The Making of a Gigolo Boxed Set, Volume Four

Foreword

This is the fourth and final set of four stories in The Making of a Gigolo series boxed set. These stories continue the experiences and exploits of Bobby Dalton during his transformation from a normal teenage boy, into a man sought after by many women. The stories must be read in order from one through sixteen to make any sense, so if you have not read volumes one through three of this boxed set then read them first, before reading this one.

It is noted that the books in this volume are significantly longer than earlier books. This because the complexity of Bobby's life began to create significant pressure on him. Few men are involved with as many women as Bobby and while he gave freely of himself to each one, each took something from him. If he hadn't had the support system at home, he might have become jaded and cynical.

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Table of Contents

The Making of a Gigolo, Book Thirteen - Misty Compton

The Making of a Gigolo, Book Fourteen - Erica Bradford

The Making of a Gigolo, Book Fifteen - Agatha Roberts

The Making of a Gigolo, Book Sixteen - Epilogue

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The Making of a Gigolo, Book Thirteen - Misty Compton

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Chapter One

1975 - August

The weather was beginning to get cool at night. The days were still warm and glorious. It was going to be perfect weather for the Harvest Festival, and Amanda Griggs was very happy about that. KDEF was sponsoring the event, in coordination with a number of other businesses. She was responsible for the nightly concerts that would take place at the State Fairgrounds.

It had been an obvious choice, for the group of businessmen who gathered in a smoky room, to cuss and discuss the festival. Amanda ran the best radio station in the area, and had the connections, so they thought, to find and recruit some good talent.

Amanda felt the same way, until she started trying to contact agents of big name musical talents. She found out that being the general manager of a radio station in a town most big time agents had never heard of didn't get her much.

In fact, it had gotten her nothing, thus far.

She sighed and sat back. Belinda Snokes, who had hired on as a college kid, to do odd jobs around the station, stuck her head in the door of the office.

"I got all those tapes organized. Three of them were bad, so I re-recorded them."

"Thanks, Belinda," said Amanda.

"Why so glum?" asked the girl.

"The festival," sighed Amanda. "I can't get any agents to talk to me in Nashville, or Hollywood either," said Amanda. "Everybody's already booked up. I had no idea they scheduled these things so far in advance. Where am I going to find somebody to put on concerts at the festival?"

"Who have you tried?" asked the girl.

Amanda reeled off a list ... a long list of names of well-known musical groups, in various genres, from rock and roll, to blues, to country and western.

Belinda nodded. "Yeah, all of those are good, but they're big names. They won't come to Hutch unless the money's really good."

Amanda scowled. "This is Hutchinson. The money will never be really good."

Belinda just grinned. "Then you have to go for somebody less well known." She thought for a moment. "Like that new girl, Misty Compton. We just started playing some of her stuff on the country segment you dreamed up."

"Don't make fun of me," growled Amanda. "Country is getting more and more lively. It's beginning to allow cross-over from other genres. I hear a lot of rock and roll influence in some of the new artists."

Belinda held up both hands, palms outward.

"Hey, I'm just telling you. That Compton girl is going to go far. I love her myself. But she's only put out one album, and it hasn't been out long enough for people to make up their minds about her. I think she'll hit it big. Maybe you could sign her before that happens."

Amanda sighed. "Find me a number. I'll give it a whirl."

************

The artist being discussed in far-off Kansas, was currently cooking pasta, for macaroni and cheese. Six months ago, Misty Compton would have been doing that in a fifteen year old trailer, in a rundown trailer park nestled in a wooded valley, near a town called Hog Holler.

At twenty years of age, Misty had spent her whole life - save the last six months - as a resident of Hog Holler, and had only recently seen enough of the big, wide world to understand just what it meant to be from a town named Hog Holler in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

People had been nice to her, as she was invited to record her very first record album. Everything had been shiny and new, and the people had seemed shiny and new too. Misty had been around long enough to have run into a variety of "sorts of fellas", as she thought of it. She had no trouble recognizing a snake in the grass when she saw one. Or three or four.

And Nashville was full of snakes.

She'd been discovered by a talent scout whose car broke down right in front of the Hog Holler community center, where there just happened to be a talent contest going on. He had walked in to find a phone, and heard her singing.

Since then it had all been a blur. The very active and very talkative man had assured her she'd be a big star, and had her sign papers that would enable her to be whisked away to Nashville, where an army of people listened to her, and handed her all kinds of music to play and sing.

That part was no problem. She'd been playing the guitar since she was five, and could play the fiddle too, as well as a number of instruments that didn't exactly have names the average American would be familiar with. That she was already a big hit in Hog Holler helped to fuel her hopes that the hyperactive talent scout might just be right.

He had been.

After recording the album, she'd been offered more papers to sign. She took them home and showed them to her Uncle Travis, who had actually gone to college, and owned three businesses in Hog Holler.

He told her not to sign them, and explained that, if she did, everything she wrote would be owned by the record company for-almost-ever.

"You can do better than that, pumpkin," he had said. "Once that album of yours makes its way around, they'll up the ante. Trust me on that."

The record company had not been happy. All those smiling people stopped smiling. The record had already been released, though, and had sold some ten thousand copies. Several radio stations had picked it up, and were giving her a little air time. So she stuck to her guns and said she was still thinking about things.

When her album sold its hundred thousandth copy, they did up the ante. Uncle Travis suggested to wait a little longer.

Since she wouldn't sign a contract to make more records, they offered her a chance to sing at concerts ... to open for better known singers. "It will give you exposure," they said. "You can have your own crew," they said. "It will be fun," they said.

Uncle Travis was gone on a business trip at the time, and everybody else got so excited that she'd be singing at concerts in big cities, that she agreed to do them.

They did, in fact, give her her own crew, which consisted of Josh, who drove the bus, and Twila, who handled all the myriad of arrangements. All Misty had to do was get dressed up, and go out on stage and knock 'em dead.

It was fun. She loved being around some of the stars at those concerts, even though most of them didn't actually talk to her, at first. But dropping names of people like Linda Ronstadt, Pure Prairie League and the Ozark Mountain Daredevils made her famous in her home town.

And she did knock 'em dead. A few of those stars who wouldn't talk to her, and who heard her warming the crowd up, nodded their heads, tapped their feet, and started talking to her after that. Within six months, her album went over the three hundred thousand mark. It wasn't spectacular, but the record company was salivating, based on those sales, and the reports they got back from Twila.

Somebody back in Nashville had wanted her signature on those papers bad, and, even though there seemed to be all kinds of expenses associated with the bus, and with Twila and Josh, and with the clothes she was provided to wear, she started receiving royalty checks.

Those checks had changed everything.

The thirty cents she had been told she'd get for every album sold amounted to ninety thousand dollars.

Even Uncle Travis was impressed.

It had meant she could say goodbye to the trailer, and to Hog Holler, and to the boys she had grown up with, and who now tried everything in their power to get into her sexy new panties. Only one of them ever had, and she hadn't been all that impressed that time, so she had no trouble "resisting temptation" as her mother put it.

Now, as she stood in what she thought of as her Mamma's new kitchen, and cooked up what she was used to cooking up, it all seemed like some fairy tale dream that had come true.

There were still snakes all around her. She knew that, and was trying to be careful. But the bags of letters her agent gleefully turned over to her, and which there was no way on earth she would ever be able to read, much less answer, made it all seem real.

She was a star.

Oh, there were much bigger stars out there. She knew that. But the crowds loved her, and they bought her record. The studio was already talking about another one - just as soon as she signed those papers - but she hadn't had time to write very many songs, and she hated singing other people's songs for money. It just seemed wrong, somehow. It was fun to sing them ... but not for money. She wanted to sell her own songs.

The problem was that the studio was making money on her too, and their appetite for it was voracious. Her concert schedule was crammed, and she only got back home once every fourteen or fifteen days if she was lucky. Even then, she only got to stay there two or three days and then she was off again.

The house she had bought her mother required that she accept that concert schedule. Even ninety thousand dollars hadn't bought a whole lot of house. Not in Nashville. Not one that she felt like her Mamma deserved. But the one she'd bought would have to be paid off, and that meant keeping to the schedule.

Everything was going fine. She had six more concerts to do in the south central part of the U.S. Maybe after that, during the break, she could catch her breath and write some songs.

************

Betty bent over to pick up a throw pillow that she'd knocked off the couch ... on purpose. She knew that Bobby, who was sitting in the easy chair, watching TV, couldn't help but see her bare butt as the T shirt rode up. If she held her feet just so, he might even see her pussy. Matilda was in the kitchen, baking cookies. Betty had been helping, but had gotten bored, and so decided to go tease Bobby some more.

The sharp crack of Bobby's hand landing on the bare butt she had flashed him was followed very closely by her howl of dismay. He hit her so hard that she stumbled forward, and only barely managed not to fall onto the floor.

