mistress of my own fate, not Nature!"

In addition to that, when she'd tried to select clothes in which to build sets, she couldn't find anything suitable in her closet. Skirts and blouses wouldn't work. All of her slacks were too good to risk ruining - she assumed that this building business would be messy - and she had nothing really informal to wear. She was a teacher. She had teacher's clothing.

Mr. Hornsby had finally started showing up for practice, so Friday evening she told him the kids were all his for the evening and went to look for new clothes in which to become a builder.

Her choices in Granger were somewhat limited. There was the five and dime, which didn't seem likely to have work clothes. She finally decided that the farm store was the best place and went there. She felt lost immediately as she walked in. She saw all kinds of things she couldn't identify a use for. The place had an odd smell to it. It wasn't unpleasant, it was just something she'd never smelled before.

A young man approached her and she saw in his eyes what she was used to, as they slid all over her body.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

She knew what he wanted to "help her" with and her impatience surfaced immediately.

"I need some work clothes," she said sharply.

"Overalls, coveralls or pants and shirt sets?" he asked.

She pictured overalls in her mind. The thought of wearing them seemed ludicrous. She didn't know what coveralls were, but if they covered all ... that was what she was looking for.

"Coveralls," she said confidently.

He took her to an aisle that had what seemed like acres of shelves piled high with different colored lumps of folded cloth on them. Then he turned around and walked away.

She stood, bewildered by the choices. She had no idea what size to get. She picked up a tan lump of cloth and it unfolded into something that was obviously too tall for her. It was pants and shirt all rolled into one, and she'd never seen anything like that before. She tried to figure out how to fold it back up. When she was done it was twice as thick as it had been before.

She was holding up her third set when the young man came back.

"Are you finding what you need?" he asked, mostly politely.

"I don't know what size I am," she muttered automatically.

"Well, I'd guess your legs need a double short," he said. "The rest of you looks more like you're in the medium range." He looked her up and down again. "Except your arms are short too. I don't know. I could measure you. That might help."

Her head jerked around. He was being impertinent.

"That will not be necessary!" she barked. Why did men always think they could get away with such crude behavior. "Where are the mediums?"

He took her five feet further down the aisle. He reached for a set and, with an expert flip of his wrists, snapped it open. He turned around and pressed it against her front.

His hands were at her shoulders, to be honest, but Erica felt the cloth pressing against her breasts and was incensed. Before she could put the man in his place for assaulting her, though, he said "Too small," and turned back around. He reached for another set. "Maybe a large/short," he said, flipping the set in his hands open.

"I don't need your help!" she said stridently.

"Jeesh, lady," said the young man. "Soreeee." He looked at her like she'd sprouted a third eye and extended the coveralls. "I'll just go and leave you alone now."

"Thank you!" she said stiffly.

When he was gone she put the pair back that he'd selected, just because he had selected them. She picked up another set from the next stack and went to the register, where a bored high school-aged girl Erica didn't know rang them up.

She was so frustrated when she got home that she didn't try them on. She took a bubble bath instead.

Then, when she got up Saturday morning and put them on, she found that the legs were four inches too long, and the sleeves were at least that much too long. She rolled the legs up, making cuffs, and then did the same thing with the arms. It looked ridiculous, but it was all she could do.

She picked her sturdiest bra and put it on. The panties she chose didn't match, but no one would know. Then she struggled into the suit and zipped it closed. It was awfully bulky. She felt a little like when she was a little girl, and her mother bundled her up so much to go outside that she could hardly move once she got there.

Now, as she approached the school in the nippy air, she decided it was good that the thing was bulky. She was toasty warm. She went inside, and to the auditorium, where she heard banging noises. Bobby was already there and was sorting through lumber.

"Oh," she said, as she came around a curtain and saw him. "You're here already."

"I am," he said, looking down the edge of a board as if his eyes could measure now long it was, or something. "Ready to learn new skills?"

"Ready," she said.

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