Read Dirty to Me by Lubrican

   Chapter One

   It started quite innocently, really.  He was a relatively conventional
57 year old man who had knocked around over quite a lot of the world, and
she was a 23 year old part time rebel with a mohawk, tattoos and a child
she hadn't planned on having.

   What brought them together was complicated, but at the same time, quite
simple.

   That sounds like a strange sentence, but the key word is "together,"
which has many levels of meaning.  We can start with the simple side of
things.

   Their first "togetherness" was based on both of them applying for jobs
reading books onto tape.  It was just that simple.  They had both needed
some extra income and applied for jobs at the same place, which offered
both full and part time employment.  He had a background in theater and a
deep voice, which qualified him.  She had the perfect voice for portraying
innocence and youth that belied her chronological age.

   "Hi.  My name is Bob," he said, holding out his hand to shake.  "Well
sometimes.  People call me lots of other things too.  "

   He was like that.  His thought processes ebbed and flowed constantly. 
He had a philosophical bent and enjoyed examining everything from just
about every angle, even when it was as simple as, say, a pencil.  If he'd
been born a lion, he would have been sitting on the savannah, his eyes
flickering from potential prey to potential prey, thinking "Am I hungry
enough to go for that ibis over the?  Do I need to scratch that itch, or
will it go away?  I could use a drink of water right now.  Where's that
lioness I've been watching?  I wonder if she's gone into heat yet.  What
just moved over there?"

   It wasn't that he was scatter brained.  It was just that he wanted to
see and do and experience and be part of everything possible, all at the
same time.  It was a quality that had allowed him to submerge himself into
a dozen foreign cultures and fit right in while he watched and learned.

   She'd been through the school of hard knocks, though, and was much more
pragmatic about things.

   "Layla," she said.

   His eyes lit up.  "What a beautiful name.  It motivates me to wax
poetic. I'm sure that's what they'll want when we read."

   She examined him.  He was muscular, but carried a bit of extra weight
too.  His eyes had that funny quality of looking blue one minute and green
the next.  He wasn't balding.  In fact, the bushy beard thrusting from his
chin made her think of a loufa, for some reason.  He was looking at her,
which she was used to.  Most men looked at her.  Most people looked at her,
for that matter.  Her hair was a vermillion shade this week and the long
mohawk flopped to one side, drooping down to tickle her right eyebrow. 
She'd shaved the sides of her head before coming in for the interview.

   She had expected the interviewer to take one look at her and tell her,
"Thanks, but no thanks." He hadn't.  He'd simply said, "Your voice is
perfect for what we have in mind.  You're hired.  Be here on Tuesday at
eight."

   Now this man was looking at her too, but again, his reaction wasn't what
she was used to.  This man ...  this old guy ...  this guy old enough to be
her father, if not her grandfather, was looking at her like a man looks at
a woman.  He didn't seem to be at all ashamed to let his eyes flicker up
and down her body.  Yet, somehow, he didn't ogle her.  He looked at her all
over, but it was ...  all over--not just at her girly parts.  On impulse,
she looked him all over too, staring at the front of his pants, where there
was the inevitable bulge.  It looked about like most other bulges she'd
seen.

   He looked about like most other men she'd seen.

   "I guess we're reading together," he said.

   "Great," she thought to herself.  "I'm saddled with one of those masters
of pointing out the blindingly obvious."

   That attitude only lasted an hour.  But much happened in that hour,
before it changed.

   They were standing in a small room.  The walls were covered with what
looked like foam egg carton type material and the ceiling had those tiles
with all the little holes in them.  There were microphones hanging from the
ceiling on moveable booms and stools to sit on.  Layla and Bob were the
only people in the room, but there was equipment for four or five.  It was
both bare and small.  The door opened and a man walked in with a sheaf of
papers in his hand.

   "Here's the story we're starting with for you two," he said.  "This will
just be a run through, to work out any kinks.  When we get an actual take,
we'll overlay the narrator's part and any sound effects during later
production runs.  Right now we just want you two to try to get the feel for
things and see how it goes.  Some people can do this and others can't.  You
never know until you try."

   He smiled, but it was only with his mouth.  He went to one of the
hanging microphones and pointed to a switch on the side.  "Slide this up
when you're ready.  If you have to cough or anything like that, please turn
the mike off before you do that.  OK?" He didn't wait for anyone to say
anything was OK.  "Either one of you can read the narrator's part today,"
he said.  "It will be overlaid later, so the only parts that matter are
your characters' spoken lines."

   Layla took a stack of papers.  The man handed Bob a similar stack and
then left.

   Layla glanced at the heading on her stack: Adventures in Babysitting. 
The author's name was "Lubrican." She had to look at it for a while to make
sure it didn't say "Lubricant." It didn't matter.  Below that was a list of
characters.  Her character - she assumed she was the babysitter - was named
Megan.  Below that was a description that said:

   Megan is a sixteen year old virgin, raised by a single mother.  She is
Rod Wilson's neighbor and has known him for many years.  He fixed her
bicycle when she was younger, and has done other neighborly things for her
and her mother over the years.  She likes him a lot.  She has dated, but
not any one boy seriously.  She has been kissed a few times, but is
otherwise innocent of things sexual.

   Layla blinked.  That sounded like a setup for something pornographic! 
She looked further down to see a bold line that read: Mister Wilson/Rod.

   The description of him was: 35 year old man who is suddenly raising a
three year old boy alone.  His wife had a gambling problem and shoplifted
to get money for the casinos.  She was arrested recently and given three
years in jail.  He has watched Megan mature, both physically and
emotionally, and has a finely tuned appreciation of her body.  He is
already sexually frustrated by the forced separation with his wife, who
also confessed to having an affair with one of the men she owed money to.
She blamed everything on Rod, and has said she intends to get a divorce
while she's in jail.

   She looked deeper into the pile.  Words jumped up off the pages ... 
words like "nipples," "prick," and "pussy."

   "This is PORN!" she yelped.

   Bob was doing the same thing with his script.

   "It appears it is," he agreed.  His voice was calm.

   Layla looked around.  She went over to a microphone and leaned her mouth
up close to it.

   "HEY!" she yelled.

   Bob stepped over and slid the switch on the microphone to the "ON"
position.  Layla leaned even closer.

   "HEY!"

   They heard a muffled curse through the door, very faintly.

   "THIS IS PORNOGRAPHY!" she yelled.

   The door opened and the nameless man came in.

   "Please don't yell into the mike," he said.  "We have a script outside
in the sound booth, and can make adjustments when we know a loud voice is
coming up.  You don't have to yell.  We can compensate for your normal
voice."

   "This is a dirty story!" said Layla, her voice level.  She sounded
dangerous somehow.

   "Yes," admitted the man.  "This is for our adult series."

   "If I'd wanted to do phone sex, I would have applied for that kind of
job!" she said, obviously upset.

   Bob held up a hand.  He faced the man.

   "Why don't you give us a few minutes," he said.  "We weren't expecting
this.  We need to talk about it."

   The man was only too happy to leave.  Bob turned back to Layla.

   "There is nothing to talk about!" she snorted.  "I'm not reading this
crap!"

   "Why not?" asked Bob.  "It's just words ...  lines.  You read them and
then you're done and you get paid.  Isn't that what you're here for?"

   "I have a four year old little boy!" she moaned.  "When I told him I was
going to read books onto tape, the first thing he asked for was one of the
tapes!"

   Bob smiled.  "Well, obviously you won't give him THIS story to listen
to. We can make a different tape for him."

   "I can't do this," she moaned.  "I don't have any experience with this
kind of thing.  This is ...  smut!"

   "Oh," said Bob.  "I didn't know you'd adopted your little boy."

   "Huh?" She looked confused.  "Aidan isn't adopted."

   "Then you DO have some experience at ...  this sort of thing," said Bob.
"I mean you had to have sex to have a baby."

   She blinked, and frowned.

   "Well, OK, but this isn't like that.  This is perverted!"

   "What's perverted about a man wanting to have sex with a woman?" he
asked.

   "She's only sixteen!" Layla's voice was strident.

   "Your voice sounds a lot like a girl that age," said Bob.

   "I'm twenty-three," she pointed out, as if that was a rational response
to his comment.

   "So you got pregnant when you were nineteen?" he asked.

   "Eighteen," she corrected him.  "Wait!  What does that have to do with
anything?"

   "I was just trying to get a handle on how much experience you had," said
Bob.  "So you had sex once, when you were eighteen, and Aidan was the
result."

   She glared at him.

   "Of course not!" she almost snarled.  "I've had sex more than once, not
that it's any of your business."

   "Naturally," he said, bowing to her in an almost formal manner.  "But
you never had sex when you were sixteen ...  right?"

   She opened her mouth, then closed it.  She'd been having sex since she
was fourteen.  But that was none of his business and it didn't have
anything to do with this.

   "Well, since you never had sex when you were sixteen, I have to agree
that there is no way in the world you could be realistic in your portrayal
of a girl that age, who is attracted to an older man, who is also attracted
to her.  Yes ...  I'm afraid this won't work.  I'll have to tell them to
get me another partner."

   "You're going to DO this?" she asked, unbelieving.  He had to be in his
forties.  Men that age were conservative.  She was sure he'd be just as
outraged as she was.

   "I've got a house payment to make," he said, shrugging his shoulders. 
"But I understand that a woman of your high moral standards couldn't do
this, to say nothing of the fact that you have no sexual experience to draw
on for the role."

   He was dismissing her!  She felt her blood begin to boil.  Adults had
been dismissing her for years.  Even now, when she had voted four times,
people dismissed her.  Usually it was because of her appearance, which was
none of their business.  But this man ...  this OLD man ...  was dismissing
her because she wasn't a slut!

   "I'll have you know I have PLENTY of experience!" she blurted.

   "I'm sorry," he said.  "I didn't mean to make you feel bad.  It's just
that you're obviously uncomfortable with this.  I was just trying to make
it easier for you to withdraw gracefully."

   "Oh yeah?" she said, unhappy with her last blurted comment.  "Then why
did you keep me here to talk about it?"

   "I like you," he said.

   "You don't even know me!" she objected.

   "I have to know you to like you?" He smiled.  "Why can't I start out
liking you, and then change my mind if you turn out to be somebody I can't
get along with?  Why should I make you prove something to me before I like
you?"

   There was a knock on the door.  The man stuck his head inside.

   "Look, I don't really care if you do this or not, personally, but we're
burning daylight here.  I need to get something on tape today.  If you two
aren't going to do it, fine, but don't do it somewhere else, OK?"

   "SHUT THE DOOR!" yelled Layla.  "WE'RE GOING TO DO IT!  WE'RE JUST NOT
READY YET!"

   The door closed with a thump as the man hastily withdrew.

   Bob stood there silently, waiting for a few seconds, and then spoke.

   "I'll start as the narrator," he said, stepping up to a microphone. 
"Are you ready?"

   He'd taken her at her word, shouted though it was.  Layla wasn't at all
sure she'd actually meant it.  She thought about her own rent.  She needed
this money.  She'd look for another job later, but this outfit paid by the
day, and she needed to leave with some cash in her pocket.

   "OK," she said, somewhat sullenly.

   Bob flipped the microphone on and started reading.

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

   Outside, in the sound booth, Charles gave a sigh.  It was almost
impossible to get anyone stable to do this kind of work.  Perverts loved
it, but they were impossible to deal with.  They always wanted to adlib or
change the lines to match their own twisted fantasies.  Of the ones who
would actually take on a job like this, most just didn't have the voice for
it.  The average reader was in his or her fifties or sixties, and was
usually supplementing a retirement with some added income.  The adult books
on tape promised to be very lucrative, but only if they could get some
decent readers to do them.

   As he heard Bob finally start reading, he smiled.  This one was a
narrator, at least.  When the girl chimed in with her part, Charles gave
another sigh.  She was perfect!  Her first line, "Hi Mr.  Wilson, isn't it
a great day?" made him close his eyes and imagine the girl that lived two
doors down from him.  She was a cutie, one of the reasons he'd accepted
taking on this particular book to produce.  It happened to fit his own
fantasy.

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

   When they took a break for lunch, they'd only gotten through twenty
pages.  Layla's attitude had softened a bit.  Whoever this Lubrican person
was, he wasn't what she'd expected.  Well, the text she was reading wasn't
what she'd expected, based on those few words that had jumped off the pages
when she'd first looked through the script.

   He had made her character into a sweet young girl, happy, but curious,
and in a way that didn't make her seem to be the least bit slutty.  And
Bob's part wasn't the slavering dirty old man she had expected either.  His
feelings for Megan were complicated, like hers were for him.  It was very
flirty, thus far.  She liked the flirty feel of it.  You didn't get a
chance to be flirty very often, without upsetting somebody.

   They hadn't actually gotten to anything patently sexual.  There was a
lot of teasing by both of them, and innuendo.  There was a yearning kind of
quality to the story, so far.  Both of them were tempted to be naughty, but
both of them resisted that temptation, at least to some degree.

   The nameless man had opened the door at a chapter break.  He was smiling
now.

   "Go get some lunch," he said.  "You're doing fabulously.  Take the
scripts with you, if you want, so you can look them over before this
afternoon.  I've already got a lot of stuff down that's perfectly fine for
the final production.  You two are making amazing progress."

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

   It's pretty hard to be surly when someone compliments you like that, and
Layla was no exception.

   "You want to split up or go together?" asked Bob, breaking her train of
thought.

   "You don't want to eat with me?" she asked.  Somehow, she'd almost
believed the lines he had spoken to her ...  that he found her interesting,
and fascinating, even though he was older and shouldn't do that.  There was
a funny kind of blurring of the lines between reality and the story they
were reading, because he really was older and he had really sounded like he
found her fascinating.

   "Of course I want to eat with you," he said.  "I'm just giving you
options, that's all."

   "Well, I choose the option where we eat together," she said firmly.

   "Great," he said.  "Burgers?"

   "Ewwww," she said, making a face.  "And put all that grease and blood in
this body?"

   She almost jerked as his eyes raked over her T shirt and jeans.  He was
looking at her like a man looks at a woman again.

   "Obviously not," he said, appreciation in his voice.

   "Are you flirting with me?" she asked, unbelieving.

   "Is that a bad thing?" He smiled.

   "It's totally inappropriate," she said, almost pouting.  "You're old
enough to be my gramps."

   His hands went to his chest and he made his face twist into an agonized
mask of pain.

   "Ouch!" he said, staggering backwards.  "For such a slip of a girl, you
sure pack a punch."

   "I'm NOT a slip of a girl," she said, trying to stand taller.  "I'm five
feet eight inches tall!"

   "And I'm NOT old enough to be your gramps," he came back, looking like
he was trying to stand taller too.  She saw his stomach suck in a couple of
inches and almost giggled as he tried to look manly.

   "I'm a vegetarian," she said, getting them back on the subject of food.

   "I should have known," he sighed.

   "What's wrong with vegetarians?" she pouted.

   "Nothing, if you're not interested in taste," he said.

   She knew, somehow, that he was teasing her.  She wondered why she found
it so much fun to be teased by him, but was distracted by her stomach
growling.  He laughed and she knew he'd heard that growl.

   "We'd better get something in your stomach to feed that thing, before it
eats its way out and attacks me."

   He took her hand and pulled her, to make her walk beside him, as she
tried to think of a comeback.  He didn't give her time.

   "There's a place up the street that should be able to cater to both our
tastes," he said.

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

   Lunch continued to enable her to change her attitude towards Bob. 
Without being pushy or nosy, he asked her all kinds of questions about her,
both her past and present.  Somehow she found herself telling him things
she had never thought to mention to an almost complete stranger.  Like the
fact that her love life was unhappily flat, at the present, almost dismal
in some ways.  Not that she was a raging slut or anything.  She just liked
sex and always had.  She thought about sex as being in roughly three
categories.  There was "good sex," which she remembered having fondly. 
Then there was "just sex," which was OK if that was all you could get. 
Then there was "that was a miserable excuse for sex," which was all she'd
been getting lately.

   "That's too bad," he said, sitting across from her.

   She blinked.  She couldn't believe she'd actually told him all that. 
This weird situation she had gotten herself into, and that stupid story,
must have caused her to babble.

   "I shouldn't have said that," she said.

   "Oh, don't worry about it," he replied.  "I won't tell anybody.  I just
think it's a shame that a vibrant, beautiful young woman such as yourself
has to settle for ...  what did you call it?  Miserable sex?"

   "A miserable excuse for sex," she corrected him automatically.

   "Well, whatever, it's a shame.  You're at your sexual peak.  You deserve
to be glowing with sexual satiation, and gloriously and thoroughly
pregnant."

   "That's the silliest thing I've heard in weeks!" she said.  "And I'm NOT
getting pregnant again.  Once was more than enough for me."

   "Complications?" he asked casually.

   There!  He was doing it again!  He said it so casually, but it was a
request for intimate ...  private information.

   "If you call being nauseous all the time, and being white as a sheet and
swollen up like I swallowed a beach ball complications, then yes ... 
complications," she heard her voice say.  Where had that come from?  This
was none of his business!  Why had she answered him?

   "That's too bad," he commiserated.  "I know all kinds of remedies for
nausea.  And you may think you were pasty and bulging, but I bet you were
gorgeous when you were pregnant."

   Layla frowned.  Where did he come off saying things like that?  Who was
HE to say she must have been gorgeous?  She knew better.  She knew she'd
been a mess, most of the time, dragging around, never far from a toilet,
back aching.

   "You're very nosy and ...  " she couldn't think of the right word.  Her
grandmother's speech came to her.  "Impertinent!"

   "Yes," he said, looking away.  "I suppose I am.  I've always had that
problem.  I like getting to know people.  Especially fascinating people."

   "And that's another thing!  " she said, trying to glower at him.  She
wasn't very good at glowering.  Her face was too smooth.  "You can't just
go around telling women they're gorgeous and fascinating, especially when
you just met them!"

   "Of course I can," he said.  "This is America.  Freedom of speech and
all that."

   "You know what I mean," she argued.  "It isn't polite."

   He leaned forward.

   "Layla, my dear, I think you ARE gorgeous, and fascinating.  I wish I
were thirty years younger so I could make a complete fool of myself and beg
at your feet for a date." He leaned back.  "That isn't being impolite. 
That's simply telling you how I feel."

   "That could be viewed as sexual harassment these days," said Layla, but
there was neither heat nor warning in it.

   "Am I harassing you?" he asked.

   She thought about that for a minute.  Really all he had done was pay her
compliments.  He wasn't actually suggesting anything.

   "I suppose not," she finally admitted.

   "Well," he said, smiling.  "I'll just have to try harder."

   She ignored him, picking up the script.  She was secretly a little
pleased that he was ...  interested.  It had been a while since she'd felt
desirable.  He was being silly, but it was still kind of nice.  She looked
ahead, to what they'd be reading after lunch.

   "Ohhhh no," she moaned.

   "What?"

   "I can't read this," she sighed.

   "Why not?  You've been doing wonderfully."

   "It gets naughty.  There are moans and sighs and I can't do those.  I'd
feel silly."

   "Surely you've moaned and sighed while having sex before," he said,
looking at his own copy.  "Mmmmmm."

   "What?" It was her turn to ask what was wrong.

   "I'm going to like reading this.  That's all."

   "Gramps!" she chided.  "You're as naughty as the story is!  I thought
you weren't a dirty old man."

   "I'm not," he said.  "I'm a sexy senior citizen."

   "Ha ...  ha," she said, sticking her tongue out at him.

   "I don't blame you," he said.  "I wouldn't want that nasty thing inside
my mouth either." He grinned.

