The Making of a Gigolo (8) - Felicity Chumley

by Lubrican

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

Chapter Three

In the back of the pickup truck, which Flo was driving while Mirriam sat, trying to make herself comfortable in the passenger seat, the scene was a little bit like it had been the year before, when Flo had seen Bev's hand drop and squeeze the front of Bobby's jeans.

Bev wasn't there, though. She was with Bill Gregory, who would bring her home. This year, it was Linda who sat beside him, leaning back against the back of the cab. Suzie and the twins, were chattering animatedly about the night, in the rear of the bed of the truck. Linda leaned over to whisper in Bobby's ear.

"I'm going to come see you tonight," she said.

"Okay," said Bobby. He'd had a good time at the party too. He'd gotten to hold most of his children, and their mothers had left him pleasantly on the edge of being horny.

Later, as she dropped her nightgown, and climbed in bed with him, Linda kissed him with a little extra ardor.

"I found a boyfriend, tonight," she said.

"Oh, really?" he said.

"I tried to find you, to show him to you, but we got kind of busy, having fun."

"How did you stumble on this boyfriend?" asked Bobby. Prior to this, Linda hadn't expressed any real interest in any particular boy.

"His name is Paul Engle," she said, rubbing her breasts against her brother's chest. "I never noticed him before, but he took me on some rides," she explained.

"And that made you want him for a boyfriend?" asked Bobby, smiling.

"He was nice to me," she said, reaching for Bobby's penis. She wrapped her hand around it, and slid it up and down. She was getting good at that. "He helped me not be scared of some of the rides."

"Did he do this?" asked Bobby, catching a nipple and squeezing it gently.

She shivered, and ground her pussy against his thigh.

"No," she sighed. "He didn't try anything. I wanted him to, but he didn't."

"You wanted him to." said Bobby.

"I wanted to kiss him," she said, "like this."

She kissed him, and crawled up on top of him while she did so. She settled her pussy down on his stiff prick, the way she had watched Bev do so many times, but had done only twice herself. She started rocking, and felt the rush of sweet pleasure inundate her loins.

When she stopped kissing him, to breathe, Bobby cupped her breasts, and squeezed them.

"You probably shouldn't kiss him like this," he said, smiling. "Not for a while, anyway." He pushed up at her with his rod.

She felt like giggling, but it came out as a moan, as her clit scraped along his prick.

"I really like him," she panted, moving faster. "I really like him a lot."

"Just be careful with him," said Bobby, feeling the urge to splatter his stomach with spunk.

"Ohhhhh," she whined, feeling the orgasm she'd wanted for the last three hours rushing toward her.

She was so excited that she was a little extra enthusiastic in her movements. She also leaned a little further forward than she had the last two times she had done this. That combination, resulted in something unplanned, which was that she rode off the tip of Bobby's prick on the way up, and impaled her pussy on two inches of it on the way back. It was a little like a car, sliding on the ice in winter, and having a little fender bender. The damage made her wince, but there wasn't anything she could do about it.

"Oh Owww", she whined, feeling the pain of her hymen splitting, and, at the same time, the most wonderful stretching sensation, and the most wonderful warm, wet feeling in her horny pussy.

"Ahhhh!" grunted Bobby, whose prick had begun to belch sperm, at exactly the same time she stuffed two inches of it in her pussy. It was his copious spend that she was feeling. It was also his copious spend that lubricated her incredibly tight pussy and aided those two inches of penetration.

Bobby, as experienced as he was, fell prey to instinct, about the same time his penis told his brain what had happened. About the time his brain was saying, "You might want to pull that spurting thing out of your baby sister, pal," instinct was bunching the muscles in his abdomen, and sending the signal to his hands, which slid off her breasts to grip her hips, holding her in place while his abdominal muscles powered his penis further into her, where it happily finished spurting.

As it had been with Flo, who intended to get fucked the first time she did that with Bobby, the completion of his orgasm made his penis less firm immediately, which lessened the stretching in Linda's pussy. Linda had not intended to get fucked, but her pussy, in the process of reporting the accident, also added that what had happened wasn't all that bad, and that there was probably little enough damage that the Police didn't need to be called to the scene.

