The Making Of A Gigolo (13) - Misty Compton
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Reluctant, Heterosexual, Incest, Harem, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Petting, Pregnancy,
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Misty was an up and coming music star, when a series of unforseen circumstances landed her in Kansas for a series of concerts. It started badly, and seemed to be getting worse, particularly when she met an infuriating man named Bobby Dalton. Before the first concert was even close she almost got on a plane and went back home. almost.
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 run down 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 hr 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 any more. 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 any more. 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.