   "My tongue is NOT nasty!" she said, trying to bristle.

   "I'd have to be the judge of that," he said instantly.  "I'm an expert,
you know."

   "NOW you're harassing me," she teased.

   He looked serious, suddenly.

   "You can finish this.  I know you can."

   "Not if I have to moan and groan.  It will come out as laughter.  I
can't do that.  It's just too silly."

   "We're a good team," he insisted.  "I don't want to have to start all
over with somebody else.  I'll think of something to help you."

   "Like poking me with a pin?" She smiled.

   The look that came over his face was startling.  It was a leer.  There
was no other way to characterize it.  His eyes went to her modest breasts -
she could probably look sixteen if she tried - and he made a growling noise
in his throat.

   "Oh, it won't be a pin I try to ...  poke you with."

   She was shocked.  He looked so completely different!  This wasn't the
same man she'd been sitting here with only a few seconds ago.  His face
showed pure lust, but his eyes were something else.  They looked dark
green, and seemed to probe deep into her, looking for something that he
knew was there.  She felt a zing of fright based on his face, and a zing of
something else based on his eyes.  It was like looking at what you'd
thought was a big dog, and suddenly realizing it was a wolf.

   Then he was back.  It all disappeared, somehow, and he was just an older
man, with a bushy brown beard.  Once again his eyes were light green, with
brown flecks in them, and his cheeks rose in a smile.

   "That's called acting," he said.  "That's what we're doing, kind of. 
We're putting ourselves into the characters and into the story, and trying
to convince people who listen to us that it's all real."

   Layla realized she was panting.  She realized her muscles were all
tight, as if she had been ready to run screaming from the restaurant.  She
relaxed them.

   "You scared me!" she sighed.

   "I'm as harmless as it's possible to be," he said, taking a huge bite of
his cordon bleu.  "Like I said, I was just acting.  You can do that too.  I
heard it in your voice, this morning.  You just have to put yourself into
the role.  That's all."

   Sitting there, knowing that that wolf hadn't been real after all, and
yet feeling the rush of adrenaline that had shot into her veins, Layla
tilted her head and looked at him.  He had called her fascinating.  He was
the interesting one.  However he had done that, she'd FELT the lust, in
waves radiating from him.  She'd KNOWN that he wanted her ...  wanted her
as a woman.  It wasn't sexual harassment she had witnessed.  This was more
primal.  With complete embarrassment she became aware of the dampness
between her thighs.  Her body had reacted to the fear.

   But it had also reacted to something else ...  something that caused
sensations in her that were anything BUT fear.

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

   They chatted some more and then left.  Now it was her turn to ask him
questions about his life.  She upgraded him from interesting to
full-fledged fascinating.  He'd been to fifteen different countries.  He'd
been a Scoutmaster.  He'd worked in the oil fields in Oklahoma, and lived
in Alaska for three years.  He had children, grown and gone.  He
characterized himself as a Jack of all trades and master of none.

   By the time they got back to the studio, Layla was quite sure she had
only scratched the surface.  He didn't seem so old, somehow, or carry as
much extra weight as she had first thought.  He held the door for her and,
as she walked through it, put his fingertips in the small of her back.  He
didn't push her, but she could still feel strength in those fingers.  Not
that much had changed, really.  They were still exactly the same people
they had been four hours ago.  But, somehow, he had transformed, in that
mystical phenomenon that sometimes takes place.  Instead of being "that
guy"...  now he was "Bob."

   She was still quite sure that the first time she had to say something
like, "Mmmmmm, that feels good, Mister Wilson," that she'd burst into
laughter.

   She listened to his voice as they started reading again.  He was doing
the narration, and he used a slightly different voice, that was flatter or
something, than when he was speaking Rod Wilson's lines.  His voice wasn't
a monotone and he didn't read with a measured cadence.  In fact, it didn't
sound like he was reading at all.  It was more like he was an old time
storyteller.  She was so fascinated that she missed her lines twice, and
they had to go back and do those portions of the story again.

   Then it was there.  Mister Wilson came home, to greet his babysitter,
after working overtime.  It was dark outside and he had offered to feed her
supper.  She had called home and said she'd be late.  While they ate, he
had asked poor little inexperienced Megan all about her boyfriends and what
they had done for her.  He had just asked her if the boys had ever kissed
her.

   She was supposed to stutter and sound shy.  The dialogue was clearly
written that way.  But it seemed so silly to be standing in a little room,
talking into a microphone.

   "Of course they kissed me!" Layla said, her voice perky.

   Bob looked confused and stared at the paper in his hand.  The door
opened and the same man as before stuck his head in.

   "Please don't adlib," he said.  "Just read the lines like they've been
written."

   Layla looked at what she was supposed to have said.  It was "Well ... 
yes ...  sometimes ...  a little bit, I guess."

   He went back and started that paragraph all over again.  She managed to
get through her lines without giggling, but felt like she sounded about
ten, instead of sixteen.

   "Did you like it?"

   "I guess so." That one wasn't so hard.

   "I bet you've never REALLY been kissed," said Bob.  "Not a real kiss,"
he added after a short pause.

   "Isn't a kiss just a kiss?" That one wasn't so bad either, and Layla
tried hard to remember what her first kisses had been like.

   "Not at all," said Bob.  He looked over at her before going on.  "If I
kissed you, I don't think it would be anything like what you've felt
before."

   Layla grinned and put her hand over her mouth.  She was supposed to say
"You want to ...  kiss me?" The text after that said, "she asked
anxiously."

   She couldn't do it.  It was just too silly.  She started giggling and
the man came all the way into the room.

   "You were doing so well," he complained.  "What's wrong?"

   "It's SILLY!" said Layla, giggling again.

   The man rolled his eyes.

   Bob held up a hand again.

   "We'll start over.  I have an idea.  Let us work this out, OK?"

   The man tossed a hand in the air, but left the room.

   Bob turned his microphone off and stood up from the stool.  He turned
Layla's microphone off and leaned toward her.

   "I'd like very much to kiss you, Layla," he said softly.  "I look at
those lips and they look so soft.  Reading this is getting me horny and I
want to kiss you."

   She sucked in breath and held it.  He was so close!  He wasn't the wolf
again.  Not really.  But it was clear that he DID want to kiss her.  She
felt shaky inside.  Why was he doing this?

   "Now," he said.  "Remember how you're feeling right now.  Hold onto that
feeling.  We'll just do that one paragraph and stop."

   He flicked her mike on and then his own and started reading.  Her heart
was still pounding.  She'd read these lines before, but she paused when her
first one came along.  Bob waved at her and made his hand go in a circle,
over and over.  She knew he meant "GO ON!"

   "Well," she said, reading while she felt her heart still pounding in her
chest.  "Well ...  yes ...  sometimes ...  a little bit, I guess."

   "Did you like it?" His eyes looked smoky as he stared at her.

   "I g-g-guess so," she said weakly.

   "I bet you've never REALLY been kissed," said Bob.  His eyes went up and
down her body.  "Not a real kiss."

   He stood up, pulling his mike up to stay next to his mouth.

   Layla's pulse was still racing.  Was he going to come closer?  Again,
his hand went in an urgent circle and she looked back at the script.

   "Isn't a kiss just a kiss?" She suddenly wondered what it would be like
if Bob DID kiss her.  Would it be like kisses she'd had in the past?

   "Not at all," said Bob.  He took one step closer to her, moving the mike
with him again.  "If I kissed you, I don't think it would be anything like
what you've felt before." He emphasized the word "anything." He hadn't done
that before, and her heart pounded.

   His hand was moving again and she looked down.

   "You want to kiss me?" She even sounded scared to herself.  She looked
up at Bob as she said it.  That look was in his eye.

   "I know I shouldn't," he said.  "But yes.  I'd love to kiss you, Megan."
His hand went in circles again.

   Layla looked at her script.  Her next line was one she actually wanted
to say right now.

   "But just a kiss ...  right?  I mean you wouldn't do anything else ...
would you?" Her voice went up half an octave, and she didn't do it on
purpose.

   "I'd never do anything that would make you want to leave," he said.

   The next line was one she wasn't sure she could force out.  She felt her
throat constrict and she wanted to move away from him.

   "I ..." she started.  "I guess ..." She had to pause again, even though
there was no pause in the script.  "I guess just one kiss would be OK." She
had had to rush through it to get it all out.  It wasn't right.  She knew
she sounded terrified, because she FELT terrified.  She waited for the man
to come in and tell them to start again.

   Nothing happened.  Bob just looked at her.  She looked at the script. 
The narrator was supposed to describe how Mr.  Wilson took the girl in his
arms and kissed her.  There were "mmmmmm" sounds she was supposed to make,
and he was supposed to make them too.  Then she was supposed to say "Wow!"
and "I liked that!  I liked that a lot!"

   Bob went to the door and opened it.

   "Can we pause, to get ready for the next part?"

   "Sure," said the man's voice.  "That was great.  She did a tiny bit of
adlibbing, but it was perfect."

   Bob closed the door.

   "You OK?" he asked.

   "No," she moaned.  "How do you do that?"

   "I told you, it's just acting."

   "No, I mean how do you make me feel like you're about to eat me up?"

   "I was just trying to get you to act," he insisted.  e "It seemed so
real," she said.  "Like you really wanted to kiss me."

   "I do," he said.  "But that doesn't have anything to do with this."

   She goggled.  "You DO want to kiss me?"

   "Do we have to go into this again?" he asked.  "You're a good looking
woman.  I'm a man.  Of course I want to kiss you.  I'm old, but I'm not
dead."

   Put that way it didn't seem so ...  scary.  In fact, the calm way he
said it made her feel better for some reason.  He was just a man, acting
like men do sometimes.

   "How do you feel about the next part?" he asked.  "Can you do it?"

   "I don't think so," she said.  "How do you go MMMMM like you're kissing
somebody, when you're not kissing anybody?"

   "Could you do it if you really did kiss somebody?" he asked.

   "What?"

   "If you kissed me, could you make those sounds?"

   "You're just trying to get me to kiss you!" she yipped.

   "Maybe a little," he admitted.  "But we need to get through this. 
You've been kissed before.  I don't have any diseases.  If it helped you
make the noises, what harm would one little kiss do?"

   "I just met you this morning!" she said.  "I can't just kiss you like
that."

   "Think of it as acting," he said.  "Screen actors do it all the time. 
We're not going to swap spit or anything.  Just put your lips up against
mine and make the noises.  You can kiss my cheek if you want.  I don't
care. I just want to get past this point.  You've done so well.  Let's not
blow it all because of some kissing noises."

   "OK!" she said defensively.  "It's just weird, OK?"

   "It can be weird all day long, as long as you make those noises," he
said.

   Layla looked at him.  He wasn't ACTING like he wanted to kiss her very
much.  All he seemed to be interested in was getting her to make noises. 
Fine!  She'd show him!  She'd give him a kiss he'd remember for years!  She
stepped toward him.

   "Hang on, girl," he said, grinning.  "We have to get the mikes ready. 
You only want to have to do this once, right?"

   He went to the door and opened it.

   "We're going to make a bunch of noises.  You guys can cut and paste, or
whatever you call it, right?  We'll just make the kissing noises and
eventually get back to the dialogue, OK?"

   "Great," came the man's voice.

   She was ready for him when he got back.  They put both mikes together,
right by their faces.  He was two inches taller than she was, so she had to
look up slightly.  He had his papers in his hand and looked at them again.

   "As soon as we make the noises, we go right back into the dialogue,
right?" he asked.

   "Sure," she said, flippantly.  She was in control again.  She was going
to teach this man a lesson.  She could kiss.  She loved to kiss.  And this
time, when something went wrong, it was going to be because they were going
to have to call the paramedics to help him recover from what she was about
to do to him.

   Chapter Two

   He didn't cooperate.  He turned his cheek to her as his face neared
hers. He had said she could do this, but she wanted to teach him a lesson.
She couldn't do that if all she kissed was his cheek.

   She had no choice though, at least not at first.  Her lips pressed to
his cheek.  His beard was in the way, but it was soft.

   "MMMMM," she buzzed loudly.  At the same time her left hand went up and
cupped his chin, with her fingers on his right cheek.  She pressed with her
fingers, and was suddenly kissing the corner of his mouth.  His moustache
was tickling her nose.  "MMMMMM," she buzzed again.  It sounded like she
was trying out for a soup commercial, to her anyway.  She pulled at his
chin again and his lips slid onto hers.

   Her eyes were open, because she wanted to see the look in his when she
pushed her tongue into his mouth.  Her peripheral vision told her something
was moving toward her face, on both sides.  His hands captured her head. 
Half his fingers were on the clean shaven parts of her scalp and the rest
mussed her hair.  They were warm, and she suddenly had the image of an NBA
basketball player holding a ball that was dwarfed in his hands.

   His lips moved fully onto hers, parted slightly, and they nipped at her
suddenly slack ones.

   "Mmmmmm," he went through his nose.  He sounded like he meant it.

   His tongue flicked lightly between her lips, licking her upper lip, and
then moving to her lower one.  It wasn't IN her mouth, exactly, but its
touch was so soft and so tentative that it was somehow more intimate than
if he was trying to lick her tonsils.

   He pulled her face against his.  She could feel the strength in his
hands, and she knew instinctively that she couldn't possibly get away from
him without kicking and screaming.

   She didn't feel like kicking and screaming, though.  This was a very
nice kiss.

   Her tongue flicked out all by itself and pushed lightly at his.  His
lips sucked at the tip of it, closing.

   "Mmmmmmm," he went.  He wasn't playacting.  The receptors in her brain
that evaluated that noise said, "He really DOES want to kiss you!"

   His right wrist had pressed against her hand, where it held his chin. 
Her other hand came up and she held his bearded face as she started kissing
him back.

   "Mmmmmmmm," she moaned, as his lips opened back up and his tongue came
out to play.

   Then it was a hundred and twenty seconds of "Mmmmm" and "Uhhhh," said
into each other's open mouths, as they had to breathe, and one kiss turned
into a series of six or seven.  His hands slid down to her shoulders, still
heavy on her body, still warm, and still pulling her toward him.

   Now she could push him away though, if she wanted to.

   She didn't want to.  She was dizzy with the excitement of these kisses.
She couldn't remember the last time a man's lips had told her so
forcefully, but so tenderly, that a kiss was precious, and something to
celebrate.

   He finally pulled back.

   "Wow," she breathed, her breath a rush of air that emptied her lungs in
that one syllable.

   He looked past the left side of her head, and she turned it to find his
script right there, in his hand.  It must have been pressed to her head
first, and then her shoulder, and she'd never felt it at all!

   "Now that was a kiss," he said.

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

   Her next line was supposed to be "Can we do that again?" but they
stopped, because she was panting too hard, and was in both no shape and no
mood to read from the script.  Both reached up and turned their microphones
off again.

   "That was very good," he said.  "I told him we'd take a break after
that. You OK?"

   "No," she sighed softly.  "I was going to teach you a lesson.  It didn't
work out that way at all."

   "Sorry," he said.  "I got a little carried away." He actually blushed.
"You sounded really good, though.  I think it helped." The part of her
brain that determined the truth or bullshit factors at play in discussions
like this threw up a big white "TRUTH" flag.

   "That was ...  surprising," said Layla, tilting her head and looking at
Bob, her right eye almost covered by her hair.

   The man opened the door and walked in.  His mouth was hanging open.

   "I've never heard anything like that," he said.  "How in the WORLD did
you make that sound so real?"

   Bob opened his mouth but Layla cut him off.

   "We're actors!" she said.

   The man brushed his hand over his forehead, almost like he was wiping
away beads of sweat.

   "Well if you keep acting like that, I can guarantee you work for the
next three years!"

   "I'll remember you said that," said Layla.

   As stated before, Layla was a pragmatic girl.  She was intelligent too.
What she was feeling at that moment was something complicated, but simple
at the same time.  She had liked that kiss.  She had liked it a lot.  That
it had been with this man who she'd only just met was one of the things
that made it complicated.  That she didn't know his last name registered
with the part of her brain that recognized the complications inherent in
what was going on.  So did the fact that he was much older than she was,
and that she had a little boy, and that she didn't even know if he was
married or not.  He'd talked about his grown up children, but had said
nothing at all about a wife.

   But the simple part was really quite simple.

   "We're ready to go on," she said to the man.

   "Right!" he said, almost scurrying back out into the mixing booth.

   Layla turned to Bob.

   "If there are any more kissing noises ...  we kiss, OK?"

   His eyes widened a bit, but not for long.

   "Got it," he said.

   There were more.  Whoever this Lubrican person was, he liked to make
things build up slowly.  When Megan asked if they could do that again, Mr.
Wilson said he'd be happy to help her learn to enjoy kisses to their
utmost.

   They spent another fifteen minutes speaking lines, broken up by kisses.
She loved them.  It was obvious he did too.  The hard part was keeping from
adlibbing.  Once she said "I could do this for hours," which wasn't in the
script.  The man didn't come yell at them, though, and they went on.

   Then, suddenly, Bob said "You'd better go home, Megan.  We don't want
your parents to start worrying about you, and ...  I feel like teaching you
more than just kissing.  Yes ...  you'd better go now."

   Layla reacted like it was real life.  She didn't want to stop.  She
wanted the kissing part to go on for two more chapters.  She really COULD
kiss him for hours.  His hand waving at her and pointing to the script made
her jerk.  Her eyes went to the lines he had spoken and she saw her next
line at the very bottom of the page.

   "OK," she sighed softly.

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

   It turned out that studio time had been allocated on a per chapter
basis. They had already gone over the allotted time for the two chapters
they'd read through, so the man, whose name turned out to be Charles, told
them they were done for the day.  He also asked if they could both come
back the next day.

   They looked at each other.  Bob nodded, and then raised his right
eyebrow, an obvious "Is that OK?"

   "You got a phone?" asked Layla.

   "Sure," said Charles.  He took them into a small office where there was
a phone on the desk.

   Layla picked it up and dialed.

   "Julie?" she said into the phone.  "Can you watch Aidan tomorrow too? 
It went pretty well today." She listened and then said "OK, great." She put
the phone back and said, "Tomorrow is fine."

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

   They walked out together, but it felt different somehow.  All the doubts
came rushing back.  She didn't know him.  She had spent twenty minutes
making out with him ...  but she didn't really know much about him.  She
suddenly felt awkward.  What did he think?  Was he thinking that she'd
throw herself at him?  Did he expect things to just escalate?

   "I'm starved," he said.  "This acting stuff is hard work."

   She blinked.  It sure didn't SOUND like he was hot and bothered.  She
couldn't help but glance down at the front of his pants.  The expected lump
was there, but his pants were loose, so she couldn't tell much about it. 
She was horrified to feel the urge to reach down and feel, to see if he was
hard.  Her panties were damp.  There was no doubt of any kind about that.
She'd been turned ON, back there in that studio.

   "Could I buy you dinner?" he asked, looking straight ahead.  "I feel
like I should compensate you for pushing you into all that."

   "You didn't push me into anything!" she said, wanting to retain as much
independence as she could, under the circumstances.  Those circumstances
played back through her mind, though, and she felt a little ungrateful. 
"Well, OK, you pushed me a little bit," she said.  "But it wasn't so bad."

   "It wasn't anywhere close to bad," he said.

   She saw the ends of his moustache rise and knew he was smiling.  She'd
never realized how much a beard could hide facial expressions.

   "You're very naughty," she said.  "You know that, don't you?"

   "I know," he said.  "Thanks for not getting mad at me.  I really
appreciate that."

