The Making Of A Gigolo 2 Martha ThompsonChapter 2
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The Making Of A Gigolo (2) - Martha ThompsonChapter 3 free porn video
She didn’t berate him for cumming in her. In fact, she was insatiable. She loved to cuddle afterwards, and kiss him, saying very little. When he got hard again, she cooed with delight, and pulled him on top of her again. This time, when he talked about impregnating her, she said nothing, and only hummed as he spurted into her again.
It was only when they stopped for supper that her senses returned. She’d put on panties, more because she was sopping wet with his semen, than for modesty. He’d paid homage to her breasts all afternoon, so she left them naked. He stayed naked too. She was a passionate lover, in ways different than Tilly was, and he wanted to continue this relationship for as long as she’d let him.
“What am I going to do if you’ve gotten me pregnant?” she sighed, as they ate leftovers from lunch.
“I hope you have a healthy, bouncing baby,” he said calmly.
“How can you wish that on me?” she moaned.
“Those breasts were made to feed a baby,” he said, “and me too, when the time comes.” Tilly’s milk had always been sweet and warm in his mouth.
“I can’t ... just have a baby!” she said. “Arthur knows he doesn’t touch me. He’ll know it was another man who got me that way!”
“Then have him make love to you,” said Bobby. “Make him think it’s his.”
“That’s horrible!” she said.
“How he treats you ... and himself ... is what’s horrible,” countered Bobby.
“You make it sound so simple. He’ll divorce me.”
“Not if he thinks it’s his,” said Bobby.
“I can’t stand to let him touch me,” moaned Martha. “He stinks of whiskey, and he slobbers. It’s been years, but I still remember that!”
“Maybe you should divorce him,” said Bobby.
“I don’t believe in divorce,” she said. “I was raised not to believe in divorce.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t get you pregnant,” said Bobby.
“It might be a little late for that!” she retorted.
Bobby stood up. He was erect again.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” said Bobby, fisting his prick and masturbating it slowly.
“You don’t play fair,” moaned Martha.
She was just as wild in bed as before, and he stayed until six in the evening, dumping three more loads of his heavy spunk into her saturated pussy.
She didn’t even put on panties, this time, and lay in the bed, looking well-fucked, as he dressed.
“You’ll come back ... won’t you?” she asked.
“I’ll get you pregnant for sure, if I do,” he said.
“You’ll come back ... won’t you?” she repeated.
“I’ll come back,” he said.
She hopped up, disregarding the stream of white that ran down her inner thigh, and got her purse. She pulled out a fifty dollar bill.
“This is for everything you’ve done for me,” she said, holding it out.
“It’s too much,” he said.
“No ... it’s not,” she replied.
As with Tilly, about once a week was enough for Martha. She felt bad about doing what she was doing, but then Arthur would be Arthur, and she’d come up with some reason to call Bobby over.
Mamma noticed.
“How is it that Tilly Johnson and Martha Thompson have so many chores for you to do?” she asked him, one day, while they were in the field harvesting wheat. Mary, who was now seventeen, was driving the combine, after Bobby had taught her how to do it.
“Well, neither of them have a man to do things,” said Bobby.
Mamma snorted. “Arthur Thompson is a full man.”
“Not really,” said Bobby. “He doesn’t do much, even when he’s there, which isn’t often.” Bobby had not, in fact, ever seen Arthur at his house.
Mamma was no fool. She remembered Joe, very well indeed. But she said nothing. So far, only the Johnson woman had gotten pregnant. That she did so after Bobby started working for her was just coincidental. And her poor crippled husband was doing much better, if gossip could be counted as fact. That Arthur was worthless was well known.
Martha managed to stay un-pregnant for three months, during which Bobby only saw her once a week. But once a week covers every time in a woman’s cycle, and, when she missed a period, she wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t intended on getting with child, but by the same token, her life, which up to that point had been dull and listless, was so much happier now that the concept of having Bobby’s baby just didn’t seem to be the end of the world. She knew she’d have to face Arthur’s rage, when he found out, but Arthur raged anyway ... so what was the difference. If he divorced her, she’d do fine. The courts were very much on the side of women with children, even if the child in question wasn’t born yet. She’d wanted to have children, when she got married. That want had dimmed, when Arthur started drinking, and had faded away. Now, just as her womb was going to be full of new life, her hope for raising children was gestating too. It was also possible that Arthur would be so ashamed that another man had gotten her with child that he would not admit that publicly. In either case, she was married and folks in town would assume it was her husband who got her that way.
It wasn’t something she would ever have conceived of doing intentionally, but when it happened, she welcomed it with open arms.
