Foreword This is the second in a series of stories about how Bobby Dalton
was transformed, from a normal teenage boy, into a man sought after by many
women.  His story starts with "The Making of a Gigolo - Tilly Johnson", and
there is much information there that will be useful to you in understanding
what happens in this story.  Please read the stories in order, for your
fullest enjoyment.  Bob

   =================================

   The Making of a Gigolo - Martha Thompson 
   by Beating Off Bob 

1968 

Bobby looked at his list.  He had four customers now, for his impromptu handyman business, which had started, quite by accident, when he repaired the drain in Tilly Johnson's kitchen sink.  She had a friend, with some rotten boards on her porch, who she recommended Bobby to.  He had fixed those boards, at which point the woman engaged him to do a few other things.  She had a friend too, whose husband was a traveling salesman, and who needed a man
around to do little fix-it repairs.  She had a friend too.

   It was high summer, the year following when Bobby had lost his
innocence. Tilly had given birth, in June, to a baby that she and Jake were
inordinately proud of--she, because she said it was a gift, and Jake,
because everyone thought that he was the father, and now looked at him with
more respect.  He'd brightened up a good deal, and now went out with Tilly
from time to time.  The crop in the field was doing fine, and would be
ready to harvest in a couple of weeks, and Bobby had time to do a few short
chores, and earn a little more money towards a car.

   It was that friend of a friend of a friend that Bobby was about to visit
for the first time.  Her name was Martha Thompson, and Bobby knew her from
seeing her around at town events.

   Bobby remembered Martha as a tallish woman, with broad shoulders.  He
had looked at her more as an adult, than as a woman, back then.  Noticing
women as ...  women ...  was something he began doing quite routinely after
Tilly took his virginity, and then got pregnant by him.  But he hadn't seen
Martha around since he had started looking at women differently.  He didn't
exactly think about that.  He'd worked for two women after Tilly, and
nothing sexual had happened at all.  He hadn't gone to either house with
sex on his mind, but he had evaluated the women as potential sexual
partners.  After Tilly, every woman seemed to be a potential sexual
partner.

   So, when Martha opened the door and smiled at him, Bobby noticed several
things.  He noticed her smile, first.  It was friendly and open, and her
eyes held none of the wariness that some of the people in town had when
they looked at one of "those" kids ...  the kids of a woman known to have
had Joe's babies.  Then he noticed her breasts, which were large and
pillowy under the gray dress she was wearing.

   Then he noticed that SHE had noticed him ...  noticing her breasts. 
When his eyes came back up to her face, hers were pinned on his.

   She didn't say anything, but he felt heat on his cheeks as he realized
he'd been caught looking where a gentleman doesn't look ... at least not
when someone else can see him looking.

   "So, are you ready to work?" asked the woman.  He'd never talked to her
before, and her voice was lower ...  richer than most other women he knew.

   "Yes, Ma'am," he said.  "What do you need done?"

   "I've got a pear tree out back that split, down the trunk, in a storm
last spring.  I hoped it would heal up, but half of it needs to come down,
or I'm afraid the whole thing will die.  I love those pears, but they're so
heavy it's pulling the trunk apart."

   Bobby followed her, watching her generous behind move under the gray
dress.  It looked big, but hard too.  Bobby wondered how old this woman
was. He didn't have the kind of experience that would tell him that.  Tilly
wasn't even twenty-five yet, and was still slim and athletic.  She was
athletic in bed too.  This woman had more flesh on her body, though she
didn't look too much older with her hair pulled back in a pony tail like it
was.  She looked strong.

   "I've got a saw, out in the shed," she said, over her shoulder, as she
led him out the back door.

   "OK," he said.

   She pulled open the slat-board door of a rickety looking unpainted shed,
and peered inside.  She pointed toward one corner.

   "I think it's back there," she said.  "I'd look for it myself, but I'm
just deathly afraid of spiders.  Would you find it?"

   "Sure," he said carelessly.  He went in, and let his eyes adjust to the
dusty darkness.  He saw a one-man crosscut saw hanging on a nail, but had
to climb over a pile of boards, and a wheelbarrow to get to it.  He saw the
teeth were rusty, when he pulled it down.

   "Got a file?" he asked.

   "Maybe in there," said Martha, leaning into the shed to point to an old
dresser, in one corner.

   Bobby pulled drawers open to find a mixture of tools.  He found a file
in one.  It didn't have a handle on it, but when he ran his finger across
the ridges, they felt sharp.  There was a broom in the corner too, and he
took it and swept it all over the dresser, walls, and floor nearby.

   "Won't be any spiders around now," he said.  "I'm going to need you to
hold the saw, while I sharpen it."

   "Oh ...  all right," she said.

   She stepped gingerly into the shed, trying not to touch anything.  Bobby
laid the saw on top of the dresser, with a foot of the teeth hanging off,
and told her to hold it down.  She did, and he started addressing each
tooth with the file.

   "It's hot in here," said Martha, lifting a hand to wipe sweat off her
brow.

   "Yes Ma'am," said Bobby, not really paying attention.

   "You make me feel like an old woman, calling me that," said the woman,
her voice chiding.

   "I'm sorry," said Bobby.  "It's just manners."

   "Well, I'd like it if you called me Martha instead."

   He grinned.  "OK, Martha.  I've never known a Martha before."

   While he finished addressing the teeth, she asked him questions about
how his sisters were doing, and his mother.  He replied without thinking,
paying attention to the file, and the tooth he was working on.  When he was
done, his shirt was dark with sweat.

   It was bright outside, when they left the shed and Bobby was better able
to see that all the teeth were now shiny and sharp.

   "It feels better out here," said Martha, fanning herself, "even if it is
sunny.  At least there's a breeze."

   "You could just wait in the air conditioning," said Bobby.

   "We haven't bought one yet," said Martha.  "I guess we're just used to
fans."

   She took him to the tree, which had grown two trunks early in life. 
Bobby could see the split where the trunks were pulling apart.  The
branches of the tree were heavy with greenish yellow fruit.  He walked
around the tree, looking at it from several directions.

   "You know," he said.  "I have an idea that might save this tree."

   "Really?" Martha sounded excited.

   "Back in those drawers," he said, pointing at the shed, "I saw some eye
bolts.  They were pretty long ones.  If I drilled holes in both trunks,
about ...  there," He used the four foot long saw to point high up on one
trunk, "we could run wire between them, and twist it, to pull the trunks
back together.  Then we could slather tar on the injury, so water and bugs
couldn't get in.  It might heal, then."

   "Why, how clever!" yipped Martha.  "I never so much as thought of doing
anything like that.  Do you think it would work?"

   "I don't really know," said Bobby.  He looked at the tree.  "Both sides
seem to be healthy right now.  We don't really have anything to lose,
trying."

   "Well I suppose you're right," said Martha.  "I'm so glad Jenny told me
about you.  You're smart as a whip!"

