The Making of a Gigolo (14) - Erica Bradford

by Lubrican

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Chapter Seven

Bobby had to drive, of course. He was responsible for the car, and Erica probably couldn't have driven anyway, in the condition she was in. She sat stiffly in the passenger seat, still in shock, and paying no attention to William, who was in the back seat. Bobby felt compelled, therefore, to ... chat.

Over the hour and fifteen minutes it took them to get out of the airport and to Erica's driveway, Bobby learned quite a bit about William Bradford. He preferred "Will" to "William." He wasn't in any more pain than he usually was. He had no plans for his future. The VA Hospital in either Wichita or Topeka would take on his future medical needs, which Will hoped were few. He hated hospitals, having spent the last three years of his life in them.

Bobby, and a still weeping Erica, learned that he'd lost the leg early on, before he'd even regained consciousness from his initial injuries. The hand had gone a month later. Physically, the vast majority of his treatment since then, had been all about the burns. He'd had dozens of skin graft surgeries. There had also been additional surgery on his leg as they tried to get him to wear a prosthesis. He didn't see the point. Even if he could walk, he still couldn't work, and he was used to the chair now. They were talking about some contraption to take the place of his left hand, so he could grip the left wheel of his chair and get around a little better. They kept insisting it wouldn't be necessary if he'd just accept a prosthesis for his leg.

Of course, there was a lot that Bobby and Erica didn't learn on that ride too. They would find that out over a long period of time, but they didn't know it when they got him out of the car and into his chair at his new home.

He was angry. He was both mad at the world in general, and at specific portions of that world in particular. He was mad at the medics who had saved him on the battlefield. He was mad at the surgeons who had brought him back from the brink of death since then. He was mad at the Air Force. He was mad at anybody who felt sorry for him. He was mad at himself for not having the courage to take his own life. Most of all he was mad that they were giving up on Vietnam. His ruined life, and the lives of all those men he had called friends, had been wasted ... ruined for nothing ... and that made him angriest of all.

The first problem was getting him into the house. No one had thought about the chair, and how the steps to the front and rear doors posed an immediate problem. Bobby's muscles overcame that immediate problem.

"I'll build you a ramp," he said to Erica, who was no longer crying, but who looked completely lost as she stood and watched the man who couldn't possibly be her little brother being pulled up the steps backwards.

"I don't plan on going anywhere," said Will.

"Yeah," said Bobby as he backed up to the door. He reached back and tried to turn the knob. It was locked.

"Erica?" he called.

Her eyes snapped up to his face from the face they'd been staring at.

"Key?" he prompted.

"Oh!" she blurted. "Of course."

"You're the only person in town I know who locks her door," said Bobby, trying to lighten the mood a little.

"Of course I lock my door," said Erica, looking confused.

"I forgot," said Bobby. "You came here from Chicago, where everybody has to lock their doors." Bobby leaned down to speak into Will's right ear. "I'm glad you're here. Now maybe she won't be so scared of the boogey man."

Will lifted his chin a little.

"No problem," he said. "The boogey man is scared of me. Everybody is scared of me."

"I'm not," said Bobby. "I think I could take you. Maybe."

Will grunted. Erica got her keys out, opened the door, and they all went inside. Bobby pushed Will's chair into the living room.

"Give me a second with your sister," he said, leaning over to speak to Will.

He turned and took an unresisting Erica's elbow, taking her to where he thought the kitchen might be. It turned out to be the dining room, but the kitchen was further on, through a swinging door. In the kitchen he faced her.

"Get a grip, Erica," he said, his voice low. "He needs you."

"I can't," she whispered. "I didn't know!"

"Well, now you do," said Bobby urgently. "He's still your brother. He's the same person inside that he always was."

"I can't," she moaned, looking down.

Bobby knew he had to do something to break her out of her almost catatonic state. He would never be able to explain why he chose to do what he did, but it worked. He reached out and squeezed her breasts with his hands. His fingers seemed to flow as he pulled on them, until his fingertips were on the tips of her breasts. They squeezed, seeking to find her nipples through her shirt and bra.