"Damn it bobby!" she wailed.

She stood, and twisted, trying to look at the spot that felt like it was on fire on her backside. This time, she didn't lift the shirt to show him her pussy. She did it to expose the bright red handprint on her otherwise creamy white skin.

"Don't curse," said Bobby, grinning. He was standing now, having gotten to his feet to put that handprint on her ass.

"Why'd you do that?!" she yelled. "That hurt!"

"You were flashing me," he said, grinning. "You were acting like a slut."

"I am not a slut, you turd!" yelled Betty.

Matilda came almost running into the living room. Mirriam was over at Prudence's house, and the twins were alone with Bobby.

"What happened?" asked Matilda anxiously.

"Look what Bobby did to meeeee!" cried Betty, showing her sister the handprint.

Matilda gawked, and turned a murderous stare on her brother.

"She had it coming," said Bobby, folding his arms. "You do too, running around without panties and showing off. You're both acting like sluts."

Matilda was dressed almost identically to Betty.

"You've seen the others with less on!" Matilda stuck her chin out.

"Is that what this is all about?" he asked. "The others?"

"Well why not?" whined Matilda. "You did it with them. Why won't you do it with us too?" She took a step towards him. "We broke up with Chuck. We're used to having some fun. That's all we want to do ... have a little fun. And you did it with the others."

"You don't know what you're asking for," said Bobby, his voice serious.

"We've already done it!" said Matilda. "It's not like we don't know what it's like. That's why we're so horny all the time. Come on, Bobby. Let us have a little fun too."

The fact of the matter was that the twins' plan had worked, at least to some degree. In addition to the T shirts, lately, when the girls took showers, they went to and from the bathroom in little or nothing, sometimes stopping in his open door to say "Hi." They had been teasing him, and he knew that. Then, when Betty had bent over, and her cute, pink pussy lips had winked at him, he'd had to do something. That he'd chosen to leave a handprint on her, rather than do the obvious, was only because he really did think she was acting like a slut.

But what may have had more impact on him was that Bobby was used to acting on his urges, when a pussy winked at him. His older sisters didn't need him anymore. Prudence and his mother seemed satisfied with being loved every two or three weeks. Jill and Christy were busy with the rapidly expanding photography business, but still had him come over to see his children. Rhonda still called him, occasionally, and Janet was a regular. He saw the other women, when he spent time with his sons and daughters, but most of them didn't need him as much as they had in the past.

He looked at Betty, who didn't look nearly as interested as her sister anymore. She was rubbing her butt. He looked back at Matilda, whose nipples were stiff, and poking through her shirt.

"One at a time ... or together?" he asked, dropping his hands to his sides.

There was a long moment of confused silence as the girls processed that question. At first, neither could believe he'd finally caved. As the reality of it sank in, they looked at each other and, with their particular magical capability, they said "Together," at the same time.

************

Things started to go wrong from the beginning, at least from the twins' point of view. That Bobby told them to go to his room was fine. Matilda said she had to get something, and darted to their room, returning with two rubbers.

"I don't use those," said Bobby, staring at her.

"What?" Matilda's mind jangled. She had been so intent on thinking about the fact that they were finally going to get what they had so desperately come to want, that this threw her.

"I don't use rubbers," he said.

"But you have to!" she squealed.

"No, I don't," he said, so calmly that there was no doubt he was quite serious.

"But you have to!" she said again, unable to think of anything else.

"Aren't you on the pill?" he asked.

"No, we're not." said Betty.

Bobby looked at her. "I thought Mamma put you all on the pill."

"Not us," said the girl.

"Chuck always used a rubber," said Matilda, her hopes beginning to fade.

"I'm not Chuck," said Bobby. I'll pull out if you want me to, but that's it." He put his hands on his hips. "We don't have to do this, you know."

Both girls had been primed for this, and neither was willing to just call it off, after all their hard work to get there.

"No!" they chimed, together. Matilda took over. "Okay ... you can pull out."

"That's what the others said too," he said softly.

Betty gulped. "You did ... didn't you?" Her voice was high and breathy.

"Sometimes," he said. "If they really wanted me to."

"We want you to," they said, in tandem. It was eerie, how they did that.

"Then I will."

************

It got better from there, mixed with a healthy dose of frustration, at least for a little while. Their interpretation of "better" would undergo some re-evaluation ... later.

Bobby, unlike Chuck, knew how to treat a woman. He didn't switch back and forth every sixty seconds, like Chuck had. Since Matilda was acting the most dominant, he took Betty first. He worked her over for five full minutes, stroking her and using his mouth, until Matilda boiled over, watching what was happening to her twin.

"Come on, Bobby!" she yipped.

He lifted his face from Betty's pussy lips.

"Be patient. You'll get your turn."

"Not until I'm old and gray!" she complained.

Betty wasn't complaining, though. Betty's brain was beginning to register that, while she had thought she was experienced ... this was something new. He knew just where and how to touch her, and for how long, and how hard and, it seemed, even in what order. She'd had plenty of orgasms before, but the one building right now was going to be a doozy ... that she could already tell.

"Shut up!" she moaned. "Don't bother him."

Matilda didn't shut up, though. She continued to harp, rubbing between her legs furiously as Betty moaned and sighed and told Bobby how wonderful he was making her feel. Matilda had seen her sister have most of the orgasms she'd had, and her first glimmer that what Betty was feeling was different was when she went rigid and ... screamed. Matilda watched, wide-eyed as her sister suddenly sat up and her hands left Bobby's hair, to go to his back. She gasped as she saw Betty's fingernails leave streaks of red up Bobby's back, and he grunted from the pain of it.

He reared up, onto his knees, and Betty went limp, her legs obscenely spread, as she gasped for breath.

"Bad girl," he growled, and reached to grab her left knee. He rolled her and she squawked as she rolled off the bed and landed in a heap on the floor.

Matilda's mouth was hanging open as Bobby's blue eyes came to her. What she saw in them suddenly made her very nervous. She had been beside them on her knees, upright as she pulled at her pussy lips impatiently. Her hand was still there, though now it was immobile from the shock of seeing the violence.

"Bobby ..." she said weakly, as he leaned toward her.

"You asked for this," he reminded her, grasping her elbows.

She squawked herself as she was manhandled onto her back. He knew she was wet, because he knew she'd been rubbing. So he didn't tease her. He went instead for the main event and she gasped as he fisted his prick and fed her half of it in one push, stopping only when he ran his hand into her pussy lips. He remembered, just then, that they claimed to have done this "a couple of times".

"Bobbeeeee," she complained.

"You'll get used to it," he said, taking his hand away.

Instead of shoving it on in, though, he kissed her. She tried to twist her face, but he moved to keep his lips on hers and, in the process, the rest of his prick buried itself in her. She froze then, her mouth and eyes both wide open, as he ground against her clit.

"Oh fuck!" she groaned.

"Naughty, naughty," he chided, pulling it out and thrusting right back in, to grind some more. "Is this what you had in mind?"

"Oh fuck, Bobby," she moaned, completely disregarding his correction of her language.

"Okay," he said, smiling.

Then he basically pounded her into submission. She fought him at first, until her pussy became adjusted to him, and started sending out screeches of joy that rattled her brain. Then, when she was enjoying it, he stopped only long enough to grind into her, the tip of his prick pushing against her cervix.

Her first orgasm was completely unexpected, and took her by surprise. She'd never had an orgasm that was worthy of the name while Chuck's penis was in her. There had been "leaners", in horse shoe language ... feelings that counted as an orgasm, but weren't worth as much.

What Bobby did was throw ringers, and it rang her bell just like a horseshoe clangs against the stake when it spins around it and plops to the sand.

Two orgasms later, she lay there like a wet rag, as Bobby got up off of her, still hard, but dripping, both his own and her essences. Betty was on her knees, and had been watching. He looked over at her.

"You ready for more?"

"Yes, yes!" she yipped.

Matilda wasn't going anywhere voluntarily, so Bobby got up and pulled an old page out of his play book, sitting in the straight backed chair that he had, at one time, used for doing homework. He beckoned Betty, who looked confused, at first, and then staggered into position, straddling him, when she figured out what he wanted. She reached for him, and let herself down on him slowly.

Or tried to.

He scooted forward and pulled, and she was suddenly sitting on his thighs, full of prick.

"Oh damn," she groaned, arching her back.

"Where did you two get such potty mouths?" Bobby grinned, and then taught her how to rock, while he sucked at her stiff pink nipples.

"Ohhhhhh," she moaned, thrusting her hips rapidly. "You're sure not Chuck."

He stopped torturing her nipples long enough to ask: "Am I still a turd?"

"Noooooo," she whined, feeling an orgasm rushing toward her. "Ohhhh you are definitely not Chuck!" Her eyes went wide. "I'm cumming, Bobby ... ohhhh it feels so good ... oh thank you!"