   They returned to the shed, and retrieved the eyebolts.  There was an old
wooden ladder lying against the shed, in the back, and they set that up
too. There was no drill though.

   "I've got one at home.  I'll run get it," said Bobby.

   When he returned, with the Yankee type hand cranked drill, and a gallon
bucket of roofing tar, Martha steadied the ladder while he climbed up and
drilled the first hole.  He slipped in the eyebolt, put a large washer on
it that he'd also brought from home, and then the nut.  Then, they changed
sides of the tree and did it all over again.  Now all they needed was heavy
wire.  They found nothing in the shed.

   "How about my old clothes line?" she asked.  "I don't use it any more,
since we got an electric dryer.

   "Perfect," said Bobby, and followed her to the back fence, where the
sagging old clothes line was.  Rather than try to unwind the ends of a wire
from the T pole, which was embedded in the ground, Bobby just filed through
it.  It was as thick as a nail.

   Back at the tree, they had to move the ladder back and forth, as the
wire was threaded through the eyebolts, to form a circle of wire, which
Bobby twisted together, bending the ends back so they caught each other. 
Taking a foot long length of one-by-two lumber from the shed, he slipped it
between the two strands, in the middle, and began twisting the wire with
the board.  He could see the wire tighten and shorten as it twisted. 
Looking down, he called to Martha.

   "Step back and tell me when you think I've gone far enough."

   She left the ladder, and walked thirty feet away, shading her eyes with
her hand.  He kept twisting.

   "How 'bout now?" he yelled.

   "I don't know," she said helplessly.  "Why don't you come down here and
look."

   When he started to let go of the board, he realized the wire was trying
to untwist.  It didn't go all the way, but it definitely loosened a lot. 
He'd have to think about a way to solve that.  He climbed down and went to
where Martha was standing.  The branches needed to come in at least two
more feet.  He knew the board would break, before he could apply that much
pressure, so he returned to the shed, where he found an old child's wagon,
with a missing wheel.  He worked on getting the axel off, and took it back.
He also grabbed a roll of quarter inch rope that he'd seen in a drawer.

   Taking it back, he asked "Can you tie a knot?"

   "Mercy me, no," she laughed.  "I can barely tie my shoes."

   "OK, then, for what I'm thinking of doing, somebody's going to have to
tie a knot.  Can you climb the ladder?"

   She looked up, and nodded.  "If you'll hold it I can."

   He told Martha how to insert the metal rod through the wire, to replace
the board, and tied a slip knot in the end of the rope.  He had her hold
the rope in her teeth, and climb the ladder, while he held it steady.

   It was as she did so that he looked up her dress.

   What he saw first were pale buttocks, under the dress.  Then, as she
lifted a foot, he saw her pink slit, lying just behind a puff of dark hair.
She was looking up, and didn't see him staring.

   He watched, sometimes her hands, and sometimes up her dress, as she
inserted the metal rod and began copying what she had seen him do.

   "OK, stop!" he called up.  "I'm going out to look, so don't move."

   She stood frozen, as he backed up and eyed the trunks.  He went back and
held the ladder again.

   "Twist it ten more turns," he called up.

   She did, but it got so tight that she had to put one foot down a rung,
to bring her body weight into play, and he saw her pussy lips again.

   She froze again, as he went back and looked.  He went back to hold the
ladder and told her to give it three more twists.  She did, using all her
weight, and he instructed her to take the rope from her mouth and slip the
noose over the end of the rod and pull it tight.  Then while she held the
bar parallel with the ground, he had her stay still again, as he tied the
other end of the rope off around the trunk, below the split.  That kept the
rod from whirling as she let off pressure, and kept the wire tight. 
Holding the ladder again, he told her to come down.

   This time, however, she was looking down, as he was looking up.

   She was blushing when she reached the ground.

   "You were looking up my dress," she said, accusingly.

   "I couldn't really help it, Ma'am," said Bobby.

   "I wasn't planning on climbing a ladder," she said.  "It's just been so
hot that underthings seem so ...  unnecessary."

   "Ma'am, what you do is really none of my business," he said.

   "I thought you were going to call me Martha," she said.

   "Well ...  I thought you were mad."

   "No," she said, flushing more.  "It wasn't your fault.  I just ...  I
mean ... you must think I'm some sort of hussy!"

   Bobby took a chance and grinned.  "I don't think you're a hussy.  I
didn't have to look either."

   "But you did," she said.

   "Well ...  yes, I guess I did."

   "You've probably never seen anything like that, I imagine," said Martha.

   "Well, I do live with seven sisters and my Mamma," said Bobby.

   "Oh," she said, as if she'd just thought of that, even though she knew
it well.  "I suppose you're used to it, then."

   "I wouldn't say that," he said, grinning.  "I don't exactly get that
kind of view very often." His tone made it clear that he'd enjoyed the
view.

   "You mustn't tell anyone what you saw," she said, worry in her voice.

   "Of course not, Martha," he said.  "That wouldn't be gentlemanly at
all."

   "Not even your young friends!" she cautioned.

   "That's a sight I'd like to keep to myself anyway," said Bobby, trying
to placate her.

   "Why, am I that ugly?" she sounded hurt.

   "Of course not," he said.  "It was just so pretty that I don't want to
share it." He had no idea if she'd take offense or not, but he was having a
hard time figuring out exactly what she wanted him to say.

   Her blush returned and she fanned her face.  "Oh my!" she said.  She
looked around, as if she suspected the neighbors were trying to listen in.

   "Well, we're done here," she said.  "I should get you something cool to
drink."

   "That'd be real nice, Martha," he said.

   She took him to the kitchen, and served him cherry Kool-Aid.  She seemed
to have a lot of energy all of a sudden, and kept darting looks at him.  He
was watching her move around, of course, and appreciating her body.  She
was definitely plump, but not overly so, and her breasts looked like they
were trying to explode through her dress.  He wondered why he'd never
noticed that before.

   "You're staring at me," she said, filling a glass with ice cubes.

   "I'm sorry," he said.  "I'm not trying to make you feel uncomfortable."

   "Oh, I guess I'm just not used to it.  It's been a long time since a
young man stared at me."

   "I don't know why," said Bobby, taking the glass she handed him.  "I
think you're pretty."

   "Oh MY!" she chirped, fanning her face with her hand.

   "I probably shouldn't stare at you, though," he said.  "I'm sure your
husband would take offense."

   The change in her demeanor was remarkable.  Gone was the flighty,
embarrassed woman.  Her shoulders squared, and her face took on a set look.

   "You don't have to be coy with me, Bobby.  I'm well aware that everybody
in town knows my husband is a drunk, and basically worthless."