Both of them just stopped, and she looked down. She couldn't see his penis, which wasn't too odd, since she could tell it was still inside her.

"You just fucked me," she panted.

"I was just lying here," he said, his hands still gripping her hips.

"It's inside me right now!," she breathed. She suddenly realized there were muscles inside her she'd never known about. She flexed them, and felt something pushing back. She knew it was his penis, and it fascinated her.

"I think it is," said Bobby.

"I think I like this," she said.

"We shouldn't have done this," he cautioned.

"I'm on the pill," she said. She leaned down and kissed him. "And I like it. Do it again."

"I can't just do it again," he said.

"It was too quick!" she whispered. "I barely got to feel it."

"It wasn't supposed to happen, Linda," he insisted.

"Well it did, and it's too late, and I want you to do it again!"

After the argument was finished, which, of course, the woman won, Linda learned how to taste him. Then she learned what it was like to be pinned to the mattress by a man, whose "pin" was significantly larger than the kind she was used to, when making a dress with her mother. She liked that, too. Tonight was turning out to be a red-letter night, with her discovering all kinds of things she liked a lot. The orgasms were much more intense, and the feeling of hot skin massagine her insides was much more intense, and that beautiful, wonderful fullness was much more fun than just having a plain, old orgasm.

Like all the others, though, the best part was when she saw his eyes flutter, and heard him moan, and knew that she was the one who had brought him to this place, where he was in such ecstasy, as his warmth spurted into her belly.

The fifth of July dawned bright and cheerful, and the bright sun woke Felicity, who found herself draped over Chester, whose eyes were open, just staring at her.

"Good morning," she mumbled, aiming her mouth so that her morning breath wouldn't wash over his face.

"I love you," he said, his voice husky with age. His hand went to mold against a firm breast.

"I know you do," she said, smiling. "It's the reason I'm so happy. I love you too."

"I know you do," he said softly. "It's the reason I still feel like staying alive."

It wasn't until breakfast, which she always fixed him, giving the cook mornings off, that she brought up the subject of the reunion again.

"I told you," he said, his voice a little whiny, "I don't want to go off to Kansas City, and sleep in a strange bed, and have all those youngsters stare at me."

"I know," she said. "Remember what you told me? About hiring someone to act like he's you?"

"Yes," he said. "You didn't think much of that, as I recall. I also recall telling you your friends would be a lot more impressed by a strong young man, than an old geezer like me."

"Your memory is a lot better than people think," she said, smiling. "I was at the party last night - the fireworks were divine, by the way. You can be proud - anyway, I was there, with Millie, and she pointed out a young man that she says would be perfect for that."

"You told Millie about this?" asked Chester.

"She's my friend," said Felicity. "She's discreet. I wouldn't have told her if she wasn't."

"I hope you're right," said the old man. "That would probably raise a lot of eyebrows, if folks found out about it." He smiled at her as she served him oatmeal, with brown sugar on it. "Who is he?" he asked.

"His first name is Bobby. I can't remember his last name. It's Darwin ... or Donald ... something that starts with a D. He's a handyman, around town, apparently. He did some work for Millie."

"And what is it that makes him so perfect to play the role of your husband?"

"Oh, she went on about how smart he is, and how much of a gentleman. Apparently she was quite taken by him, though she says she didn't give in to temptation."

"He's handsome?"

"I suppose he's nice to look at," she hedged. She was trying to be polite. He was most definitely handsome. She felt a twinge of guilt for thinking that, though.

"Repairman, you say?"

"Handyman is what she said. He put in a brick walk for them." Felicity watched her husband. He was thinking. She could tell.

"Have him come over here to fix something," said Chester. "I want to meet him ... talk to him."

"All right, Darling," said Felicity. "I'll call Millie and get his number."

Bobby approached the mansion with a few doubts. He could fix most things, even if he had to jury-rig them, so they'd work properly. He didn't know if his aesthetic skill, though, was good enough to satisfy the likes of Chester Chumley. True, it was Mrs. Chumley who had called him, and asked him to take a look at the porch swing which, she said, was sagging. She was of the opinion that it might not be safe anymore, and wanted him to see about making a new one.