Just as Joe’s women, when they got pregnant, had welcomed his babies with open arms.
Bobby, like Joe, was providing a service that, had other men ... the “right” men ... been able, or willing to do so, would not have been needed.
Bobby, on the other hand, was not so sanguine about it.
“You have to get away from Arthur,” he said, when she told him. She chose a moment, right after he had spurted in her, to tell him how important those spurts really were.
“I can’t do that, Bobby,” she panted. “I told you, I don’t believe in divorce.”
“He’ll hurt you,” said Bobby. He’d repaired another hole in the wall, where Arthur, in his rage, had kicked it.
“He won’t hurt me,” said Martha. She kissed Bobby, to keep him from disagreeing with her.
Harvest was over, and slack time had arrived. Martha was just beginning to show, and if she wore the right clothes, it was still possible for her to pass, unnoticed, as she went about her business in town. That wouldn’t last much longer, though.
Technically, no one should raise an eyebrow. She was married. But Bobby couldn’t shake the feeling that things could come unraveled.
So, being the kind of man he was ... he went fishing.
He found Arthur at Ford’s Bend, on the river. It wasn’t really a good place to fish, which was why Arthur went there. He knew others wouldn’t come there to fish. When Bobby walked up, Arthur had just finished a pint of Old Crow, and had thrown the bottle into the river. He was lobbing rocks at it, trying to break it, when Bobby came into view. The bottle was not in any danger.
Arthur knew Bobby, of course. He had no idea that Bobby had been in his house. He knew that repairs had been made, but didn’t pay any attention to that. All he really cared about was making sure that he had plenty of pints, for when he needed one.
“Fishing’s no good here,” he slurred, as Bobby walked up.
“I’m not here to fish,” said Bobby.
Arthur peered at the pole in Bobby’s hand, and the tackle box in his other hand.
“Looks like it,” said Arthur, cackling.
“I’ve been fucking your wife,” said Bobby, conversationally.
It took ten seconds for that to sink into Arthur’s alcohol fogged brain.
“Wha’d you say?” he asked, rocking back. “Sounded like you said you been fuckin’ my wife!”
“That’s what I said,” said Bobby, setting the pole carefully on the ground, and the tackle box right beside it.
“You can’t do that!” slurred Arthur.
“I have been,” said Bobby. “I got her pregnant too.”
Arthur was having trouble concentrating. Something in his brain told him to get mad, but he was having a hard time figuring out why. The boy’s words finally seeped between molecules of whiskey.
“You sumbitch!” he croaked.
“You know why I’ve been fucking Martha?” asked Bobby, as if he were asking something inconsequential, like where lettuce came from.
“What?”
“I asked you if you know why I’ve been fucking Martha,” said Bobby patiently.
“What?” Arthur was having a hard time concentrating again.
Bobby realized the man was way too drunk to do what he’d come there to do. So, he pushed the man into the river.
Arthur flailed his arms, and went down on a rock, which bruised his hip. He floundered in the water, sitting up.
“Wha’d you do that for?” he whined.
He labored to get up, and, as soon as he was standing, Bobby pushed him again, into deeper water.
It took fifteen minutes, but eventually, Arthur sobered up enough to start fighting back. That was fine with Bobby. He deflected the man’s weak swings, and kept pushing him back into the river. He had to actually chase the man, to save him from drowning when the current caught him once, and dragged him back to where their things were. Arthur tried to get out of the water, but Bobby flung him back onto the rocks, where the water was only a foot deep.
Arthur sat there, more aware, now, of what was happening.
“What the fuck are you doing, boy!?” he yelled.
“I’m trying to get your attention, old man!” said Bobby firmly.
“You can’t do this to me!” yelled Arthur.
“I have been, and I’m going to keep doing it, until you sober up enough that I can talk to you,” said Bobby.
“I’m not drunk!” complained Arthur.
“Yeah, and you’re not wet either,” commented Bobby.
It took another hour before Arthur began to fight back with some vigor, and scream. When he was at the point where Bobby thought he was sober enough to really understand what was happening, he pushed him down one last time and said, “Don’t get up!”
“Why the fuck are you doing this?” whined Arthur.
“I’m trying to decide whether to kill you, or let you live,” said Bobby calmly.
“What?” It wasn’t a drunken question, this time.
“Let’s start all over again,” said Bobby.
Arthur flinched, and actually lay back down on the rocks.
“Not that,” said Bobby, resisting a smile. He had taken no pleasure in tormenting the man, but it was still humorous. He stretched out a hand.
Fawn
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