   That was true.  Bobby did know that Arthur Thompson had spent more than
one night in jail, sleeping off the effects of overindulgence.  He owned
the Rexall drug store, but was rarely in it.  Instead, he got a bottle of
whiskey and "went fishing" a lot.  He did, in fact, go to the river nearby.
Kids had spied on him for years, watching him talk to himself and get drunk
on the bank, with a line in the water.  There was great speculation about
whether there was any bait on the hook, since he never seemed to catch
anything, but nobody knew for sure.  Arthur carried a lot more weight than
his wife did ...  a LOT more, and his constantly florid face made it look
like he was about to have a stroke all the time.  People were polite to
him, though, because he let them run credit accounts at the drug store.

   "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," said Bobby.  "It's just that it
probably isn't proper for me to look up your dress, like that."

   "Probably?" she asked, distracted by his conditional statement.

   "Well, it was right pretty," he said.  "and I am nineteen years old."

   "Are you really?" asked Martha, completely distracted now.  "Where has
the time gone?  The last time I saw you, you were just starting High
School!"

   "Time does fly," said Bobby.

   "I should call you Bob," she said.  "Why, you're a grown man!"

   "Which is why I shouldn't have looked up your dress," he said.

   "Oh ...  no harm done, I guess," she said, suddenly back to being the
nervous, flighty woman.  She looked at him, and glanced away quickly. 
"Could I ask you a question?"

   "Sure."

   "Do you promise you'll never tell a soul I asked you?"

   "OK."

   "Was it really ...  pretty?"

   Bobby heard the yearning in her voice.  He had no experience with a
neglected wife.  He would pick up on that tone of voice much more quickly,
in the future, but this time it was something new.  It made his ears prick
up, though, because he knew that tone meant something serious was going
through this woman's mind.

   "It was beautiful," he said softly.

   "Oh my!" she gasped.  "Oh MY!"

   "There's nothing wrong with the rest of you either," he went on, somehow
knowing that she'd liked what he said.

   "Ohhhh!" she moaned.  "I shouldn't be doing this!"

   "You're not doing anything," said Bobby.  "I'm just telling you that
you're right pretty, that's all."

   "Pretty!" she moaned.  "Oh MY!"

   She jumped up, and went to the counter.  Bobby saw her hand shaking as
she poured more Kool-Aid into her glass.  She stood there, and took a
drink, facing away from him.  Then she squared her shoulders again, and
turned around, to sit down.

   "I AM a hussy," she said.  "No decent woman would have asked you that."

   "I think you're being too hard on yourself," said Bobby.  "It's a little
thing.  You ARE pretty, and it shouldn't be so shocking for someone to tell
you that."

   ======================================

   Bobby sat there, as she began to talk.  Somehow she got distracted
again, and soon she was spilling out her woes, about Arthur, and how he was
always gone, or always drunk when he was home.  They'd been married fifteen
years, and he'd been drunk for fourteen of it, as far as she was concerned.
It had gotten worse lately, not that he acted any different, but it was
clearly affecting his health, and he wouldn't do anything about it.  She
talked about vacations cancelled, and things not done, because he was in no
shape to do them.  It turned out that she went to the drug store most days,
and managed it herself, though she tried to keep that from outsiders.

   Finally she wound down.

   "I can't believe I told you all that," she sighed.

   "I won't say anything to anybody," said Bobby, reaching out to touch her
hand.  "You're just lonely and discouraged.  I'm glad you had a chance to
get it off your chest."

   "You're an amazing young man," she said, looking at him.  "Most men your
age would probably laugh at me."

   "I guess I'm not most men," he said.

   "No, you're definitely not," she said, an odd tone in her voice. 
"Well!" she said brightly.  "Enough of my complaints.  You've been very
nice to listen to them, but you probably want to be paid and get on with
your pursuits."

   "I didn't know how long you'd need me," he said.  "I left the whole day
open for you.  Is there anything else you need done?"

   "Well," she said, her eyes taking on a faraway look.  "There are a few
other trees that could use pruning ...  and you DID sharpen up that saw."

   ====================================

   They went back out, and surveyed the rest of the trees in the yard. 
Several had hanging branches, broken in some past wind storm.  Bobby took
more rope and tied it to the handle of the bucket of tar.  Then he took off
his shirt and climbed the trees, sawing off branches that were dead or
broken, and then hauling the tar up to dress the wounds.  Martha stood on
the ground, watching him work, and pointing out more branches to be
removed. Another two hours passed before all of the trees had been taken
care of.

   Bobby climbed back down from the last one, and stood, his chest
glistening with sweat, in the noon sun.

   "You must let me feed you," said Martha, her eyes roaming over his
muscled chest.

   "That would be nice," he said.

   "I'll get you a towel before you put your shirt back on," she said.

   "OK."

   She did, watching him rub the sweat and sawdust from his upper body, and
then taking the towel back.  She fixed hamburgers, and they talked some
more as they ate.  She told him a little about growing up, and in doing so,
he found out she was thirty-five.

   Then she got her pocketbook, and paid him for his chores, giving him
much more than he'd expected.

   "There's one more thing," she said, putting her purse back on the table.
"I want you to take a bag of pears to your mother."

   He followed her out to the tree they'd repaired.  He'd just climbed all
the other trees, and the ladder was still sitting there.  She'd given him a
paper bag.

   "I know which ones are ripe," she said.  "I'll just pick them, and drop
them down to you."

   She put a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder.

   "Hold it steady for me, please," she said.

   She climbed, and, for the next ten minutes, showed him her pussy as much
as she possibly could.  Rather than moving the ladder, she cautioned him to
hold it steady, and reached, lifting one leg out behind her, as a
counterbalance.  She was shameless about it, and he was shameless about
looking.  Each time she dropped a pear to him, she looked at him first,
watching him shift his eyes from between her legs, to the pear in her hand,
before dropping it.

   Finally she came down.  She was breathing hard, and her face was
flushed.

   "Tell your mother I hope she enjoys them," she said, breathlessly.  "I
certainly enjoyed picking them for you."

   Chapter Two

   It was a week later, and Bobby had just come in from morning chores,
when Mamma told him that Mrs.  Thompson had called, to see if he was free
to come over and fix a hole in the wall.  Mamma said they'd had a nice
chat, and that she'd thanked Martha for the pears, which had been succulent
and sweet.

   He called her back, and arranged to go over that afternoon.

   When he got there, she was dressed in much more youthful clothing,
wearing a skirt that came two inches above her knees, and a flowered
blouse.

   "Thanks so much," she said.  "Arthur fell, and his hand went through the
wall, over there." She pointed at a fist sized hole in the wall, about four
feet off the floor.

   "Fell, huh," said Bobby, realizing that something bad had happened here.

   "He knows better than to hit me," said Martha, nervously, aware he
hadn't accepted her somewhat lame excuse for the hole in the wall.  "but
sometimes he gets angry when I try to get him to stop drinking.  I hid his
bottle, yesterday, and he got mad.

   "Where is he now?" Bobby asked.

   "He went fishing," she said, her face straight.

   "Are you in any danger?" he asked.