   "Yes, you can buy me dinner," she heard her mouth say.  Her mind raced.
"But you have to buy it for my little boy too.  He's been at the sitter's
all day and I don't want to leave him there any longer than I have to."

   "I'd be delighted to meet him," said Bob.

   Layla's built in lie detector waved another white flag.

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

   "Dinner" turned out to be a trip to Chucky Cheese's, by Layla's choice.
That was primarily because Aidan could play there, as well as eat.  It also
made it easy to talk, or to refrain from talking, if that was how things
turned out.  Having Aidan with her did the same thing.  She could spend
time taking care of him, if things got weird.

   They didn't.  At least not at first.  Bob was friendly toward Aidan, but
no more so than toward Layla, really.  He was relaxed and seemed just the
same as he'd been at lunch.  He told a few stories and asked a few
questions.

   While Aidan was playing in a net full of colored balls, burrowing down
under them to pop up somewhere else and yell, "Here I am!" Bob pulled out
his now somewhat bedraggled script.

   "Have you read ahead?" he asked.

   "Not yet," she said.  "Getting through today was enough for me."

   "It gets ...  um ...  well ...  there are more noises to make."

   "What kind of noises?" she asked.

   "Kind of ...  explicit," he said, frowning.

   "You mean they have sex," said Layla.

   "Yeah," he sighed.  "It is an adult novel, after all."

   "Do you want to have sex with me, Bob?" she asked.

   Now where had THAT come from?!  she wondered.

   "What?" He looked pale and his eyes were wide.

   "I didn't mean to ask you that," she said, blushing.  "I don't know why
I said that."

   "Oh," he said, looking less like he was about to keel over.  "OK."

   It hung there, though.  It couldn't be taken back.  She looked away, but
her eyes darted back as she blushed.  The startled look on his face left it
as her eyes continued to flitter this way and that.

   "Perhaps I could answer that question in a general ...  non-specific
kind of way," said Bob.

   "What do you mean?" she asked, only faintly curious.  She was afraid she
wouldn't like his answer ...  whatever it was.  His flirting had been ...
odd ...  but at the same time, kind of nice in a non-threatening way.  His
kisses had undone all that, making it very clear that he enjoyed kissing
her.  Still, he hadn't pushed it.  She pushed away an errant thought that
was surprised she hadn't pushed it either.

   "Well, you can look at that question from several different viewpoints,"
he said.

   "Oh?" She didn't think there was any viewpoint but the one she had so
stupidly asked about.  He either wanted to have sex with her or he didn't.
She was pretty sure she wouldn't like either answer.

   "Sure," he said.  "On one level, all I'd have to do is tell you how I
feel about that, as it pertains to you and me."

   "Didn't I just think that?" she thought.

   "But that viewpoint shouldn't be answered yet." He looked at her.  She
waited.  "Maybe later ...  some day ...  but not today."

   "What other viewpoint is there?" she asked, curious now.  He'd basically
said he didn't want to answer her question.  That was a third possible
answer, one she hadn't thought of herself.  Of the three answers she now
knew of, she thought she actually liked that one the best.

   "We could generalize things," he said.  "As a woman in this particular
society, you represent certain ...  things."

   "Like what?" she asked.

   "Well, you're unconventional, for one thing," he said.  "Not many girls
these days will sport a mohawk and be comfortable with it.  You have
tattoos that are visible while you're wearing clothing.  That also suggests
that you want to march to your own drummer, rather than playing the silly
games that some women play with tiny little tattoos that nobody ever sees."

   "OK," she said.

   "You're a single mother, but you don't whine about it.  A lot of women
in your situation think the world owes them something.  You just decided
that you were going to be a mother and make the best of things."

   "I agree," said Layla, who felt the same way.  It had been as much her
fault as Aidan's father.  It takes two to tango, after all.

   "Those are all physical signs that give some indication of what your
personality might be like," he went on.  "But there's more to you than just
your personality.  You have looks too."

   "You just said that," she said.  "You were talking about my hair and
tattoos, were you not?"

   "ell," he said, leaning back.  He looked very comfortable, and suddenly
Layla got the impression he would be willing to talk about all this for
hours, if she'd let him.  "That's not quite what I meant about physical
characteristics.  What I was talking about are your legs ...  hips ... 
breasts ...  hands ...  feet.  All the parts that make you a girl and, in
particular, the girl you look like."

   "I look like myself," she said.  "All women - and I'm a woman, not a
girl, Gramps - all women have all of those things."

   "Absolutely," he said.  "Isn't it interesting that almost any woman you
can find has a man who is interested in her body, no matter what her body
looks like?"

   "What?"

   "Ugly women, Layla.  There are lots of ugly women out there ...  except
that 'ugly' is a relative term, because most of those women who want a man
...  have a man."

   "Would you just get on with it?" she asked, somewhat impatiently.  "I
know you're not calling me ugly."

   "No, I'm not.  I was just pointing out that different body types are
attractive to different men."

   "That's bullshit," she said.  "There isn't a man alive who looks for an
ugly woman and doesn't rest until he finds her.  That's silly and you know
it."

   "Are there men who look for a beautiful woman?" he asked.

   "Of course.  All men are looking for a beautiful woman."

   "I'm not doing this well," said Bob, looking pained.

   "I'm just trying to figure out what the heck you're trying to do," said
Layla.

   "I'm trying to answer your question in a way that will salvage our
budding friendship," he said.

   "We have a budding friendship?" she asked.  She hadn't thought about it
in quite those terms.

   "I hope so," he said.

   "Aha!" she said.  "You DO want to have sex with me."

   He looked pained again.

   "I'm trying not to say that," he said.

   "Why?" she asked.  She wished she'd just said "Oh forget it!" instead.

   "Because I don't think you really want to hear me say that, in my
imagination, I want to take you like a slavering wolf takes a succulent
young lamb, and that I want to breed you and make your belly swell up for
the next ten years running," he said calmly.

   "Bob!" she yipped.  Her eyes darted around.  They were in a family
restaurant, for Pete's sake!  "I can't BELIEVE you said that!"

   "I didn't say that," he said, smiling.  "I said that's what you probably
don't want to hear."

   "Of course not!" she gasped.

   "And if I said something like that, you wouldn't want to be friends with
me anymore, now would you?"

   What arrested her thought process, which was about to suggest that she
tell him off and leave, was his choice of the image of a "slavering wolf."
That had been her image of him!  Back in the studio, when he'd looked at
her like that and said what he'd said, she'd thought of a wolf.  She knew
he couldn't read her mind.  That meant that he'd chosen that word on
purpose.  Her eyes widened.

   "You're acting again!" she said, accusingly.

   "I'm philosophizing," he corrected.  "Just let me finish, OK?  This is
getting weird."

   "You're telling me!" she said.

   "Mommy!  Here I AM!" complained Aidan, who was tugging at her shirt.  He
had abandoned the pit of colored balls.

   She turned to her son.

   "I'm sorry, baby," she said soothingly.  "I was talking to Bob and I
didn't pay enough attention to you."

   "OK!" Aidan smiled, turned, and ran back to the ball pit.  She had paid
attention to him--now everything was fine.

   "Sorry," said Bob.  He sounded contrite.  "Maybe we should have this
conversation later."

   "I shouldn't have asked the question in the first place," she said. 
"Now I'm curious."

   "I can cut to the chase," he offered.

   "How?" she asked.

   "By saying that you're a whole package.  Your looks, your body, all of
it are probably attractive to--I'm estimating here--maybe sixty percent of
all men.  So that means that about sixty percent of all men would evaluate
you positively as a potential sexual mate."

   "Sixty percent?" she said weakly.  "Of ALL men?"

   "Maybe more," said Bob.  "But I'm just guessing."

   "That's a lot of men," she said, looking bewildered.  Nobody had ever
said anything remotely like that to her before.

   "Those are just the men who would want to find out more about you," he
said.  "A lot of them would lose interest when they did."

   She bristled.  "Why?!"

   "Don't get upset," he said, grinning.  "How many men do you look at, and
then look at again, and later find out they aren't as interesting as you
thought they were?"

   She was about to say, "Tons," but kept her mouth shut.

   "Let's just say I'm in the sixty percent," he said.

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

   He hadn't offered to follow her home, to make sure she and her son got
there all right.  If he had, it would have sent alarm bells ringing in her
head.  What he DID do was give her his phone number.

   "Go home," he said.  "Read through the script.  If you don't think you
can do what's coming up, just call me and tell me.  You don't even have to
come in in the morning if you don't want to.  I'll go in and tell them you
aren't interested anymore.  Maybe they have someone else lined up ... 
waiting in the wings, so to speak."

   "But you're going in regardless?" she had asked.

   "I need the money," he said.

   Now, at home, feeling less pressure, and with Aidan in bed and hopefully
asleep for the night, she thought about that.  He'd paid for their dinner
...  but he needed the money.

   She thought about the fifty dollars in her purse that Charles had handed
her.  It was already spent, even though it was still in her purse.

   As she thought back on what happened that day, the whole thing was a
little unsettling for Layla.  There were so many ways to look at the things
he'd said and done.  And yet, the bottom line was that he was interested in
her.

   The problem was she didn't quite know what that meant either.  He really
WAS old enough to be a grandfather.  She realized it wasn't his age that
bothered her.  Then she wondered what he'd say if he knew that.  He'd
probably philosophize, she thought darkly.  After that she wondered if her
not caring about the age difference had anything to do with her hair and
tattoos.  She had always just decided what she liked ...  and done that. 
She didn't worry all that much about people who thought she was odd.  If
they thought she was odd, they weren't her type anyway.  That led to her
thinking about the sixty percent he'd estimated.  That had to be goofy.  On
the other hand, she didn't care what percentage it was.  If she liked a
man, she investigated.  If not, she didn't.

   She picked up the script, settled into a soft chair, and began to read.

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

   It was almost ten when the phone rang.  Bob glanced at the readout--he
didn't recognize the number, but picked it up anyway.

   "Bob?"

   It was Layla.

   "Hi," he said, keeping his voice neutral.

   "This is terrible, Bob!" she said.

   "It gets kind of rough, I agree," he said.  He had changed "interesting"
to "rough" in a split second.  He didn't think she'd appreciate what
happened in the story as being interesting to him.  It was, but he didn't
think she'd like that.

   "I can't make all those noises, Bob," she said.  "I'd feel positively
ridiculous!"

   "I understand," he said.  "I'll tell Charles he just has to find someone
else.  It's only been one day and they can probably use a lot of what we
did anyway."

   "I didn't say I'm not coming in, Bob," said the voice on the phone.

   "You didn't?"

   "No.  You didn't let me finish.  I said, I can't make those noises ...
unless you help me."

   "Oh," he said.  He wasn't sure what that meant.

   "You have to help me, Bob," she said.

   "You don't have to do this, Layla," he offered.

   He could hear her sigh over the phone.  "I need the money too, Bob."

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

   They actually talked for another hour, as he tried to find out what she
wanted him to do and she, more often than not, said, "I don't know."

   He reminded her that it was all just acting, and she reminded him that
she wasn't an actress.

   At least three or four times, he expected her to change her mind.  But
she never did.

   Chapter Three

   The script for the next day, depending on how far they went, called for
Mr.  Johnson 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.  Johnson was supposed to stroke
Megan's face, and Megan was supposed to say, "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.  Johnson, 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.  Johnson ...  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.  Johnson!" 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 Johnson
...  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 Johnson.  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."

   "I talked to Charles about that," said Bob.  "The author has apparently
decided that Mr.  Johnson's first name can be Bob.  Apparently that's not
all that unusual for that author.  He names a lot of his characters with
some derivative of Robert."

   "Well that was nice of him," said Layla.  "That will make it easier for
me.  That's for sure."

   "So..." said Bob softly.  "Did you read ahead?"

   "Nope," she said, her voice cheery.

   "Don't you think maybe you should have?" he asked.

   "Sure," she said.  "Like I said, if anybody needs to rehearse, it's me.
I get very distracted when you're helping me."

   "Oh ...  sorry."

   "It's OK," she said, her voice still cheery.  "I've decided to try to
pay more attention to the script.  I'm not so nervous anymore."

   "That's good," he commented.  "I'm glad you feel that way.  It ...  um
...  keeps going ...  in the same direction."

   "Of course it does," she said.  "It's porn, after all."

   "And you're still OK with all this?"

   She put her script down on a stool and, instead of answering him, she
simply stepped up to him, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him
soundly.  She used her tongue to let him know what kind of kiss this was.
She felt butterflies in her stomach and the beginnings of what would cause
her to have to change panties again when they were done reading for the
day. What she did not feel was fear or nervousness.  Kissing him was easy
by now.

   "What changed?" he asked, breathing a little faster, when she was done.

   "I have no idea," she said.  "I think I might be trying to get you into
a lower percentile."

   "What?" He looked confused.

   "I don't think you belong in a sixty percent group," she said, with her
arms still around his neck.  "I'm thinking it should be more like thirty."

   "You want thirty percent of men?" He grinned.  "That's a little greedy,
isn't it?"

   "Let's work on getting you into the thirty percent group," she said,
ignoring his barb.  "Then we'll reevaluate."

   "Wow," he said, sounding a little weak.

   "Why so surprised?" she asked.  "You're interested in me.  Why can't I
be interested in you?"

   "I don't know," he said, looking a little stunned.  "I guess I thought
the age difference was a barrier."

   "Well ...  I thought about that, of course," she admitted.  "To be
completely truthful, I'd have to admit that if you make it into the thirty
percent group, you'll be the only one over fifty."

   "Wow," he said again.  "I don't know whether to be honored or scared to
death."

   "Why would a big, strong man like you be scared of an itsy bitsy girl
like me?" she asked, her voice suddenly very young.  She kissed his chin.

   "I thought you were a woman," he said, smiling.

   "For the next six or eight hours," she said, letting go of him, "I'm
only sixteen."

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

   Bob was a little stunned by the change in Layla's attitude.  He stayed
stunned too.  On this day, he was the one who was in the majority, in terms
of having to say his lines more than once.

   It started out pretty well.  Lubrican was the kind of author who put
things into a story other than sex.  Not only did he build to a climax,
both literally and figuratively, he had his characters develop what seemed
like real relationships as well.

   In this section of the story, Megan was displaying a decided interest in
her "lessons" and, with the impatience of youth, wanted to move faster. 
Bob thought that was ironic, in the sense that Layla had also developed a
more active interest in being helped by Bob.

   That was displayed by a number of things.  She teased him, for one
thing--brushing up against him, or pulling his hands to her body, as she
read lines in which Megan did the same thing to Mr.  Johnson, now named
Bob, instead of the original Rod.

   What developed was something almost humorous, as Layla took on the role
of a young girl trying to get more of what she perceived as a good thing,
while Bob played the role of Mr.  Johnson trying to slow her down, before
things got carried away.  That Layla was physical in acting out her role,
put Bob in the position of having to do the same things to deter her that
Mr.  Johnson was doing in the story.

   "A relationship has more things in it than just sex," he read.

   Layla reached over and squeezed his butt.

   "Is that what we're doing?" she read.  "Having a relationship?"

   "Don't you think we should?" asked Bob.

   "I like what we do," said Layla, squeezing his butt while her mouth was
inches from the mike.

   He slapped at her hand, and she caught his, grinning.

   "I want you to do some more of what we did yesterday," read Layla, as
she brought his captured hand to her right breast.

   "Later," said Bob, pulling his hand back.  "I have a problem and I need
your help."

   "What?" read Layla.

   "My niece has to have major surgery.  She and her husband have a two
year old boy and they've asked me to take care of him while she's in the
hospital and recuperating.  That means I will have two little boys for
three weeks.  I'm going to need some extra help with that.  You're my
babysitter, so I naturally thought of you "

   "I'd love to," she said.

   "It means you'll have to stay at my house a lot more days and a lot
longer each day ...  maybe even some nights, if I have to work late.  Do
you think your folks will mind?" he asked.

   "As long as I get paid, they won't mind," she said.  "Daddy's always
complaining about it whenever I ask him for money.  They like it when I
earn my own, and I get to spend it however I like."

   "It will still take a lot of time," said Bob.

   "No problem," said Megan.  "It's summer vacation.  I have all the time
in the world."

   "OK, then," read Bob.

   "Now can we play around some more?" asked Megan.

   "Sure," said Bob.

   Layla giggled and said, "Oh goody!" even though it wasn't in the script.
Then she started unbuttoning the shirt she'd worn that day.  She spread it
apart, to show Bob her naked breasts.

   He put his hand over his microphone.

   "What are you DOING?!" he whispered.

   She giggled again and pointed to his script.  He jerked it up and his
eyes ran over it frantically, looking for his line.

   "Um ..." he said, as his eyes locked onto the words.  "What do you want
to do today, Megan?"

   "I really liked it yesterday," Layla said shyly, "when you sucked on my
titties." She cupped her breasts and offered them to Bob, which in her case
only meant putting her hands under them, and then arching her back to push
them toward him.

   "You're crazy!" Bob mouthed at her.

   "I want you to do that again," said Layla, glancing at her script.

   They made the appropriate noises by pulling the microphone down beside
her breasts, as Bob sucked noisily.  She cooed about how good that felt. 
Had she read the script, the night before, she might have been prepared for
his hand to land on her knee and slide up her inner thigh until he cupped
her pussy through her jeans.

   "EEP!" she squeaked.  "Oh Bob!"

   That wasn't in the script either, but Bob went ahead anyway.

   "I'm sorry, honey," he moaned into the mike.  "I can't help touching you
some other places too.  You're driving me crazy."

   Layla's legs had squeezed shut, initially.  She peered at her script,
said "Oh shit!" and then moved her right foot twelve inches to the side.

   "Ohhhh Bob!" she moaned, reading from the script.  "I like that too!"

   "I can make it feel a lot better," Bob read.  "Undo your pants for me,
Megan."

   "Ooooooo," squealed Layla, as Bob rubbed her pussy through her jeans. 
"Do you think we should?"

   "I want to so bad," moaned Bob.

   "OK," said Layla, holding the script close to her eyes with one hand and
reaching for her belt and button with the other.  "If you think it's OK."

   Bob stared as her zipper slid downward and pulled apart, to expose lacy
red panties.  His eyes slid back to the script.  The narrator would be
describing the events at this point.  They had noises to make.  He dropped
the script, pulled Layla to him and kissed her as he slid his hand into the
front of her panties.

   "Ohhhh BOB!" she moaned.

   He felt moisture, and her hands weren't beating at him, so he went for
broke.  Using his middle finger, he stopped long enough to find her clit
with the pad of his fingertip and pressed, moving his finger back and forth
sideways as much as the tight confines of her clothing would allow.  She
arched against him, and he slid his thick finger lower, trying to penetrate
her.

   "Ohhhh FUCK that feels good!" she gasped.

   The script was forgotten now, and she used both hands to shove her jeans
and panties down to her thighs.  That gave Bob a little more room, but she
still couldn't spread her legs much.  He was able to get his finger deep
into her, though, and their tongues dueled as he rubbed, hoping against
hope that she'd actually have an orgasm.

   She broke the kiss, and her hand shoved his head downward.  He got the
idea and started sucking at her nipples.

   There were words in the script ...  sometimes complete words and
sometimes just a series of letters that were supposed to represent a moan
or a sigh.  Layla didn't make those noises though.  Her vocalizations were
of a kind that almost could not be written.  There were little sharp
whines, and yips and "eep" noises, as well as something that seemed to have
m's and n's in it.  As she drew sharp breaths inward, she made noises that
defied being written in any language.  It was a symphony to Bob's ears,
even though it was music that was being played by instruments with no
names.