She drew in breath harshly, and held it, as her round, amazed eyes looked at his hands, and then rose to fix on his face. Her jaw went slack for a few seconds. Then her eyes cleared and she jerked backwards, as her hands slapped at his.

"How dare you?!" she gasped.

"Now that I have your attention," said Bobby, as he dropped his hands to his sides, "you have to go in there. You have to talk to him. You have to start this relationship. I don't care how hard it is for you ... he's here and he needs you."

"You touched me!" she said.

"Okay, you're shocked," said Bobby. "I touched you and it shocked you, but there is no harm done and you can go on with your life. He shocks you too. You have to go on with him as well. He's your brother, Erica ... he's your blood. Where is that independent, capable woman I like so much? You have to get a grip!"

"Get out!" she snarled.

"Okay," he said. "I'll get started on the ramp. You go talk to your brother."

"Get out!" she said again.

He turned and left. She heard him speak to the husk in the wheelchair in her living room, and then she heard the front door close. Almost immediately, she regretted throwing him out.

That left her alone with her brother.

"Billy?" Her voice had a catch in it.

"I knew this was a bad idea," said the voice of her brother. It came from the thing in the wheelchair, though, and she couldn't make that work in her head. That voice was disappointed, though ... disappointed in her ... and that registered.

"I just need some time," she said weakly.

"I'll never look human again, Erica," he said harshly. "I'll never walk again, or work, or anything, but I don't want your pity!"

That stung. What else was she supposed to do? How else was she supposed to feel? He was a wreck! He was all but helpless!

Old habits die hard. Sometimes that's not such a bad thing, though. She had been a dyed in the wool feminist when he'd become her ward, and they had often raged at each other as he acted like the men she was so disgusted with, and she acted like a bitch, as far as he was concerned. Still, when all was said and done ... they had been all each other had, and they always made peace. They didn't agree on things ... but they still loved each other, and they always made peace.

That old habit ... of being able to rage at each other ... served to get them past that intolerable moment when neither knew how to move forward. She took offense at his attitude ... that he was pushing her away. He ranted about how he couldn't stand the pity, including hers. She railed that he was helpless, and he promptly proved what he could do. He lurched up out of the chair, leaning heavily on his right hand while he pushed with the stump of his left, and hopped in a circle around her. He was good at hopping. He'd done that thousands of times. He ended up back in his chair, looking up at her out of that half twisted, half normal face.

Her initial horror of the scarecrow looking thing that flapped its arms as it hopped around her was mitigated by the voice of her little brother in that scarecrow image.

Then, as he sat again, staring at her, she was struck by the fact that both of his eyes looked the same. The one staring at her from the dead mask on the left of his head was just as brown and alive, as the one on the normal side. And his attitude ... his voice ... his personality ... it was all familiar. His psyche had been damaged, that was clear, but it was still Billy.

"Don't fucking call me billy!" he screamed. His voice fell. "Billy is dead."

"You're not dead!" she screamed back. "You're my baby brother, no matter what happened to you!"

That simple shouted sentence created the tiny, almost insignificant crack that would widen over the weeks to come. It would create a place where her love, when she learned how to show it to him, would seep in and soften the hard crust that was all that was left of Billy Bradford.

It would take time, to be sure. He would complain constantly about her characterization of him as her "baby" brother. He would carp constantly about her continued use of "Billy," instead of the name he now preferred. On her side, she clung to "Billy" as the only thing she had left of the boy she remembered. She knew he wasn't a baby, but she felt maternal instincts for the first time in her life as she adjusted to his visage, and it began to horrify her a little less. That took time too, and I get ahead of the story here for just a moment, but you need to know that, like creeping lava, that cannot be stopped by anything except solid rock, the parts of the old relationship that had borne them up when their parents were lost, started to bear the weight of this trouble too. In this new life they were both embroiled in, almost nothing was the same as it had been ... except that they only had each other again.

In short, Will's arrival in Erica's house changed everything in both their lives.