   "No ...  please, Bobby, don't worry about me.  He won't hurt me." She
waited until he nodded.  "Can you fix it?"

   "Yes," he said.

   She watched, as he cleaned the edges of the hole, and put in a backing
board.  He'd brought plaster with him, and he added water and dabbed it
into the hole, smoothing it with a stiff piece of cardboard, because he
didn't have a trowel.

   "It will need to be painted later," he said.

   "Of course," she said.  "Thank you."

   "He probably hurt his hand, doing that," said Bobby.  "He went clear
through the lath, behind the plaster."

   "I don't care about that," she said.  "He's a man.  If he's so stupid as
to do that, then he can live with the consequences."

   She took him to the sink, where he cleaned his hands.

   "Shall I pay you now, or when it's painted?" she asked.

   "Later is fine," he said.

   "Um ...  do you need any more ...  pears?" she asked, blushing.

   Bobby heard the invitation in her voice.  He'd heard that same tone of
voice when he was at Tilly's house ...  the times he wasn't there to repair
anything, and Jake was "taking a nap".  He looked at this woman, who lived
with such a worthless man.

   "We still have eight or ten left," he said.

   "Oh." She sounded disappointed.

   "I would like to look again, though," he said softly.

   Her eyes widened.

   "Would that be all right?" he asked.

   "Oh my!" she sighed.  "I don't know.  That would be ...  naughty."

   "Would it really be any naughtier than picking me more pears?" he asked.

   "Ohhhh" she moaned.  "I don't know.  I don't know if I could just ... 
show you!"

   "Well, why don't you sit down ...  over there," Bobby said, pointing at
the couch.  "I'll help you."

   "You will?" She sounded dazed.

   She let him lead her to the couch, and he held her hands as she sat,
demurely, her knees firmly together.  She looked lonely, sitting on the big
couch alone.  Bobby sank to his knees in front of her, and put his hands on
her knees, his thumbs inside them.

   "What are you doing?" she asked, breathlessly.

   "I'm going to look," he said softly.

   "Ohhhhhh," she moaned.

   He started sliding his hands up her legs, pushing her short skirt toward
her lap.  Her eyes opened even wider, as her legs became bare.

   "Are you wearing underthings?" he asked.

   "No," she whispered.

   "Good," he said.

   "Oh Bobby," she moaned.

   "It's all right; I'm just going to look."

   "Ohhhhhh," she whined.

   She wiggled, as his hands stroked the tops of her thighs, and her mouth
fell, to hang open as all of her thighs were slowly uncovered.  He took his
hands off her skin, to lift the skirt, bunching it up around her waist, and
uncovering her dark pubic hair.

   "I can't believe we're doing this," she whispered.

   "It's just looking," he said, sliding his hands back down her thighs, to
her knees.

   "This is ...  terrible!" she gasped.

   "This is beautiful," he countered.

   His thumbs put slight pressure on the insides of her knees.  He looked
at her face, and watched as her eyes shifted from his hands, to his face.

   Staring at him, he felt the resistance against his thumbs slacken.  He
exerted more force, and, slowly, her knees came apart.  She held her
breath, and her eyes got a wild look in them.  He slid his hands up her
thighs again, smoothing them against her flesh.

   "It's all right," he said, still looking in her face.

   Her eyes held a pleading look, as he kept spreading her knees apart,
until they hit the couch, and she was completely open.  He saw her eyes
glistening.

   "Don't cry," he said.  "I won't hurt you."

   "You don't understand," she moaned.  "I WANT this!"

   "I do too."

   "I SHOULDN'T want this!" she gasped.

   He ignored her.

   "I'm going to look now," he said.

   "Ohhhhh," she moaned.

   He looked down, and there she was, open for his inspection.  Her pussy
lips were fat and full, completely unlike Tilly's tight small ones, which
he had to pry apart, each time he pushed his prick into her.  These lips
were parted, a slim slit of darkness between them.  They looked shockingly
pink, below her dark, wild pussy hair.

   "Gorgeous," he whispered, leaning down.

   "Oh damn!" she moaned.

   "What's wrong?" he asked.

   "I'm getting wet!" she whined.

   "You're just excited," he said.  "That makes me feel good."

   He slid his hands around the outsides of her legs, hooking the back of
her knees, and pulled her buttocks to the edge of the seat cushion.  Her
butt rode off the back of her skirt.

   "What are you doing?!" she moaned.

   "I just want to see it better," he said, his voice still soft.  "It
looks delicious."

   "Delicious?" She sounded confused.

   He looked up into her face.  "Sure, hasn't Arthur ever tasted you?"

   "WHAT?" she gasped.  "OF COURSE NOT!"

   "Too bad," said Bobby, leaning down, before she could move.  "He's a
fool if he hasn't."

   Her reaction as he fastened his lips to her lower ones, and thrust his
tongue into that little dark slit, was both athletic and violent.  She
voiced a gurgling scream, and her legs tried to close, but couldn't,
because his body was between them.  He found her clit, which was just as
fat and swollen as her pussy lips had been, and sucked it into his mouth,
clamping his lips down on it hard.  Only his arms around her, pulling her
lower body against his face, kept her gyrations from throwing them both
onto the floor.  He spread his knees wide, for stability, and while she
wailed and cried out unintelligible words, he sucked her to orgasm.

   He left it at one, knowing that he'd already done too much.  He just
couldn't resist it though.  She was a nice lady, with a bastard for a
husband, who deserved better than she got stuck with.  He was quite sure
she'd kick him out of the house, and never call again, but he wanted to
leave her with this one orgasm to remember him by.

   Because of Tilly, he could judge when her orgasm had peaked, and was
falling off.  He sucked and licked, just for a few more seconds, as her
hips took on that thrusting rhythm that Tilly's did, when she was cumming,
and then crawled backwards, pulling her skirt down, as his hands came from
around her.

   She lay there, gasping, her head thrown back on the back of the couch,
her eyes closed.  She didn't close her legs, and looked too limp to be able
to do anything.  Bobby closed them for her, arranging her skirt so that it
covered her thighs.

   "I'm sorry," he said, standing up.  "I shouldn't have done that.  I
couldn't resist though.  Every woman should feel that at least once.  You
deserve to be treated better than you are."

   He stood, and turned to leave.

   She said nothing, still lying there limp on the couch.

   ====================================

   He really didn't expect to hear from her again.  He had some fleeting
concern that she might make a formal complaint, but then decided that,
since she had shown him her pussy when she picked the pears, she might not
want to have to explain that ...  formally.  The phone rang, and his
sister, Matilda, was the winner of the mad scramble to get it.  She
listened for a few seconds and said "Oh, OK, hold on."

   Matilda turned to her brother.  "It's for you.  Don't be too long. 
Amanda is going to call me."

   Bobby looked at the eleven-year-old girl, who he had noticed was
beginning to get bumps where she had been flat, and took the phone.

   "Hello?"