   Her breathing grew ragged.  Bob had to support her by holding her lower
back with one hand, while the finger on his other hand dug deep into her
pussy.  Her noises were so erotic that he lifted her bodily, to get her
close enough to the microphone that it would pick them up.  She groaned as
her entire weight fell on the hand that cupped her pussy, with that middle
finger inside her.

   "Oh yes!" she moaned.  "Oh yes ...  oh Bob ...  oh don't stop ...  oh
please!" Then she sounded like she was choking, laughing, crying and four
or five other things all at the same time and her hands crushed his head
against the breast he was currently sucking at.  Her body went rigid and
froze as she let out a long cry that got louder and higher until Bob had to
move her AWAY from the mike for fear that the sound would be completely
distorted.

   "Oh fuck," she panted, letting go of his head.  She almost fell backward
and he pulled his hand from her pussy, to use it to support her while she
leaned on the stool.

   Bob looked at the door.  They should be saying something, but they
weren't, and he was afraid Charles would come in.  He grabbed the script,
then remembered the lines he had tried to memorize.

   "Did that feel good, baby?" he cooed into the mike.  "Did I make you
feel good?"

   "Uh huh!" panted Layla.

   "You better get home," Bob said.  "You've been here for over an hour."

   Layla stood and pulled her pants and panties back up.  Her fingers
fumbled at the closure.  She picked up her shirt and put it on just as the
door started to open.  She turned her back to the door and Bob moved
between her and Charles as he stuck his head in.

   "You OK in here?" Charles asked.

   "Yeah," said Bob.  "This is a lot harder to do than you'd think."

   "I can hear that," said Charles.  "What you did was great, but we missed
some lines in there ...  quite a few, actually.  How 'bout you read back
over them.  I can mix them in where they belong."

   "Sure thing," said Bob.

   By the time he turned around, the only thing that indicated that
anything had happened at all was that she was still catching her breath. 
Other than that, and a rosy flush that was still on her face, she looked
like any other woman.  She picked up her script and stepped up to the
microphone.

   They read their lines, got paid, and walked out of the studio together.

   Chapter Four

   "Would you like to come to dinner at my place?" asked Layla, as soon as
they were outside.  It was the first thing she'd said to him since they'd
quit reading.

   "Do you think that's a good idea?" he asked.

   She stopped and turned to face him.  She didn't say anything.  She just
stared at him, waiting for him to answer her question.

   "I'd love to," he said.

   She smiled.

   "Good," she said.  "I'll go pick up Aidan.  Give me two hours before you
come over, OK?"

   "Can I bring something with me?" he asked.

   "Like what?"

   "You know ...  wine ...  a cake ...  something?"

   "Wine and I don't get along too well," she said.  "And the kind of cake
I like you probably couldn't find." She thought for a minute.  "Ice cream.
Aidan and I both love ice cream."

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

   Layla hummed as she fiddled with things in the kitchen.  Cooking was not
her strong suit.  She didn't know Bob all that well, but she had the
distinct feeling that a man who had been around the world a couple of times
wouldn't complain about anything she fed him.  For all she knew he'd eaten
disgusting things in faraway places.  Monkey brains came to mind, for some
reason, and she sang one of her favorite songs to drive that out of her
mind.

   As she sang at full volume she was also dancing, gyrating wildly and
waving a spoon in the air, when, as she whirled, Bob was suddenly standing
in the kitchen door.  Aidan was by his side, holding his hand.  She jerked
to a stop.

   "You scared the CRAP out of me!" she gasped.

   "Aidan let me in," he said.

   Layla looked at her son, who was beaming.

   "Baby," she moaned.  "I've told you never to open the door to
strangers."

   "Bob's not a stranger," piped Aidan.

   "He did check me out in the peep hole before he let me in," said Bob.

   Layla pushed past them, to stare at the front door.  A straight backed
chair from the dining room had been pulled to the door.  Aidan had
apparently stood on it to look through the peep hole, like he had seen her
do before.  The chair was now sitting beside the door.

   Bob knelt, to put his face at Aidan's level.

   "How 'bout we make a new rule?" he said.  "From now on only Mommy
answers the door, unless she's too sick to open it, OK?"

   "You mean like if I should call 911?" asked the little boy.

   Bob's eyebrows rose.  "Exactly," he said.

   "OK!" said Aidan.  "I'm going to go draw.  You want me to draw you a
picture, Bob?"

   "Sure," said Bob, standing up as the boy ran back into the living room.

   Bob turned to Layla.

   "Sorry," he said.  "Once he had the door open I pretty much had to come
in."

   "He's too smart sometimes," complained Layla.

   "Smells good," said Bob.  His eyes ran up and down her body.  "Looks
good too."

   "Are you flirting with me?" she asked.

   "Uh huh," he said.

   "I wasn't going to wear this, tonight," said Layla, looking down at her
T shirt and jeans.

   "Oh?" he said.  "Well then go ahead and take it off.  I don't mind."

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

   As has been stated before, but bears repeating here, Layla was the kind
of person who sometimes made decisions on a hunch.  Or maybe she just went
with the flow of whatever she was feeling.  The pragmatic side of her
didn't do a lot of soul searching when she felt like she wanted something.
Of course it was more complicated than that.  If she wanted something, and
could afford it, she got it.  If she couldn't afford it, she spent a little
time wishing she could, and then went on with her life.  If she wanted to
do something, and it seemed reasonably safe, she did it.  If there were
hazards involved, she tried to work things out so the hazards were dealt
with.  If the hazards couldn't be mitigated, she spent a little time
wishing they could, and then went on with her life.

   With Bob, it was similar.  At some point, she had decided that she
wanted more of what Bob had to offer.  There was a complicated kind of
evaluation of that "want" that went on.  Some of it was conscious.  When
his finger had been deep inside her, in the studio, giving her luscious
pleasure, she had thought to herself "I like this and I want more of this."
Some of it was unconscious too, and involved her arriving at the conclusion
that she didn't care how old he was and that she didn't know him as well as
she probably should.  Her gut instinct was that he was a good man ...  or
at least as good a man as she'd ever met ...  and that was enough to
mitigate some of the hazards her unconscious mind worried at.

   She knew he wanted her.  He wouldn't admit it out loud, but she knew. 
She had felt his passion in his kisses, and what he'd done for her in the
studio had been for her benefit--not his.  At least not for his immediate
benefit.  That made him different, in her mind, from other men she'd met.
Other men had done things for her ...  but they always wanted something in
return, and they wanted it then and there.  Bob hadn't asked for anything.

   "I can't take off my clothes right now," she said.  "Not with Aidan
awake."

   "I was kidding," said Bob.

   "No you weren't," she said, going to him and kissing him gently on the
lips.  "You'd like to see me naked right now."

   "I'm just here for dinner," he said weakly.

   "Oh?" She didn't smile.  Her hand drifted down his arm and went between
them, to feel gently at the front of his pants.  It was the first time
she'd ever touched him there.

   "You're not playing fair," he said, looking into her eyes.

   "My house ...  my rules," she said.  Her fingers felt for ...  and
squeezed the lump she found.

   "What's come over you?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

   "I think a man named Bob has come over me," she said.  She let go of him
and stepped back.  "Which is kind of strange, since I don't even know his
last name."

   "What difference does it make," he asked.  "Bob is what people call me.
I don't know your last name either.  Layla is enough for me.  Happy to meet
you." He stuck out his hand.

   It was so ludicrous that she giggled and then laughed.  She took his
hand and shook it like a man.

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

   Supper was anticlimactic in the sense that it didn't seem at all
abnormal.  She and Aidan usually ate alone, and they were used to that. 
But his being there didn't seem odd.  He sat down at the kitchen table
while she finished getting the meal ready, so they just ate there, instead
of in the dining room.  They ate and talked, and pretty soon it was over.
Aidan went to watch a video, leaving Layla and Bob in the kitchen.

   She got up to clean up and he offered to help.

   "I'll just do the dishes later," she said.

   "Go ahead and get it out of the way," he suggested.  "I'll help.  Then
we'll be done."

   "Are you in a hurry to leave?" she asked, looking through her eyelashes
at him.

   "Nope," he said.  "I just don't want you to have to do this after I
leave.  I don't want the last thing you associate with me to be, `Awww, I
have to do the dishes!'" He spoke in a falsetto voice that sounded like an
old woman and she laughed.

   "You don't sound anything like me," she said.

   "I'd be scared to death if I did." He smiled.

   She washed and he dried.  They talked about movies they liked, and found
that a lot of them were the same, particularly the comedies.  She told him
where to put things when they were dried.  At one point he stopped behind
her and put his hands on her waist.  He kissed her scalp, where a fuzz of
new grown hair tickled his lips.

   "I've never felt anything like that," he said.

   "It's about time to shave that again," she replied, pushing her head
toward his lips.

   "I could do that for you," he offered.

   "Yeah, right," she said.  "That's my head we're talking about.  People
will see it."

   "I thought you didn't care what people thought," he said.

   "I do if it's been butchered."

   "I am wounded," he moaned theatrically.  "To think that you think I
would butcher your hair!" He gave an obviously false sob.

   "It's not as easy as shaving your chin," she said.  She turned her face
toward him.  "Oh yeah ...  I forgot.  You don't shave your chin.  You don't
shave anything.  I think I'll do what I usually do instead."

   "Picky, picky, picky," he said, sliding his hands to her stomach and up.


   His hands bumped into the lower swells of her breasts, but stopped
there. She found herself wishing that his hands would go higher.  She let
her head fall back and turned it toward him, feeling the softness of his
beard on her cheek.

   "Kiss me," she said.

   "Are we rehearsing?" he teased.

   "Why do you think I invited you here?" she asked.

   "Dinner," he said.

   "And to rehearse," she said into his beard.  "Today we had to repeat too
many lines.  It's not professional."

   "Did you read ahead?" Bob's voice was soft in her ear.

   "Uh huh," she said.

   Now his hands came up onto her breasts.  She pushed them back down, but
grabbed his wrists, moving his hands to her hips, to drag them back up
under her T shirt.  He got it and she let go as his hands slid up her
smooth, flat stomach and covered her naked breasts.  He rubbed them in
circles first, then used his fingers on the nipples.

   "Mmmmmm," she said.  It would have sounded perfect on tape.

   She arched her neck and he kissed her.  It was awkward because her face
was sideways and upside down, from his frame of reference.  It didn't
matter, though.

   "When is Aidan's bedtime?" he asked, his lips still brushing hers.

   "In a while," she said, reaching for another kiss.

   "You're torturing me," he accused.

   "You seduced me," she said.

   "I did not!" He kissed her again and squeezed her nipples.

   "Yes you did," she said.  "I'm completely innocent here.  You're a dirty
old man who preys on innocent, young, single mothers."

   "Why did you bring me here, then?" he asked.

   "We have to rehearse," she said into his lips.  "I need the money."

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

   It was, perhaps, the longest hour and a half in Bob's life.  Once they
separated, in the kitchen, she took his hand and pulled him to the living
room.  There was a computer set up along one wall and Layla went to it to
activate the screen.

   "I need to get a little work done," she said.  "Can you entertain Aidan
for a bit?"

   "Work?" he asked.

   "I administer some web sites," she said.  "I design them and then run
them for people."

   "Wow," said Bob, impressed.

   "Not as cool as it sounds," she said.  "I don't quite make enough to get
by on that alone.  What I need to do won't take that long."

   "Knock yourself out," said Bob.

   Old skills came into play there as Bob spent time with the little boy.
Bob had always been a pretty good daddy and was right at home with
Aidan--looking at his drawings, playing games and reading a story.  He had
to laugh when he asked if Aidan wanted to be read a story and Aidan turned
to his mother.

   "Is this a bedtime story?" he asked.

   Layla checked her watch.  "Not unless it's a really long one," she said.

   "OK."

   Aidan found a book and announced it was NOT a long story.  Bob read it
to him, and then Aidan read it to Bob.  He needed a little help on some
words, but Bob was impressed that a boy so young could already read pretty
well.

   Finally Layla turned around.

   "Bedtime!" she chirped.

   "I don't WANT to go to bed," said her little boy.

   "I know that," said Layla.  "But it's bedtime."

   "Then I get a bedtime story!" he announced.

   Bob read him one more story which, when it was chosen, was much longer
than the previous one.  Bob grinned at Layla, who rolled her eyes.

   Then he sat ...  waiting ...  while mother and son went through their
routine.  That seemed to take forever too, though when he looked at his
watch only five or six minutes had passed.

   She came back into the room, her script in her hand.  Bob looked up at
her from where he was sitting.

   "I didn't bring my script," he said.

   "You can look at mine."

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

   Bob was a little breathless.

   To be honest, that was more because of the way things had progressed,
rather than him being out of shape.  He'd been around the world, and he'd
had his share of sexual encounters, but he'd never met a woman quite like
Layla.

   What he wasn't aware of was that once Layla made up her mind about
something, she didn't question that.  At least not until something happened
to make her question an original decision.  Sometimes that happened.  In
this case ...  when she'd made up her mind about Bob, nothing had happened
...  yet ...  to make her wonder if she'd done the right thing or not.

   That was why she suggested that they'd be more comfortable ... 
rehearsing ...  on her bed.  It was also why, when Bob followed her into
the room, she lifted the T shirt up and over her head like it was the most
normal thing in the world to do.  She left her jeans on, crawled onto the
bed, fussed with the pillows until she was comfortable, then lifted her
script to page through it.

   Bob just stood and looked at her.  This was the point at which he began
breathing a little more deeply.

   Layla looked away from the script and up at him.  It was the kind of
look that would have been over the top of her glasses, had she needed
glasses and been wearing them.

   "What's the matter?" she asked.

   "You took off your shirt," he said.

   "You want to know the first thing I ever thought about you?" she asked,
still peering at him.

   "Um ...  OK."

   "I thought to myself that I had gotten stuck with a master of pointing
out the obvious."

   "What?" He seemed confused.

   "I don't remember what it was you said, but it was something that any
idiot would have already noticed." She spread her arms, to fully expose her
breasts to him.  "You're doing that again."

   "Oh," he said, feeling his penis begin to fill with blood.  "I guess it
just surprised me, that's all."

   "Bob," she sighed.  "A few hours ago you were sucking my nipples like a
starving baby.  And now you're surprised I'd let you see them?"

   "OK, OK," he said, beginning to realize he was making a much bigger deal
of this than she was.  "Should I take my shirt off too?"

   He almost laughed as she looked back at the script.

   "I don't know.  Does he do that in the story?"

   Bob went around the end of the bed and gingerly climbed up on it, to lie
beside her.  He arranged himself on his side, holding his head up with his
left hand, propped on his elbow.

   "Are we only going to practice what's in the story?"

   She looked at him, but then went back to the script immediately.

   "Of course," she said.  "This is rehearsal, not fun and games.  I told
you I'm not a slut.  I don't just hop into bed with any Tom, Dick or Harry
who comes along."

   Bob stuck his right hand out.

   "Hello, I'm Bob."

   She looked at him longer this time.  "Ha ...  ha," she said, spacing it
out and making the sarcasm heavy in her voice.  "Very funny." Then her
voice lightened.  "I'm Megan," she said, making her voice sound younger,
which wasn't hard.

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

   It was actually humorous to Bob.  She did, in fact, demand that they
stay to the script.  This was, after all, a ...  rehearsal, as she
insisted.

   But, as long as Lubrican--bless his dirty old heart--had written it
down, she was perfectly willing to do it.  And, as long as Bob didn't adlib
too much, she was perfectly willing to let him get away with tiny
infractions.

   It was as she made him look at the script that he found that, in the
next chapter, Bob got Megan's shirt off.  He decided not to point out that
all this happened in the living room, instead of on a bed in a bedroom.

   She read her lines as he began stroking her upper body.

   "You were very naughty yesterday," she sighed as he leaned over to
suckle a stiff pink nipple.  He sucked a little too long, apparently,
because she shoved the script between the breast he was paying attention to
and his face.

   "Um ..." he said, peering at the crumpled paper.  "I couldn't help it.
You're so beautiful and sexy ...  I just had to touch you."

   "I liked it," she said shyly.

   "I did too," he said, meaning it.  "I was ...  um ...  trying to help
you understand what an orgasm is like."

   "I've ..." she hesitated, like she was counting.  "I've had them before
...  but they didn't feel like that one."

   "We've only scratched the surface," read Bob.  That sentence alone made
his prick bloom to life.

   She continued to read lines, as he continued to work on her body.  He
lavished attention on her nipples, until she started wiggling and moaning,
and then started kissing his way down to her abdomen.  He rubbed his nose
in circles around her belly button, and kissed the part of her body that
was so flexible it could stretch to contain an entire baby.  She didn't
have to act excited or breathy, because she got that way anyhow.

   When his fingers went to the button on her jeans, she dutifully read:
"What are you doing now?"

   "I'm going to take your pants off," sighed Bob.

   He got the script shoved in his face again for that line, which should
have been "There's something else I want to show you."

   "I'm not sure we should do this," she complained, as her hips lifted to
let him pull at her jeans.

   Bob's eyes widened as he pulled at the tight cloth, expecting to see
panties.

   He didn't.  He kissed the exposed skin, where the panties "should" have
been.  Then he moved them lower, where on most women hair would appear.

   He didn't see that either.

   "But you'll see my panties!" she objected.

   "No I won't," he panted.

   He got slapped on the top of the head with the script.

   "I love blue," he said, guessing.

   "Pink!" she corrected.

   "Yes," sighed Bob, as her shaven pussy lips came into view.  "Pink.  I
love pink."

   He was further astonished when she kicked off the jeans and, without a
shred of shame, spread her legs and lifted her knees up to dig her heels
into the bed.  She was now completely naked.  She looked comical with the
script almost covering her face.

   "Why are you looking at me that way?" she read.

   She moved the script and lifted her head to look at Bob, who was staring
at her sexual center.  His right hand was kneading his stiff prick through
his pants.

   "Bob?"

   His eyes jerked to hers.  She extended the script to him.

   "Why are you looking at me that way?" she asked again.

   Bob took the script from her and tossed it onto the floor beside the
bed.

   "I'm looking at you this way because I've never seen any woman who was
more beautiful," he said.  "I'm looking at you this way because you make me
feel like a man." His fingers went to the hem of the shirt he was wearing
and he pulled it up and over his head in one frantic motion.  "I'm looking
at you this way because I'm going to give you another orgasm ...  Layla."

   "Bob," she chided, her eyes flickering toward where he had tossed the
script.

   "We can rehearse this part as many times as you want," he panted,
falling to his hands, his face directly over her pussy.  "I want to get the
motions down first ...  then we can work on the words."

   "You're so naughty!" sighed Layla.  "You really are just a dirty old
man, Bob."

   "You have no idea," said Bob.

   Then he lowered his face and pushed it against her sex.

   She felt his tongue make one long, broad swipe up her bald pussy lips,
splitting her labia apart and electrifying her clit.

   Then he stopped and lifted his face.

   "Remember how I said there was nothing wrong with vegetarians as long as
you weren't interested in taste?"

   That one lick had increased her horniness level by a factor of five.

   "You stopped, Gramps!  Don't stop," she moaned.

   "OK.  I just wanted to apologize to you.  I now know that at least one
vegetarian tastes wonderful."

   Her giggle turned into a strangled moan as his lips zeroed in on her
clit and he sucked hard on it.  He spent the next three minutes licking it,
sucking it, and nibbling on it with his teeth covered by his lips.  Her
hips bucked up at him and she started making those noises again ...  the
ones that there are no words for.

