So, ‘V’ and I are chatting away when she says to me ‘why is it that all D/s stories are written from the sub’s point of view. Why is it never from the Domme’s. Take Summerhouse Blues, I really love that version of the Rhonda character and yet all we hear about is how Tracy feels. What about Rhonda, what did she make of it all?’
And that got me thinking. ‘V’ was right, there’s a whole different side to Summerhouse Blues, another story and one that ought to be told.
So I go down to the King’s Head where Rhonda and her biker friends hang out, buy her a pint and ask her. She wasn’t happy at first but Tracy thought it was a great idea which helped a lot and, after a couple more pints, she got quite chatty, well, chatty for Rhonda. Even then she wasn’t completely happy and she did insist that I shouldn’t make her out to be someone special. ‘I know you and your stories, Lisa, you always have to make it more than it was. Don’t you go telling porkies just to make it sound good. I only did what I had to,’ is how she put it. Quietly so as not to disturb her, I switch on the tape recorder. This is her side of the story; this is how she tells it. If you haven’t already read Summerhouse Blues, well, it might help but you don’t need to, that’s Tracy’s side, this one is Rhonda’s.
Oh, and Rhonda, like Tracy, is an Essex girl, know what I mean, darlin’, and it wouldn’t be her voice if I didn’t write it like that. There’s a glossary at the end of Summerhouse Blues if you get stuck.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, I think it myself often enough, how does a great lummox like me end up with the cutest piece of arse in the whole of Essex? How did I end up with Tracy? How did I get so lucky? Well, it’s a bit of a story but, if you’ve sure you’ve got the time well, here goes.
I guess you really have to go all the way back to when this guy slips a roofie into a drink belonging to Sue, Andy’s missus. If it hadn’t have been for that I wouldn’t have got banged up and if I hadn’t got banged up I wouldn’t have… hang on, I’m getting ahead of myself. Anyway, this arsehole knew that Andy was doing a two stretch and he’s thinking ‘while the cat’s away’ and all that. Sue wakes up the next morning feeling like shit and no wonder. With Andy away she had no one to look after her so I go round to arsehole’s house and we have a quiet word about how he should treat the ladies. Next thing he’s in A&E and I’m up on a GBH charge. The beak was pretty sympathetic but I got the usual lecture about taking the law into my own hands and I end up doing time in Bullwood Hall. Nowadays Bullwood is for the boys but back then it was a woman’s prison and as rough and tough as they come. Not that that bothered me much. It only took a couple of barneys before the others knew that there was a new queen bee in town and I didn’t have too much trouble keeping it that way.
What with one thing and another, I ended up having to serve nearly all my time and even when they let me out it was on condition that I stay at this god forsaken halfway house. They tell me I’ve got to report to a probation officer once a week and, if I’m not a good girl I’m straight back in side.
So, there I am, still half in the nick, and the probation officer tells me he’s organised an interview with someone from NACRO about ‘enhancing my career prospects’ or some such bollocks. I go along and this stupid cow starts on at me with “Well, Rhonda, what are we going to do with you. If we’re going to keep you out of trouble then the first thing you’re going to need is a job. There are some vacancies for cleaners that I might be able to organise for you.”
“Cleaning jobs, fuck that. I’d rather go back inside.”
“Would you, indeed? Maybe you have a better suggestion.”
I reached across the desk, grabbed the pile of paperwork from in front of her and flicked through it. Cleaning jobs, day care jobs, dead end jobs for deadbeats. Nothing there for me, nothing at all. However, there was another folder with a blue cover, unlike the pink one which held all the cleaning jobs. Despite her protests I grabbed that as well and, this time….”
“Rhonda, those are training courses.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Why can’t I go on a training course? Some of these look OK. What about this one? Car mechanics. That’ll do.”
“First of all, you’re not ready for a training course, secondly the car mechanics course is booked solid and, thirdly, those are for the boys.”
“Who says I’m not ready for a training course? How can I prove it if you never give me a chance. And as for all this ‘they’re for the boys’ bollocks, fuck that. Anything a boy can do I can do better, that’s fucking sexist, that is. ‘Ere, this one. Bricklaying. This’ll do.” I passed the pile back to her pointing out the one I’d chosen.
“These training courses really are meant for the boys. I really don’t think it will be suitable….”
“Is there a brick laying course for us girls?”
“Well, no, but…”
“And this course here, you think I can’t do it?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then what’s the fucking problem?”
“The problem is…. The problem is….” For a few moments she just sits and stares at me. “Oh, very well. I’ll see what I can do.”
She picks up her phone and makes a few calls. Actually she makes quite a lot of calls because, to be fair to her, I can hear that she’s having a really hard time getting through to people that girls can be brickies too. In the end, and after a great deal of argy-bargy, it’s all sorted and I’m to start next Monday.