Her hips flashed and she thrust so hard that the chair rocked, as she came, his hands on her hips helping her crush her clitty against the base of his prick. He stood, suddenly, with his hands under her butt, and took her to the bed, where he lay her back on top of Matilda's legs. Matilda tried to get them out from under her sister, but couldn't move fast enough.

"I have to take it out now," huffed Bobby.

Matilda sat up, just as Bobby pulled his prick out and fisted it. His first shot made a line of white from Betty's breasts to her fuzzy blond pubic hair. Feeling pernicious, Bobby altered his aim, and painted Matilda's thighs with the second shot. Both girls squealed, never having felt spunk on their bodies before. He emptied himself on Betty, taking care not to shoot it into her gaping pussy mouth, though the urge was strong to do just that.

He stood back, panting. "Sorry, I couldn't go very long this time. You two are pretty sexy, naked, and I got kind of excited."

"Not very long ..." Matilda's voice was faint.

"Yes," admitted Bobby. "I can usually go for an hour if I try hard."

"An hour," sighed Betty.

"I'll try to do better next time. I hope you're not too disappointed."

"It's okay!" they chirped together.

"Get off me!" said Matilda. "I'm all icky."

"Me too," moaned Betty.

They jumped off the bed, their hands out away from their bodies, and danced toward the door, intent on cleaning up. After that they would talk, and make the inevitable comparisons. Chuck would not do well in that process. Neither girl had realized she could have more than one orgasm while participating in this particular pastime. Both had stared up into their brother's eyes, and seen the same lust they saw in Chuck's eyes, but there was also love in them that was even more powerful. He had pleasured them. That, they now knew, was something Chuck hadn't ever done. Both had their first glimmerings of understanding that there was a big difference between fucking ... and making love. It was like tasting a new food, and finding that it was, quite suddenly, your favorite food. Chuck, by comparison, was flat beer, stale bread, or damp crackers.

He would not really be missed by the Dalton twins, ever again.

Chapter Two

Misty picked up the phone and looked at it. She was tempted to wipe the mouthpiece off before she used it. She sighed, remembering that what her crew, and almost everybody else in the whole tour had wasn't communicable in that way.

The reports she'd heard were that it was food poisoning. There had been a big party, after a concert in Austin, Texas. She'd had a splitting headache, and had made an appearance, before slipping back to the hotel to get some sleep. She hadn't eaten anything.

Everybody who had stayed had gotten sick. Seven of them were in the hospital! She counted herself as lucky.

Except for the fact that the rest of the tour had been cancelled.

There were three more concerts on it, but the manager had called them all off from his hospital bed. That wasn't so terrible, though. It meant less money, but it also meant she'd get some unscheduled time at home. She knew how she would spend it. She had four new songs roughed out in her mind, with the basic melodies written down. She was calling her agent to tell him about all the furor.

As it turned out, he already knew.

"Don't worry about a thing, Baby," he oozed into the phone. "I've got you covered. I got you a gig in Kansas. We turned them down at first, because you were busy, but now you can do it."

"Kansas?" Misty had visions of flat, treeless land which, after her upbringing in the mountains, seemed sterile and desolate. Texas hadn't been much of a thrill, though Austin was really nice.

"Yeah, it's some kind of festival thing they do every year. You'll be the headliner, Baby!" The enthusiasm in his voice, which she now knew was there whether he meant it or not, didn't mollify her.

"How can I play a gig in Kansas?" she complained. "Everybody in the band is sick. Josh can't drive, and Twila only gets up off the pot to throw up in it!"

"You were playing solo when I found you," said her agent smoothly. "Just take your guitar and some clothes and hop a flight. You can try out some of your new songs. I'll call the radio station that's sponsoring you and have them handle everything else. This could be a big break for you, Baby."

"Don't call me Baby!" she snapped into the phone. "I appreciate what you've done for me, but I know the only reason you're doing this is because you get a cut. That doesn't mean there's anything between us!"

She scowled fiercely at the phone, ignoring the fact that he couldn't see her. His hands had gotten entirely too friendly in the last couple of months.

"Hey, come on, Misty," he moaned into the phone. "I'm only thinking about you, honey, I promise."

"Yeah, right!" she snorted. "I know what part of me you're thinking about, and it ain't gonna happen. If I wanted to go to Hicksville I'd go home. In fact, that's exactly where I was going to go. I need to write some more songs, so I can do another album. I don't want to go play at some festival in Kansas!"

"Sorry, Babe," said the man on the other end of the line. "I already booked you. Three nights, star billing. You'll have days off to write all you want. There probably won't be anything else to do anyway. And you'll probably still have time to go home and take a break after that."

"When is it?" she moaned, knowing she had to do it.

"I was just about to dial the phone when you called," he said. "The festival opens the day after tomorrow, so you need to get moving. I'll call the station and get them on it. Either I or some woman named Amanda will call you right back. Don't go anywhere! Stay right by the phone!"

Misty put the phone down much harder than necessary. She heard retching sounds from the bathroom. At least she'd be able to have a hotel room to herself on this gig. She roomed with Twila everywhere they went. That meant having no privacy at all. Not that she needed it. If anything it was Twila and Josh who needed the privacy. She knew they were doing it together. She could tell by the way they talked, and touched each other. They pretended like everything was just friends, but Misty knew they were humping like bunnies behind her back. "Conferences", they called it.

Yeah ... right.

What was done was done, though. She went to her case and pulled out her guitar. It had pickups on it, but could also be played acoustically. That was good.

She wasn't sure they even had electricity in Kansas.

************

They came to him in the night, silently, like prowling cats, like pumas who were hungry. They crawled all over him ... purring ... kissing ... demanding to be pleased.

They wouldn't take turns, like their sisters had. They wanted him together. Neither had ever felt his fountain of seed in their bellies ... had never felt that from any man ... and they didn't care about that. All they cared about was feeling his thickness slide deep inside their famished pussies, and that wonderful little rotation he did, that crushed their helpless clitties, and brought such astonishing orgasms.

Currently, it was Betty who was watching, torturing her own clit as Bobby loomed over Matilda, whose legs were thrown wide in welcome. She was grunting softly, in time with his thrusts, and then moaning as he occasionally stopped to rub.

"It was never like this," she groaned, feeling an orgasm marching toward her. "I love this so much."

"You feel good," said her brother, flexing his penis inside her.

"Don't stop!" she urged. "I'm almost there." She squeezed her muscles around him, trying to grip him.

"If you keep doing that I'll squirt," he warned her.

"You can't squirt!" yipped Betty. "I haven't had my turn yet!"

"You guys are killing me," groaned Bobby, pulling out of Matilda. She wailed, and complained that she wasn't finished yet. He moved back and put his face in between her legs, sucking her clit into his mouth.

"Ahhhhhh," she whined, bucking up against his face. The orgasm he'd denied her bounced through her body as her clit vibrated.

He kept sucking, sliding his hands under her butt to make his lips solid around her clit, and she flailed as he over-stimulated her for a few seconds. Then he lifted his face and grinned.

"Get up!" he ordered.

"I can't," she panted. "I can't move."

"I want to try something," he insisted.

She could move. She just didn't want to. But, when he pulled her up, she stood, while he lay on his back. He lay down, and motioned Betty to climb on top of him. They had learned this a night or two past, and she happily sank down on his stiff prick.

"Now you sit on my face," he said to Matilda.

She argued at first, thinking it was both odd and probably impossible. When she ended up, however, with her hands on the headboard, and her pussy rubbing his face, she decided it not only could be done ... it should be done. She particularly liked the fact that she could move the part of her pussy she wanted licked ... to where it was licked the best.

The only problems with his plan were that Matilda liked it too much, and he couldn't talk. Normally, that wouldn't have been a problem, but his two youngest sisters were hot as pistols, and he was affected by them on a more passionate level than he'd anticipated. It hadn't taken long for his impression of them as "little girls" to be thoroughly destroyed. When they did this with him, they were all woman.

And so, when he felt his balls signal their eruption, and tried to warn Betty to get off of him, all he was able to do was make muffled groaning sounds, which neither girl recognized as a warning. Matilda felt his hands on her hips, pushing at her, but she thought he was just trying to help her move her pussy over his nose and mouth.

Betty had ridden him through an orgasm already, and was rocking gently, just loving the feel of being full. She could still feel her pussy making little left over spasms, squeezing and then relaxing, when she felt him swell, and felt a ball of heat expand from the tip of his prick. She didn't get it, at first. It felt wonderful. Then, as her lust-fogged brain finally did realize what was going on, she tried to get her feet under her. He finished spurting in her by the time that happened and, when she was able to stand, she looked in awe as her pussy drooled thick globs of Bobby sperm, which dripped down and covered his balls, while his penis lay softening on his abdomen.