   Her orgasm was music in his ears, not only because it sounded genuine,
but because it came so quickly.  It spurred him on and, as she lifted her
hips to push at his face, he slid his hands under her butt.

   From that point on she couldn't get away from him.  Not that she tried
...  at least not until her fourth orgasm was shaking her like a stiff wind
shakes the leaves of an Aspen tree.

   "Oh PLEASE Gramps!" she gasped.  "Let me breathe a second."

   He did, and she lay there, her breasts rising and falling three inches
as she gulped in air.  He rose to his knees and struggled with his pants,
trying to push them down.  Of course, he could only get them to his knees.
He didn't want this to be a rushed thing, so he got off the bed to remove
his pants completely.  His prick was as stiff as it had been in years, and
bobbed up and down and sideways.

   Layla watched him through her lashes.

   "Get the script," she panted.

   "No way," he panted back.  "I've been waiting to do this for weeks ...
months ...  years!"

   "You haven't known me for months or years," she laughed.

   "I knew you existed," he said.  "I just hadn't met you yet."

   "You can't fuck me, Bob," she said, suddenly serious.

   "Don't tease me, Layla," he said, moving toward the bed.

   Her legs closed.

   "I'm not teasing you," she said.  "I mean it.  You can't fuck me yet."

   Her tone of voice had something to do with it, but that one word was
what stopped him with one hand on the bed.

   "Yet?"

   "We're following the script, Bob," she said.

   "Oh please," he begged.  "I'm dying here!"

   "No you're not," she said, sitting up.  She swung her legs over the side
of the bed and stood up.  She only had to take one step to get to the
script, but arranged herself so that, when she bent over to pick it up, her
butt was presented to Bob.  She stopped, bent over, her fingers holding the
paper.  "You're horny, Bob, but you're not dying."

   Then, as he took one step toward her, she stood back up.  Her nakedness
didn't seem to bother her a bit.  She didn't look at his penis, but at his
face instead.

   "Bob!" she warned.

   He stopped.  He was flushed, and she saw evidence on his face of the
struggle going on inside him.

   "You didn't read ahead this time, did you, Bob," she stated.

   He actually shuddered and then stepped back the step he'd taken.

   "No," he admitted.

   "Lie down on your back," she said.

   He did, and she lay the script on the bed beside him.

   "Like you said," she said, putting one knee on the bed.  "We can get the
motions down first, then work on the words.  I'll work on the motions--you
look at the words."

   He felt her grasp his penis as he picked up the script.  He thought this
was the craziest thing that had ever happened to him.  His heart was
hammering in his chest.  He wanted to ravish her ...  take her like a
caveman.  He wanted to claim her ...  to establish to all other males that
she was no longer available to them.  She was his ...  only his.

   It was those very thoughts that calmed him.  No one could own her.  She
was unique.  She approached this whole thing differently than any other
woman he'd ever met.  He felt her slowly stroking his penis and moved the
script to look.  She was observing his prick closely as she slowly moved
her hand along its length.  She jacked him like she was doing it in slow
motion.  It felt wonderful.

   He didn't want to spurt.  If he spurted it would be over, and he never
wanted this to be over.  He tried to distract himself with the script.  His
eyes searched for something that would tell him he was in the general area
of where they should be.  He found the place where Bob--the "Rod" had been
lined through and "Bob" written in neat script above it--gave Megan her
first orally induced orgasm.  He'd seen this, but couldn't remember exactly
what happened after that.  When he'd read this before, he'd been doing what
she was doing now.  He'd spurted when he got to the part where Megan
screamed out her pleasure and stopped.

   His eyes went ahead.  OK.  She recovered and they talked.  She said how
much she had loved it yada, yada, yada.  The next words electrified him.

   "Boys may want you to do something a little like that to them," he
panted aloud.

   "I've heard of that," came a voice from his groin.  "I've always thought
that would be yucky."

   "Doing it to you wasn't yucky," he read.  "I love your taste."

   "I guess I could try it ...  a little," she said.

   She'd not only read ahead, she seemed to have memorized the lines.

   That was about as many of the words, at least as far as Bob was
concerned, that got read for the next fifteen minutes.  When Layla "tried
it ...  a little," she basically blew his mind.

   Bob had been in Bangkok, Singapore, and Hong Kong.  He'd been to South
Korea too, where the mantra from the women in the store windows was, "Hey
GI!  Suckee, fuckee, five buckee?" Every white man was a "GI" to South
Korean whores.

   And, because Bob had been cognizant of the fact that sexually
transmitted diseases in that part of the world can ruin a whole spate of
your future weekends, he had resisted dipping his wick in most of those
women.  There had been the occasional blow job, but even then it was only
with women he got to know well enough that he could judge that it was
probably safe to engage in that particular pastime.  There had been blow
jobs in other countries too.  He had laughed more than once when he
remembered bumper stickers that used to be plastered on station wagon
windows, and which still adorned the rear of motor homes.  If they issued
tiny little stickers like that for blow jobs, Bob's penis would have had a
dozen on it.

   The thing Bob had learned during all those blow jobs was that a woman's
mouth alone rarely brought about an orgasm in a man.

   Layla thoroughly destroyed that perception and it only took her five
minutes to do it.

   Bob lifted his head to watch.  She didn't just suck his dick.  She
didn't just kiss it or lick it.  Well, she did all those things, but the
way in which she did them made it clear that this was something she loved
to do more than a lot of other things.  She didn't just suck the penis in
her hand.  She made love to it.

   She was noisy about it.  She was athletic about it.  She used every part
of her mouth, including her teeth, but it never hurt.  She used other parts
of her face too, rubbing him over her cheeks and chin, always to go back
with lips that kissed and talked to it, and then sucked it in for more.

   "Stop!" he gasped.

   "Why?" she asked, taking her mouth off of it only long enough to say
that one word.

   "'Cause I'm about to cum!" he groaned.

   She paused long enough to say, "I know," and then went back to loving
his penis.

   "I don't want to cum yet!" he whined.

   She pulled off and looked at him.  Her hand took over stroking him.

   "Awww, poor Gramps," she said.

   Then she attacked his penis again, and began massaging his balls.

   He came hard, so hard that he wanted to curl up in a ball.  He couldn't.

   "Mmmmmmmmm," she said, humming around his spurting prick.  He heard her
swallow.  He didn't cum as much as he had in his youth, so she only had to
swallow once, but it felt like she was sucking his brain out through his
prick.

   "Oh fuck me to tears!" he groaned, feeling release as total as he'd ever
felt.

   She pulled her mouth off of him and grinned.  His semen made a ravaged
spider web of white strings between her teeth.  She licked her lips, closed
them, and swallowed again.

   "That's not until chapter five, Gramps," she said sweetly.  "You're so
impatient!"

   Chapter Five

   She spent the next hour kissing him over and over again, her lips hungry
on his, and he was completely astonished to feel rigidity coming back to
his prick.

   Then she stopped and got the script, demanding that they go through the
words.  He wanted to laugh when, as they got to a place they had already
"rehearsed," she described that, in her own words.  She described how she
had felt, and how she thought the dialogue should have been written, but
then always said the words the author had put on the page.

   They got to a place where Bob had fingered Megan, before going down on
her.

   "We missed that part," she said, looking through her lashes at him.  She
was very good at that, even though her lashes weren't all that long or
defined.  Her hair falling over one eye made it even sexier.

   She let him finger her through another two orgasms, and then climbed on
top of him to rub her hairless pussy up and down his revived prick.

   "I love this," she moaned, between kisses while her pussy made his prick
wet and slippery.  "I can't wait until chapter five."

   "You don't have to wait," he panted.

   "Yes I do," she said, keening as her orgasm made him even wetter. 
"Don't worry, I'll suck you again."

   Then she blew his mind by lying down beside him again and going back to
reading the script.  When they got to the part where he started eating her
out, he moved to do that again.

   "Wait," she said, grabbing his arm.  "When you do that I can't
concentrate."

   "OK," he said, happily.

   "Bob," she said firmly.  "We HAVE to get through the dialogue.  This is
all part of rehearsal!"

   "So are you saying we can't ever do this again ...  unless it's for
rehearsal?"

   "Of course not," she said, as if she were talking to an idiot.  "We're
going to do this a lot.  But business is business, and business comes
before pleasure."

   "You are a hard woman," he sighed.

   "Not at all," she said, reaching for his stiff penis.  "You're a hard
man." She giggled.  "It's true, you know ...  a hard man is good to find!"
She cackled at the joke, and he let her, until he could silence her with a
kiss.  It was a long kiss, and she didn't let go of his prick the entire
time.  When they finally pulled their lips apart, she left her lips almost
touching his.

   "You're making this very difficult," she said.

   "Me?" He tried to sound injured.

   "Yes you," she said, letting go of his penis.  "Now ...  read!"

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

   They eventually got through it, and Layla laid the script on her
nightstand.  She kissed him for what seemed like the thousandth time that
night.

   "I love kissing you," she said.  "I loved it the first time you ever
kissed me."

   "You have no idea how glad I am about that," he said.

   "You're still hard," she said, reaching for his penis.  "You want me to
take care of that?"

   "Yes ...  and no," he said.  "This has been like a dream.  I'm not so
sure I want to wake up."

   "Thank you," she said, kissing his chin.

   "I should probably go," he said.

   "You should," she agreed.

   "You don't have to be so agreeable," he complained.  His smile showed he
didn't really mean it.

   "You're a very dangerous man, Bob," she said, squeezing his prick.  "You
make me want to do dangerous things."

   "I know," he sighed.  "Not until chapter five." He sat up.  "I haven't
bought a condom in years.  I'm not sure what they even look like any more."

   She giggled.

   "They haven't changed that much, Gramps.  But you don't need one."

   "Oh?"

   "I have an IUD," she said.

   He winced.  "Doesn't that cause discomfort?"

   "I never even know it's there," she said.  "After the first month, I had
to have the doctor check to see if it was still there."

   "You leave it in?" His eyebrows rose.

   "It's a three year model," she said.

   "You're kidding!"

   "Nope."

   "How long has it been ...  in there?" he asked.

   "Three years," she said.  "I haven't had a period in three years.  Talk
about freedom."

   "Then I'd still better get the condoms," he said.

   "These things always last a lot longer than they say they will," she
said carelessly.  "They just want to sell you another one sooner than you
actually need it."

   Bob leaned over her.

   "Look," he said.  "I'm not going to lie to you.  What I said about that
stomach needing to be all swollen up ...  I love pregnant women.  I think
they're the most beautiful women in the world.  I'd love nothing more than
to see that lovely flat belly of yours swell with my baby in it ...  but
that's not what you need."

   "You got THAT right!" she said.  "One was enough for me."

   "Well, then, we should take precautions.  That's all I'm saying."

   "You let me worry about that," she said.  "We have chapter four to get
through first.  There may never BE a chapter five, for all we know.  Either
one of us could get hit by a bus tomorrow."

   "I know where the bus routes are," he said instantly.  "I'm not going
within two blocks of one, and I insist you don't either."

   She laughed.

   "You make me feel good," she said.  "I like that.  That's why you have
to go.  I'm not sure I can control myself much longer."

   "So, all I have to do is figure out how to delay just long enough to
overcome your resistance?" he asked hopefully.

   She pushed him down, and before he could do anything, she had her pussy
poised over his mouth and he felt heat surround his cock.

   He didn't last any longer this time than he had the first.

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

   The next morning, Bob got there first.  Charles was excited.

   "You know you guys are the best I've ever heard," he said.  "You want to
tell me your secret?"

   "Nope," said Bob, smiling.  "Trade secrets."

   Charles tilted his head slightly.  "Maybe I should stick my head in
there from time to time," he drawled.

   "Maybe you shouldn't," said Bob.  "You don't want to jinx a good thing
now ...  do you?"

   "From the sounds coming through, it might just be worth it," sighed
Charles.  "But I won't."

   "That would be good," said Bob.  "She's shy enough as it is."

   "You sure can't tell it by the way she reads," said Charles.  "I sent
Lubrican what we've got so far ...  because of the adlibs.  He sent back
two words."

   "Oh?" asked Bob.

   "Yeah.  He said, 'Drive on'." Charles shook his head.  "He didn't even
complain about all that fingerfucking stuff, and that wasn't in the story
at all.  Not there anyway.  That's coming up in the stuff we're doing
today."

   "Must be a nice guy," said Bob.

   "I'm surprised he hasn't showed up to see what's going on," said
Charles. "From his emails you'd think he doesn't really care how the story
gets changed."

   "It's not changed all THAT much," said Bob.  "I mean we got ahead a
little bit, but I mean ...  it fits, doesn't it?  It's not like we jumped
to the good stuff already."

   "I don't know if I can take listening to you two act out the `good
stuff,' as you put it," said Charles.  "You have no idea how many of these
CDs we're going to sell once word of you two gets out.  I'm serious.  I go
home with a boner every day!"

   "You think you're the only one?" laughed Bob.  "She's practically
killing me."

   "Well," sighed Charles.  "Whatever ...  if you feel sick, you just call
me.  I'll stand in for you any day.  That girl's voice gets me going!"

   "What girl?" asked Layla, standing in the doorway.

   "Oh!" said Charles, turning beet red.

   "He likes your voice," said Bob, grinning at Layla.

   "THANK you!" she said, beaming.

   "Yeah," mumbled Charles, backing toward her.  He managed to move around
her with his back to her, as if that boner he always went home with had
suddenly appeared and he didn't want her to see it.

   "You look good," said Bob, surveying her as Charles closed the door with
a thump.

   She was wearing a skirt, with a matching tank top.  Her nipples were
plainly visible as dents in the top.

   "I hardly ever wear a skirt," she said.  "Doesn't go with my general
look."

   "And today is different because?"

   She lifted the skirt, to show her naked pussy underneath it.

   "Did you fail to do your homework again?" she groused.

   "I tried," he said, grinning.  "When I got home I was so exhausted that
by the time I got into bed, I ended up going to sleep with the script on my
stomach.  Sorry.  It wasn't my fault."

   "Why did I have to get stuck with an old man like you?" she asked
darkly.

   "You got lucky," he said, still grinning.

   She walked over to him and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

   "I guess I did at that," she said.

   Then she ignored him as she got ready to read.  She moved her stool
around, and pulled the mike into position.  Then she moved his stool around
and pulled the other mike over next to hers.  She got out her script, which
looked like it had been blown several blocks by the wind, while someone
chased it, trying to step on it to stop it from moving further.  She turned
her mike on.

   "Charlie?" she said softly into the microphone.  "Have you got another
copy of the script?  Mine is getting kind of rumpled."

   Charles appeared within a minute, still red in the face and handed her a
fresh copy.  He still didn't look at her face.

   "Thank you, Charlie," she said sweetly.

   "Any time," he said.  "I'm ready when you are." Then he left.

   "Are you ready, Bob?" asked Layla.

   He got his script out and turned to the beginning of chapter four.

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

   It turned out that in the story, after his nephew, Paul, had arrived,
Bob had had to go on a business trip and Megan had stayed with Randy, his
three year old boy, and Paul.  She'd stayed over for the three days Bob was
gone, and had had time to explore the house.  She knew that Mrs.  Wilson,
whom Megan didn't care much for because she was mean tempered, was in jail,
and that it was for stealing.  All her stuff was still in the house, and
Megan's curiosity got the best of her.

   She went through the lingerie drawers and looked at the dresses in the
closet.  In the back of the closet, she found a box that had naughty
clothes in it ...  slinky outfits and panties that didn't cover what they
were supposed to cover.  Even though she had had a lot of fun with Mr. 
Johnson, and had no trouble seeing him as a sexual being, she had a hard
time envisioning Mrs.  Johnson wearing crotchless panties, and bras that
left the nipples bare, and things like that.

   She'd gone through Mr.  Johnson's things too, wondering if she'd find
kinky things in his drawers too.  She didn't, except for a Playboy magazine
in a drawer, that seemed to have been well thumbed.  She got a special kick
out of sleeping in his bed.  It felt naughty and made her think of the
things they'd done together.  She masturbated in his bed, and decided it
was a lot more fun when he was there to give her an orgasm, instead of her
having to do it herself.

   Then, in the middle of chapter four, he came back from his trip.  He got
back early, which was to say in the evening instead of the next morning,
which was what his plans had originally been.

   Megan was excited to see him.  She showed it.

   "I was just about to put the boys down for the night," read Layla. 
"They were such good boys.  I love taking care of them."

   "You don't have to stay and do that," read Bob.  "You can go on home if
you want to."

   "What if I don't want to?" asked his babysitter.

   It progressed from there, with Megan acting like a little Lolita, until
Mr.  Johnson, thinking to himself that this was a terrible mistake, said
she could stay a while longer.

   Layla was reading the part where Megan told Mr.  Johnson to go take a
shower and relax after his trip, while she put the boys to bed, when it was
time to break for lunch.

   Layla turned to Bob.

   "You want to eat with me?"

   "Duh," he said, smiling.  "I would've thought after last night, you'd
know how much I like spending time with you."

   "Spending time with me," she said.  "I never quite thought of it that
way."

   They walked to a restaurant a few blocks away.  He got the blue plate
special--she got the vegetarian special.  They sat across from each other.
People near them seemed to stare a lot.

   "We must look like the odd couple," said Bob softly.  "People are
staring."

   "People always stare at me," said Layla.

   "I sure liked staring at you last night," he said.

   "Naughty Gramps," she said, grinning.

   "I didn't expect you to be shaved," he said.

   "With this head?" She laughed.  "Because of you I didn't get to shave my
head, by the way.  That's probably why everybody is staring."

   "Maybe," he said.

   "You surprised me too," said Layla.

   "Oh?"

   "I've only seen one other that wasn't circumcised," she said.

   "I like it that way," said Bob.  "Makes for better feeling."

   "Are you saying I'm going to be able to feel the difference?" she asked.

   "Please don't do that," he said.

   "Do what?"

   "Tease me like that.  The thought of that makes me crazy."

   She giggled.  "Is horny old Gramps all hot and bothered to get in my
pussy?"

   "Shhhhh," he said, leaning forward.  "Not so loud!"

   "Awww, come on," she said, pouting a little bit.

   "You want me to walk out of here with a tent in the front of my pants?"
he asked.

   "That would make me feel very good indeed," she said, grinning.

   Her foot came to his ankle.  She'd kicked off her shoe and her toes went
up inside his pants cuff.

   "Stop that!" he said.  He couldn't be mad at her though.  "How could you
be interested in an old man like me anyway?"

   "You're not old," she said, letting her foot linger for a few seconds
longer and then removing it.  "You were nice and hard.  Tasty too."

   "You are not the woman I met a week ago," he said.

   "Sure I am," she said.  "You just got to know me better.  That's all."

   "I didn't think you liked me at all when we met."

   "A girl can change her mind," she said defensively.  "You endeared
yourself to me."

   "This is like a dream to me," he sighed.

   "I love dreaming," she said.  Her toes went back up into his pants leg.
"Especially when you're in my dreams."

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

   Back in the studio, the story got hot and heavy quickly.  Once Megan had
put Randy and Paul to bed, she took her clothes off and climbed into the
bed she'd been sleeping in for three nights.

   Bob came in and objected, saying he'd agreed she could stay ...  a while
...  not all night.

   "But my folks aren't expecting me until tomorrow," read Layla.

   The narrator's part explained how Megan flipped the covers off, to
reveal her naked body.  While she read that part, Layla pulled her skirt
hem up to her waist.  She was sitting on the stool, and she spread her
knees two feet apart.  Her pussy seemed to wink at Bob.