His doubts increased, when he saw the place up close. It was beautiful. Everything about it was beautiful. It was old, but had been well cared for. The gardens bespoke a full time, professional gardener. The crushed lava driveway didn't have a single weed in it anywhere. Someone had paved the area in front of the house with pink slabs of some kind of what looked like granite. They were so closely spaced that nothing grew in the cracks between them, either.

He saw the porch swing as soon as he walked up the steps, made of the same stone as the paving. The swing was old, to be sure, but the chains it hung from were not rusted, like they'd be in town. Someone had taken a wire brush to them and oiled them. The swing itself was painted white and, other than a slat, missing from the backrest, and which might have been left out intentionally, as part of the pattern of the thing, he could see nothing whatsoever wrong with it.

He sat on it, gingerly. Sometimes looks could be deceiving. He didn't want to break the thing he'd come to fix. It was rock solid. He didn't feel any give in the wood, or the chains. He got up and looked around. Sometimes people had more than one porch swing. Seeing nothing, he frowned, and pulled the old time rod that rang a chime inside the house.

He thought the woman who answered the door was a maid, because she was so young. She was quite beautiful too, but that wasn't odd. Rich men had beautiful women around them. It was just a fact of life. Bobby knew who Chester Chumley was, of course. He'd toyed with the idea of trying to get on at the factory, when he was younger. But they had only full time positions, and he was needed at the farm. He knew Chester's first wife had died, and that he'd married a younger woman. He'd even seen her a couple of times, from a distance. In fact, he decided, she looked a lot like the woman who had answered the door.

"I'm Felicity Chumley," said the woman, her voice a high alto. "You must be Robert Dalton."

"Please," said Bobby. "Nobody has called me Robert since I was christened. I go by Bobby."

"Such a young name, for a man," said the woman. She was looking at his face.

"It's just a name," he said. "I'm used to it, that's all." He went straight to the point. "There's nothing wrong with the swing on the front porch. Do you have another one, somewhere else?"

"No," said the woman, looking nervous for the first time. "My husband would like to speak with you."

She turned and walked away. She was wearing a silk blouse and Capri pants, which were not quite skin tight. Her buttocks were fabulous ... round and firm, but with a jiggle that was enticing. She had good legs too, as if she exercised a lot. It was hard to tell her age, but she was a lot younger than the Mrs. Chumley he had expected. When a seventy-something man married a younger woman, you expect him to marry a woman who is in her thirties of forties. At least Bobby did.

She walked with grace too, not swinging her arms, like a man, or a woman in a hurry. Her feet didn't quite step in front of each other, but perhaps only a few inches to one side. It made her look like she was walking like some models walk.

He followed her to a set of double doors that were eight feet tall, and made of oak. They were gorgeous. They were also well balanced and hung, because she didn't have to strain at all to move a door that had to weigh seventy or eighty pounds. It swung open noiselessly and she stood to one side.

He understood that he was to enter the room. It was a library. He could see two walls crammed with books, through the open door. It was also obvious that she wasn't going to announce, or introduce him, so he stepped into the room. He smelled the rich odor of a cigar.

Chester Chumley was sitting in a chair, with a book open on his lap. The cigar was in a crystal ash tray on a table by his arm, along with a round brandy snifter, half full of an amber liquid. The old man looked up.

"You'll pardon an old man who doesn't get up to welcome his guest," he said, his voice raspy.

"Certainly," said Bobby.

"Sit down, sit down, boy," said the man, waving vaguely at two leather chairs across from him. "Would you care for a cigar? I get them from Cuba. It's much more difficult since the damned president started his damned embargo."

"Thanks," said Bobby. "I don't smoke."

"Some brandy, perhaps?" asked the man, lifting his snifter.

"I don't think so," said Bobby, easing into the chair. It whooshed, as air left the cushion, and he sank into it deeply. He looked at the thick looking amber in the glass the old man was holding. It looked good. "I had a sip of beer once, and didn't much like it. I've never tried anything else."