"He squirted in me!" she yipped, staring at the evidence of her outburst.

Matilda twisted her upper body to look at her sister, and also stared at the dripping strings of cum.

"Wow!" she gasped. "Why'd he do that?"

She looked down at the top of her brother's head.

"Why'd you do that, Bobby?"

It was then she realized that the pain in her thighs was because he was gripping them, pushing against her weight, which was still pressing her pussy against his face. She scooted back and was rewarded with Bobby's round, blue eyes, which matched his round, gasping mouth. He sucked in a huge breath.

"I tried ... to ... warn you," he panted. "You were ... busy ... suffocating me."

"I was not," said Matilda, trying to slide her pussy forward again. "You told me to do this."

It went downhill from there, and Bobby finally made them go back to their own room.

************

"What was it like?" asked Matilda, in the dark.

"Him squirting in me?"

"Of course!"

"It was warm," said Betty softly. "It felt like ... I don't know ... it was warm."

"Did you like it?"

It was silent for a few heartbeats. "Yes." It was silent for a few more heartbeats. "What if he got me pregnant, though?"

Matilda snorted. "You can't get pregnant from just once."

"You can't?"

"Of course not. You have to do it a lot to get pregnant."

"Are you sure? That doesn't sound right to me." Betty frowned.

"Of course I'm sure," said Matilda loftily. "I'll even let him squirt in me next time if that will make you feel better."

Mollified by her sister's completely incorrect interpretation of the hazy lessons they hadn't really listened to all that well in High School, Betty turned to what was on her mind.

"What was it like ... sitting on his face?"

"It was so cool!" sighed Matilda. "You can wiggle around just right, and get him to do it in just the right place. You have to try that."

"Okay!"

To be honest, both girls were ready to go back to Bobby's room right then. He'd been somewhat surly, though, and had all but kicked them out. That was okay. They could wait.

After all ... they had all summer.

************

After her agent hung up, the phone was only silent for fifteen minutes, before it rang again. Misty picked it up. She was slightly nauseated by the sounds that kept coming from the bathroom, where Twila was constantly being sick.

"Hello!" she almost shouted in to the phone.

"Ms. Compton?" It was a female voice.

"Yes."

"This is Amanda Griggs, General Manager of KDEF Radio, in Hutchinson. Thank you so much for agreeing to come to the festival. When your agent originally told us you were too busy we didn't know what we were going to do! We had to book a couple of local acts, but now they can open for you."

Misty frowned. She could just imagine some hayseed band, croaking away ... driving the audience away. She had seen plenty of that in Hog Holler. Of course the audience didn't leave. Not in Hog Holler. Most of them were related to whoever was performing, in some way or another. They didn't leave. They just tipped the mason jars a little more frequently, and got roaring drunk. When you were that drunk, it didn't matter if someone was playing a guitar, or simply slapping their cheeks, making the note go up or down by changing the shape of the mouth. She was quite sure they didn't have moonshine in Kansas, though, and an amateur band could drive people to the concession stands.

She sighed. It had to be done. She realized the woman was still talking, and tried to remember what had been said while she wasn't listening.

"... back you up if you like. I know they'd be thrilled to play with you."

"No!" Misty almost shouted. "I can play solo just fine. That's how I started out, you know."

"Oh, of course," said the woman. "Well then, all we have to do is get you here. The station will take care of everything. You're in Austin, right?"

"Yes."

"All right. I'll find out when the next flight is and book you a seat. Give me ten minutes and I'll call you back. This is so exciting!"

Misty sat and listened to Twila retching in the toilet. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all. At least she wouldn't have to listen to Twila being sick all night.

She started packing.

************

In truth, Misty was having a better time already than she'd thought she would. As much money as she'd made already, and as fancy a house as her mother was now living in, she'd never been farther off the ground than an oak or sycamore tree would take her.

Flying turned out to be wonderful. The airport was a strange and exciting place, and looking out the big windows to see airplanes taking off and landing made her excitement build. She tried to act like she had done this a hundred times, as she was handed a boarding pass, and then got into an argument about her guitar case. They wanted to take it from her, which was completely unacceptable, in her opinion. She said she'd just hold it on her lap, which had gotten her some strange looks. Finally they agreed to let her take it on board, but told her it would have to be kept in a special closet once she got there.

The big planes, landing and taking off outside, fascinated her, and a woman had to come and get her from the window when it was time to get on the plane. She'd heard the announcements of people with certain seat numbers being invited to board, but hadn't paid any attention to them. The woman who came and got her said, "Thank Goodness. We thought we'd lost you," and hustled her onto the plane.

She had some vague notion that there was such a thing as "First Class", but didn't know what that meant until after the plane was in the air and she suddenly had to pee. When she went looking for something that looked like a bathroom, she went through a curtain, into a section of the airplane that was filled with smoke and noise. People there were crowded together in a state that made her cringe. She hurried back through the curtain, afraid that someone would make her sit in one of these seats for some reason. Asking for the toilet got her where she wanted to be, but even that was a tiny space, even smaller than the bathroom had been in the trailer, back home.

Then, after staring out of the window until her eyes were dry, there was an announcement that they were going to land, and she got nervous again. The airport in Texas had been big and bustling. She'd had to ask three different people how to get to the place where she'd finally boarded the plane. The town flashing by beneath her looked just as big. She had no idea this Hutchinson place was so big! And she had no idea what to do when she got off the plane. She had visions of herself standing there, while everybody else went on about their business, leaving her alone.

She did have one expectation. She expected someone to be standing at the gate, to hand her back the suitcase she'd had to turn over to them, during the confrontation about the guitar. That precious instrument was safely in her hand, when she stepped off. But all anyone said to her was "Thank you for flying with us today."

Her luggage was nowhere to be seen.

Rather than trying to muster up the courage to ask someone where her suitcase was, she decided to just follow the other people getting off the plane. They didn't have their suitcases either. Maybe they knew where to go to find them.

She was distracted by a tallish man - a fan, obviously - who was standing a few feet away from the gate, holding a large cardboard sign that said "Misty Compton" on it in large, hand-scrawled letters. She hadn't been performing for so long that she was tired of signing autographs, so she walked toward him.

"You want me to autograph your sign?" she asked, smiling her best professional smile.

He looked at her blankly.

"Are you Misty Compton?" he asked.

Misty looked at him. He was probably in his mid-twenties. They apparently grew them just as big out here on the plains as they did back home in the mountains. This one was big, and the checkered shirt he was wearing was filled with muscles. He had on faded jeans, and well-worn, dusty boots. There was a lock of black hair that had fallen on his forehead, and looked mildly cute.

It would have, anyway, if he'd have known who she was. What fan didn't know what she looked like?

"Of course I'm Misty Compton!" she said impatiently.

"Oh, Hi. I'm Bobby Dalton. They sent me to pick you up."

This was her chauffeur? She looked at his hands, both of which were still on the cardboard, with the name on it that looked like it had been put there by a six year old. His hands looked callused, like those of her cousins. She looked around for his hat. Everybody in Texas had worn a cowboy hat, but there hadn't been any cows. This was Kansas. Wasn't that where all the cowboys were? She didn't see his hat anywhere.

"Oh," she said, feeling ill at ease.

"Let's get your luggage, and I'll get you out of here," he said, smiling.

"Good," she said, relieved that he seemed to know where her luggage was.

He led her off down a long hallway, to one of those fascinating stairways that moved, so that all you had to do was climb on and stand there, while it took you up or down.

"Where's your claim ticket?" he asked.

"Claim ticket?" she responded.

"You know, the little thing they probably stapled to your boarding pass?"

She'd left her boarding pass on the airplane. The trip was over, so she'd thought that was just trash now.

She had the presence of mind to stop and look around, like she couldn't remember where she'd tucked the object he was asking for.

"I must have dropped it," she said carefully.

"Well, you know what your stuff looks like," he said. "We can just wait until you see it."

They went down, and she began seeing other people who had been on her flight. He took her to a big room that had another moving belt in it. As they approached, there was a thump, and she saw a suitcase appear from a little door that looked like it was made of rubber. The belt carried it along. More suitcases appeared, until the belt was clogged with them. People shoved and reached for pieces of luggage, trying to get them off the belt before it carried them along farther.

"See yours yet?" asked the man, who was pressed into her right shoulder by the crowd. His knees hit against her guitar case and she hugged it to her front, protectively.

"No. Don't bang into my guitar case, okay?"

"Sorry," he said, as he was shoved against her again. "You want to step back and let the crowd clear out a little?"

"I guess," she said, uncertainly.

They did that, and the crowd did thin out, eventually. She still hadn't seen her suitcase. Then, almost suddenly, there were only five or six suitcases on the belt, going around and around, and almost everyone was gone.

"None of those are yours?" asked the man.

"No. Mine is blue," she said.