   Bob wasn't passing it up.  He nuzzled her pussy while she made noises
and had an orgasm, moaning into the microphone.  Then, as Megan, she
returned the favor, sinking to her knees and releasing Bob's stiff prick
from his pants.  She lovingly sucked on Bob while he tried to read the
right lines, until he spurted into her mouth.

   He had just zipped up when there was a knock on the door of the booth.

   Charles opened the door and held it a few inches open.

   "Hey guys?" he called.

   "Yes, Charlie," said Layla.  "I know we adlibbed a little."

   Charles poked his head inside, as if he were a little afraid someone
would throw something at him.  He saw the two readers sitting on their
stools, facing each other, and seemed to relax.

   "I was just thinking," he said.  "The story has them falling asleep
together, and they wake up later, and ...  um ...  do some more stuff, but
it's the same as what they already did, and you guys put down way more
sound effects than we needed for the first part, so I thought we could use
some of them for the second part, and that you might want to knock off
early and go home." He seemed to be peering at Layla in a very interested
way.

   "Take a breath, Charlie," laughed Layla.

   "Sorry," he blushed.  "It's just that you guys make this sound really
erotic." He seemed to be unable to look away from Layla's face.

   "THANK you!" said Layla, beaming.  She put her hands on her hips.  "It's
the rehearsing we do that makes it seem so real," she said.

   Bob coughed.

   "And if we can leave early, we can rehearse that much more for chapter
...  five." She didn't look at Bob, but there was some extra emphasis on
the "five."

   Bob coughed again.

   "Thank you, Charlie," said Layla sweetly.

   "No problem.  I need to cut out early myself." Charles backed out the
door.  By the time they got to the control room, he was already gone.

   "Where do you suppose he ran off to so fast?" asked Layla, taking Bob's
hand.

   "He's wearing a wedding band," said Bob.  "I must assume he has a
willing lass at home, waiting for him."

   "Naughty Gramps," chided Layla.  "Is that all you think about?"

   "After that little performance in there, what ELSE am I supposed to
think about?"

   She giggled.  "Which one?  Our ...  reading ...  or what I said to
Charlie?"

   "Both," sighed Bob.

   She turned to him and, for the first time, he saw the speck of white on
the corner of her mouth.  It was a small glob of his cum that had somehow
escaped her lips.  He suddenly realized what had been so interesting to
Charles.  He reached with his thumb and wiped the spot off.

   "You're a messy eater," he said, showing her his thumb.

   "Ohhhhhh," she moaned, flushing bright red.  As sassy as she liked to
pretend she was, she was just a normal girl at heart.  "He SAW that!  I am
SO embarrassed!"

   "He sounded very happy," said Bob.  "I wouldn't worry about it."

   "Why didn't you TELL me about it?" she asked, frowning at him suddenly.

   "I just saw it myself!" he said, defensively.  "Believe me, I had no
reason in the world to think it would be there.  Your mouth is magic."

   "Awwww, you're so sweet." Her frown was gone as if it had never been
there.

   "So ..." Bob said slowly.  "Are we really going to ...  um ...  rehearse
...  chapter ...  five?"

   The look in her eyes left his knees weak, before she even said a word.

   "Oh yes, Bob," she purred.  "We're going to rehearse.  I have a feeling
we're going to rehearse so long that you might not have a chance to go home
and change clothes.  So maybe you should bring whatever you're going to
wear with you.  Eight tonight?" she finished with a question that was as
rhetorical as it was possible to be.

   "Sweetie," said Bob.  "I know this is all exciting and everything, but
are you sure you want to ..."

   "Bob!" she interrupted him.  "Don't spoil this for me, Bob.  You have no
idea how long it's been for me since something like this happened.  I don't
know how long it's been for you either, but that doesn't matter.  You
endeared yourself to me, and now you're going to make me insanely happy."

   "I am?" his voice croaked.

   "I have faith in you, Bob." She leaned up to peck him on the lips.

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

   Bob arrived at eight, with a book for Aidan and flowers for Layla. 
Aidan was already in bed.  Layla took the flowers to the kitchen and put
them in a drinking glass, because she had no vase.  Then she took him to
the bedroom again.

   Chapter five picked up the action in the story three weeks after Megan
had stayed the night in Bob's bed.  Her figurative virginity was preserved,
that night, by the fact that she was thankfully very enthusiastic about
learning ...  and practicing ...  oral sex on a man.  Still, he had avoided
his young neighbor for the following three weeks, trying to let things cool
down between them.  Since he was the only one of them who knew what brakes
were, he felt like it was up to him to regulate their speed.

   In the story, Megan had, after their all night oral session, gone on
dates.  The third Friday night, she showed up at Bob's door.

   It was clear to Bob that Layla had memorized her lines for this
rehearsal.  She undid the buttons of her shirt while she told Mr.  Johnson
about the dates and about how stupid boys her age were.  Then she explained
that she'd told her parents that this Friday night she was staying the
night with Randy while Bob went to a banquet.

   "But there is no banquet," read Bob, as his reading partner finished
getting naked.

   "I know that, silly," she said in her Megan voice, as she started
undoing Bob's shirt.  "The boys I went out with are so immature.  I want
you to teach me more stuff."

   "Honey, that's not a good idea," said Bob.  "It's really hard for me to
control myseeeeeeeeelf." The last word turned in to a groan as Layla bared
his penis and sucked it into her mouth.  He was already hard.  He'd taken a
Viagra, just in case, and it was working nicely, as far as he could tell.

   Layla pulled her mouth off his prick and stood up.  She plucked the
script from his hands.

   "Get naked," she ordered.

   He pushed his pants the rest of the way down, and stepped out of them.

   "I brought condoms," he said.

   "I thought we talked about this," she said.

   "We did.  I brought them anyway.  Better safe than sorry."

   "What I'll be sorry about is if I can't feel that when you put it in
me," said the twenty-three year old woman to her fifty-seven year old
partner.  "I told you, Bob, don't spoil this for me."

   "Layla, honey, I just think that ..."

   "Lie down, Bob!"

   She helped him lie down and, in the process, she managed to straddle
him. Not only did she manage to straddle him, she managed to get her pussy
onto his prick.  Before he was even straight on the bed, she sank down on
him with a long sigh.

   "I knew you'd feel wonderful in me," she moaned.

   "You're kind of in a hurry," said Bob, stunned that there had been no
foreplay at all.

   "I'm horny, Bob," she said, leaning over to drop a nipple into his
mouth. "I've been horny for three days.  I can't believe how you make me
feel.  I just couldn't wait another second, Bob.  You understand, don't
you?"

   He did understand.  He felt the same way.  He had just been unable to
believe she would really want him this way.  He rolled with her, suddenly.
They came perilously close to falling off the bed.

   "Bob!" she moaned.  "I wanted to be ...  ooof!"

   The outrushing "ooof" was the result of Bob driving his prick deep into
her so hard that her butt moved two inches on the bed.  He ground into her,
trying to smash her clitty with the base of his cock.

   "Ohhhh Bob!" she sighed.  "OK, you can be on top this time."

   He tried to bounce her on the bed, and move them to the center, but it
didn't work.  Their combined weight took the path of least resistance,
which was, unfortunately, the wrong direction.  He pulled out of her and
put a foot on the floor as his right hand kept her from falling.

   "Nooooo," she whined.

   "Get in the middle," he ordered.

   She scooted and he crawled up and between her welcoming thighs.

   "Can I put it back in?" he asked.

   "Of COURSE!" she yipped.  "Come ON, Bob!"

   "You're in such a hurry!" he teased.  He poked at her with his prick.

   Her hand went to it and pulled it to her sex, but he only let her have
enough to rub her pussy lips.

   "Bob, you'd better stop that," she warned.

   "What do you want, baby?" he asked, still teasing.

   "You know what I want, you dirty old man!" she barked.

   "You want this?"

   "Oooof!" she gasped as she was impaled again.

   Her hands went to his butt and she pulled.  Her legs wrapped around his
backside.

   "Don't stop!" she moaned.  "Please don't stop Bob, please, oh please."

   "I won't stop, sweet thing," he whispered in her ear.

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

   She wore him out.  He lasted for fifteen minutes, before his muscles
wouldn't cooperate any more.  He felt old for the first time in his life,
as his back began to complain and his arms trembled from holding himself up
so he wouldn't crush her.  He wanted to go on and on.  Her first orgasm,
like the first one he'd given her with his mouth, spurred him on.  It was
the sweetest thing he'd heard in as long as he could remember, when she
froze and cursed like a sailor.  Mixed in there were several "Oh yes,
Bob!"s that made him feel like he was twenty again.  Two more orgasms kept
him going, but then his back began to burn.

   "I have to stop for a while," he gasped.

   "No.  I don't want you to stop," she said.  Her hands went back to his
butt, to hold him there.

   "I can't hold myself up anymore, Layla," he warned.

   "I don't care," she moaned, wiggling under him.

   Her hands moved to his back and she pulled.  He collapsed on top of her
and she ooofed again, but when he tried to roll off of her she wouldn't let
him go.

   "Let me roll, baby," he said into her fuzzy scalp.  "You can be on top
now."

   "OK," she said and helped him roll.

   She promptly sat up tall and her hips moved like a belly dancer's as she
grabbed another orgasm.  She was sweating now, and her fingers dug into his
chest.

   "I knew this was a bad idea," he gasped.

   She stopped, her pussy rippling all along his prick.  She leaned down
and her hair tickled his nose.

   "This is a wonderful idea," she panted into his mouth.

   "I hope you know CPR," he panted back.

   "You're in much better shape than you think you are," she said.  "I can
tell."

   "Oh really?"

   "Yes, now be quiet."

   She stayed where she was, sitting still, with her lips brushing his. 
Her pussy continued to ripple and it wasn't until he realized she'd caught
her breath that it was clear she wasn't still having an orgasm.  He
realized then that she knew how to use her internal muscles to milk a
prick.

   He also knew she was trying to milk him off.

   "You're trying to make me cum," he panted.

   "I want you to cum in me, Bob," she whispered.  "Please cum in me, Bob."

   "If I don't, you can go longer," he offered.

   "I want to feel it," she whispered.  "I've been looking forward to this
for almost a week.  This is part of what I want, Bob."

   "Ohhhhh," he groaned.  "I want to."

   "Do it!" she hissed.

   "But ..."

   "Do it!" she hissed again.  "Give it to me.  I want it.  I want to feel
all warm inside when you cum in me."

   Maybe she knew that was his ultimate fantasy ...  a woman wanting his
seed.  Maybe she didn't.  Maybe all she cared about was what she would
feel. Maybe neither of them knew, at that point in time.  But the fact was
that she pushed exactly the right buttons, and his balls gave up their
precious load.

   "OK," he gasped.

   When she felt the first jerk of his prick in her, she pressed her lips
to his.  She held them there, Frenching him, while his prick spewed in her.
She kept her muscles working until she couldn't feel him anymore, and knew
he'd gone soft.  Then, and only then, did she break the kiss.

   "Thank you," she whispered.

   "I love you," he said faintly.

   "I know," she said.  "That's what makes me love you too."

   Chapter Six

   Layla only got to feel that warm internal bath of Bob's semen once more
that night.  That is not to say she didn't shake and moan through more
orgasms.  Quite the contrary.  While Bob could only manage a really decent
erection one more time that night, there was nothing wrong with his mouth
and fingers, and they played over her body like Liberace showing off on TV.

   Eventually they slept.

   And, of course, eventually ...  they woke.

   Bob's waking was a little different than Layla's.  A lifetime of having
to get up, go places and do things, sometimes at very odd times of the
morning and night, had resulted in Bob being a morning person.  Typically,
when he woke, his eyes opened, he sat up, and within fifteen seconds he was
out of bed and moving.  This morning wasn't really any different, even
though he was in a strange house and, therefore, had to alter his usual
morning routine.

   He hadn't brought a toothbrush, so he simply used some toothpaste on his
finger, working it around and getting rid of the odor he knew was there. 
He looked in the mirror.  The pot belly was still there, of course.  He
tried to suck it in, but it was long past the point where that resembled
anything close to flat.  He still had his muscle.  It hadn't softened and
drooped yet.  His eyes drifted lower in the mirror.

   His penis was pulled in fairly tight, probably because of the coolness
of the ambient air after he got out of the warm bed.  It looked to be about
three inches long, and he was glad she couldn't see it right at this
moment. He marveled at the fact that that feisty young filly back there in
the bedroom had accepted him as a mate, however fleeting that acceptance
was likely to be.  Last night had been one of those once in a lifetime
moments.  He would never forget last night.  On cold winter nights, he'd
huddle under blankets and relive last night a thousand times.

   He thought about rummaging around in the kitchen to see what he could
rustle up for breakfast, but then decided not to.  Some women are fairly
territorial about their kitchens.

   Instead, he went back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed,
examining the fascinating woman who had tumbled pell mell into his life.

   She was beautiful in repose.  Her face was so smooth.  No wrinkles,
either from age or laughter or frowns marred her face.  Her nose was a
little crooked, but instead of detracting from her beauty, it made her seem
more real somehow.  As he stared at her he realized how easy it would be to
fall head over heels for her.  He already had, in some ways.  He didn't
feel like she was "his," but he felt an astonishingly strong urge to
protect her.  The last time he'd felt that urge was when he gazed at the
sleeping face of his daughter, when she was much younger than Layla was. 
Like that little girl had been, this big girl seemed much more precious
than mere diamonds, or gold, or any amount of money.

   He grinned as he remembered what it was like to feel like the bull.  He
was glad there weren't any younger competing bulls around.  He knew he
wouldn't fare well in that situation.  Yes, the way she had given herself
to him the night before was immensely satisfying.

   But it wasn't the sex that made him want to never leave her side.  He
was thinking about what it WAS when her eyes opened and she looked at him.

   "You got up," she said.  There was plainly accusation in her voice.

   "I get up every day," he said, smiling.

   "You left me all alone."

   "I'm a beast," he admitted.

   "You ARE!" she moaned.  "Come back to bed."

   "You have a little boy to get up, and we have work to go to."

   "Do you ever say anything nice to a woman after you almost kill her?"

   "I didn't almost kill you," he laughed.  "If anything, I'm the one who
should be hobbling around, leaning on a cane."

   "I need kisses," she pouted.

   He leaned down and shut her up by kissing her for the next minute.  When
he sat back up, her eyes were closed and she was smiling.

   "That's much better.  Come back to bed."

   "I should whip the covers off of you and drag you out of bed," he
warned.

   "You do and you'll never climb between my lily white thighs again,
mister!" Her face was still smooth.  She was waking up, though, and
beginning to get feisty.

   Instead of keeping it going, Bob just stood up, grabbed the clothes he
had brought to wear that day, and left the room.

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

   He did feel like he could probably get away with making coffee.  He was
in the process of pouring the water when she shuffled into the kitchen in
big fluffy slippers and a robe.  She came to him for a hug.

   "Why did you leave?" she complained.

   "When a man is threatened like that, he takes things very seriously,"
said Bob, his voice level.

   "I didn't mean it," she complained.  "Why do you think I wanted you to
come back to bed?"

   "To cuddle," he said.

   "OK," she admitted.  "But what's wrong with that?  I like to cuddle with
you."

   "Cuddling leads to other things," he said.

   "Why do you think women like to cuddle so much?" she asked, her face
pressed to his chest.

   His hands slid down her back to firm, round globes, and he squeezed
them.

   "That's all the cuddling you get," he said into her hair.

   "Not fair!" she moaned into his chest.

   "For now," he added.  "We have chapter five to do today, you know."

   Her head came up, and her eyes were shining.

   Ten minutes later she was dressed and getting Aidan up and ready to go,
while yelling down the hall to Bob, telling him what to fix for breakfast.

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

   Charles was there when they got there.  He looked a little haggard.

   "If it's all the same to you two, I'm just going to turn on the
recorders and go get some coffee or something."

   "You trust us that much?" asked Bob.

   "I took what you've done so far home with me," he said.  "I did a little
editing and threw something together, and played it for my wife."

   "And?" Layla looked tense.

   "She almost killed me," he sighed.

   "She didn't like it?" Layla's face fell.

   "Are you kidding?" asked Charles, looking shocked.  "You two could
probably read Goldilocks and the Three Bears--just as it's written--and
with the right editing, make a porn masterpiece.  I haven't had that much
sex in years."

   "Ohhhhh," sighed Layla.  "Well congratulations!"

   "Anyway, I need coffee, and if I have to listen to you two this morning
I might just faint dead away when all the blood goes to my ..." He stopped
and blushed.  "Just do your thing, OK?"

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

   They were already intimately aware of what chapter five was going to be
like.  Of course, it had been written with them in the setting of petting
on the couch in Mr.  Johnson's living room.  They started by kissing and
his hands did the same things they had done before.

   Over the course of several paragraphs, she ended up naked, lying back on
the couch with one leg up on the back of it and the other hanging off on
the floor, while he ate her pussy.

   "Megan," he groaned.  "I have to do this."

   The text had him crawling up between her legs, with his stiff prick
hanging out of his pants.

   She tried to object, reminding him she was a virgin, but her hands
encouraged him, reaching for his stiff penis and using it to rub her
clitty, and it was only a matter of sentences before he started pushing
into her.

   She was supposed to make sounds of pain ...  complaints of being
stretched, at first, as he pressed ever inward into her untried sexual
slit. Then she was supposed to slowly decide that it didn't hurt as much,
eventually deciding that this was the best thing of all as he rutted into
her.

   He was actually being selfish, satisfying himself, for once, as he
ravaged her virgin pussy, but she ended up not caring and loving it.

   Of course, in the studio, the problem was there was no couch.  There was
no place for them to lie down at all, because the microphones wouldn't
reach the floor.

   "This isn't working," whispered Layla as Bob fingerfucked her, trying to
help her be able to say her lines with some real feeling.

   "We don't have much choice," he whispered back.

   She solved that problem by lifting her skirt and pushing his pants down
to his thighs.  She spread her legs and made him squat enough to get the
tip of his cock into her pussy mouth.

   "Stand up," she whispered into his ear.

   When he did, she was suspended on his prick.  Her legs went around him
and her arms went around his neck.

   "Ohhhhhhh, I feel so stretched!" she moaned into the microphone.

   "You'll get used to it ...  I promise," panted Bob.

   It was a lot of work to have sex standing up.  Bob's back did a little
complaining and he wished he could pin her to a wall, just to ease the
strain.  It lent a bit of authenticity to his groans.  Meanwhile, having
his prick in her was all she needed to sound like she was being deflowered.

   Again, after they were done, and while his spunk was drooling down her
thigh, they read through all the lines again, to ensure that the ones
they'd missed were there.  That they were both still panting made it sound
realistic.

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

   After they got paid and left Bob didn't give her a chance to invite him
over.

   "I've got something I have to do tonight," he said.  "See you tomorrow?"

   "Ohhhh," she obviously complained.  "I guess so."

   That was the problem, as Bob thought about things after they went their
separate ways.  He was liking this too much, and she was too.  Their
relationship had rocketed ahead in the last few days.  He was besotted with
this vibrant young woman ...  this single woman ...  this woman that he
wanted to be with for the foreseeable future.  And she was exhibiting the
same foolish tendencies.

   As a fantasy, it was delightful.  The idea of being around a fresh,
intelligent, young and sexy woman ...  a woman who welcomed him between her
legs--that was a terrific fantasy for a man on his way to being over the
hill.  The lessons he had learned over his lifetime made this immeasurably
better than it probably would have been had he met her and they were both
the same age.  Both of them were benefiting from him learning those
lessons.

