Chapter 3

The script for the next day, depending on how far they went, called for Mr. Wilson to begin to pet and stroke his sixteen year old neighbor. There was a lot of dialogue, as she was reluctant, then curious, and, in the end, happy that they ... experimented. Basically the plot was that he slowly seduced her, and she let herself be seduced at a rate that Layla thought was silly.

Charles was doing things out in the sound booth and their microphones were still off.

"If I liked a man like she likes this man," said Layla, as they got ready to start, "this would go a whole lot faster than it does."

"You're thinking like a twenty-three year old woman," said Bob, smiling. "You can't do that. She's only sixteen, remember?"

"When I was sixteen, if I liked a man like she likes him," said Layla, patiently, "this would have gone a whole lot faster than this does."

"You were naughty when you were sixteen?" he asked, not quite leering.

"What if I was?" she asked, sticking her chin out.

"Nothing," he said, grinning. "Not my business. But you have to try to think about it like the author wrote it. That's the acting part, remember?"

"And that's another thing," she said, looking at her partner. "Were you acting yesterday? When you kissed me?"

"Some," he said. "I read my lines, if you'll be kind enough to recall."

"Because it didn't feel like you were acting, Bob."

"It didn't feel like you were acting either," he said.

"That's the whole point," she said. "How are we going to do this today? I didn't HAVE to act to make those noises yesterday. You made me ... I mean I felt like ... I mean ... I don't feel like I did all that much acting."

"Well," said Bob. "How would you feel if I help you today ... like I helped you yesterday?"

She folded her arms and stared at him.

"I know what you're talking about," she said. "You're talking about ... touching me ... like he touches her."

"The thought did cross my mind," admitted Bob. "But only if that's what you want."

"I can't just come out and ask you to touch me like that," she complained. "I'm not a slut!"

"I know that," he said.

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"Do you trust me?" he asked softly.

"No," she said.

"Maybe," she added.

"A little bit," she finally decided.

"Are you willing to trust me enough to try a couple of things?" he asked. "Just in the interests of helping you make the appropriate noises, of course."

"Acting?" she said, staring at him.

"Yes, just acting," he said.

"Like yesterday?" she asked, her eyes never wavering.

"Well ... yes," he finally said.

He couldn't read the look on her face. He actually had no idea what she was going to say. She picked up her script, turned to the page they were starting on, and said, "OK."

Then she flipped the mike on and said, "We're ready to start when you are, Charlie."

Once again Layla sat down in the easy chair in the living room, to read through what they'd work on the next day. Within minutes, though, she moved to her bedroom. She could already tell she'd have to rub.

She'd rubbed almost as soon as she'd gotten home. She didn't like doing that when Aidan was still up, but as soon as they'd entered the house, he'd chosen to watch a movie and become engrossed in it.

She shouldn't have worried. She'd felt the thrills of an orgasm within forty-five seconds of sliding her hand between her legs. She'd already known she would have to change her panties when she got home. So she rubbed first, then changed into fresh clothes. While she did it, she realized she'd do it again later that night. There was just too much emotion built up in her after what had happened.

They'd finished the predetermined story portion two hours early, which was amazing, considering that they'd had to stop and start at least two dozen times. The contract they'd signed had stipulated a maximum amount of money, paid in the form of progress payments, based on how the story was broken down into production segments. What that basically meant was that, had they been able to do the whole thing in one day, they would have been paid in full that day. The way things were set up, though, the story was broken up into segments to be recorded each day. It would take a full week if they stayed on schedule.

Layla was very glad it was being done that way ... for several reasons.

First, she didn't think she could stand to go through that much emotion in a single day. Not the way Bob was ... helping her. Another reason she was glad it was being strung out was because, the way they were doing it, she really needed to have her lines memorized. That was because when Bob started doing things to her, she couldn't remember to look at the script.

She thought about the third reason while she got dinner ready. That was, plainly and simply, that she couldn't wait to start up again the next day. Her reservations about Bob were gone. He had shown remarkable restraint today, considering what had happened, and she no longer suspected he was trying to finagle a way into her panties. He didn't have to. Layla had already decided that when it came time for that, she just wouldn't wear any.

She wasn't ignorant of what was happening. That was part of the third reason she was glad this was being strung out. If it had all happened in one day, she wouldn't have gotten to the point where she now admitted she was. But the relatively slow way things were happening made it possible.

Later, in bed, she replayed the day's events in her mind. Her hand wandered to where Bob's hand hadn't yet been, as she remembered.

It had started at a point in the story that she thought was the silliest thing she'd ever heard in her life. Mr. Wilson was supposed to stroke Megan's face, and Megan was supposed to sigh, "Ohhhhhhh." She'd laughed when she read it the first time. It was so silly. What sixteen year old girl would get all gooey over a man touching her face?

But, when Bob had looked into her eyes and traced the tips of two fingers from Layla's shaven scalp, down and along the edge of her ear, and across her cheek to her lips, she had held her breath. Then he'd leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers ... lightly ... gently.

Layla's "ohhhhhh" hadn't been an act at all, and it hadn't been said because she knew her line either.