There was another thump, and the belt stopped moving.

An airport employee had been standing at the entrance to the area, checking people's luggage as they took it away. Misty had seen them handing the man little white squares of paper, just like the one she'd left on the plane.

"Where's my suitcase?" she asked. She felt the first twinges of dread. Something was horribly wrong.

"We'll ask about it," said the man with her, whose name she had already forgotten. "I'm sure it's around here somewhere."

Chapter Three

Amanda looked across the table at Rodney.

"So, is everything taken care of?" she asked.

"No problems," said Rodney firmly. "We got her a room at the Prairie Star Bed and Breakfast."

"Why not the hotel?" asked Amanda.

"It was booked up," said Rodney. "Everything is booked up. I had to call in a favor from Mattie, at the Prairie Star. I told her we'd work in some commercials for her."

"Is it a nice place?"

"For a hundred year old stone house, it's gorgeous," said Rodney. "Plus it has lots of history, and it's right near the fairgrounds."

"We want this girl to be happy, Rodney," warned Amanda.

"Quit worrying. I looked at her bio. She's from back in the mountains, in North Carolina, for pity's sake. She's only hit it big in the last three or four months. She probably hasn't even broken in her new shoes yet. She'll be happy."

************

Misty Compton was not happy.

The airline had lost her suitcase. Every stitch of clothing she had for the trip, except what she was wearing, was in that suitcase. Her three performance outfits, two pairs of jeans, and three T shirts were in that suitcase, along with her toothbrush and all her fancy new underwear.

They claimed that it accidentally went to Cleveland, Ohio, and she just couldn't understand how anybody could think that her suitcase should be sent to Cleveland, Ohio.

The man who had picked her up didn't make things any better. Instead of yelling at the airport people, he just grinned and said everything would be okay. He'd been insolent about it too.

"Hey, don't worry about it," he'd said, looking her up and down. "You're about the same size as my twin sisters. You can borrow some of their clothes."

Now, as she hurried along behind the long-legged insufferable cowboy, she was fuming. She was Misty Compton! She didn't wear other girl's clothes! Not anymore. She'd thrown out all her hand-me-downs when she got her first royalty check, and bought all new things.

She'd tried to argue with him ... put him in his place. But he wouldn't listen. He just grinned that stupid grin, and looked at her with those impossibly blue eyes, and told her to come along ... that he'd get her all fixed up.

And now she was stuck. She had no idea where she was going, or how to get there. He was her only source of information, and he wasn't talking. He was just speeding ahead of her, like they were in some kind of race!

"Slow down!" she yelled, suddenly.

Then she ran into his back as he suddenly stopped. She bounced off, her thoughts going immediately to her precious guitar.

"I didn't say stop!" she yelled.

"Sorry," he said, with that insolent grin.

"Don't tell me you're sorry!" she snapped. "You're not sorry. You don't look one bit sorry!"

"Look," he said, the smile fading, finally. "I know this probably isn't what you're used to, what with you being a famous singer and all that. But this is the best we can do right now. Let's just get you out of here, and get you to Hutchinson, and everything will work out. I promise."

"Get me to Hutchinson!?" She gave him a blank stare. "We're already in Hutchinson, you idiot!"

She hated the look of pity he laid on her then.

"This is Wichita," he said, the corners of his mouth curling up just a fraction. "Hutch is forty miles away."

It got even worse as he led her to a rusty old pickup truck, an early sixties Chevy, just like the one her Uncle Zeke had, right down to the same rusty holes above the rear fenders, and behind the cab.

"Where is my limo?" she asked tersely.

"This is your limo," he said, that maddening smile back.

"You came to get me in a pickup?" Her voice rose higher with every word.

"I didn't know how much luggage you'd have," he said calmly. "If I'd have known how light you traveled, I'd have used something else."

Misty Compton, for whom crowds roared and stamped, wanted to cry.

"I'm not putting my guitar in the back of this truck!" she snapped, using her anger to keep from crying.

"There's room in the front for it," he said.

"I want a limo!" she screamed. "I want my suitcase and I want a limo!"

People were staring at them. That didn't really bother Bobby too much. When Amanda had called him, and asked him to go get the star performer for the Harvest Festival, he'd agreed to do it because it was Amanda asking him to. He didn't listen to the radio much, and the twins didn't play music at the house as much as they had in the past. Part of that was because they were at work during the days, and some evenings, and part of it was because, as they grew up, they weren't as fixated on celebrities as they had been in their younger days.

From Bobby's perspective, the only reason for worrying about Misty Compton at all was because Amanda was expecting him to bring her back.

"Look," he said. "I'm sorry your luggage got sent to Ohio. I can't do anything about that right now. I was sent to pick you up, and that's what I'm here for. If you don't want to ride with me, that's fine. You're a big recording star, from what little I know about you, so I'm sure that if you call somebody, they'll find a limo and send it to get you. I'll just wait until I'm sure somebody else is going to take care of you, and then I'll go on home."

"You don't even know who I am?!" squealed Misty, outraged that her burgeoning success was being ignored by this ... this ... this cowboy!

"Amanda told me," he said, looking a little uncomfortable. "I ... um ... don't listen to the radio much. I'm usually working. I'm sure you're very good. They wouldn't have asked you to come to the Harvest Festival if you weren't."

Misty quivered with indignation. This was the last straw. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong.

That impression was disabused almost immediately as a big raindrop splatted onto her cheek. She looked up to see thunderheads above her. Where had those come from? The sky had been as clear and blue as could be when the plane was landing. Three more raindrops hit her. The insufferable man started to walk around the front of the stupid truck.

"I'll just wait in the truck while you take care of things," he said.

It was her guitar that made her get in the truck with him. She told herself that, as she jerked open the door and pushed the case, with its precious cargo, to the middle of the bench seat, and scrambled in behind it. She was just in time, as the sky opened up and the windows of the truck suddenly became wavering peeks at a surreal world outside.

"Want me to drop you off at the terminal?" asked the man, as he got in the driver's seat.

"Just get me the fuck out of here!" she snarled.

"Okie dokie," he said, his voice light, as if he didn't have a care in the world. He almost sounded like one of her cousins, back home.

************

Twenty minutes later, just as the constant squeak from one of the truck's old windshield wipers was about to make her scream, the rain vanished as quickly as it had appeared. All that was left were a few torn clouds, staining a blue sky and the road went from having puddles on it, to bone dry within a mile. Misty glanced over at the driver. He hadn't said a word since he'd started the truck, and seemed to be paying attention only to the road ahead.

She felt irritated that he looked handsome. In another time and place, she'd have been intrigued by that strong jaw line, and that little lock of hair that fell on his forehead. His eyes were as blue as the sky, and that faded checkered shirt bulged with the muscles it tried to hide from view. She suddenly imagined this man wrestling with cattle, in a rodeo.

"So," she said, more to break the silence, than anything else, "are you in the rodeo a lot?"

"Nope."

He stared straight ahead. He was ignoring her. That made her mad too. Nobody ignored her. She was famous! She decided to remind him of that.

"Which of my songs do you like the most?" she asked.

He looked over at her, but just for a second. She remembered that he had said he only knew what that woman from the radio station had told him, and felt stupid for asking. That made her mad too.

"I don't know that I've heard any of them."

She was beginning to wish she'd just stayed in the rain.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked.

"They got you a room at a Bed and Breakfast place, in Hutch," he said. "I'm supposed to take you to the station first, to meet Amanda and the rest of them. Then I'll take you to the bed and breakfast, or anywhere you want to go."

"I don't have anything!" she wailed. "I need clothes ... I don't even have a toothbrush!"

"There's plenty of stores in Hutch," said Bobby. "You can get whatever you need."

"They won't have the kind of clothes I perform in, you idiot!" she snarled. "Not in Bumfuck Kansas!"

She was startled as the truck started slowing down, and he pulled to the side of the road.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "Why are you stopping?"

He turned to her. She stared into those awful blue eyes.

"You don't like me," he said, his voice level. "That's not surprising, because I don't much like you either. Maybe it's just a personality difference. That doesn't really matter. What matters is that I was hired to take care of you, and when I take on a job, I take it seriously. You don't have to yell, or curse. All you have to do is tell me what you need, and I'll try my best to arrange it. That's what I'm being paid to do. Now, if that isn't suitable to you, that's fine too. I'm taking you to see Amanda right now. You can tell her you don't like me, and that you want another driver, or whatever they call this, and I'll go on about my business. You don't have to put up with me much longer. In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if you didn't foul the air like a drunken sailor."

He said it all so calmly, like he was just explaining something to her. All she could concentrate on, though, was his comment "I don't much like you either." Nobody talked to her like that. Nobody had talked to her like that since she left Hog Holler! To top it off, he didn't even wait for her to respond. He just started the truck rolling again, and pulled off the shoulder onto the road.

