The Making of a Gigolo (2) - Martha Thompson
Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3
This is the second in a series of stories about how Bobby Dalton was transformed, from a normal teenage boy, into a man sought after by many women. His story starts with "The Making of a Gigolo - Tilly Johnson", and there is much information there that will be useful to you in understanding what happens in this story. Please read the stories in order, for your fullest enjoyment.
My thanks to "Peaches" for her editing and proofreading work.
Bobby looked at his list. He had four customers now, for his impromptu handyman business, which had started, quite by accident, when he repaired the drain in Tilly Johnson's kitchen sink. She had a friend, with some rotten boards on her porch, who she recommended Bobby to. He had fixed those boards, at which point the woman engaged him to do a few other things. She had a friend too, whose husband was a traveling salesman, and who needed a man around to do little fix-it repairs. She had a friend too.
It was high summer, the year following when Bobby had lost his innocence. Tilly had given birth in June to a baby that she and Jake were inordinately proud of — she, because she said it was a gift, and Jake, because everyone thought that he was the father, and now looked at him with more respect. He'd brightened up a good deal, and now went out with Tilly from time to time.
The crop in the field was doing fine and would be ready to harvest in a couple of weeks, and Bobby had time to do a few short chores, and earn a little more money towards a car.
It was that friend of a friend of a friend who Bobby was about to visit for the first time. Her name was Martha Thompson, and Bobby knew her from seeing her around at town events.
Bobby remembered Martha as a tallish woman with broad shoulders. He had looked at her more as an adult than as a woman, back then. Noticing women as ... women ... was something he began doing quite routinely after Tilly took his virginity, and then got pregnant by him. But he hadn't seen Martha around since he had started looking at women differently. He didn't exactly think about that. He'd worked for two women after Tilly, and nothing sexual had happened at all. He hadn't gone to either house with sex on his mind, but he had evaluated the women as potential sexual partners. After Tilly, every woman seemed to be a potential sexual partner. But only potential.
So, when Martha opened the door and smiled at him, Bobby noticed several things. He noticed her smile, first. It was friendly and open, and her eyes held none of the wariness that some of the people in town had when they looked at one of "those" kids ... the kids of a woman known to have had Joe's babies. Then he noticed her breasts, which were large and pillowy under the gray dress she was wearing.
Then he noticed that she had noticed him ... noticing her breasts. When his eyes came back up to her face, hers were pinned on his.
She didn't say anything, but he felt heat on his cheeks as he realized he'd been caught looking where a gentleman doesn't look ... at least not when someone else can see him looking.
"So, are you ready to work?" asked the woman. He'd never talked to her before, and her voice was lower ... richer than most other women he knew.
"Yes, Ma'am," he said. "What do you need done?"
"I've got a pear tree out back that split down the trunk in a storm last spring. I hoped it would heal up, but half of it needs to come down or I'm afraid the whole thing will die. I love those pears, but they're so heavy it's pulling the trunk apart.”
Bobby followed her, watching her generous behind move under the gray dress. It looked big, but hard too. Bobby wondered how old this woman was. He didn't have the kind of experience that would tell him that. In his mind, he compared her to Tilly. Tilly wasn't even twenty-five yet, and was still slim and athletic. She was athletic in bed too. This woman had more flesh on her body, and her hair was pulled back in a pony tail, something unusual in that micro-culture of America. Most women pinned their hair up with bobby pins. He liked the hanging hair behind her head, though. He liked how it bounced as she walked. She looked strong.
"I've got a saw out in the shed," she said over her shoulder, as she led him out the back door.
"Okay," he said.
She pulled open the slat-board door of a rickety looking unpainted shed, and peered inside. She pointed toward one corner.
"I think it's back there," she said. "I'd look for it myself, but I'm just deathly afraid of spiders. Would you find it?"
"Sure," he said carelessly. He went in, and let his eyes adjust to the dusty darkness. He saw a one-man crosscut saw hanging on a nail, but had to climb over a pile of boards, and a wheelbarrow to get to it. He saw the teeth were rusty, when he pulled it down.
"Got a file?" he asked.
"Maybe in there," said Martha, leaning into the shed to point to an old dresser, in one corner.
Bobby pulled drawers open to find a mixture of tools. He found a file in one. It didn't have a handle on it, but when he ran his finger across the ridges, they felt sharp. There was a broom in the corner too, and he took it and swept it all over the dresser, walls, and floor nearby.
"Won't be any spiders around now," he said. "I'm going to need you to hold the saw, while I sharpen it."
"Oh ... all right," she said.
