The Making Of A Gigolo 6 Christy BrownChapter 6
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The Making Of A Gigolo (6) - Christy BrownChapter 2 free porn video
Bev picked up the ringing phone and listened.
“It’s for you Bobby!” she yelled. “Somebody named Christy.”
Bobby came to the phone, and she told him her parents had approved the work.
“When do you want to start?” he asked.
“Could we do it tomorrow?”
“We can get started,” he said. “I’ll come over in the morning and take a look. We’ll have to choose the paint and all that. We should be able to start work by noon, but I have another job I have to do at two.”
“Could we pick out the paint today?” she asked. “Then we could start working tomorrow.”
“Okay,” said Bobby. “It will take me a while to get there. I have to ride my bike.”
“You live with your mother ... and don’t have a car?” She giggled. “How about I come pick you up? I have a car and everything.” He could hear the smile in her voice.
“Okay,” he said.
He gave her directions, and then started walking. He’d get to the blacktop by the time she got to the same place, and it would shorten her trip.
He was waiting there when she pulled up and he got in.
“I thought you said you lived down that road,” she said, pulling a U turn and heading back to town.
“I do. I just walked to save you some time.”
“I walk all the time. I bet I put in five miles a day,” she said.
“I can tell,” he said, looking over at her.
“Don’t look at me,” she said, blushing. “I’ve lost so much weight. I hardly have any boobs left.”
“They look fine to me,” he said.
She darted a look at him, and blushed.
They drove without talking to the hardware store and she spent an hour deciding which colors to use on her walls. She had decided she wanted a diagonal line, separating upper and lower, with different colors. She picked a third color for the molding. Bobby picked out a roller kit for her, and a trim brush, and they loaded the stuff in her trunk.
She opened the door to the house, while he held the paint.
“My parents are at work,” she said. “I didn’t exactly tell them about you.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“They’re very traditional,” she said. “They wouldn’t think it was proper for me to be here alone, with a man.”
“You shouldn’t sneak around behind their backs,” he said. “I could have come over and met them. Who are they?”
“Harold and Betty Nickerson,” she said.
“I know Harold,” he said. “He works for the USDA.”
“Yeah,” she said, surprised. “He works in the subsidies office.”
“We used to get checks from him,” said Bobby. “Back when we were still farming the land ourselves.”
“They’d still be unhappy about me being here with you alone,” she said.
“Well, then,” said Bobby. “We’ll have to make sure they don’t find out about it.” He looked around. “I know you were planning on starting tomorrow, but I have time to show you a couple of things. You might get some of it done today, and we can work on it more tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she said.
Bobby spread out a ground cloth, and got everything ready. The paint had just been shaken in the machine when it was mixed, so he didn’t need to stir it. He asked for a plastic bowl, and she got it from the kitchen. He poured a dab of paint in it, and showed her how to load the brush. Then he showed her how to steady the hand with the little finger, while running the sharp edge of the brush along a piece of molding. She tried it, and her hand slid expertly down the wall.
“Wow,” he said. “You’re better than most, for being new at it.”
“I did some painting in high school,” she said, her eyes on the brush as it slid along. “Landscapes and such.”
“You paint pictures?” he asked. “Can I see some?”
“I gave away most of them,” she said. “I did them for people for Christmas, and birthdays, and stuff like that.” She smiled and got into the closet, coming out with an album.
“What I think I was good at was photography,” she said. “I loved composing pictures in my mind, and then trying to get the camera to capture them that way.” She opened the book, and he leafed through it. She had an eye for buildings that showed age, or deterioration, and an eye for mixing curves and straight lines together in interesting ways. Bobby was no photographer, but he knew good pictures when he saw them.
“You’re not bad,” he said. “You should send some of these to magazines. Maybe you could sell them.”
“That was just for high school photography club,” she said. “I’m older now.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re not a good photographer,” he said. “I’d hire you to take pictures of my sisters, and mother.”
“Really?” She beamed.
“They’re growing up. We don’t even own a camera. I’ll trade you all this work for you taking portraits of each of them.”
“How many are there?” she asked.
“Seven,” he said. “Eight, including Mamma.”
“Dalton!” she yipped. “You’re Mary Dalton’s brother!”
“I am, indeed,” he said, smiling. “Only she’s Mary Brogan now. She got married in July.”
“I went to school with Mary!” she said. “I didn’t know her very well. She didn’t belong to any clubs and such.”
“I’d want you to do a portrait of her too,” he said. “She just got married, but she looks the same as when she was my sister.”
“She still is your sister!” she said, chiding him.
“That’s why I want a portrait of her,” he said.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “Right now I need to be a house painter.”