   "Bobby?" Her voice was soft.  Very soft.

   "Yes?"

   "I ...  ah ...  just wondered ...  um ...  when you were going to ... 
um paint that patch."

   "Oh, hi," he said brightly.  "I could probably do that Saturday, if
that's all right.  It will depend on whether the wheat is ready to cut or
not."

   "Saturday," she said softly.  "Yes ...  that would be wonderful.  What
time?"

   "Any time you like, after I check the grain." he said.  "Unless we have
to cut it."

   "What if you came for lunch?  You could paint after that ...  couldn't
you?"

   "That would be great," he said, meaning it.  He was elated that she'd
called.

   "OK," she said, more loudly.  "I'll see you then."

   "Great!" said Bobby.

   He hung the phone up and turned, to find Matilda, and Susie standing
there.

   "You got a girlfriend?" asked Suzie, who was twelve, and had more bulges
in the right places than Matilda did.

   "No," he said.  "She's a customer."

   "How come you don't have a girlfriend?" asked Suzie.  Matilda looked
interested too.

   "I live with the most beautiful women in the world," he said, grinning.
"Who could compare with them?"

   Suzie stared at him.

   "Jenny Timmons has a brother," she said.

   "I know that," said Bobby.

   "He's rotten," said Suzie.  "He treats Jenny horribly."

   "Some men are stupid," said Bobby.

   "You're not," said Suzie.  "I like you."

   He swept her up, giving her a hug and swinging her around, making
Matilda yelp and jump back, to keep from being hit.

   "I love you," he said.  "I have no idea why, but I do."

   Suzie was grinning from ear to ear, when he put her down.  Matilda stood
and crossed her arms.

   "If you try that with me, I'll kick you in the shins!" she said, looking
disgusted.

   "OK," said Bobby.  "How about this instead?"

   He darted to her and tickled her mercilessly, until she fell to the
floor, squealing and screaming her laughter.  The noise drew Bev and Flo,
the next two oldest girls, and they piled onto Bobby's back, trying to
tickle him, and aid their little sister.  Suzie happily joined in, until
there was a squirming mass of humanity on the floor.  When they kicked over
a chair, Mamma stopped them.

   They slowly got up.

   "You should get a girlfriend," said Suzie, who had started the whole
mess.  She grinned and ran for her room, but Bobby didn't chase her.

   When all the other girls had faded away, Mamma, who had folded her arms
when she was barking orders for them to break it up, looked at him sternly.

   "She's right, you know.  You should have a girlfriend by now."

   "When I meet her, I'll let you know," he said.

   "Humph!" snorted Mamma.

   ===================================

   When Saturday got there, he took care of his chores first.  He harvested
a handful of wheat, and rolled it clean between his hands.  The seeds were
fat and brown.  He could still crush them between his fingers.  Not ready
yet.

   He reported to his mother, then headed off for Martha's.

   He didn't quite know what to think, when she opened the door for him. 
She didn't have on a skirt, this day, which suggested that his earlier
attentions were no longer welcome.  She was wearing shorts, instead.  On
the other hand, the halter top she was wearing was fairly bursting with her
breasts, which pushed what looked like acres of white, creamy flesh into a
deep, long cleavage that was exposed by the garment.  Naturally, he looked,
and, as his eyes rose to her face again, she was looking at where his eyes
were.

   She neither said anything, nor blushed, but simply said "Hello," and
stepped back to let him enter.

   Lunch was ready.  It was picnic food ...  deviled eggs, potato salad,
baked beans and smoked ham, sliced thin, to make sandwiches with, or be
eaten with the fingers.  A bowl of mixed black and green olives, lettuce
and sweet pickles was on the table too.

   Initially, Martha's conversation was light, and about nothing of
consequence, and she didn't display any nervousness at all.  It was almost
eerie, from Bobby's standpoint.  She was acting like nothing had happened
at all.

   It wasn't until he opened the paint and painted the patch, which took
all of ten minutes, at the very most, that she said, "You're much more
experienced than I would have thought."

   "Painting isn't that difficult," said Bobby, paying attention to the
edges of his paint, and trying to feather them out so they'd match the rest
of the wall.

   "I wasn't talking about painting," said Martha.

   "Oh," said Bobby, shooting her a glance.  She looked relaxed.

   "Where did you learn to do that?" she asked.

   "It wouldn't be polite to tell you that," he said.  "Just like it
wouldn't be polite to tell anyone that I did it for you."

   "For me?" she asked.

   "It was fun for me," he admitted, "but it was really for you."

   "That's very sweet," she said.  "I imagine it left you feeling ... 
nervous."

   She obviously wasn't mad, so he decided to approach her as if they were
much better acquainted.

   "Us guys have ways of dealing with that problem," he said, grinning.

   "Us girls do too," she said, nonplussed.  "It isn't nearly as much fun
as what you did though."

   "I'm glad you had a good time," he said, putting the lid back on the
paint, and pounding it down tightly with the heel of his hand.

   "I don't know what to do with you," she said.

   He stood up, and looked at her.

   "Why do you have to do anything?"

   "Do you have any idea how long it's been since a man touched me?" she
asked, cocking her head sideways.

   "I guess I don't," he said.

   "Years," she said.  "More years than I want to admit."

   "That's too bad.  Like I said, you deserve better than that."

   Bobby shifted the can of paint to his other hand.

   "Will you really keep quiet about that?" she asked, looking nervous for
the first time that day.

   "Yes, Ma'am," he replied instantly.

   "Then you can put that paint down, because my husband went fishing again
today, and won't be back until late tonight.  I agree with you, Bobby.  I
deserve better than that."

   ======================================

   Her earlier nervousness and ability to be coy fled, as soon as she
un-knotted the front of her halter top and watched his eyes devour her
truly impressive breasts.  They were so big that they hung low, heavy and
wobbling, stretching the skin from her upper chest.  Her nipples were large
and dark, set against huge areolas.  Bobby licked his lips.

   "Ohhhhh," she moaned, lifting her breasts with both hands, and offering
them to him.  "I love the way you look at me, Bobby."

   "You're beautiful," he sighed, reaching to replace her hands with his.

   She turned suddenly, trying to be coy again, and looked over her
shoulder, as she went towards her bedroom.  Bobby jumped, and pinched her
bottom, and she shrieked and ran from him.  She was no match, and he caught
her at the edge of the bed, reaching around to grasp her breasts in his
hands, as they fell to the bed.  He manhandled her to her back, and
attacked one stiff nipple with his lips.

   "WAIT!" she gasped.

   He let go, thinking she wanted to set limits, but her attention was on
her own shorts, first, and his next.  While she tackled his belt and
buttons, he pulled his shirt off.  She jerked his shorts down savagely, and
his prick popped into view, ready to do what it was intended for.

   "Ooooh, I knew it would be gorgeous," she whined, fisting it, and
shoving the foreskin back to bare his glans.