"Why don't you like me?" she asked, and then wished instantly she hadn't opened her mouth.

"You're spoiled," he said.

"I am not spoiled!" she argued.

"I want a limo!" his voice was high, like that of a child.

"Well?!" she objected. "I'm a star!"

"You're a girl," he snorted. "You apparently have a gift, and people like hearing you sing. They're even willing to pay to hear you sing. That doesn't mean anybody owes you anything except the price of admission."

"You're a horrible man!" she squealed.

"And you're a spoiled brat," he said calmly. "Now we know why we don't like each other."

The rest of the trip was completed in silence.

************

Amanda looked up for the twentieth time, and felt vastly relieved as she saw Bobby and a young blond woman coming through the door between the reception area and the station office suites. Her relief lasted only a few seconds, though. The girl looked mad, but it was the look on Bobby's face ... grim was the only way she could describe it ... that made her sit up and take notice.

"What's wrong?" She stood up and walked around the desk. Her normal urge was to hug Bobby, but she resisted.

"They lost her luggage," said Bobby. "She's not happy about anything."

"That's not true!" shouted Misty.

Both the man and the woman he had brought her to see stared at her. She realized that, if asked, she might not be able to come up with something she was, in fact, happy about. Her outburst had just been intended to strike back at this maddening man.

"Uh ... I'm Amanda Griggs," said Amanda, holding out her hand. "I'm sorry about your luggage. I'll get someone on it right away." She had prepared a speech ... or at least gone over how she wanted to greet a woman who had sold almost half a million records. Now, thought, everything she'd though to say seemed out of place.

She looked at the girl. That's really what she looked like ... a poor unhappy girl. Somehow Amanda had a hard time thinking of this poor unhappy girl as a recording star, even though she was clutching a guitar case to her chest.

"Why don't you sit down and rest a bit," suggested Amanda, adopting a solicitous attitude. "Tell me all about it. We can take care of anything that's wrong."

"Can you get me a band that's not sick?" asked Misty. "Can you get me a limo, with a driver who is polite and has at least heard of me? I need clothing. I need makeup. I need everything!" She got more and more agitated as her voice rose.

"She's a spoiled brat," said Bobby calmly. "She seems to think that the world should revolve around her."

"See?!" shouted Misty. "See what I had to put up with?"

Amanda felt ill, but the administrator ... and politician in her ... took over.

"Bobby, why don't you go fix something," she said, her voice level. "I'll take care of Misty. You and I will have a little talk later."

************

It took almost an hour, which, to be honest, Amanda did not have. But she spent that time anyway, because she needed Misty Compton, and she needed Misty Compton to be happy and ready to provide the kind of entertainment that everyone footing the bill for her was expecting.

Initially, she just let Misty rant. The girl ran out of steam, eventually, and slumped. Then Amanda started soothing her, explaining that every obstacle could - and would - be overcome. She didn't go into detail. She just reassured the girl that, when she went on stage the next night, things would be perfect.

Then she directed the conversation toward the program. Amanda was well versed on the album this girl had put out. She'd listened to it half a dozen times, so she would be completely familiar with all the tracks, titles and styles. Once she got Misty talking about what songs she wanted to sing, the girl perked up.

"I have a couple of new songs that I haven't recorded yet," said Misty. "Do you suppose it would be all right to sing them too?"

"That would be fantastic!" squealed Amanda, meaning it. "The crowd will love it. You're going to be a smash hit here, Misty, I just know it!"

She'd spent too much time with this girl already, and needed to get back to work.

"Why don't we get you to the B&B and you can relax and change clothes ... Oh! You can't! Of course! I'll have Bobby take you shopping!"

"Him!?" snorted the girl. "I don't like him!"

Amanda wanted to moan. It had never occurred to her that Bobby's charm might actually fail when it came to a woman. If anything, she'd been a little worried that Bobby might be too charming. She was unprepared for this eventuality, and had no one else to shepherd the girl.

"I think you just got off to a bad start with him," said Amanda, soothingly. "He's really a delightful man. I chose him specifically to take care of you. He's very resourceful. I'm sure if you give him another chance, you'll change your mind. Give it until tomorrow, okay? If things still aren't working out, I'll try to find somebody else to take care of you."

In fact, the reason Misty decided to agree, was because she had in mind plans to teach this cowboy a few lessons.

"I'll do that if you tell him that what I want ... I get," she said.

Amanda felt something like a warning bell jangling her nerves. But she was already late for an important meeting, and she had no one else.

"Within reason," she cautioned. "There is no limo in Hutchinson, for example. He can't get you what can't be had."

"Oh, all right!" snorted the singing star. "But you tell him to be nicer to me, or I'll just get back on the plane and go back to Texas!"

"I'll talk to him," agreed Amanda, beginning to understand, perhaps, why Bobby might not have responded well to this slip of a girl. "Why don't you go introduce yourself to the staff, while I do that. They're all so excited to meet you. Would that be okay?"

"Sure!" yipped Misty. The thought of getting to meet fans was attractive to her. Most places she went, she was overshadowed by the bigger more well-known stars and, in any case, security kept her far far away from the fans. She'd signed a few autographs, but even that was a tightly controlled situation. Maybe someone would even ask her to sing a song.

************

"We need her, Bobby," said Amanda. "I'm late. I have to go. Please just get her what she needs, and try not to upset her. It's only for three days. Then you'll never have to see her again, okay? I don't have anybody else to do this. We need her ... and I need you, Bobby."

"You haven't needed me for over a month," said Bobby, admiring her, like he always did. This was a woman he liked spending time with.

"Yes I have," said the mother of one of his children. "I was just too busy to have you."

She touched his hand, and, again, resisted taking him in her arms and kissing him.

"And I expect you to make some time for me while you're in town, too."

"Are you on the pill yet?" asked Bobby, smiling.

She looked at him and felt the flutter in her belly that he always made her feel.

"No, I haven't had time to do that either."

"Good," said Bobby, stepping forward.

His intent was clear, and she barely got her hands up to fend him off.

"You're terrible!" she said. "I can see why that poor girl can't deal with you. Now, go on. I have things to do."

"I will make some time for you," he said softly. "I'm already looking forward to it."

"Go on!" She turned him and pushed him.

She couldn't resist, though, one quick feel of his right buttock as he headed for the door.

************

Misty, basking in the attention of a very attentive radio station staff, didn't just happen to be in a position that allowed her to see into Amanda's office. She had adopted her stance specifically so that she could see the slump of that irritating man's impossibly broad shoulders when he was put in his place by the station manager.

She took a split second to be mildly irritated when his shoulders didn't slump as he was dressed down for his impertinent behavior.

She took several splits of a second to be mildly astonished when that Amanda woman reached out and copped a feel of his butt while he was leaving. That he didn't respond to that copping of a feel ... that he didn't jump ... was mildly interesting.

He didn't seem to have learned his lesson, though. When he approached her, he said "All right, I'm ready," like him being ready was important.

"When I'm finished talking to these nice people, I'll let you know," she said, unaware that her chin was sticking out, and that she looked just like what she was - a young woman pouting.

"I'll be in the truck," he said. He made it obvious that he didn't care how long it took, and that he had better things to do than stand around watching fans adore her ... even if that meant just sitting alone in a truck.

She wanted to scream.

She almost did when, as he walked by Amanda's office, she stopped talking on the phone, momentarily, and blew him a kiss!

Chapter Four

Misty decided that the best way to break this particular mule was to wear him out. That she was tired herself was put aside. When Rodney, beaming appropriately and treating her like the star she was, walked her out to the truck, she got in and started her plan.

"I'm hungry," she announced. "Take me to get something to eat."

"I thought you needed clothes," said Bobby.

"We'll do that after I've eaten," she said, her voice short.

"Something to eat," he said.

"That's what I said!" She tried to put some snap in her voice.

"We don't have fancy five star restaurants around here," he said, starting the truck.

"And don't you have a nicer car or something?" she pressed. "Something that won't get my new clothes all dirty, once I have them?"

"I have a car, but it's old. You wouldn't like it either," he said, putting the truck into motion. "Where do you want to eat?"

"How should I know?" she asked, getting frustrated. "I've never been here before!"

"What kind of food do you like?" he asked, patiently.

"Lobster," she replied instantly.

"I don't think anybody in town serves lobster."

"Okay, then, caviar," she said stubbornly. She'd tried the nasty stuff, and didn't really like it, but she wasn't about to admit that to this insufferable man.

"There's one place in town that might have that," he said amiably. "You might have to eat it out of the can, though."

It would have gone on like that for some time, had he not suddenly pulled into a Dairy Bee.

"How 'bout a burger?" he asked, shutting the truck off.

"I'm not eating at a drive-in!" she announced, her voice surly.

"Then you're not really hungry," he said, starting the truck and pulling out. "We'll just go find you something to wear before the stores close. Maybe you'll be hungry after that."