   But as reality, it was a recipe for disaster.  He was thirty some odd
years older than she was.  Eventually the differences between them would
rear their ugly heads and the relationship would be strained.  It was
inevitable ...  wasn't it?

   And, if that happened, it would devastate him.  To lose something as
precious as she was ...  for it to go bad ...  would be like finding out
you had cancer and were going to die.  Better by far to just nip things in
the bud, and have the sweet memories of what they'd shared to warm him on
cold nights in the future.

   She was young and flexible.  That they had been able to make love
standing up like that was due more to her athleticism than his own
abilities.  He wasn't really enough man for her ...  or at least she
deserved a lot more than he could provide at his age.  There were a
thousand men her own age who would love to have what she was giving Bob. 
She'd be fine.  And he'd have the memories.  He'd get through the next
couple of days, acting things out and wallowing in that fantastic emotion
she sprayed in every direction.  Then he'd go on about his business and
leave her to an as yet unidentified man she deserved.

   He went home and checked his mail.  There was a lot of email to answer,
so he took care of that.  He worked on a couple of projects, thinking about
Layla.  It helped his work immensely.

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

   Chapter six involved Bob teaching Megan how to ride a man ...  and what
it felt like to be taken from behind.

   Charles was quite unabashed about how this would affect him too.  He'd
reviewed what they'd done with chapter five, and had tried using a
checklist to simply listen for the needed things and check them off, as
opposed to sitting and listening to two people having sex.  It was clear by
the circles under his eyes that the checklist idea was only partially
successful.  So, as he had done the day before, he left the recorder
running and went and did other things while they laid down the tracks.

   Layla had worn a skirt again.  As soon as Charles closed the door, Layla
wanted a kiss.  Bob's hands slid down her back again, this time over cloth,
until he got to the backs of her thighs.  As he slid them back up, he found
those beautiful round butt cheeks still naked.

   "Mmmmm," he breathed into her mouth.  "You're being naughty again
today."

   "I've been corrupted by a dirty old man," she said, her lips still
touching his.  She finished the kiss and pushed him away.

   "We have work to do," she said firmly.

   "Ride 'em cowgirl," said Bob, grinning.

   Since the script called for Megan to sit on Mr.  Johnson's lap, while
they necked, Layla improvised by having Bob sit on a stool, while she
climbed up and straddled him.  He didn't think it was going to work, at
first, but she was so limber that she could use her feet on the rungs of
the stool, even while her thighs were spread.  She flipped the microphones
on and then read her script over his shoulder.  She immediately started
grinding her pussy against his lump.

   "You're going to stain my pants," he said.

   "Don't adlib," she whispered into his ear.  Then she licked it.

   Bob ignored her.

   "Megan, honey, with you sitting on my lap with no panties on, it's going
to make a stain."

   Layla's next line was supposed to be, "I like sitting on your lap, Bob."

   "If you took them off, I wouldn't stain them," she said instead.

   Had Charles been in the mixing room, he would have heard the rustle of
clothes, and the sound of two shoes being dropped on the floor.

   But he wasn't there, of course.

   Layla settled back onto Bob's lap.  She didn't need to use her feet to
hang on.  She was firmly planted on Bob's hard cock.

   They got back on script and, to Bob's amazement, Layla had an orgasm at
exactly the same moment that Megan was supposed to have one.  When she came
down from that, she started using those amazing muscles on him, while she
read.

   Bob glanced ahead and saw that Bob's orgasm wasn't due for another page.
He grinned, stimulated by the challenge of trying to wait, when all he
really wanted to do was blast Layla full of love juice.

   He almost made it.  She was too good, though, and he had to skip a whole
paragraph just to be able to say: "Megan ...  honey ...  I'm cumming."

   "I loooove it when you cum in me," Layla murmured, her voice right on
the foam cover of the microphone.

   Bob was done for a while and they both knew it.  Layla simply announced
to the person who wasn't listening that they were going to do another take.
She flipped back, and they read through all the lines again, this time
reading them verbatim.  They skipped over the parts where there were moans
and groans.  Those were already on tape and could be spliced in wherever
Charles wanted them.

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

   When they got back from lunch, Charles was there, eating a sandwich.  He
looked up at them as they came into the sound booth.

   "Going back and re-reading the lines was a good idea," he said.  "The
author has been very understanding about ...  um ...  straying dialogue,
but this gives me so much more to work with."

   "You're welcome, Charlie," said Layla, smiling.  "We wouldn't have to do
that, except that sometimes the emotion of the moment kind of grabs us and
..."

   Charles held up a hand.  "Stop!  You're giving me more information than
I need ...  or want.  Just do your thing.  I got a CD for my birthday that
I haven't had time to listen to yet.  You two just do your thing and I'll
get caught up on that."

   Inside the booth Layla turned to Bob.

   "It's like he doesn't like listening to us," she said.

   "Sweetie," said Bob patiently.  "The only reason I don't go insane is
because I get to do something about it.  He has to just sit there and
listen."

   "Oh," she said.  "I didn't think about it like that." She looked at him
for a few seconds.  "Are you revived enough to help me through the next
part?"

   "I think I know how Charles feels," sighed Bob.

   "We only did it once ...  this morning," said Layla, pouting.

   "You just be careful when I tell you to bend over," said Bob, waving the
script at her.  "I might have a little surprise for you when you do."

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

   "Surprise," whispered Bob as he slid his prick into Layla's sopping
pussy.  She was bent over, her feet spread three feet apart, and holding
herself up with her hands on a stool.  She had pulled her mike boom down so
that the mike was right by her mouth.

   "Mmmmmm, Bob," she cooed into the mike.  "This feels really different. I
think I like it this way."

   "You feel so good," huffed Bob, into his own microphone, which was
suspended over her back.

   He reached under her and slid his hands up inside her shirt, to play
with her naked breasts.  Layla told the future listeners what was
happening, and just how much she loved it.

   "Ooooooo Bob," she whined into her mike.  "You feel so big and hard.  I
LOVE this!"

   Lubrican seemed to have a fetish for the woman asking to be inseminated,
because for the next quarter of a page Layla's lines were some variation of
"Are you going to cum in me, Bob?" and "I can't wait to feel you spurt in
me, Bob!"

   She described to those listeners, in intimate detail, just what it felt
like when Bob spurted in her ...  while Bob spurted in her.

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

   Charles was sitting in his chair, with a glazed look in his eyes, when
they entered the mixing booth.

   "You OK?" asked Bob.

   "I cheated," said Charles, his voice soft.  "I listened."

   "I thought you were paid to listen," said Bob, smiling.

   "All I could think about was how much I should thank my lucky stars that
there's only one more chapter to go," Charles sighed.  "Trudy insisted that
I bring today's work home too.  I don't know if I'll be able to drag myself
in to work tomorrow or not, thanks to you two."

   "Awwwww, you're so sweet," cooed Layla, bending over like she was going
to kiss the top of his head.

   Charles looked up at her.  "You're a dangerous woman ...  you know that,
don't you?"

   "Me?" she said, in her sixteen year old voice.  "Little harmless me?"

   "Leave the poor man in peace," said Bob.  "Let's just go get your son
and get something to eat."

   Charles looked at Bob with something like horror in his eyes.

   "You SEE her?  After work?  On your own time?"

   "She seems to have gotten under my skin," said Bob.

   "I salute you," said Charles, getting up.  He did salute Bob, with a
snappy movement of his arm and hand.  "You, sir, are a true hero."

   "Now that's just ridiculous!" laughed Layla.

   "You're a better man than I, Gunga Din," said Charles.  "If I should
fail to appear, on the morrow, fear not for me.  I'll be lying in a puddle
of my own juices.  My wife will force liquids into me and get me out of the
house, sooner or later.  Feel free to start without me."

   "You're so silly!" giggled Layla.  "We don't know how to run all this
stuff."

   "See that big red slider right there?" asked Charles, pointing to a
switch that had the word "master" printed under it.  "Slide it up to about
here." He slid the switch until it was next to the numeral "6." "Then push
this button right here," he said, pointing to a button with the word
"record" under it.  "After you do that, you have six hours before the tape
runs out.  Try not to scream into the microphones, OK?"

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

   Outside, Layla took Bob's hand again.

   "Are you coming over again tonight?" she asked.

   "Do you want me to?" There was a half smile on his face.

   "Are you fishing for a compliment?"

   "If I were, would you pay me one?"

   "You're a very stubborn man, Bob." That was delivered with a snort, but
she held onto his hand.

   "Is this just to ...  rehearse?" he asked.

   "Of course!" she said, letting go of his hand.  "You don't think I'd
just sleep with you for the fun of it do you?  I'm a good girl, Bob." She
tried to look virtuous, but the nipples poking through her shirt ruined it.

   "Oh, you're good," said Bob smiling.  "I'll vouch for that."

   "Come on, Bob," she said, taking both of his hands in hers.  "Don't make
me beg."

   "I think we should skip a night," he said.

   "What?!" She looked confused.  "We skipped last night."

   "I don't think we should rehearse, tonight," he said firmly.  He wasn't
smiling now.

   "But why?" Her face twisted up.

   "We've rehearsed everything in the story so far, right?"

   "Yes.  So?"

   "You didn't read ahead, did you," he stated.

   "Not yet.  Why?  Who cares?  We both know what they're going to do."

   "I know," said Bob.  "But you obviously don't."

   Layla opened her shoulder bag and pulled her script out.

   "What are you talking about?  Don't tell me they get caught, and he goes
to jail or something.  Don't tell me her parents take her away."

   "Oh, they get caught, all right," said Bob.  "Page 316, third
paragraph."

   "Nooooooo," whined Layla.  "And I was starting to like this Lubricant
person so much!  What did he do, Bob?  Oh please don't tell me he gave you
a heart attack or something!"

   Her fingers found the page, and her eyes searched the third paragraph.
She looked up at Bob.

   "That's it?  That's all you're worried about?  I told you, I have an
IUD. You're not going to get me pregnant, Bob."

   "Everything else in that script has come to pass between us," said Bob
gently.  "I meant what I said the other night.  I DO love you.  I know
that's silly, since we're still virtually strangers.  Do you really want to
risk messing things up?"

   "We won't BE messing things up!" she insisted.  "Don't be an idiot.  I'm
NOT going to get pregnant, Bob."

   "Famous last words," he said.

   Her eyes narrowed.  "You have a date tonight ...  don't you?" she said.

   "I don't have a date," he said patiently.  "I just think another night
off won't kill us."

   "You don't want to come over?" Her voice rose as she let go of his
hands. There was the promise of unhappiness in it.

   "I want to come over in the worst possible way!" he said intently.  "I
want to come over and never leave.  Is THAT what you had in mind, Layla?  I
don't fall in love easily, and it means something to me.  I also don't hop
into bed with any Thomasina, Darlene or Henrietta who comes along.  I want
to corral you, Layla, and that's not what you need.  You want to be free. I
know that and I approve of that.  The last thing you need is a fifty-seven
year old geezer moping around and limiting your options." Her mouth was
hanging open when he finished.  She realized it and closed it.  Her head
tilted and she examined him.  He moved back, because she looked like she
might spring into action at any second.

   "OK," she said.  Her face was smooth and there was no hint of any kind
of what she was feeling.  "I get it."

   Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode away.

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

   The next morning, Layla was sitting in Charles' chair when Bob got
there. Without a word she moved the slider, punched the record button, and
got up and went into the sound booth.  Bob followed and then stopped.

   There was a fold up futon mattress where the stools usually stood.

   "We may as well be comfortable," said Layla, her voice neutral.  "I
can't make those noises unless we do things like we have been.  OK?"

   "Sure," said Bob.  "Layla, honey ..."

   She held up a hand.  "Let's just get this done.  We can talk later."

   She rolled the mattress and it flopped out to make a pad eight inches
thick.  Bob walked over to it and pulled the microphone down as far as it
would go.  It was still three feet above the mattress.

   "Won't work," he said.

   She stood up, her face lined because of the frown on it.

   "Are you EVER going to want to make love to me again?" she asked.

   "Of course I am, sweetie," he said.  "I'm just saying that we need to be
up higher, that's all."

   "Fine!" she said.  She stalked out of the room.

   Two or three minutes later she came back in, dragging a table with
folding legs.  It was about six feet long, but only three feet wide.

   "Where in the world did you find that?" laughed Bob.

   "In the hallway.  There's another one out there.  Go get it.  Just put
the pamphlets on the floor where I put the ones I took off this one."

   Bob shook his head, but headed out.  He had to go down the hall and turn
a corner.  He saw where she had piled pamphlets, and the other table, which
had an array of advertising handouts on it.

   Chuckling, he got the legs folded and carried it back toward the
recording booth.

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

   "You know the ending to this stupid story is ridiculous," said Layla, as
she unbuttoned her shirt.  She was naked under it.

   "Oh?"

   "Nobody would let their sixteen year old daughter marry a thirty-five
year old man who knocked her up.  It's just stupid."

   "It's just a story," said Bob.  "All we care about is getting paid for
reading it ...  not whether it could happen in real life or not."

   "Maybe so," said Layla, pushing her jeans down.  She was wearing panties
today.  "But I was having fun doing this.  I'm not sure I can pull this off
now.  I'll probably start laughing my ass off when we get to that part."

   "We'll see," said Bob.

   "Are you going to get undressed?" she asked, folding her arms under her
breasts.

   "Yes, dear," sighed Bob.

   "You don't have to make it sound like it's such a chore!" she yipped.

   Bob had started with his pants.  When he got them to his ankles he stood
up and lifted his shirt.  He was stiff.

   "Does that look like I think it's a chore?  Layla, listen to me.  I
haven't had this many boners in such a short period of time in the last ten
years!  Believe me when I tell you I've been delirious for the last week."

   Layla licked her lips, unconsciously.  She dropped her hands and pushed
at her panties, bending over.

   "I said we'd talk after we're done with this," she said.  "Now, get over
here and make your babysitter pregnant."

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

   The last half of the last chapter was all about what happened after
Megan missed some periods.  The first half was all about why the last half
was needed.

   The first half also covered about three weeks in storytelling time, and
was comprised of a general description of their everyday lovemaking, as
well as four interludes that were more specific in the descriptions of
their trysts.  That meant, on the surface of it, that Bob would have to
"perform" four times before lunch.  Layla already had a plan for that.

   "OK," she said, standing beside the tables, which had been put side by
side with the mattress on top of them.  "For me to make my noises, you have
to be having sex with me.  But you're better at this than I am and I know
you can fake it.  So don't cum and we'll be just fine.  OK?"

   "Good plan," said Bob, who had been a little worried about this.

   Then, the first thing she did was skip to the section where Megan gave
him a long blow job, wherein the narrator gave a detailed description of
what was going on.  Her mouth had him close to spewing within two minutes.

   She seemed to know, somehow, when he was about to cum.  His frantic
waves might have had something to do with it.

   "Ohhhh shit!" he moaned as he felt the soothing semen start through his
penis.

   Layla promptly crushed the base of his prick between her thumb and first
two fingers.

   "AHHHHHHHH," groaned Bob as everything just stopped.

   A white bubble of semen oozed from the little hole in his penis and
Layla leaned down to lick it up with the tip of her tongue.  The hand she
wasn't using to clamp off his prick waved in the air, in a circular motion.

   "I love sucking you," she sighed, turning her face toward the
microphone.

   Bob struggled to keep making sounds as if he were being sucked.  He was
helped when she let go of him.  The urge to cum had passed.  She promptly
went back down on him and sucked him to the boiling point again, only to
clamp him off again as he groaned in pain.

   "You're punishing me!" he whispered.

   "Shhhh," she said, licking the tip of his cock.

   A minute later she got up close to his ear and whispered.

   "Now make it sound like you're cumming."

   She started jacking his prick, fast and furious.

   "On fuck!" he gasped.  "Oh shit, you're going to do it!"

   She clamped him off again and, with her free hand, moved his microphone
closer to his mouth as his agony was given voice.

   Then she clicked off the microphones and let go of him.

   "Why in the hell did you do that?" he rasped.

   "You made very good sounds, Bob," she said, smiling.  "I'm proud of
you."

   "You're punishing me," he accused.

   "Don't be silly," she said.  "You were right.  My IUD is three years
old. I should get it replaced.  You made perfect sense.  I'm just helping
you make noises ...  like you help me make them.  That's all."

   She got off the table to stand by it.

   "Now, get up.  You have to fuck me now.  Remember.  Don't cum.  I won't
be able to stop you anymore, and we have three episodes, or whatever they
call them, to get down on tape."

   Bob had, in fact, started to go soft, probably from the pain and the
small amount of semen that had actually gotten through his shaft.  That
only lasted as long as it took Layla to lie back on the mattress and spread
her legs.  She reached and slid her middle finger into her pussy,
fingerfucking herself gently.  She reached for the microphone switches with
the other hand.

   "Ohhhhh Bob," she moaned, saying lines she had obviously memorized.  "I
missed you so much.  I need to feel your big, strong penis in my poor
pussy, Bob!"

   The table creaked as Bob crawled up on it.  Layla held her pussy lips
open with the finger she'd been fucking herself with and the one next to
it.

   "Hurry, Bob!" she whined.

   Bob simply slid his aching boner into Layla's hot buttery pussy with a
sigh, while she told him how good it felt.  The narrator would take it from
there, so Bob just ground against her clit, trying not to cum, and trying
to make her have a real orgasm, whether she wanted one or not.

   She apparently wanted one, because she cooperated with him in every way.
After her orgasm, she put her hands against his chest and pushed.  They
gave the microphones some silence while she rolled and got on her hands and
knees.

   "I hate it when you have to be gone like that," she said into the
microphone.  "I love taking care of Randy, but I miss feeling you in me.  I
want to do it this way this time."

   The narrator was going to take it from there again, so her face didn't
have to be by the microphone as much.  She lay her head on her folded arms
and waved her butt at Bob.

   She let him fuck her that way for several minutes, and let him play with
her breasts too, but then pushed her upper torso back up and looked over
her shoulder at him.  He was panting into the mike.

   "You gonna shoot in me again, Bob?" she whined into her mike.  "I love
it when you spurt in me!"

   Bob groaned.  He was so close.  He wanted nothing more than to let it
go. He clamped himself off this time and pulled out, still groaning.

   "Oh baby," he rasped.  "Feels so good!"

   Layla's eyes went round as she realized he was doing the same thing she
had done.  It didn't keep her from chirping, "I feel it!  I love it!"

   Again, there was silence as they changed positions, with Layla pushing
Bob onto his back, his fingers still clamped on the base of his prick.

   "Can I be on top this time?" Layla asked into the microphone.

   "Sure, baby," said Bob, his voice shaky.

   He held his penis, while Layla squatted over it.  As her pussy slid down
his shaft, he let go of the base.

   "You go so deep in me this way," she sighed.  "Suck my nipples too."

   She leaned forward and her hips did the belly dancer move again as she
ripped off an orgasm that she moaned into the microphone.

   "Don't cum yet," she whined.  "I want another one, please?"

   "Hurry, baby," gasped Bob.

   She didn't hurry, though.  In fact she stopped her hips completely.  She
pulled her nipple from his mouth and suspended her face over his.  Her hair
fell negligently down the right side of her head, to hang by her right eye.
She licked her lips and leaned down to kiss Bob.

   While she was doing that, she started milking his prick with her pussy.

   She sat up tall and grabbed for the mike.

   "Give it to me, Bob," she purred into the foam cover.  "Squirt me full."

   "Uhhhhh," groaned Bob.