   She was in a rush, the first time, and pulled him on top of her,
flinging her legs wide and urging him to hurry.  When he sank into her
velvety depths, she cried out, and gripped him with both arms and legs as
he humped into her.

   "OH YES!" she squealed.  "I NEED THIS, BOBBY, PLEASE DON'T STOP!"

   He had learned, with Tilly, to enjoy watching his partner achieve
release, and how to control his own urges, and he did that now, pounding
her through an orgasm while she flopped and cried out beneath him.  He
slowed, as her orgasm wound down, sliding in and out of her slowly, with
long strokes.

   "You're still hard!" she moaned.

   "You've only had one orgasm," he said, kissing her chin.

   She wasn't like Tilly, saving kisses for her husband.  Martha's husband
had abandoned her, so she gave everything to Bobby, kissing him with long
mashed-lip gyrations, while he speeded up and pushed her over the cliff of
release again.

   Tilly had also taught him, thought not intentionally, that doing this
could have far-reaching consequences.  Her swelling belly was evidence of
that.

   "I'm going to cum," he whispered into her ear.

   "Ohhhh," she moaned, her hips thrusting.  "You shouldn't cum in me," she
groaned.

   "I know," he whispered, going in deep and rotating his loins.  "But I
want to."

   "I could have a baby," she moaned.

   "Do you want a baby?" he whispered, crushing her clit as he rolled it in
circles with his pubic bone.

   "Noooo, I can't have a babeeeeee," she whined.  "Arthur would know."

   "Do you WANT a baby?" he crooned into her ear.

   "That's ...  not ...  fair!" she panted.  "You ...  can't ...  make ...
a baby ...  with me!" she gasped.

   "Yes I can," he whispered.  "I want to cum in you, Martha."

   "Oooooooooh," she whined.

   "Here it comes," he warned.

   "Noooooooooo," she whined again.

   But her legs stayed open, and her arms were still around him.  Her heels
dug into the covers, and her strong body lifted him up.

   "AHHHHHHHHHH" groaned Bobby, as he began to spurt in her, pushing hard.
"I love thisssssss," he moaned.

   She went wild under him, thrusting and heaving, until the only way he
could stay in her was because she was hugging him so fiercely.  Her legs
stayed wide, accepting his gift, even though her voice continued to moan
"Nooooooo," and "You caaaaan't!"

   Chapter Three

   She didn't berate him for cumming in her.  In fact, she was insatiable.
She loved to cuddle afterwards, and kiss him, saying very little.  When he
got hard again, she cooed with delight, and pulled him on top of her again.
This time, when he talked about impregnating her, she said nothing, and
ooohed and ahhhhed along with him as he spurted into her again.

   It was only when they stopped for supper that her senses returned. 
She'd put on panties, more because she was sopping wet with his semen, than
for modesty.  He'd paid homage to her breasts all afternoon, so she left
them naked.  He stayed naked too.  She was a passionate lover, in ways
different than Tilly was, and he wanted to continue this relationship for
as long as she'd let him.

   "What am I going to do if you've made me pregnant?" she sighed, as they
ate leftovers from lunch.

   "I hope you have a healthy, bouncing baby," he said calmly.

   "How can you wish that on me?" she moaned.

   "Those breasts were made to feed a baby," he said, "and me too, when the
time comes." Tilly's milk had always been sweet and warm in his mouth.

   "I can't just have a baby!" she said.  "Arthur knows he doesn't touch
me. He'll know it was another man who got me that way!"

   "Then have him make love to you," said Bobby.  "Make him think it's
his."

   "That's horrible!" she said.

   "How he treats you ...  and himself ...  is what's horrible," countered
Bobby.

   "You make it sound so simple.  He'll divorce me."

   "Not if he thinks it's his," said Bobby.

   "I can't stand to let him touch me," moaned Martha.  "He stinks of
whiskey, and slobbers.  It's been years, but I still remember that!"

   "Maybe you should divorce him," said Bobby.

   "I don't believe in divorce," she said.  "I was raised not to believe in
divorce."

   "Then maybe we shouldn't get you pregnant," said Bobby.

   "It might be a little late for that!" she retorted.

   Bobby stood up.  He was erect again.

   "I'm not hungry anymore," said Bobby, fisting his prick and masturbating
it slowly.

   "You don't play fair," moaned Martha.

   ==================================

   She was just as wild in bed as before, and he stayed until six in the
evening, dumping three more loads of his heavy spunk into her saturated
pussy.

   She didn't even put on panties, this time, and lay in the bed, looking
well-fucked, as he dressed.

   "You'll come back ...  won't you?" she asked.

   "I'll get you pregnant for sure, if I do," he said.

   "You'll come back ...  won't you?" she repeated.

   "I'll come back," he said.

   She hopped up, disregarding the stream of white that ran down her inner
thigh, and got her purse.  She pulled out a fifty dollar bill.

   "This is for everything you've done for me," she said, holding it out.

   "It's too much," he said.

   "No ...  it's not," she replied.

   ======================================

   Like with Tilly, about once a week was enough for Martha.  She felt bad
about doing what she was doing, but then Arthur would be Arthur, and she'd
come up with some reason to call Bobby over.

   Mamma noticed.

   "How is it that Tilly Johnson and Martha Thompson have so many chores
for you to do?" she asked him, one day, while they were in the field
harvesting wheat.  Mary, who was now seventeen, was driving the combine,
after Bobby had taught her how to do it.

   "Well, neither of them have a man to do things," said Bobby.

   Mamma snorted.  "Arthur Thompson is a full man."

   "Not really," said Bobby.  "He doesn't do much, even when he's there,
which isn't often.  Bobby had not, in fact, ever seen Arthur at his house.

   Mamma was no fool.  She remembered Joe, very well indeed.  But she said
nothing.  So far, only the Johnson woman had gotten pregnant.  That she did
so after Bobby started working for her was just coincidental.  And her poor
crippled husband was doing much better, if gossip could be counted as fact.
That Arthur was worthless was well known.

   ====================================

   Martha managed to stay un-pregnant for three months, during which Bobby
only saw her once a week.  But once a week covers every time in a woman's
cycle, and, when she missed a period, she wasn't surprised.  She hadn't
intended on getting with child, but by the same token, her life, which up
to that point had been dull and listless, was so much happier now that the
concept of having Bobby's baby just didn't seem to be that big a deal.  She
knew she'd have to face Arthur's rage, when he found out, but Arthur raged
anyway ...  so what was the difference.  If he divorced her, she'd do fine.
The courts were very much on the side of women with children, even if the
child in question wasn't born yet.  She'd wanted to have children, when she
got married.  That want had dimmed, when Arthur started drinking, and had
faded away.  Now, just as her womb was going to be full of new life, her
hope for raising children was gestating too.

   It wasn't something she would ever have conceived of doing
intentionally, but when it happened, she welcomed it with open arms.

   Just as Joe's women, when they got pregnant, had welcomed his babies
with open arms.