************

It didn't matter what she did, or how much she complained. He somehow turned her statements against her. She would have screamed at him, but he had this maddening gift for making it sound like he was doing exactly what she demanded, even though he did absolutely nothing that she demanded.

When they stopped at a clothing shop, and she insisted that nothing was suitable, he simply took her to another one. That happened three times before it caught her by surprise when, as they got back in the truck, he said: "Well, that's if for Hutchinson. I guess I'll have to take you back to Wichita."

"The stores will be closed!" she yelped.

He looked at his watch. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Well, maybe tomorrow."

"I have to rehearse tomorrow!" she wailed. "I don't have anything to sleep in tonight!"

"You can always sleep naked," he suggested, looking straight ahead. "They probably have a washing machine, where you're staying. They can wash what you have on, and you can wear it again tomorrow, until we find an acceptable store."

"Nooooooo," she wailed.

Misty's problem was that, at that point, she was tired, and weak from hunger. Nothing had gone right all day. Nothing had gone right for several days, in fact. This was supposed to be her chance to break away from the crowd ... to be the headliner ... even if it was in some cow-town that nobody had ever heard of. Her pride and stubbornness had kept her from getting something to eat, and from having perfectly nice clothing. She'd seen several outfits she'd normally have loved to buy and wear, but she couldn't admit that now. She was aware of that, on some level, but she blamed it on Bobby Dalton, instead of her own prima donna behavior.

Being young, and not having been able to break the mule she was with to riding, she did what most young women do when everything goes wrong.

She cried.

************

Initially, Bobby felt only satisfaction when the young woman in the truck burst into tears. As it went on, though, and he heard the pain in her voice as she railed at him, his normal nature began tweaking his conscience.

He admitted to himself that, despite the fact that she was a spoiled brat, she was, in fact, the star performer in Hutchinson's celebration, and that, if she continued to feel like she was feeling, she wouldn't be worth squat on stage. Most of his compassion was for Amanda, whose reputation might suffer if this didn't work out. He allowed just a little compassion to flow toward his charge.

He knew he wouldn't be able to make things better. So he took her to Amanda's house.

"What are we doing here?" sniffled the crying girl.

"We're going to get you something to eat, and let you watch Amanda tear me a new asshole," he said.

"What?"

"You need something to eat. I'm sure Amanda will have some leftovers in the fridge. She's a good cook. Besides, you need to meet Ron. He owns the station, and he's your biggest sponsor."

"I need clothes!" she wailed.

"We'll borrow something from Mandy for you to sleep in," he said patiently. "In the morning I'll figure something out about the clothes. Don't worry. You don't have to go on stage until something like eight in the evening. We'll get you appropriately dressed before then."

"This is not like I thought it would be!" she sobbed.

"Life isn't always fair," said Bobby. "Don't worry, though. I'll try to do a better job of making life fair tomorrow."

************

A very startled Amanda answered the knock at the door, and her eyes widened as she saw her star attraction slumped and crying, beside Bobby. Her reaction was swift.

"I thought I told you to take care of her!" she snapped.

"It's complicated," said Bobby, almost flinching.

"It is not complicated, Bobby Dalton!" snarled Amanda, opening her arms to the crying girl, who rushed forward to be comforted.

"She wanted Lobster and caviar," said Bobby, trying to mitigate Amanda's ire. "She wouldn't eat at the Dairy Bee."

"Of course not, you idiot!" said Amanda tersely.

"She didn't like any of the clothes she saw!" said Bobby stubbornly.

About then a toddler appeared, as if by magic, and attached himself to Bobby's left leg. Misty watched, through tear-filled eyes as he stooped and picked up the little boy, who hugged his neck.

"Hi, sport!" said Bobby, his face breaking into a smile. "At least you still love me."

"You take care of Mikey," snapped Amanda. "I'll take care of Misty, since you don't seem to be able to do the simplest thing!"

"Suits me," said Bobby, without a trace of guilt in his voice. "Come on, buddy," he said to the little boy. "You want me to read you a story?"

Misty, responding to the hug she was getting from Amanda, and the dressing down this irritating man was getting from the woman hugging her, calmed somewhat. She calmed enough to see a completely different side to the irritating man, who kissed the child on the cheek and threw him up into the air. Both women drew in breath as the toddler was suddenly suspended in the air, and then fell into Bobby's arms, giggling and laughing. He laughed even more when Bobby made growling noises and "ate" the little boy's neck.

************

Amanda hustled Misty into the kitchen, where the remains of supper were still making a delicious odor that caused Misty's stomach to growl audibly.

"I'm so sorry," cooed Amanda, sitting Misty at the kitchen table, which was covered with a red and white checkered table cloth exactly like the one Misty's mother still insisted using on their brand new table, in their new house, in Nashville. "Bobby can be terribly stubborn sometimes."

Amanda, only recently a mother, had embraced that role in her life just like she had embraced any other role she played. Though she didn't have a lot of experience with babies yet, her maternal instincts had been awakened, and they were much more evolved than she both knew, or would have thought. Those instincts just naturally seemed to come into play when soothing this heartbroken girl. As she bustled around, getting a plate of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green beans ready, she sympathized with Misty's problems, setting aside her own impatience with the girl for not bucking up and dealing with things.

That helped, because Misty's mother had always been the one who could calm her down. But, to be honest, the food helped just as much. This was a home cooked meal, simple though it was, and Misty was famished. Soon she couldn't talk at all, because her mouth was always full. Amanda had perfected her homemade bread again, and thick slices of that topped off the meal.

In the process, emotions calmed and, when she could talk again, Misty began to talk to her new friend. Once assured that her immediate problems would be dealt with, though those assurances were somewhat vague, the up-and-coming singing star found herself just talking. It was fun to just talk. Everybody in her life, recently, was too busy to just chat, and everything they talked about was career oriented. Amanda, though, had the knack of getting a conversation going that slid into areas much less stuffy, and of much more interest to a young woman whose whole life was ahead of her, not the least her professional life.

"I know how hard it is for a woman to get ahead," said Amanda, at one point.

That led to the sharing of stories of both complaint and victory over adversity.

"Does your husband support you in your job?" asked Misty, at one point.

"Oh, I'm not married," said Amanda, clearing the table. "Marriage isn't for me. Not yet, anyway."

"But the baby ..." said Misty.

"Mikey?" Amanda pinked up just a little. "He's the light of my life, but I wouldn't marry his father." Misty didn't notice the slight frown that came across Amanda's brow as she remembered that Bobby was part of the problem she was dealing with.

"Oh!" said Misty, embarrassed that she had pried. "That happens back in Hog Holler a lot."

"Hog Holler?"

Now it was the singing star whose cheeks got rosy.

"That's where I'm from," she said. "It's called Hog Holler, and it's back in the mountains."

"No wonder you're so good," said Amanda. "I've heard some recordings of mountain music, and the technical expertise I hear in those songs is astonishing."

"Thank you!" said Misty, pleased at the honest compliment. "But those good old boys are pretty good at getting a girl in trouble too."

Amanda laughed. "I actually wanted to have Michael. He wasn't really an accident. It didn't start out that way, but I loved his father so much I just had to have a little piece of him to keep forever."

"I thought you said you wouldn't marry him," commented Misty.

"I wouldn't. Not now, anyway. He's too wild to tame, I think. But I love him just the same. He changed my whole life."

"Who is he?" asked the girl, curiously.

Amanda realized how dangerous this direction of conversation was. Rather than say anything else, she just changed the subject.

"Have you had enough? I'm sure Daddy would just love to meet you. He's a big fan of yours."

Misty had been around long enough to know when a particular subject was taboo, and recognized the change of subject for what it was. She blushed a little more, feeling like she had pried even more.

"I'd love to meet him," she said, trying to be gracious. She also wondered why, when she'd been here almost an hour, that she hadn't already met the man.

************

They had to go through the living room to get to Ron's bedroom, where he was sitting in his wheel chair, reading a book that was laid on the table affixed to his chair. Bobby had made a contraption that held the book, and allowed Ron to turn the pages with his unruly hand. He usually read while Amanda cleaned up after supper. Then, if it was still early, they might watch some TV together. If it was late, they engaged in more intimate pastimes.

On their way through the living room though, they stopped. Bobby was sprawled out on the couch, the little tyke lying on his chest. A book was laid across the little boy's back, open, but not being read.

Both were sound asleep.

"I can't believe that," said Misty, her voice a whisper.

"What?" Amanda was confused.

"That little boy looks so peaceful and happy, lying there. I can't believe he'd be like that with that infuriating man."

Amanda frowned again, but then forced a smile.

"Bobby has some very good qualities," she said, reaching for the girl's elbow, to pull her along. "You two got off to a rocky start, but he's a very nice man, down deep. He's honest, and very loving."