   She faked an orgasm.  Bob stared at her as her face twisted and her
moans sounded piteous.  He knew she was faking it, because he knew what her
real orgasms sounded like.  But anyone else would swear she was cumming
hard.  She opened her eyes and grinned at him.

   "I'm cumming, Bob," she whined.  "Give me your juice now."

   She leaned down to kiss him again.  She didn't break that kiss, or stop
using her milkmaid's muscles, until he grunted and squirted, deep inside
her.

   Chapter Seven

   Bob felt as weak as a kitten as he shuffled out of the recording booth.
Charles was there, wearing headphones and humming.  He saw Bob and took
them off.

   "All done?" he asked, looking hopeful.

   "Unless you need anything done again," sighed Bob.  "How did it sound?"

   "Wasn't listening," said Charles.  "Mika," he said, holding out the
headphones.  "He's from Europe.  Never heard of him before, but it's great
stuff."

   "How will you know if we're done or not?" asked Bob.

   "I hired an intern.  She'll listen to everything we have and start
cutting and pasting it all together.  If she thinks we need to do anything
over, I'll call you."

   "Sounds good to me," said Bob.

   "Bob!" came Layla's complaining voice.  "Aren't you going to get a
table?"

   "Oh ...  yeah," sighed Bob.

   He turned around and went back in.  Charles looked puzzled, and got up.
He was almost to the door when Layla came through, dragging a table.

   "Where'd that come from?" asked Charles, clearly confused.

   "We needed to borrow it," she said, as if that explained everything. 
"We're going to put them back."

   "Them?"

   "Bob's bringing the other one."

   Charles looked into the booth.  He saw the futon mattress lying on the
floor and closed his eyes.  He backed out.

   "I don't want to know," he mumbled.

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

   Outside, with their final pay in their hands, Layla faced Bob.

   "We need to talk," she said.

   "I know."

   "Come over at eight-thirty," she said.  "Aidan will be in bed by then."

   "OK," he agreed.

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

   Bob got there at eight-thirty sharp.  Actually, he got there early and
then waited until it was time to knock.  She opened the door wearing
terrycloth shorts and a different tank top than she'd worn earlier that
day. She was braless again.

   "Come in," she said, standing back.

   She led him to the living room.  Her computer was on and she went to it
and pushed some buttons.  The screen went blank.

   "Doing some work?" he asked.

   "Yes." That was all she said ...  just "Yes."

   He sat down and she paced.  He didn't say anything.

   She froze, and pivoted on one heel and one toe, to face him.

   "You said you love me."

   "I do," he said.

   "Then why are you being so mule-headed?" she asked.

   "I'm not trying to be mule-headed," he said.  "I'm trying to be
responsible."

   "What does that mean?" she asked.

   "Sit down," he said.

   "No."

   "Layla ...  sit down."

   "Why?"

   "Because you're all worked up and you don't need to be."

   "How can you say that?" she asked.  She came over and plopped onto the
couch ...  not next to him, but at the other end.

   "I can say that because I've been around long enough to know how
unlikely it is for someone like you and someone like me to last a long
time."

   She folded her arms.

   "Do you have any idea how full of shit you are, or is this just more
philosophizing?"

   "You're young," he said patiently.  "You have your whole life ahead of
you."

   "You're fifty-seven," she shot back.  "You have twenty or thirty years
left.  That's longer than most couples stay together."

   "See what I mean?" he said.  "You're already thinking of us as a couple,
and thinking about us staying together."

   "Of COURSE I am, you idiot!" she said heatedly.  "I TOLD you I don't hop
in the sack with any old guy."

   "I know that," he said, a pained expression on his face.  "I don't hop
in the sack lightly either."

   "Well then?" She frowned.  "What's the problem?"

   He ticked things off on his fingers.

   "One ...  in ten years I'll be an old man ...  a real gramps, probably.
You'll be in the middle of your childbearing years, vibrant, beautiful,
achingly desirable, and you'll be stuck with me."

   She opened her mouth but he cut her off.

   "Two ...  I'm already only capable of a decent erection maybe once a
day. Twice if you're involved, but this is all still new.  Who knows when I
won't be able to be the man you deserve?"

   He went on before she could say anything.

   "Three ...  Aidan deserves to have a dad who can run and play with him,
and teach him football and baseball or whatever.  He deserves a dad he can
introduce without people thinking he's confused, because the man with him
is obviously his grandfather."

   He kept going.

   "Four ...  I don't have money.  I get by OK, but the way I live isn't
right for a young woman with a little boy.  You can just do a lot better
than me, Layla."

   "Are you done?" she asked.

   "Yes."

   She ticked things off on her fingers too.

   "One ...  I don't care if I only get five years with you before you're a
drooling idiot.  You're an idiot already.  At least you aren't drooling
yet.

   "Two ...  On your worst day, you're the best lover I've ever had. 
Before I met you I went without decent sex for three years.  If I get three
years of your lovemaking, it will be three years I'll treasure forever.

   "Three ...  Aidan has a dad who loves him.  He's in Aidan's life and I
hope he'll always be in his life.  I don't know if he'll be interested in
sports or not.  If he is, fine.  That's what coaches are for.  But you'd be
another role model for him.  I want him to see men like you ...  a man who
can be sensitive and thoughtful ...  and who is caring and brave and
intelligent at the same time.  You are all of those things.  If you don't
croak on me for fifteen years, Aidan will have grown up with such a man as
his role model and maybe be out there being that kind of man too.

   "Four ...  I don't have money either.  I probably never will, because
it's just not all that important to me.  I do know two can live together
cheaper than two can live apart.

   "Five ...  I love you.  I didn't start out to love you, but I do.  I
can't help that.  I can't stop loving you.  You came along and made my life
a lot happier, and now you just want to wander off and pull the rug out
from under my feet?"

   "You don't even know my last name," said Bob.

   "I don't NEED to know your last name!" she almost shouted.  "I know what
kind of man you are.  I know I love you.  I know you love me.  That's all
that's important right now.  Other things will become important later, but
right now I have to know that you won't go riding off into the sunset like
some stupid hero who THINKS his work is done.  Your work is NOT done, Bob."

   Bob sat there.  The pain he'd been feeling in his stomach for the last
twenty-four hours began to leach away.  He'd done what he thought was the
right thing to do.  Give her an out.  Let her pull away.  Give her a chance
to break free and get her head straightened out.  He'd known there wasn't
anything wrong with her head.  In fact, there wasn't anything wrong with
her at all.  She was about as perfect a woman as he'd ever met.  He hadn't
expected that when they'd first met.  He hadn't known what the mohawk and
tattoos meant.  Now he knew they were just an expression.  Some people wore
certain fashions to make a statement.  She used her hair and body as her
artist's easel.

   He looked at her.  She was serious.  She wasn't some starry eyed little
girl, with a crush on her first lover.  And she HAD had the chance to pull
back.  If she was doing this ...  it meant something.

   "Don't you think it's a little premature to talk about moving in
together?" he asked.

   "No."

   "Will you promise to be honest with me if you're attracted to a younger
man?"

   "Are you TRYING to make me throw you out?" she asked, her voice rising.

   "No," he said, holding up his hands.  "I'm sorry.  I don't know how to
act."

   "Just be yourself, Bob," she said, calming down.  "That's the man I fell
in love with.  I know it's weird.  I know it's scary.  But I also know I
love being around you and I love the look in your eyes when I'm naked and
acting naughty.  I want that, Bob.  I want a lot of that."

   "You'll get your IUD replaced?"

   "I already have an appointment next Thursday," she said.

   "You love me?"

   "I DO!" she said, sounding like Megan.

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

   Bob wanted to negotiate.  Layla said that was fine, as she took off her
tank top.  While Bob told her what he wanted to negotiate about, she took
off her shorts.  Then she pulled him up, and to her bedroom, where she took
HIS clothes off while he still tried to get her to agree to some things.

   An hour later, she used Megan's lines on him, asking him if he was going
to cum in her and telling him how much she wanted to feel that.  She'd
already had three orgasms, so Bob gave up and let her have it her way. 
Both of them were tired from being tense all day.  Sleep came easily.

   The next morning she wouldn't let him get out of bed.

   "We don't have to go to work," she said, lying half on top of him.

   "Aidan needs breakfast," he said.

   "When he's hungry, he'll get up.  I need to be serviced."

   "Serviced?" His voice went up an octave.

   "You know ...  made happy," she said, kissing his chest.

   Bob wasn't sure he could make her happy, but he tried.  He tried really
hard.

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

   "You made me VERY happy," she sighed, lying half on him again.

   They heard little boy noises and she was up in a flash, leaving him
there.  He thought about taking a nap.  Making her happy had been hard
work.

   He sat up.  The philosopher in him made him examine things.  It hadn't
been hard work.  It had been strenuous ...  but it was a blast.  Anything
that much fun couldn't be considered work.  The philosopher in him reminded
him there was unfinished business.  He got up.

   She was in the kitchen, feeding Aidan.

   "Hi, Bob," chirped the little boy.

   "Hi, sport," he said.

   "My name is Aidan!" said Aidan.

   "I know," Bob told him.  "I'll remember." He looked at Layla.  "I need
to talk to you."

   "We already talked," she said.

   "I know, but we didn't talk about everything."

   "We have years to talk about everything," she said.  "You need to go get
some stuff and bring it over here so you have clothes to change into and
all that."

   Aidan needed attention, and Bob decided this wasn't the time to push it.
He'd go get a few things and bring them back.  He'd only bring enough that
if ...  later ...  it was necessary ...  he could load it all into his car
again.

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

   She wanted to go to Chucky Cheese again, to celebrate.  That just
extended his angst, but he tried to have fun.  He couldn't tell her there.
She had no way home other than his car and it was possible she wouldn't
want to ride in it again after she knew.

   He decided to play some games with Aidan.  Together, they won some
tickets and traded them in for a cheap prize.

   When she came back from putting Aidan to bed that night, he knew it was
time.

   "I have to tell you something," he said.

   "You love me?" She smiled brightly.

   "I do," he said.  "But I haven't told you everything about me and
there's something you have to know."

   She folded her arms.  "Bob, if you tell me you're married, I'm going to
scream.  The neighbors will come and they'll stop me from carving you into
little tiny pieces.  So if that's what you're going to tell me, don't try
to keep me from screaming."

   He smiled, but it wasn't much of a smile.  "No, it's not that."

   She relaxed, and then tensed up again.  "You'd better not have an STD!"

   "No STD's," he said.  He went on before she could come up with some
other dire prediction.  "You remember how I told you you don't know my last
name?"

   She blinked.  That was true.  She hadn't thought about that much.  He
was just ...  Bob.  She loved ...  Bob.  She wouldn't love him more if she
knew his last name.

   "I need you to know my last name," he said.

   "Why?" she asked.

   "You'll understand when you hear it."

   Now she was curious.  "OK."

   He took a breath.  Then he let it out.  He took another breath.  "It's
..." He swallowed.  "Shit."

   "Shit?" She looked confused.  "Your last name is Shit?"

   "No," he said, exasperated.  He might as well get it over with.

   "It's ...  Lubrican."

   Layla blinked.  "But that's the name of the guy who ..."

   He nodded.

   Her eyes opened wide and her mouth dropped open.

   "You're HIM?"

   He nodded again.  "I didn't tell anybody at the studio who I was when I
applied.  I used a false name.  But I wanted to have a hand in making the
tapes, if I could.  I don't actually need the money."

   She blinked some more.

   "Layla, honey," he pleaded.  "I didn't know this would happen.  I didn't
ask you to stay because I wanted all this to happen.  It just did.  And
after the first time ...  I couldn't say anything because I was afraid
you'd go nuts and walk off the job, and you're SO good at it that I wanted
you to finish it."

   She sat down.

   "Are you telling me that all this was just to get me to read for your
stupid book?" Her voice sounded dangerous.

   "No!" he insisted.  "I DID fall in love with you.  But I couldn't tell
you who I was because I was afraid it would drive you away."

   "So, when you were seducing me ...  that was just for the book?"

   "That's the same question you just asked, except you phrased it
differently," he pointed out.

   "When you offered to help me, was it because you wanted to get into my
panties?" she asked.

   "Well ...  I guess so ...  maybe a little," he admitted.  "But I also
loved your voice."

   "And what Charlie was talking about ...  emailing the author about
changes we made.  That was you he was emailing?"

   "Uh huh," Bob said.  "You were so into it ...  and I was too ...  and it
all fit.  I didn't want you to get frustrated and quit because the words
weren't right in line with what I wrote originally."

   "Because if I got frustrated and quit, you wouldn't get to bang me like
a drum anymore," she said, her voice low.

   "You know me better than that," he said, his voice urgent.  "Think about
it.  Why do you think I gave you the chance to pull back?  If all I cared
about was banging you like a drum, would I have stayed away the last two
nights?"

   "You already told me why you stayed away," she said.  "We've worked
through that already."

   "I fell in LOVE with you!" he said.  "You were the woman in all my
stories.  I didn't know you actually existed.  I'd never met you, but as
soon as I did I knew you were my dream woman ...  the woman I'd written
about a hundred times ...  the woman I'd fallen in love with a hundred
times."

   She looked at him.  "I like this part a lot better than the last part.
Are you really him?"

   "I'm ME," said Bob.  "I'm the same guy you met and worked with and fell
in love with too.  I just happen to write dirty stories."

   "You got that right," she said.  "NAUGHTY stories."

   "Can you ever forgive me?"

   "Wait a minute," she said.  "I worked for you?  And you had sex with me?
That's sexual harassment."

   "You didn't work for me," he said.  "You worked for the studio.  I did
too.  I got paid just like you did."

   "But you'll get money from the tapes they sell," she said.

   "I sure hope so," he said.  "That was the whole idea."

   "And you didn't convince me to stay there just because you wanted to
have sex with me?"

   "That's complicated.  I liked you.  Your voice was perfect.  Then you
needed help.  It was fun to help you.  Then I got to know you better, and I
liked you even more.  Then things got kind of kinky, and I liked that a
lot. You did too."

   She nodded.  "Yeah ...  I did."

   "OK, so then all of a sudden I was madly in love with a woman half my
age, and I had this huge secret that I couldn't tell her, and then she
started talking about a future for us and ..."

   "I get you," she said.  "Do you love me?"

   "Desperately," he said.

   "Will you stay with me until I kick you out?"

   "Do you plan on kicking me out?"

   "No, but it seems important to you that I be ABLE to kick you out, when
I meet that handsome young stud you're so sure I'll get all googly eyed
over."

   "I'll stay until you kick me out," he said.

   "Is all this why you only brought one suitcase?" she asked.

   Shrewd girl, that Layla.

   "Yeah."

   "You can bring some more over tomorrow."

   "Thank you," he sighed.

   "Oh, you'll pay," she said.

   "I will?"

   "You betcha, buster."

   "OK.  I owe you that.  Whatever you say."

   "You're so easy." She grinned.  "Now ...  I need to be serviced ...  and
this time, I expect to be dazzled by the big bad smut writer who
hornswaggled me into surrendering my virtue to him."

   "You have a son," Bob pointed out.

   "I gave up men after I had him and regained my virtue.  You soiled me,"
she said, making it sound like she was crying.  The smile on her face
ruined the effect.

   "You know," said Bob.  "You've actually gotten pretty good at this
acting stuff."

   "I know," she said.  "I had a good teacher."

   "You know I'm not going to be able to keep up the sexual pace that
you've set for me this last week," said Bob.

   "I know," she said.  "I wanted to be serviced four times a day, but I
understand how old and frail you are.  I'll settle for twice a day."

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

   Over the next week, Bob moved most of the stuff he wanted handy to
Layla's house.  He got an email from Charles, saying that a demo tape had
been sent out to a limited market, and they already had orders for more
than ten thousand.  Bob's cut was a dollar a tape.  CDs would soon follow
and the royalty was the same on them.  The studio was interested in reading
at least two more books onto tape.  If those sold, the sky was the limit.

   He shared all this with Layla, who was excited about it.  She asked if
she could read with him again.  He told her that would be up to the studio,
but he thought he might have some clout there.

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

   He was writing a story when she came back from the doctor's visit on
Thursday.  She was subdued when she came into the house, and her eyes were
red.

   "What's wrong, baby?" he asked.

   "I can't tell you." Her eyes started leaking.

   "Sure you can," he encouraged her.

   "You'll hate me," she said.  "I already hate myself."

   "Did you wreck the car?  We can get a new car."

   "No, I didn't wreck the car!" she shouted.

   "What did the doctor say?" he asked.  "Did he give you the new IUD?"

   "No," she said, sounding weak.  "In fact, he took out the old one."

   Thoughts of cancer flashed through Bob's mind and he felt sick in the
pit of his stomach.

   "Why?" He had to ask.

   She took a breath ...  and let it out.  Then she took in another one,
and sobbed before choking it off.  Bob went to her and held her.

   "He was afraid it would ...  abort the babeeeeeeeeeee," she started
bawling.

   It took a few seconds to sink in.  She cried during those seconds, and
for quite a few after that, while he tried to calm her.

   "You're pregnant?" he asked.  "It's OK."

   "No it's not," she wailed.  "I don't WANT to be pregnant!  My last
pregnancy was horrible!"

   "Oh," said Bob.  That awful feeling was back in the pit of his stomach.
He steeled his emotions.  "Why did you let him take the IUD out then?"

   She went rigid in his arms, and then her hands were flailing at him.

   "What are you TALKING about!?" she cried.  "I would NEVER kill this
baby!"

   "But you said you didn't want it."

   "I did NOT say I didn't want it," she said, her eyes drying up.  "I said
I didn't want to be PREGNANT!"

   "Ahhhhhhhhhh," said Bob, the pain leaving his stomach.  "That makes
perfect sense.  Am I allowed to be irrationally exuberant about this?"

   She stilled.

   "You're ...  happy?"

   "Alas, I confess I am elated," he said, his voice sounding sad.

   "Really?" There was a hint of a smile on the corners of her mouth.

   "Really." He tried to turn the corners of his mouth down.  "But I won't
celebrate until you're comfortable with that."

   "Do you mean it?" There was hope in her voice.  "I was so scared, Bob.
You didn't sign on for this.  I was so afraid you'd go."

   "Who was it who kept carping at you about how that lovely belly needed
filling?" he asked.  "Did you think I was kidding?"

   "No, but I didn't want to go through that again.  I just don't want to
be pregnant again."

   "It appears you are," he said.  "Apparently, when they say three years
...  they mean three years.  Not that I'm saying I told you so.  Oh no. 
I'd never do that.  And, as I said, I won't celebrate until you leave the
room."

   "You're glad you got me pregnant," she said.  It was a statement.

   "That will teach you to demand being serviced so much.  I'm a
professional.  When I service a woman, I get results!" He held up his arms
and flexed his muscles.

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

   Their lovemaking wasn't scheduled.  He never knew when she'd get up from
the computer and come find him, usually at his computer, where he was
writing, and put her arms around him and nibble his ear.  They went for
walks together.  He lost five pounds, and then five more pounds.  She ate
better than he did, so he began eating more healthily too.  The results
were somewhat astonishing.

   He felt better, of course.  His feet and back didn't hurt like they had
occasionally in the past.  But that wasn't the astonishing part.  The
astonishing part was that his infant sexual dysfunction problem got smaller
and smaller, instead of bigger and bigger.  His penis didn't get any
bigger. But it got harder, and it got harder more often, and it stayed
harder longer.  Layla's dream of four times a day never quite got reached.
Not on a regular basis.  But twice a day was no sweat now, and on special
occasions ...  well ...

   That's what emergency service calls are for.








   