That first shouted communication lasted almost three hours, and wore them both out. Very slowly the decibel range they were "talking" in went from in the hundreds, to the high eighties, and then inevitably lower as their passion faded along with their energy levels. Little things helped to deescalate the anger and frustration. At times, all she could see was his right side, in profile. He looked like Billy then, grown and changed, but still Billy. From his vantage point, she acted just like his older sister had when he had wanted to join the Army. That was something familiar, in a world that hadn't had anything familiar in it - except pain - for a long time.

They were actually talking in normal voices when there was a clatter outside. Erica went to the window and saw a pile of boards on the front lawn. Her eyes went to the street, where Bobby Dalton was getting more lumber out of the back of a rusty old pickup truck. Her mind tilted for a second. He had said he was going to build a wheelchair ramp. But she had thrown him out after he had ... groped her.

She blinked as the feel of his hands on her breasts suddenly came back to her. She had stared at his hands as they had done that ... and part of her anger had been not at him, but at the completely unwelcome twinges of something sweet as his fingertips had squeezed her hated breasts. She had been horrified that she could feel anything but disgust, both at him and the situation she was in.

The memory of that made her angry again, and she opened the door, to walk out on the porch. She waited until he trudged across the lawn with an armful of boards and dropped them in a heap.

"I told you to leave," she said, her voice tense.

"I did," he said, looking at her.

"I meant forever," she said stubbornly.

"I know," he said. "I'll leave again after I get this done."

"I don't want that done!" she yelled.

"Yes you do," he said calmly. "You're mad at me right now, but you'll be glad you have this someday."

She was surprised to feel the back of her shirt being tugged hard.

"Come back inside and leave the man alone," said her brother. He had gotten his wheelchair right behind her.

"He touched me!" she snarled.

"Where?" asked Will.

Her hands went to cover the tips of her breasts automatically. Her mind wasn't in tune with them, though.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "I won't put up with that from any man!"

"He touched your knockers?" Will's voice sounded amused. "Well good for him. I'm almost jealous."

"They're not knockers!" she yelled at him. She realized that the neighbors had probably heard her yell that, and her voice dropped. "You know better than to say things like that, Billy Bradford! You know how I feel about that kind of thing."

"He's building a wheelchair ramp, right?" asked Will.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean he can assault me!"

"I'll straighten him out on that ... later ... after he builds the ramp. We need the ramp, Erica."

What struck Erica the most about all that was that her little brother ... this husk of a man ... sounded like he really believed he could "straighten out" Bobby Dalton. And he had a point. She had watched Bobby pull her brother up the stairs in his chair. Bobby had made it look like Billy weighed nothing at all, but she knew better than that. She knew it would be a major exercise for her to get him up or down the steps. They did need the ramp.

She fixed dinner. His diet was unrestricted, though he couldn't open his mouth as widely as a normal person. He had to eat in smaller bites, because of that. She had to cut up his food for him but, once that was done, he did fine by himself.

After all the yelling they had done, it seemed eerily quiet in the dining room, where his chair would fit under the table edge. There was the sound of hammering outside, and of an electric saw, occasionally. Bobby had knocked on the door, asking to plug in an extension cord. Erica had been obstinate, telling him he couldn't come in, but Will overruled her.

"She's got a thing about her tits," he said out loud. "She's got the best pair in the county, but she hates 'em, and she hates any man who likes 'em."

Erica had screamed at them both again at that point. Bobby had just walked in, plugged in the cord, and walked back out. She had gone to start supper just to get away from both of them, and to be alone with her shame and anger. They had said very little to each other since then.

"You okay now?" Will suddenly asked.

"No." Erica was confused. How could she be okay again after something like that?

"That guy out there ... how much is he going to charge us for this ramp?"

"I don't know!" she yipped. "I didn't think of that!"

"I'll go ask him."

"No!" she barked.

"Erica!" he shouted, shocking her.

He put his fork down.

"I know I'm helpless," he said, his voice cold. "But not completely. I can talk to people, if they can stand to look at me. That guy can. He's the first person who's treated me halfway normal since I left the hospital. You don't like him. Okay. That's fine. I can talk to him. Just tell me how much you can afford so I know if he should finish it or not."

"I'll talk to him," insisted Erica.

"Will you stop being so pigheaded?" he asked loudly. "Let me do what I can do!"