“Well, you have the trim work down better than I thought you would. Work on that and I’ll be back by later to check on you. If you stop, be sure to clean the brush carefully, or you’ll ruin it.”
“Okay,” she said.
“And you might want to change clothes,” he said. “No matter how careful you are, you’ll get paint on whatever you’re wearing.
“I don’t have any clothes I can get paint on,” she said.
“Well, pick something, because you’re going to get paint on you. I promise.”
He left, to go take care of a leaky faucet for Mr. Farthington, who was about eighty, and refused to go into a nursing home. The house was older than he was, and hadn’t been very well maintained for the last twenty or so years. Bobby stopped by, every once in a while, and took care of whatever was needed. Mr. Farthington didn’t have much money, but he had a garage full of old junk, that Bobby was welcome to any time he wanted any of it. On more than one occasion that stash of junk had supplied something Bobby needed.
The faucet needed a new washer, which Bobby had brought, so the job went quickly. Bobby went back to the Nickerson house. Her car was there, but no one answered the door. Afraid she’d fallen from the ladder he’d set up for her to use while painting up around the ceiling, he tried the door, and found it open. Loud music assailed his ears. The strident repetitive synthesizer notes of Won’t Get Fooled Again, by the Who, came blasting out of her room, as he walked toward it. It was almost time for the famous “YEEEEEEEAAAAAAHAHHHH” to come in, that many people could never quite figure out, because the organ pulsed all over the place, repeating some phrases. She hit it right on the money, though, as he stepped into the room.
Apparently, she hadn’t been kidding when she said she didn’t own any clothes she could get paint on.
She had decided to paint in just her panties.
Her head was back, her face to the ceiling, as she sang “YEEEEEAAAAAHHHHH” along with Roger Daltrey, howling at the ceiling, with her arm thrust out, paintbrush in hand. She was facing partly away from Bobby, which is why she didn’t see him until she turned, dancing, and faced him.
He admired her muscled legs, the swell of her hips, where light blue bikini panties perched. Her waist was thin, and her stomach flat as a board. He could see ribs, where they started, but only because she had taken in a huge breath to sing with. The ribs faded as they went under her breasts. Her breasts were indeed small, completely round, with tiny dark brown areolas and nipples. All in all, she looked about like she was fifteen, except that her whole body, when taken together, gave evidence of her maturity. Her dark hair, cut in a shag, had flopped over one eye as she turned.
Her mouth went into an “O” as the shock of his presence registered.
Bobby simply turned around, to face the door.
He winced, as he heard the needle scrape across the LP on the turntable, in one corner, and it was suddenly silent.
“I was afraid you’d fallen,” he said. “I knocked, but you couldn’t hear me.”
“It’s okay,” she gasped. “Let me get something on.”
“I can just leave,” he said.
“No, it’s okay, really,” she said. “You said you’d be back ... I just didn’t think it would be this soon.”
“My other job went quicker than I thought it would,” he said, still talking to the hallway.
“Okay,” she said.
He turned around. She had put on a T-shirt that went to her mid thighs. She was blushing furiously.
“Shorts!“ she gasped. “I forgot the shorts!”
Bobby turned around again, grinning.
“It’s okay,” she said, nervously, maybe thirty seconds later. “I’m covered.”
He turned around again. She was pulling a pair of shorts on. The zipper gaped, showing her baby blue panties again, as she buttoned them. Then she zipped them up.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she moaned.
“Don’t be,” he said. “It was my fault.”
“I didn’t want to get paint on anything,” she said.
He grinned at her. She had paint on her jaw, on both hands, and spots of it on her forearms. He picked up the rag he’d used earlier, left the room to get it damp, and returned.
She stood, tentatively, as he approached her, and her eyes widened, until she realized what he was doing. He cleaned her jaw, and dabbed at two more spots on her face. Her hands would have to be washed thoroughly, but he got most of it off her arms, while she stood and let him clean her up.
“You should paint in the nude all the time,” he said, casually, as he moved the rag over her arms.
She blushed again, but smiled.
“Nobody else has ever seen me like that,” she said. “Well, except for Richard.”
“I’m a very lucky guy,” he said.
She smiled shyly. “Thank you.”
“I’m surprised,” he said. “Most girls would have thrown something at me.”
“You turned around,” she said. “Most guys wouldn’t have done that.”
“I didn’t want to,” he said.
“Now you’re flirting with me,” she said.
“Uh huh,” he agreed.
“I’m a married woman,” she said firmly.
“Yes Ma’am,” he said, stepping back. “No more flirting.” He crossed his heart and she giggled, blushing again.