Misty looked askance at the woman holding her elbow. "I'll believe that when I see it," she said, loudly enough that Michael shifted on Bobby's chest. She then whispered, "Sorry."

************

Misty Compton hid her shock at the condition of the man she was taken to see. She hid it well, pasting a professional smile on her face, while her mind recoiled from the sad looking man, who looked at her from a twisted body and hooted like some kind of animal.

"He had a stroke several years back," explained Amanda, unnecessarily. "But Bobby taught us how to communicate with him. I'll show you how."

She then explained how her father used the bean bags to answer yes and no, and introduced her father to the festival's star attraction.

"How are you?" asked Misty weakly.

Ron waved his hand and hooted.

"You have to ask him a question that can be answered yes or no," reminded Amanda. "I'll show you." She turned to her father. "Have you heard any of Misty's songs on the radio?"

Ron's hand slapped down on the green bag. His mangled voice made an almost tune that, to Misty's astonishment, she recognized as "I'll Always Love You", one of her most popular songs.

"Is that 'I'll always love you?'," she asked.

His hand slapped down on the green bag again.

This tiny bit of intelligence, displayed by a man who looked like a basket case, broke through Misty's shock at his appearance. She also felt shamed, somewhat by her initial horror. That the poor man would try to hum one of her tunes was really sweet.

"Have you heard 'Take Me To The Fair'?" she asked.

Again his hand slapped down on the green bean bag, and again, his voice hit three or four of the proper notes, mixed in with a dozen that were completely wrong. Still, to her ear, it was recognizable.

"Which is your favorite?" she asked. She frowned. "Oh ... you can't answer that. How silly of me! Is 'I'll Always Love You' your favorite?"

Red bag.

"It's not? How about 'Take Me To The Fair'?"

Again he put his hand on the red bag.

In the end she had to go through six songs before his hand went back to the green bag. As it turned out, his favorite song of hers was "Tumbledown Shack", which she had written about the trailer she had been living in. The message in the song was that what mattered was where home was, not what home looked like. That song hadn't been released as a single, and didn't get much airplay on the radio either.

"How sweet!" giggled the young singer. "You know I wrote that song about my own home."

His hand went to the red bag.

That got her talking again, and she told him the story about how the song came to be, and what her home had been like, and what had made a ratty old drafty trailer the place she would always think of as "home".

They spent forty-five minutes talking to him and, before she left, Misty said she'd sing his favorite song during the concert, and that she'd dedicate it to him.

His excited hooting woke Bobby up.

************

When Bobby appeared in the doorway, holding a still sleeping little boy, Amanda stepped forward to take her son.

"I'll just put him to bed. It's getting late anyway. You need to get Misty to the B and B."

"Can you front her something to wear to bed?" asked Bobby, kissing the little boy's cheek before turning him over to Amanda. "We ... um ... didn't get a chance to get her anything before I brought her here."

"It's okay," said Misty automatically. She liked Amanda, and she liked Ron too. It made her a little less irascible toward Bobby. "I'll manage. It would be nice to have something to put on tomorrow though. Anything will do. Bobby's going to take me shopping again in the morning ... aren't you?"

She looked straight at him.

He sighed, but then smiled, which surprised her.

"I guess I am," he said. "To be honest, though, you don't need anything special to play here in Hutch. Plain clothes will do fine, if you ask me."

"I don't remember asking you," said Misty, with false sweetness in her voice.

"Bobby!" said Amanda, warning in her voice.

"Okay, okay," said Bobby holding up his hands. "Whatever she needs. All I'm saying is that she looks just fine in normal clothes, that's all."

Amanda took Misty into her bedroom, both to find something to loan the girl, and to get them apart. Misty accepted an overlarge T shirt to wear for the night, and Amanda led her back to the living room, where Bobby was waiting.

"You go ahead," said Amanda to her star attraction. "I just need a little word with Bobby."

"Okay, thanks a lot for the shirt. It was really great to see you again. Say bye to your father for me please?"

Misty grinned, as she went out the door. She knew that what was going on in there was that Bobby was being told, once again, to cater to her wishes.

She was half right.

Of course ... that meant she was half wrong.

She just couldn't resist trying to peek a little, to watch that disturbing man get his come-uppance, which is why she went to the side, on the porch, instead of to the car. As she peeked in, she saw Amanda holding both of Bobby's hands and speaking earnestly. She couldn't hear the words, but the frown on Amanda's face made her smile again.

************

"Bobby, please," pleaded Amanda, inside. "You've got to be nicer to her. Everything has gone wrong for her, and she needs our help."

"You get what you deserve," muttered Bobby.

"I'll make it worth your while," said Amanda, inching closer to him. "I'm dying for you right now. In fact, when you drop her off, why don't you just come back here and spend the night?"

"Now that's something that might make putting up with her a little easier," said Bobby, grinning.

"Here's a little taste, just to make sure you hurry," said the woman in his arms.

Amanda surged against him, and reached up to put her arms around his neck, and pull him into an open-lipped kiss.

************

Misty was about to stop peeking and go to the car. She couldn't hear anything. It was enough to know that Amanda was putting him in his place.

Then she saw the woman press against the man, and her open lips searched for his. Bobby's hands slid to grip Amanda's butt and he actually pulled her up onto her tiptoes, and moved her hips from side to side. The only reason he could possibly be doing that was that he was pressing his ... his ... his manhood against her!

Misty was not a virgin. Her cousin three times removed, Wally, by name, had initiated her into the mysteries of being a woman, back when she was sixteen. Wally had been eighteen at the time, and had boasted that he might ruin her for other men.

She hadn't been all that impressed.

It wasn't that it hadn't felt good. After the initial pain, it had felt fine. She hadn't had that feeling she could get from using her fingers, but it had been very nice, all things considered. He'd made a mess all over her stomach, when he pulled his cock out of her and spurted it all over her front. She'd had nothing to clean herself up with, and had had to use her panties. Then, with her clothes back on, she'd had to do something with that soaked garment. She'd ended up stuffing the panties behind a dusty old box in her aunt's basement, where her deflowering had taken place. Wally had simply zipped up, said, "Thanks" and gone back upstairs.

Since then she'd concentrated more on her music than on men. Her music always made her feel good. Men were much less reliable.

But Misty had enough experience to recognize two people doing something that both of them were excited about. No wonder this insufferable man felt like he could be so rude. He was porking his boss!

Her good mood vanished, and she went to the truck, barely getting her door closed before Bobby came out. At least he wasn't grinning from ear to ear.

They'd gone two blocks before either of them spoke.

"So," said Misty, thinking she was being devious. "Tell me about your girlfriend."

"I don't really have one," said Bobby.

"Just like a man," thought Misty. "Love 'em and leave 'em. Get what you can and wander off looking for another conquest!" She didn't say it out loud, but she wanted to.

"You seemed pretty friendly with Amanda," she said, trying to prick his conscience.

"I have lots of friends," said Bobby, turning onto the street where the bed and breakfast was.

They both saw the fire trucks and police cars at the same time, and Bobby's foot hit the brake pedal hard. Smoke was coming from the roof of a tall Victorian house. There were firemen on the roof. One had an axe and the other had a hose.

"Uh oh," sighed Bobby.

"Can't we just go around?"

"That house is where you're staying," said Bobby. "Where you were staying," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Shit, shit, shit!" moaned the girl. "What else can go wrong?"

"Stay here," said Bobby. "I'll go see what's up. Maybe it's not too bad. I don't see any flames or anything."

"I'm not staying someplace that smells like smoke!" said Misty, her voice strident.

"Maybe it doesn't smell like smoke!" argued Bobby. "Just stay here. I'll go find out."

************

Misty probably wouldn't have left the truck, except that Bobby had told her to stay there. For that reason alone, a few minutes after he left, she got out and followed after him.

He was talking to a fireman with a white hat, instead of a yellow one, like all the others. There was a woman with him who was crying, and looked a mess, with her hair all flying every which way, and smudges on her face.

"It was those damn new locks that the city made me put on the doors!" the woman was moaning, as Misty walked up behind Bobby. "They lock automatically when you go outside. I just went out to dump the trash, and I guess Buster jumped up on the door to see where I was going ... and it closed. I couldn't get back in! I was looking through the back window when that pan of chicken on the stove caught fire, but I couldn't get in to do anything about it!" She looked down at a dog, sitting at her feet, which Misty hadn't noticed until then. "Bad dog, Buster!" she snapped.

"Calm down," said the man in the white fire helmet. "That's why they call these things accidents," he said.

"Calm down!?" The woman almost screeched. "I have guests! I can't take care of guests in a kitchen that's burned up! That singer girl - the one they got for the festival - She's supposed to stay here tonight! What am I going to do?"

That was a preview of The Making of a Gigolo Boxed Set, Volume Four. To read the rest purchase the book.

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