   Bobby, like Joe, was providing a service that, had other men ...  the
"right" men ...  been able, or willing to do so, would not have been
needed.

   Bobby, on the other hand, was not so sanguine about it.

   "You have to get away from Arthur," he said, when she told him.  She
chose a moment, right after he had spurted in her, to tell him how
important those spurts really were.

   "I can't do that, Bobby," she panted.  "I told you, I don't believe in
divorce."

   "He'll hurt you," said Bobby.  He'd repaired another hole in the wall,
where Arthur, in his rage, had kicked it.

   "He won't hurt me," said Martha.  She kissed Bobby, to keep him from
disagreeing with her.

   ==================================

   Harvest was over, and slack time had arrived.  Martha was just beginning
to show, and if she wore the right clothes, it was still possible for her
to pass, unnoticed, as she went about her business in town.  That wouldn't
last much longer, though.

   Technically, no one should raise an eyebrow.  She was married.  But
Bobby couldn't shake the feeling that things could come unraveled.

   So, being the kind of man he was ...  he went fishing.

   He found Arthur at Ford's Bend, on the river.  It wasn't really a good
place to fish, which was why Arthur went there.  He knew others wouldn't
come there to fish.  When Bobby walked up, Arthur had just finished a pint
of Old Crow, and had thrown the bottle into the river.  He was lobbing
rocks at it, trying to break it, when Bobby came into view.  The bottle was
not in any danger.

   Arthur knew Bobby, of course.  He had no idea that Bobby had been in his
house.  He knew that repairs had been made, but didn't pay any attention to
that.  All he really cared about was making sure that he had plenty of
pints, for when he needed one.

   "Fishing's no good here," he slurred, as Bobby walked up.

   "I'm not here to fish," said Bobby.

   Arthur peered at the pole in Bobby's hand, and the tackle box in his
other hand.

   "Looks like it," said Arthur, cackling.

   "I've been fucking your wife," said Bobby, conversationally.

   It took ten seconds for that to sink into Arthur's alcohol fogged brain.

   "Wha'd you say?" he asked, rocking back.  "Sounded like you said you
been fucking my wife!"

   "That's what I said," said Bobby, setting the pole carefully on the
ground, and the tackle box right beside it.

   "You can't do that!" slurred Arthur.

   "I have been," said Bobby.  "I made her pregnant too."

   Arthur was having trouble concentrating.  Something in his brain told
him to get mad, but he was having a hard time figuring out why.  The boy's
words finally seeped between molecules of whiskey.

   "You sumbitch!" he croaked.

   "You know why I've been fucking Martha?" asked Bobby, as if he were
asking something inconsequential, like where lettuce came from.

   "What?"

   "I asked you if you know why I've been fucking Martha," said Bobby
patiently.

   "What?" Arthur was having a hard time concentrating again.

   Bobby realized the man was way too drunk to do what he'd come there to
do.  So, he pushed the man into the river.

   Arthur flailed his arms, and went down on a rock, which bruised his hip.
He floundered in the water, sitting up.

   "Wha'd you do that for?" he whined.

   He labored to get up, and, as soon as he was standing, Bobby pushed him
again, into deeper water.

   It took fifteen minutes, but eventually, Arthur sobered up enough to
start fighting back.  That was fine with Bobby.  He deflected the man's
weak swings, and kept pushing him back into the river.  He had to actually
chase the man, to save him from drowning, when the current caught him once,
and dragged him back to where their things were.  Arthur tried to get out
of the water, but Bobby flung him back onto the rocks, where the water was
only a foot deep.

   Arthur sat there, more aware, now, of what was happening.

   "What the FUCK are you doing, boy!?" he yelled.

   "I'm trying to get your attention, old man!" said Bobby firmly.

   "You can't do this to me!" yelled Arthur.

   "I have been, and I'm going to keep doing it, until you sober up enough
that I can talk to you," said Bobby.

   "I'm not drunk!" complained Arthur.

   "Yeah, and you're not wet either," commented Bobby.

   It took another hour, before Arthur began to fight back with some vigor,
and scream.  When he was at the point where Bobby thought he was sober
enough to really understand what was happening, he pushed him down one last
time and said "Don't get up!"

   "Why the fuck are you doing this?" whined Arthur.

   "I'm trying to decide whether to kill you, or let you live," said Bobby
calmly.

   "What?" It wasn't a drunken question, this time.

   "Let's start all over again," said Bobby.

   Arthur flinched, and actually lay back down on the rocks.

   "Not that," said Bobby, resisting a smile.  He had taken no pleasure in
tormenting the man, but it was still humorous.  He stretched out a hand.

   Arthur looked at him for along moment, and then sat up.  He reached for
the hand and labored up to his feet.  He held on, keeping his balance, as
Bobby led him to the bank, where he sank down on the grass.

   "Damn, boy!" sighed Arthur.  "I should kick your ass."

   "We both know that's not going to happen," said Bobby.  "Why don't we
just get on with deciding whether you're going home tonight, or are going
to be dragged out of the river drowned?"

   "You can't just murder me!" howled Arthur.

   "Sure I can," said Bobby.  "If they find you floating, nobody in the
whole world will be surprised."

   "WHY!" moaned the man.

   "You ready to listen?" asked Bobby.

   "FUCK!" yelled Arthur.  When Bobby took a step toward him, he flinched,
and held up his hands.  "OK, OK, don't get excited."

   Bobby stayed standing, and began telling Arthur Thompson what a
miserable excuse for a human being he was, and what a worthless husband he
was.  He did it in detail, describing what people said about him, and how
he was the laughing stock of the town.  He went into detail about how he
had loved up and pregged up the man's wife, because Arthur wasn't paying
any attention to her, and hadn't for years.  He didn't do it in a nasty,
taunting voice; he just told Arthur the facts of life.

   "Now, she's going to have my baby, and I care about that," said Bobby.
"I'd rather he had no father at all than you to bring him up.  I'm also
worried that you're going to hurt Martha, for cheating on you, and I won't
stand for that either.  So I have to decide whether you're going home
tonight, or not."

   "This is crazy!" moaned Arthur, whose mind was whirling.  He
automatically reached for another pint, and screwed the top off.  It was
snatched from his hand, and he watched, in horror, as the bottle was thrown
to the rocks, and burst, amber liquid spilling onto the rocks.  He lurched
to his feet and swung at Bobby.

   Bobby leaned back and threw a stiff straight punch that landed on the
tip of Arthur's chin.  He went down like a sack of rocks, and lay, stunned
by the pain in his jaws.  That pain sobered him even more, and he opened
his mouth, to move his jaw sideways, testing to see if it was broken.  It
wasn't.

   "I'll kill, you, boy," he said, his voice ugly.

   "Not if I kill you first," said Bobby.  "All I have to do is drag you
out in the river and hold you under.  We both know I can do it.  Is that
what you want?"