She almost shouted back at him, but something in her mind recognized how important this little thing was to him.

"Fine!" she said, her voice surly.

"Just get me out on the porch and then come back in here," he said.

Again she felt anger at being told what to do, and she hesitated. He was up and hopping into the living room before her astonished body could react.

"Wait!" she yelped, lurching out of her chair to move to the wheelchair and grab it. He already had the front door open by the time she got the chair moving, and was out on the front porch by the time she got there. He hopped down one step, his arms out for balance, and then sat down on the porch.

"Hey, dude!" he called out to Bobby.

Bobby looked up and his eyes flickered from the man sitting there, to the door, where Erica was trying to push the chair out on the porch. Something interesting must have happened inside.

"What's up?" he asked, walking over to stand in front of Will.

"How much is all this going to cost?" he asked.

"Billy!" snapped Erica, finally getting the chair through the doorway and onto the porch.

"Go back inside, sis," said Will, staring up at Bobby.

"I will not" she yelled.

"If she stays out here, bothering us men," said Will, casually to Bobby, "I want you to grab her tits again, okay?"

That comment, in this situation, seemed very funny to Bobby, and he grinned. It did what Will had intended though, and Erica stomped back inside the house, yelling at them both.

It got quiet again.

"How much?" asked Will.

Bobby looked at his watch. "I hadn't thought much about that," he said.

"Well think about it," said Will. "She doesn't have a lot of money."

Bobby surveyed the man. "Sometimes I do favors for people," he said.

"I don't want charity," said Will instantly.

"All right," said Bobby. "I usually charge six bucks an hour. Seeing as how I offended your sister, I won't charge that much for this job."

"What was that all about, anyway?" asked Will.

"She was in shock. She wasn't thinking. I had to do something to shake her out of it. I thought that might do it."

There was a barking sound from the throat of the mess sitting on the porch. It was followed by a soft "Wow." He looked up at Bobby. "That's the first time I've laughed in ... I can't remember how long."

"Somehow, I didn't think you'd be amused by my groping your sister," said Bobby.

"You two been dating?" asked Will.

Now it was Bobby who chuckled. "Not hardly," he said. He went on to explain how he knew Erica, and the extent of their relationship.

"Interesting," said Will. "She's so hardheaded about all that women's liberation crap that I'm surprised she asked for help at all."

"She was in a bind," said Bobby. "Just seemed neighborly to help out."

"I know how she can be," said Will. "You're a very patient man if you're doing this for something other than the usual."

Bobby knew exactly what Will was talking about. "The usual" motivation for something like that would be for purposes of getting Erica into bed. There didn't seem to be much to say, though, so he remained silent.

"So, I need to be able to go back in there and tell her we can afford this," said Will.

"You can afford it," said Bobby.

"No charity," warned Will.

"How about if I offer you the same kind of help I'd offer any other neighbor," said Bobby. "That okay?"

"There won't be much I can do to repay the kindness," said Will.

"You never know," said Bobby. "You never know."

Erica went to the window and looked out. It was the same place she had peeked at her brother talking to him earlier, while he sat on the porch. She hadn't been able to hear them, but she'd watched. There was no tenseness in either of them. They had just talked.

Bobby was gone now. It was getting dark. She could already see the design of the ramp. It would come off of the driveway, slanting slowly up and then make a turn to come onto the porch beside the stairs. There was a railing in the way right now, but even with her limited building experience, she knew that wouldn't be a problem. A post could be put in where the railing was cut open to make a place for the chair to come through.

Billy ... Will ... was in bed already. She was trying to change her habit ... to call him Will, as he had demanded ... but it was hard. She stood, looking out into the darkening sky and then went out on the porch in the barely cool night air. She went down on the grass to examine the work Bobby had done. She saw immediately that the way things were put together was different than what he had showed her. There were lots of crisscrossing struts that she now knew would support great weight.

She was still furious with him. She had trusted him and he had violated that trust. She had made allowances for the teasing. He had only done that once, and she could live with that, because he wasn't the slavering satyr she had expected him to be. But this ... this was too much.