His fingers had gone on, drifting to her throat and around to the back of her head, where his hand spread out and pulled gently, until her lips met his again.

That hadn't been in the script.

As Mr. Wilson, he had touched her shoulders, arms, and sides—coming perilously close to her breasts, but never actually touching them. She couldn't even remember the dialogue they'd spoken, but she remembered staring at the script and feeling his fingers touching her ... stroking her ... almost hypnotizing her.

He was supposed to touch her breasts on the outside of her clothing the first time. What they got on tape sounded like that too, but it hadn't been that way. Her very realistic sounding moans had been the result of him sliding his fingertips under her shirt ... up her sides, with a feather touch that should have tickled, but didn't.

He'd kept kissing her ... short, soft kisses, performed right next to the microphone, as she held her script to one side and tried as hard as she could to focus on her lines.

His fingers had touched the sides of her naked breasts. She almost never wore a bra, because her breasts were firm mounds — smallish, but nicely rounded.

She was saying, "Mr. Wilson ... I don't think you should be touching me there," when she'd felt cool air on her stomach, and realized he was lifting her shirt.

"Let me just unbutton your blouse ... please?" he pleaded. She wanted to giggle, because she was wearing a pullover, but the cool air wafted onto her breasts and she knew they were exposed.

"I just know they'll be beautiful," he said.

He wasn't looking at them, though. His fingers went back to the sides of her breasts and then slid under them, brushing against the bottoms.

"See?" he said into the mike. "That doesn't hurt at all."

"But ... you can see my titties," she said.

"That was supposed to be a moan," said Bob, winking.

"But," she started over again. His fingers moved suddenly and his fingertips found her nipples and just held them, applying enough pressure that they tingled. "You can ... see ... my..." He squeezed the nipples and pulled gently. "Titties," she moaned.

Bob stuck his mouth right next to the mike. He had memorized his lines.

"I have to do this, Megan," he huffed into the mike.

Layla let out a little "eep," as he suddenly bent and fastened his lips around her left nipple. She couldn't believe he'd actually done that! At the same time, she knew she didn't care, because it felt so wonderful. His sucking was so soft and gentle that her nipple wouldn't hurt if he did this for hours.

Then he quit and pulled his face up to hers. He reached and pulled her hand, with the script in it, to her face.

"Oh!" she yipped.

His head went back down and he started alternating, moving from left to right and then back again.

"Ohhhhh, Mr. Wilson!" she gasped. "What are you DOING?"

She went on, reading the very predictable lines, saying he was sucking her titties, and that he shouldn't, and how it felt so good. And, each time she came to a place where she was supposed to moan or groan or make some other noise, his sucking motions would intensify until she didn't have to act at all.

Of course she said some things that weren't in the script too. "Ohhh fuck," was one of them, and "Ohhhhh Bob," in another place. But Charles did not come into the room and remind her not to adlib. Once they'd begun speaking, and once Bob had started molesting her breasts, they hadn't stopped until they ended the chapter with her saying, "Ohhh, Mister Wilson ... I feel so funny ... something's happening ... I think I have to PEE or something! I have to go!"

Bob kept licking her nipples, and she realized her hands were on his head, gripping his hair and pulling him against her chest. She let go and he lifted his face to kiss her lips, and nose, and eyes.

Then he gave her a real kiss, while he pulled her shirt back down. They broke apart just as Charles opened the door and came into the room.

"I half expected you two to be naked," he joked, grinning. "You guys are doing a fantastic job. Layla? I'm telling you ... I don't know if the author will agree, but I'm going to ask him to let your adlibs stay in this. They sound real and they're in the right places. Except for the Bob stuff. You have to work on that, unless I can get Mr. Lubrican to rename the male lead Bob. I don't think she gets to be on a first name basis with him for another chapter or two."

"She is pretty good, isn't she," agreed Bob. "She makes this very easy for me to do."

"We're done early," said Charles. "But that doesn't matter. I can only think of three places I want to get Layla's lines down again. They're all where she calls you Bob instead of Mister Wilson. After that, you two can take off."

Layla remembered the look on Bob's face as they left the studio and started toward the front door. He kept glancing at her and quickly looking forward again. He'd been amazingly intimate with her, back there in the studio, but now he seemed almost shy.

He'd looked kind of sideways at her and asked, "You OK?"

"I'm fine," she'd said. It hadn't been just a platitude either. She really WAS fine with what had happened.

Now, as she lay back in her bed and spread her legs so she could rub, she thought about how it was that she could be fine with that. As she got closer to that wonderful feeling she was craving so much ... and thought of Bob ... she quit worrying about what had changed in her thought processes ... and why it had changed.

She was just glad he was in that sixty percent.

When she arrived the next morning, he was already there. He was mid-sentence, rehearsing, of all things, when she went in. He stopped.

"If anybody needs to rehearse, it's me," she said smiling.

"You did OK yesterday," he said softly.

"I did!" she said, her voice rising on the last word. Then she wrinkled up her face, as much as such a smooth face COULD be wrinkled. "I used your name instead of his, though."