She stepped gingerly into the shed, trying not to touch anything. Bobby laid the saw on top of the dresser, with a foot of the teeth hanging off, and told her to hold it down. She did, and he started addressing each tooth with the file.
"It's hot in here," said Martha, lifting a hand to wipe sweat off her brow.
"Yes Ma'am," said Bobby, not really paying attention.
"You make me feel like an old woman, calling me Ma'am like that," said the woman, her voice chiding.
"I'm sorry," said Bobby. "It's just manners."
"Well, I'd like it if you called me Martha instead."
He grinned. "Okay, Martha. I've never known a Martha before."
While he finished addressing the teeth, she asked him questions about how his sisters were doing, and his mother. He replied without thinking, paying attention to the file, and the tooth he was working on. When he was done, his shirt was dark with sweat.
It was bright outside when they left the shed and Bobby was better able to see that all the teeth were now shiny and sharp.
"It feels better out here," said Martha, fanning herself, "even if it is sunny. At least there's a breeze."
"You could just wait in the air conditioning," said Bobby.
"We haven't bought one yet," said Martha. "I guess we're just used to fans."
She took him to the tree, which had grown two trunks early in life. Bobby could see the split where the trunks were pulling apart. The branches of the tree were heavy with greenish yellow fruit. He walked around the tree, looking at it from several directions.
"You know," he said. "I have an idea that might save this tree."
"Really?" Martha sounded excited.
"Back in those drawers," he said, pointing at the shed, "I saw some eye bolts. They were pretty long ones. If I drilled holes in both trunks, about ... there,” He used the four foot long saw to point high up on one trunk, "we could run wire between them, and twist it, to pull the trunks back together. Then we could slather tar on the injury, so water and bugs couldn't get in. It might heal, then."
"Why, how clever!" yipped Martha. "I never so much as thought of doing anything like that. Do you think it would work?"
"I don't really know," said Bobby. He looked at the tree. "Both sides seem to be healthy right now. We don't really have anything to lose, trying."
"Well I suppose you're right," said Martha. "I'm so glad Jenny told me about you. You're smart as a whip!"
They returned to the shed, and retrieved the eyebolts. There was an old wooden ladder lying against the shed, in the back, and they set that up too. There was no drill though.
"I've got one at home. I'll run get it," said Bobby.
When he returned, with the Yankee type hand-cranked drill and a gallon bucket of roofing tar, Martha steadied the ladder while he climbed up and drilled the first hole. He slipped in the eyebolt, put a large washer on it that he'd also brought from home, and then the nut. Then, they changed sides of the tree and did it all over again. Now all they needed was heavy wire. They found nothing in the shed.
"How about my old clothes line?" she asked. "I don't use it any more, since we got an electric dryer."
"Perfect," said Bobby, and followed her to the back fence, where the sagging old clothes line was. Rather than try to unwind the ends of a wire from the T pole, which was embedded in the ground, Bobby just filed through it. It was as thick as a nail.
Back at the tree, they had to move the ladder back and forth, as the wire was threaded through the eyebolts to form a circle of wire, which Bobby twisted together, bending the ends back so they caught each other. Taking a foot long length of one-by-two lumber from the shed, he slipped it between the two strands, in the middle, and began twisting the wire with the board. He could see the wire tighten and shorten as it twisted. Looking down, he called to Martha.
"Step back and tell me when you think I've gone far enough."
She left the ladder, and walked twenty feet away, shading her eyes with her hand. He kept twisting.
"How 'bout now?" he yelled.
"I don't know," she said helplessly. "Why don't you come down here and look."
When he started to let go of the board, he realized the wire was trying to untwist, making the board spin backwards. It didn't go all the way, but it definitely loosened a lot. He'd have to think about a way to solve that problem. He climbed down and went to where Martha was standing. The branches needed to come in at least two more feet. He sensed the board would break before he could apply that much pressure, so he returned to the shed, where he found an old child's wagon, with a missing wheel. He worked on getting the axle off, and took it back. He also grabbed a roll of quarter inch rope that he'd seen in a drawer.
Taking it back, he asked, "Can you tie a slip knot?"
"Mercy me, no," she laughed. "I can barely tie my shoes."
"Okay, then, for what I'm thinking of doing, somebody's going to have to tie a knot. Can you climb the ladder?"
She looked up, and nodded. "If you'll hold it I can."
He told Martha how to insert the metal rod through the wire, to replace the board, and tied a slip knot in the end of the rope. He had her hold the rope in her teeth, and climb the ladder, while he held it steady.
It was as she did so that he happened to look up her dress.
What he saw first were pale buttocks, under the dress. Then, as she lifted a foot, he saw her pink slit, lying just behind a puff of dark hair. She was looking up, and didn't see him staring.