She had an idea why he had done it, but there were other ways that that. Just thinking about it made her feel tingles. She snorted. Her body was betraying her principles more and more often. She needed to be stronger. She had ideals ... important ideals ... and she needed to remain above base instincts that had caused women to be downtrodden for centuries. In the next second she was remembering how that brief feel of his fingers felt so similar to what she had been doing ... at night ... alone in bed.

She shuddered. She had to stop thinking about that!

She turned and went back into the house. She would read tonight, until she got so tired she'd go right to sleep. She would submerse herself in a good book, and those urges would be held at bay. Then tomorrow she'd go back to work, and everything would get back to normal again.

She now knew that Billy ... Will! ... would be okay on his own, here at the house. He could get around, and there was food he could eat with a minimum of preparation. He took care of his own toilet. He could even dress himself one-handed. She was actually amazed at what he could do for himself, all things considered.

Since she was going straight to bed, she didn't turn on any lights when she went in. Her eyes had adapted to the dim light outdoors, and it was only slightly darker inside. It was her newly awakened maternal instincts that made her want to check in on him ... look at him and know he was all right. She pushed the door open to see him lying there on the bed she had gotten for him when she first found out he was coming home.

He gasped, and she froze. She had been about to turn away. Was he having a nightmare? She could easily understand how that might happen - frequently. She stepped into the room. He was lying on top of the covers. It wasn't until she got closer that she could see the movement. It was at his groin. She didn't understand, at first, and took another step closer.

Then understanding flooded her as he gasped again. His right hand was rising and falling furiously in the dark. When he breathed, it was ragged, and he held his breath a lot.

She gasped herself, and his head turned toward her as his body rolled slightly. She saw the whites of his eyes.

"Shit!" he said softly.

"I'm sorry!" she whispered. "I just wanted to check on you."

She fled, closing the door firmly behind her, and ran to her own room. There she paced for a few minutes, willing her speeding heart to slow down and her own ragged breaths to calm to normal. She was repulsed ... wasn't she? She didn't exactly feel repulsed. She thought she should. But that poor boy, in his ravaged body ... what pleasure did he have? How could something so simple be wrong?

"Of course it's wrong!" part of her brain yelled.

"You do it yourself!" crowed another part.

She turned on her reading light and got her book. She stolidly put on her pajamas, leaving her bra and panties on, something she had never done before.

She looked at the pages ... forced herself to read the words. They didn't make any sense.

"Everybody does that!" she told herself.

Bobby Dalton popped into her mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Did he do that? Was he doing that right now, in some dark room across town? Was his hand flashing back and forth along a stiff column of flesh?

She didn't want to think about that. She closed her eyes tightly, but that didn't help. Her hand easily defeated the extra layers of clothes she had worn to bed, and a long finger slid between wet pussy lips. She groaned and pressed hard on the bump. Her other hand went to her breast. To her horror, with the bra on, it felt just like Bobby's fingers had felt as they squeezed and closed until they had been centered on her sensitive nipples.

Her orgasm left her weak and ashamed, because through it all, she had been unable to keep Bobby Dalton ... and her own brother ... out of her mind.

She dreamed again that night. This dream didn't waken her, but the memories of it were there in the morning. In the dream she was watching her brother, sitting on the porch, talking to Bobby. Everything was exactly the same as when she had actually watched them ... except for one thing. Both of them were masturbating. Both had huge, misshapen cudgels for a penis, feet long and as thick as a normal man's leg. Somehow each one's right hand was big enough to stroke those immense penises, and they did so while they talked, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to do.

That's all she could remember, as her eyes opened. She hadn't slept well and she still felt tired. Her mouth felt like it had cotton in it. She crawled out of bed and brushed her teeth first. Then she took off her pajamas. She took her bra and panties off too, to exchange for clean ones. Her nipples tingled as she dropped them into the clean bra, and she frowned.

Billy's door was still closed and she didn't bother him, unable to face him this morning. She didn't think about the irony that she was perfectly willing to look at his ravaged face, but unable to deal with the fact that he had normal needs.

After a glass of milk and a peanut butter sandwich, she hurried off to school.

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