The training course was the usual bollocks. There’s some half-arsed little bully who likes to throw his weight around as the trainer, a dozen or so pimply youths and me. At first it’s all ‘what’s she doing on a builder’s course’ and suchlike but it turned out I was better than the rest of them and, in the end, the trainer took a bit of a shine to me and I passed with flying colours.
However, passing the training course was one thing; actually getting a job was something completely different. Even when I did manage to persuade a site foreman to give me a chance there was always some arsehole who has to have a go ‘because I’m a girl’ and I keep getting sacked for being a trouble maker. I did manage to find bits and pieces here and there but nothing solid, and not enough to get me out of the halfway house.
And that’s when the NACRO bint says ‘why don’t you start up on your own’. She points out that, if I can’t get on with the other brickies then I’m never going to settle but if I work for myself then the only person I have to get on with is myself. First I thought she was barmy but the more I thought of it the more I liked the idea and that’s how Betty’s Builders was born. Yeah, I know, daft name but the NACRO bint was banging on about something called my ‘unique selling point’ and how I had to make it sound all girly, even if I wasn’t. There was so much fucking paperwork that, at one point, I nearly gave up but the NACRO bint kept banging on and on at me and even organised all sorts of loans and things to get me started.
So, long story short, I’m getting by. I’m not ordering the roller quite yet but the word is getting around that, if you want some building work done cheap and cheerful, I’m your girl. More importantly, I’m able to move out of the halfway house and get a place of my own. Nothing special but it’s mine and there’s none of those stupid rules all over the shop. I even manage to get the bike back on the road. Vintage Norton Commando, ’73 Roadster. Not the quickest bike on the road but when Norton put that eight-fifty twin in the Isolastic frame they created the sweetest little baby and, when it comes to street racing, she just leaves the rest behind.
And then, one day, I get a shout from Joe Southern. It seems that a mate of his, Jack Mason, needs a summerhouse built and he needs it now. Turns out that he’s already had one crew in but one of the lads was caught ogling his missus or summat so he sacked the lot of them. Sounds a bit over the top to me but, seeing as how he’s now dead set on the idea of having a woman builder instead, I’m not complaining. I give this Jack Mason a call and the next day I’m over at his place having a look.
When I get there it’s nothing special, nothing I can’t handle. Basically he’s bought one of those prefabricated jobbies and, in itself, there’s no more than an afternoon’s work. Thing is, he wants a proper job with decent foundations and even a certain amount of plumbing. I reckon it’ll take a couple of weeks and I tell him so.
Now, all the time we’re out in the garden chatting, making sure I know exactly where it’s all going to go, I can see, over his shoulder, this blonde bit staring at us from the kitchen window. This must be the missus, the one all the fuss was about. I still think Jack must be some sort or arsehole for overreacting like that but it’s his house, his rules. I didn’t get more than glimpses through the window but, when we’re finished looking around the garden, he suggests a cuppa, I say ‘yes, please’, he takes me back into the kitchen, and that’s when I first met Tracy.
Talk about gorgeous! There she stood, sex on legs, looking just about perfect in her fluffy slippers and powder blue dressing gown that’s long enough to be decent and yet short enough to show off every inch of those legs of hers. I’m not one to letch after another’s wife and, remember, the last lot got thrown off the job for doing just that, but Tracy, I’d have to be made of stone not to give her the once over.
“Tracy, this is Rhonda. She’s going to be building the summerhouse starting next week. Rhonda, this is Tracy, my missus. Excuse the dressing gown; the little tart is so bone idle she hasn’t even got dressed yet,” Not that I’m really listening. Excuse the dressing gown! That dressing gown needs no excuses. As for calling her a little tart, well, we’ll let that one go for the moment.
Tracy sticks out her paw and offers me a cuppa so, to cover my confusion I shake hands and mumble something about three sugars, please. At this point I stop looking at her bod and start looking at her face and that’s when I see the bruises. Oh, she’d slapped plenty of war paint over it but I’ve seen enough battered women to know the signs. ‘Rhonda,’ I say to myself, ‘keep right out of this one. You need the work, you don’t need the aggro’.
She goes over to the kettle and, while Jack is prattling along about summerhouses, I can’t help but stare at her arse. Once again, it’s the dressing gown what does it. It’s just the right length and, while still decent, it’s dropping plenty of hints of what’s underneath. Jack offers me a seat at the kitchen table and as it’s about time I stopped being so bleedin’ obvious, so I take off my jacket and sit down.
The thing is that, now that the tea is made and Jack and I are chatting away, she’s the one doing the staring. I’m pretending not to notice, just saying yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir, and keeping the customer satisfied but every time I look up there she is, leaning against the kitchen worktop giving me the once over.