He watched, sometimes her hands, and sometimes up her dress, as she inserted the metal rod and began copying what she had seen him do.
"Okay, stop!" he called up. "I'm going out to look, so don't move."
She stood frozen, as he backed up and eyed the trunks. He went back and held the ladder again.
"Twist it ten more turns," he called up.
She did, but it got so tight that she had to put one foot down a rung, to bring her body weight into play, and he saw her pussy lips again.
She froze again, as he went back and looked. He returned to hold the ladder and told her to give it three more twists. She did, using all her weight, and he instructed her to take the rope from her mouth and slip the noose over the end of the rod and pull it tight. Then while she held the bar parallel with the ground, he had her stay still again as he tied the other end of the rope off around the trunk, below the split. That kept the rod from whirling as she let off pressure, and kept the wire tight. Holding the ladder again, he told her to come down.
This time, however, she was looking down, as he was looking up.
She was blushing when she reached the ground.
"You were looking up my dress," she said, accusingly.
"I couldn't really help it, Ma'am," said Bobby.
"I wasn't planning on climbing a ladder," she said. "It's just been so hot that underthings seem so ... unnecessary."
"Ma'am, what you do is really none of my business," he said.
"I thought you were going to call me Martha," she said.
"Well ... I thought you were mad."
"No," she said, flushing more. "It wasn't your fault. I just ... I mean ... you must think I'm some sort of hussy!"
Bobby took a chance and grinned. "I don't think you're a hussy. I didn't have to look either. I shouldn't have."
"But you did," she said.
"Well ... yes, I guess I did."
"You've probably never seen anything like that, I imagine," said Martha.
"Well, I do live with seven sisters and my Mamma," said Bobby.
"Oh," she said, as if she'd just thought of that, even though she knew it well. "I suppose you're used to it, then."
"I wouldn't say that," he said, grinning. "I don't exactly get that kind of view very often." His tone made it clear that he'd enjoyed the view.
"You mustn't tell anyone what you saw," she said, worry in her voice.
"Of course not, Martha," he said. "That wouldn't be gentlemanly at all."
"Not even your young friends!" she cautioned.
"That's a sight I'd like to keep to myself anyway," said Bobby, trying to placate her.
"Why, am I that ugly?" she sounded hurt.
"Of course not," he said. "It was just so pretty that I don't want to share it." He had no idea if she'd take offense or not, but he was having a hard time figuring out exactly what she wanted him to say.
Her blush returned and she fanned her face. "Oh my!" she said. She looked around, as if she suspected the neighbors were trying to listen in.
"Well, we're finished here," she said. "I should get you something cool to drink."
"That'd be real nice, Martha," he said.
She took him to the kitchen, and served him cherry Kool-Aid. She seemed to have a lot of energy all of a sudden, and kept darting looks at him. He was watching her move around, of course, and appreciating her body. She was definitely plump, but not overly so, and her breasts looked like they were trying to explode through her dress. He wondered why he'd never noticed that before.
"You're staring at me," she said, filling a glass with ice cubes.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not trying to make you feel uncomfortable.”
"Oh, I guess I'm just not used to it. It's been a long time since a young man stared at me."
"I don't know why," said Bobby, taking the glass she handed him. "I think you're pretty."
"Oh my!" she chirped, fanning her face with her hand.
"I probably shouldn't stare at you, though," he said. "I'm sure your husband would take offense."
The change in her demeanor was remarkable. Gone was the flighty, embarrassed woman. Her shoulders squared, and her face took on a set look.
"You don't have to be coy with me, Bobby. I'm well aware that everybody in town knows my husband is a drunkard, and basically worthless."
That was true. Bobby did know that Arthur Thompson had spent more than one night in jail, sleeping off the effects of overindulgence. He owned the Rexall drug store, but was rarely in it. Instead, he got a bottle of whiskey and "went fishing" a lot. He did, in fact, go to the river nearby. Kids had spied on him for years, watching him talk to himself and get drunk on the bank, with a line in the water. There was great speculation about whether there was any bait on the hook, since he never seemed to catch anything, but nobody knew for sure. Arthur carried a lot more weight than his wife did ... a lot more, and his constantly florid face made it look like he was about to have a stroke all the time. People were polite to him, though, because he let them run credit accounts at the drug store.
"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," said Bobby. "It's just that it probably isn't proper for me to look up your dress, like that."
"Probably?" she asked, distracted by his conditional statement.
"Well, it was right pretty," he said, "and I am nineteen years old."
"Are you really?" asked Martha, completely distracted now. "Where has the time gone? The last time I saw you, you were just starting High School!"