"Did you look at the swing?" asked Chester.

"Yes sir," he said. "There's nothing wrong with it."

"Doesn't need to be replaced?" asked the old man, his voice querulous.

"I couldn't make one as good as the one you've already got," said Bobby, wondering what was going on.

"That will be all, dear," said the man.

Bobby looked, to see Felicity Chumley, standing in the doorway. He hadn't known she'd stayed there. She looked ambivalent, but then stepped back and closed the big door. It clicked closed with barely a sound.

"I was a lucky man, to find her," said Chumley. He had touched neither the cigar or brandy since Bobby came in, other than to hold the brandy up, when he offered Bobby some. "She's a beautiful woman."

"Every man hopes to find a beautiful woman," said Bobby. "You were, indeed, lucky, but I suspect there was more than luck involved."

"You think she's after my money too?" asked the old man. "Everybody else does."

"I have no idea," said Bobby. "I don't know her. What I can tell you is that I've never heard of her kicking up her heels, or spending a lot of money frivolously. If it was money she was after, I think she'd be tempted to do that, at least once in a while."

"Yes," mused the old man. "I suppose you're right. Most people wouldn't think about it that way."

"To be honest, sir," said Bobby. "I've never really thought about it at all, until now. About her, I mean. I think I might have seen her twice in my life, and I know very little about her, or you, for that matter. I must admit I'm curious about why you called me out here to fix a swing that isn't broken, though."

"Well," said Chester Chumley, finally picking up the brandy and taking the tiniest of sips, "let's just talk about that."

Felicity went to the kitchen, while Chester talked to the young man. Once she'd seen him up close, she was more nervous than ever. He was gorgeous. He had a strong jaw line, and the most devastating blue eyes, under that lock of hair that dangled on his forehead. His work shirt fairly bulged with the muscles under it. She sneaked a peek at his behind, which was also hard looking and compact. He walked with a kind of animal stride, not at all like most people, who tiptoed around when Chester was involved.

Ramona was in the kitchen, getting lunch ready.

"I'm going to make some cookies, Ramona," said Felicity. "I'll try not to get in your way."

"What's wrong?" asked the woman, who was in her forties, and cooked old fashioned home cooked meals, rather than the fancy stuff that they were teaching in cooking schools these days.

"What makes you think anything's wrong?" asked Felicity. Because she had little contact with the outside world, she had gotten to know her staff quite well. She was friends with most of them, and they all knew it. None of them tried to take advantage. They had great jobs, with great pay.

"You always make cookies when you're upset about something," said the cook.

"Not every single time," objected Felicity. "I made cookies for Valentines day, and I wasn't upset about anything!"

"I stand corrected," said Ramona. "So, what are you worried about?"

Felicity shot her a look, and then her shoulders slumped.

"It's this High School reunion that's coming up. Chester won't go with me. He says I'd be embarrassed."

"Most women your age would be," said Ramona.

"You know me better than that," said Felicity.

"I do," said the woman. "It would still be hard, even for you. He's a sweet man, but he's as old as dirt."

"Ramona!" said Felicity, sounding shocked. She had assembled the ingredients for her cookies and started stirring the bowl.

"You hadn't noticed that yet?" asked the cook, grinning.

"He says I should take a younger man ... and pretend he's my husband." Felicity frowned.

"That sounds interesting," said Ramona, one eyebrow rising.

"It's ridiculous," said Felicity.

"Of course it is," said Ramona. "He's just being the sweet old man he is, thinking of you, more than himself."

"I won't do it!" said Felicity, mashing dough through her fingers.

"You will if he wants you to," said the cook.

"No I won't!" said Felicity, pouting.

"You know you saved his life," said the cook, calmly. "I was here when she died. I know what he was like. I expected him to follow her within a week ... a month at the most."

Felicity stopped and turned to look at the woman.

"Then you came along," said Ramona. "I'm not saying he turned around right away, or anything," she said. "But you kept him going. He used to complain that his new secretary was burying him in paperwork. He said it wasn't proper ... that he couldn't mourn properly."