   "FUCK no!" shouted Arthur.

   "Then what are you going to do to stop me?" asked Bobby.

   =======================================

   They spent four more hours there, by the river.  At one point, Bobby DID
drag Arthur out into the deep water, and held him under.  He held his own
breath, while Arthur struggled, and let the man up long before he was out
of air.  He was concerned that Arthur might not have the lung capacity of a
younger man.

   Arthur caved, after that, and became servile, almost fawning, which
Bobby didn't trust either, mostly because of the look in the man's eyes as
he pled and begged.  That look was hard, and angry, so Bobby hauled him out
into the water again, and put him into a choke hold.  He started lowering
the man's struggling form into the water, at which point Arthur broke and
went limp.

   He sobbed, and finally began confessing to his sins, and why he did
them. He was truly a broken man then, listless and uninterested in living.
At one point he said Bobby SHOULD kill him.

   It was then that Bobby told him all the reasons he had to keep living,
and that his life could get back on track.  It would be hard, but it could
be done ...  had been done before.  He dangled the possible future in
Arthur's eyes, until the man got excited again.  Finally sober, Arthur
faced reality in the form of a man who was willing to commit murder, if
Arthur didn't conquer his addiction.

   He made promises ...  lots of them ...  which Bobby took in stride. 
This was just the beginning, he knew, and there was no real hope, until
Arthur started changing things ...  if he did.

   Bobby was quite clear about that too.

   "I know you feel good about things, right now," said Bobby, as they
walked back toward town.  "But I also know you're going to want to fall off
the wagon.  I have to see progress, Mr.  Thompson, or we're going to do
this all over again.

   "I could tell the police you're threatening me," said Arthur.

   "You think they'd believe you?" asked Bobby.

   "I guess not," said Arthur, defeated.

   "You need to go somewhere, where they can control you, and you can learn
how to resist," said Bobby.  "That's what I want you to do."

   "Why do you even care?" asked Arthur, unused to having a conversation
with anyone that lasted longer than thirty seconds.

   "I don't really care about you," said Bobby, honestly.  Arthur felt a
chill run down his spine.  "I care about Martha, and my baby."

   "You can't expect me to just stand by while my wife's belly grows with
some other man's bastard!" said Arthur.

   "It could have been your bastard," said Bobby, calmly.  "If you'd been a
husband, instead of a drunk."

   "But she's my wife!" said the man.

   "If somebody left a hundred dollar bill lying in the street, and walked
away from it, would you pick it up?" asked Bobby.

   "Of course," said Arthur.

   "That's all I did."

   ================================

   It was the potential for embarrassment that kept Arthur from making a
scene about whose baby was swelling his wife's belly.  It was the fear of
Bobby, who continued to visit the house, now with Arthur there, trying to
stay sober, that spurred him to seeking the kind of help that was the only
way for a true addict to kick the habit.  He admitted himself to a
hospital, where things got ugly.  They got so ugly that it shamed him, when
nothing else could have.

   He stayed there.

   It took so long that Martha had given birth, when he finally came out,
forty pounds lighter, and a totally new man.  He knew now, that, in more
ways than one, Bobby had saved his life, and he set about trying to save
his marriage.  There were many tears, as years worth of wounds were
re-opened, and treated, but Martha's belief that divorce was not an option
kept her there.  It was tough on Martha, because, once Arthur was out of
rehab, Bobby said he couldn't come over to see to her sexual needs any
more. She never knew about Bobby's threats of murder.  Arthur never told
anyone about that.  It took almost a year before she was convinced that
what had happened was not just a fluke.

   Arthur asked her permission to sleep in the same bed with her, and they
did that for a month, before she let him touch her.  The first time she
kissed him, felt like the last time she'd kissed him for the first time,
and hope bloomed in her heart.

   Bobby kept in touch.  He came, sometimes at Martha's request, and
sometimes at Arthur's, usually on the excuse that something needed fixing.
But it was really to talk.  Both of them could talk to this young man, who
had so affected their lives, and both of them, as Arthur struggled to
re-claim his life, sometimes needed to talk.

   There came a time, finally, when they didn't need him as much or as
often.  Bobby wasn't sad about that.  He felt sure, now, that his son had a
chance to grow up in a normal family.

   A very grateful Martha did one other thing for Bobby.  She had a friend,
named Sherry, who was in much the same situation she had been in, though
for very different reasons.  Sherry had commiserated with her on many
occasions in the past.  She did Bobby the favor while taking tea one
afternoon with her friend.

   "Sherry, do you have anything that's broken, and needs repairing?" asked
Martha, leaning back in her chair.  She was breastfeeding little Andrew,
while they talked.

   "Why on earth would you ask me that?" laughed Sherry.

   "I know a wonderful young man, who fixes things," said Martha.

   "Would he be the same wonderful young man who has spent so much time at
your house this last year?" asked Sherry.

   "How did you know about that?" asked Martha, a tinge of worry in her
voice.

   "It's a small town, Martha," snorted Sherry.  "People see things, and
their tongues wag."

   "What have people said?" asked Martha.

   "Oh, the usual, about how Arthur must be tearing things up fairly
regular.  That's changed, though.  People are noticing the change, too."

   Martha surveyed her friend.  She knew this woman was neglected, like she
had been, though for different reasons.

   "Are you my friend?" she asked.

   Sherry frowned.  "Of course I am ...  aren't I?" She sounded puzzled.

   "Are you friend enough that if I tell you something private ...  it will
stay private?"

   "Yes," said Sherry.  "Of course."

   "This young man ...  this handyman ...  he can change your life,
Sherry."

   "Whatever are you talking about?" asked Sherry, leaning forward.

   "You're lonely ...  neglected ...  like I was," said Martha.  She didn't
say anything more.  She didn't have to.  Sherry's eyes widened.

   "You don't mean you ...  You mean you let him ...  Martha!  You didn't!"

   "All I'm saying, dear, is that, after I met him, I was much, much
happier than I had been.  He doesn't come around anymore, of course ... 
not since Arthur has been trying so hard to get better.  We don't have as
much that needs ...  his attention, let's just say." Martha blushed.  "But
he had more to do with Arthur's turnaround than anybody would think. 
That's why I don't need him anymore.  I miss him ...  but I don't need him
...  like I did."

   Sherry sat back, her mouth open.  "And you're suggesting that I have him
..." She couldn't finish.  It was just too preposterous.

   "He is a gentle, kind man," said Martha.  "He can fix anything."

   Sherry leaned forward again.  "Anything?"

   Martha took her baby off her breast, and kissed him on his forehead. 
Then she looked back at her friend.

   "Anything!" she said.

   ==================================

   Life goes on, whether it seems to be charmed, or it makes one want to
pull out his ...  or her hair.  Sherry's life was of the latter sentiment.
In the next book of this series, we'll learn a little more about Sherry,
and Bobby, and a few other people too.
   The End 