"Time does fly," said Bobby.
"I should call you Bob," she said. "Why, you're a grown man!"
"Which is why I shouldn't have looked up your dress," he said.
"Oh ... no harm done, I guess," she said, suddenly back to being the nervous, flighty woman. She looked at him, and glanced away quickly. "Could I ask you a question?"
"Do you promise you'll never tell a soul I asked you?"
"Was it really ... pretty?"
Bobby heard the yearning in her voice. He had no experience with a neglected wife. He would pick up on that tone of voice much more quickly, in the future, but this time it was something new. It made his ears prick up, though, because he knew that tone meant something serious was going through this woman's mind.
"It was beautiful," he said softly.
"Oh my!" she gasped. "Oh my!"
"There's nothing wrong with the rest of you either," he went on, somehow knowing that she'd liked what he said.
"Ohhhh!" she moaned. "I shouldn't be doing this!"
"You're not doing anything," said Bobby. "I'm just telling you that you're right pretty, that's all."
"Pretty!" she moaned. "Oh my!"
She jumped up, and went to the counter. Bobby saw her hand shaking as she poured more Kool-Aid into her glass. She stood there, and took a drink, facing away from him. Then she squared her shoulders again, and turned around, to sit down.
"I am a hussy," she said. "No decent woman would have asked you that."
"I think you're being too hard on yourself," said Bobby. "It's a little thing. You are pretty, and it shouldn't be so shocking for someone to tell you that."
Bobby sat there, as she began to talk. Somehow she got distracted again, and soon she was spilling out her woes, about Arthur, and how he was always gone, or always drunk when he was home. They'd been married fifteen years, and he'd been drunk for fourteen of it, as far as she was concerned. It had gotten worse lately, not that he acted any different, but it was clearly affecting his health, and he wouldn't do anything about it. She talked about vacations cancelled, and things not done, because he was in no shape to do them. It turned out that she went to the drug store most days, and managed it herself, though she tried to keep that from outsiders.
Finally she wound down.
"I can't believe I told you all that," she sighed.
"I won't say anything to anybody," said Bobby, reaching out to touch her hand. "You're just lonely and discouraged. I'm glad you had a chance to get it off your chest."
"You're an amazing young man," she said, looking at him. "Most men your age would probably laugh at me."
"I guess I'm not most men," he said.
"No, you’re definitely not," she said, an odd tone in her voice. "Well!" she said brightly. "Enough of my complaints. You've been very nice to listen to them, but you probably want to be paid and get on with your pursuits."
"I didn't know how long you'd need me," he said. "I left the whole day open for you. Is there anything else you need done?"
"Well," she said, her eyes taking on a faraway look. "There are a few other trees that could use pruning ... and you did sharpen up that saw."
They went back out, and surveyed the rest of the trees in the yard. Several had hanging branches, broken in some past wind storm. Bobby took more rope and tied it to the handle of the bucket of tar. Then he took off his shirt and climbed the trees, sawing off branches that were dead or broken, and then hauling the tar up to dress the wounds. Martha stood on the ground, watching him work, and pointing out more branches to be removed. Another two hours passed before all of the trees had been taken care of.
Bobby climbed back down from the last one, and stood, his chest glistening with sweat in the noon sun.
"You must let me feed you," said Martha, her eyes roaming over his muscled chest.
"That would be nice," he said.
"I'll get you a towel before you put your shirt back on," she said.
She did, watching him rub the sweat and sawdust from his upper body, and then taking the towel back. She fixed hamburgers, and they talked some more as they ate. She told him a little about growing up, and in doing so, he found out she was thirty-five.
Then she got her pocketbook, and paid him for his chores, giving him much more than he'd expected.
"There's one more thing," she said, putting her purse back on the table. "I want you to take a bag of pears to your mother."
He followed her out to the tree they'd repaired. He'd just climbed all the other trees, and the ladder was still sitting there. She'd given him a paper bag.
"I know which ones are ripe," she said. "I'll just pick them, and drop them down to you."
She put a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder.
"Hold it steady for me, please," she said.
She climbed, and, for the next ten minutes, showed him her pussy as much as she possibly could. Rather than moving the ladder, she cautioned him to hold it steady, and reached, lifting one leg out behind her, as a counterbalance. She was shameless about it, and he was shameless about looking. Each time she dropped a pear to him, she looked at him first, watching him shift his eyes from between her legs, to the pear in her hand, before dropping it.
Finally she came down. She was breathing hard, and her face was flushed.
"Tell your mother I hope she enjoys them," she said, breathlessly. "I certainly enjoyed picking them for you."
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