He looked around. She’d done very well, and he told her so. She beamed, but pointed out all the spots where she’d made mistakes.
“Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll teach you how to use the roller.”
“Okay!” she said brightly. “I like painting.”
“I like to watch you paint,” he said. He put a contrite look on his face and held up a hand. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s a habit.”
“Oh?” she smiled. “You flirt with all the girls?”
“Only the good looking married ones, whose husbands aren’t around to beat me to a pulp,” he said.
“I don’t think too many men could beat you up at all,” she said, looking at his broad shoulders, and the muscles in his arms, where they were bare. “Richard is a Green Beret, so he might be able to ... but not many could.”
He grinned. “Thank you. I like being flirted with.”
“I wasn’t flirting!” she yipped. She blushed again. “Ohhhh, go on. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t show up until after nine. I’ll try to be a little more presentable.”
“Darn,” he sighed.
“Ohhhh you!” she giggled. “Go on. I suddenly feel like I’m twelve again, and a man is looking at me for the first time!”
“You don’t look anywhere near twelve,” said Bobby. “Trust me on that.”
He turned, and left, before she could respond.
Christy sat on the bed. She couldn’t believe what had happened. He’d seen her naked! Almost naked, anyway. But he’d turned around ... treating her with respect. She’d seen the appreciation in his eyes, even after she was dressed. And he’d flirted with her! She felt a streak of pleasure go through her. She knew she should have been outraged. Her parents would have been outraged. But it felt good to be ... admired ... desired. She hadn’t been a sexual being very long, and Richard wasn’t what she’d dreamed of, at least not in bed.
She closed her eyes. The way he’d said, “You don’t look anywhere near twelve,” reverberated in her mind. His voice had sounded so ... sexy!
She’d flirted with him too. He was right about that. She couldn’t believe she’d done that either. She’d never flirted in her whole life, as far as she knew. Maybe a little bit with Richard, when they were dating. He’d made all the moves then, kissing her and touching her, until she was so hot she let him do all kinds of things she knew she shouldn’t. But they’d felt so good!
She knew she shouldn’t flirt with this man either, or let him flirt with her. But it felt so good!
She sat there for another ten minutes, her mind wandering. When she caught herself imagining going to the door in the morning dressed only in panties, and letting him in, she blushed, got up, and set about cleaning up. The brush was lying where she’d tossed it while she was putting on her shirt. She looked down at her shirt. She could see her nipples poking through it, plain as day, even though it was loose. Had they been doing that when he was there?
She shook herself, and put the record back on, turning it up again.
It didn’t help much, though. She kept wondering what he would look like ... painting in the nude.
It wasn’t any easier the next day. When Bobby showed up, Christy couldn’t keep from looking at him. He hadn’t shaved, and the dark stubble on his chin made her want to feel it. She loved nothing more than being tickled and scratched on her throat, by short, stiff stubble.
What really bothered her was that he did not flirt with her. He was very businesslike. First he showed her how to draw a line where the first color would barely go over. Later, he said, they’d tape that line, and the second contrasting color would be applied. That would make a crisp, clean line between the colors. Then he taught her how to load the roller, and how to make W shapes with it, and then fill in the blanks between the lines. While she used the roller, he painted trim with astonishing speed, never once getting paint on the wall.
She had to stop when the lower halves of two walls and the upper halves of the other two walls were done. The paint had to dry before she could tape the lines, and start on the new color.
Bobby cleaned his brush, and they took a break to get a snack. Once settled into chairs, and munching, Christy looked at him. He looked so completely normal, just like any guy you might bump into on the street, and yet, somehow, he was more appealing than most men she bumped into on the street.
He was looking at her too ... just looking at her ... and it made her heart beat faster.
“I see you found something to paint in,” he said, his eyes wandering over the T shirt she was wearing.
She had thought about not wearing a bra when she put that shirt on. The thought of that had made her heart beat faster too. Then she had forced herself to be sensible.
“I figured I had shocked you enough already,” she said.
“I have seven sisters,” he tossed off, comfortably. “I’m used to seeing good looking women running around half naked.”
“It didn’t look like it when I looked at your...” She clapped a hand over her mouth, and her eyes went wide. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud! Even worse, her eyes dropped, obviously telegraphing what she had been thinking about. The table blocked her view of the front of his pants, though, something she was thankful for, at the moment.
“Well, I assume I’m used to seeing them,” he said. “You’d be surprised, though. Sometimes I even react to them. I’m just a man, after all.”
“I bet that really gets a rise out of them,” she said. She blinked. That hadn’t come out quite right either.
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