"I didn't know what else to do," said Felicity, softly.

"Oh, he complained, but I knew he didn't mean it," said Ramona. "He mourned. But because of you he had something else to do besides that, and that's what made the difference."

"Well, the company had to go on functioning," said Felicity.

"Yes, and he was well aware that it was you who was making that happen. He complained about you, but he said you had spunk. He complained that you made him feel guilty ... making decisions that he should have made himself. He was impressed with what you thought should happen, though. That was plain too."

"I didn't mean for him to burden you," said the young wife, who had taken over the mansion too, when she arrived.

"Oh, I didn't mind. I was glad he was taking an interest in things, even if it was to pretend to complain. He talked about you more and more as time went on. I think he was having a little fun, watching you manhandle all those other folks."

"You make me sound like a harridan," said Felicity.

"I probably shouldn't say this to you, but I wasn't too sure about you, at first," said the cook. "But I trust Mister Chumley's judgement. He hasn't been wrong about a person very often. When he started talking about bringing you home, I admit I got a little nervous."

"When was that?" asked Felicity.

"It was a year before he asked you to marry him," said the woman.

"Really?" Felicity was astonished. He'd never showed any interest in her, other than to respond to her requests, and give her occasional instructions. She'd thought he was just dragging himself through each day.

"Oh yes," said Ramona, stirring a pot on the stove. "It was plain he was taken with you. He said it was silly ... a man his age ... thinking about a woman yours. When he decided to sell out, he was worried about what would happen to you, though. He worried about that for six months before he made his decision."

"I thought he'd just gotten a wild hair," said Felicity. "I wasn't sure he was thinking straight at all."

"Nope," said Ramona, checking something that smelled delicious in the oven. "He chewed that bone for six months. That's when I knew things were going to be better. He really loves you."

"I love him too!" said Felicity.

"We all know that," said Ramona. "He does too. I think that's what he's most thankful about. You know, one time, he told me no man could be that lucky twice?"

Felicity felt an upwelling of emotion, and her eyes got misty.

"That's the whole point," she said. "I can't just go off with some stranger and pretend to be married to him. Especially not the man he's talking to!"

"He's talking to a candidate?" asked Ramona. "I heard the door chime a while back."

"Yes!" said the young wife. "And he's gorgeous!"

"Ahhh," said Ramona, nodding understandingly.

"I can't go off and be tempted with a man like that," moaned Felicity.

"Do you think Mr. Chumley isn't aware that you're a healthy young woman, with all the normal needs a young woman has?" The cook looked at her cooking, instead of her mistress.

"I chose to be with Chester!" said Felicity firmly. "He's my husband. I don't want another man."

"All I'm saying is that Mr. Chumley loves you. You've made him very happy, and it doesn't surprise me that he wants you to be happy too."

"I am happy!" insisted Felicity.

"It wouldn't surprise me if he wanted you to be even happier," said the cook.

"That's just ridiculous!" moaned Felicity. "People donít do that kind of thing."

"Most people arenít in the same kind of circumstances you are," said Ramona.

"Whose side are you on?" wailed the frustrated young woman.

"Yours," said the cook firmly. "Yours and Mr. Chumleyís"

"What does that mean?" moaned Felicity.

"It means that if doing this would make Mr. Chumley happy, Iím all for it," said the servant, "and if it means you could be happier too, then Iím extra all for it."

"This man ... if I do it, I mean ... heís just supposed to be my escort ... to play a role," said Felicity firmly. "Iím not going to get involved in some adulterous affair, here! I donít see how that would make me any happier."

"Maybe you should ask Mr. Chumley what he has in mind," said Ramona, with the wisdom of age. "I know him ... I know how he thinks. Convention isnít all that important to him when he really wants something."

"Iíll just do that!" said Felicity. "In fact, Iíll do it right now! This has already gone farther than I think it should." She started out of the kitchen, her stride long.

"Maíam!" called Ramona, about to remind her that her hands were covered in dough, and there was flour on her cheek. Felicity was already out of the door, though, and the cook just sighed. Youth! How impulsive ... how passionate ... how blind.

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