And then it’s time to go. I stand up, turn to Tracy and tell her that I’ll see her on Monday.
“Err… what… Yes, of course,” she replies.
“Don’t you worry about my Tracy,” Jack puts in. “She’s a dozy little cow at best and neither use nor ornament most of the time but if there’s anything you want, anything at all, you come and ask her. Ain’t that right, Trace?”
“Yes, please, anything you want, just ask.”
I had to laugh. Anything I want, just ask. Don’t tempt me, doll, don’t tempt me. If you knew what I wanted you’d run a mile and, as for Jack, it’s a good job he’s so clueless or I’d be out of there in no time, just like the last lot. Still, she’s a married woman and I’m no home wrecker, so it’s strictly hands to myself time, even if she has got bruises under her eyes.
Come Monday, I’ve got my tools to take so, instead of the bike, I’m there with my old wreck of a van, pulling up outside ready to get started. Jack meets me out front and walks round with me, making sure everything is all set. However, he’s not sticking around; as soon as I’ve got the marker pegs in the ground he’s off to whatever it is he does to earn a living. Meanwhile, there at an upstairs window, half hidden behind the curtains, I can see Tracy watching me. She’s been there for ten or fifteen minutes so, on my next trip to the skip with a barrow load of soil, I look up and give her a wave. She scuttles out of sight; it seems like I wasn’t supposed to notice. However, five minutes later, there she is making her way across the lawn wearing skinny white jeans, tight tee shirt and the daintiest stilettos, the heels of which are sinking into the turf. She’s carrying a tray with two cups of tea which is just what I needed.
“Is that for me? You’re an angel. I’m as dry as a bone.”
She puts the tray down on the garden table and brings mine over. It’s a nice big mug of strong hot rosie with three sugars, just how I like it. Then she kind of dithers about a bit as if she’s unsure what to do.
“Do you mind if I stay and chat?” she says after a while.
“You’re the boss, it’s your house, I can’t really stop you.”
“I just don’t want to be a nuisance,” I said nervously.
I just looked at her. She’s the best piece of eye candy I’ve seen in ages and she doesn’t want to be a nuisance.
“Darlin’, you could never be a nuisance,” I tell her. Thing is, it’s not just the eye candy bit. I really meant it. I hardly knew her and yet but already I like having her around. Brightens the day up, sort of thing. She goes over to the garden table, grabs one of the chairs and plonks it down so she can chat, and boy, can she chat. I’m there, digging away and, all the time she’s telling me this and telling me that and, well, it’s kinda nice. I mean, god knows what she’s talking about, I’m not really listening half the time, but it’s company, like, and it sure beats working on my own.
And then she asks “Your husband, what does he think of you being a builder?”
I just look at her. Husband. Really? me!
“Husband,” I reply at last, “what the fuck would I want with a husband?”
And then she asks if I’m married. Hello darlin’, just look at me. Do I look like I’m married?
“Not the marrying kind,” I reply, picking up my shovel and shifting another load of soil into the barrow.
It still takes a moment or two before the penny drops. It was so sweet the way she blushed and looked a little lost. She mutters something stupid as if she thinks she’s upset me. It’s time to put the record straight.
“That’s right, darlin’, I’m a dyke, a lezzy, a rug muncher, can’t be doin’ with the boys, only fancy the girls; what’s up? Does that bother you? Scared I might attack you?” I fling another shovel full of soil into the wheelbarrow and look her straight in the eye. “Maybe you’re scared that I won’t attack you.”
“No, no, I’m not like that. I mean, I don’t mind what you are but I… I’m not like that.”
Poor darlin’, it’s probably the first time she’s ever met a full blown butch and, for all her fluster, all her blushing, I can tell it’s sparked her interest. There’s a part of me that can’t help but have a little tease so I mutter “Liar,” as, once again, I turn back to my work.
That seemed to get to her and, with a brisk ‘well, I’d better get on then’, she picks up the cups and heads back to the house. I could still see her at the kitchen window, staring out at me. I know she was rinsing out the tea cups but that only takes a moment or two and she was stuck at that window for ages. Poor thing, I wanted to go over, give her a hug and tell her that the big bad lezzie wasn’t going to bite but I guess that would only have made things worse.
Ten minutes later I see her go into their home gym. It’s built on the side of the house like an extension and it’s got these big French windows which open out onto the back garden so it’s not very private. From what Jack told me she was in the gym when the last lot got thrown off site and I’m beginning to understand why. If he only knew….
She’s huffs and puffs a bit, turning the treadmill machine around so it’s facing away from the window. I’m not sure why she bothered ’cause the rear view is just as the rest of her and I end up with a front row view of that pretty little arse of hers. Talk about two plums in a sock, all nicely tucked away in her tight pink leotard, as she pounds out the miles. It was more than a little distracting, I can tell you, and I didn’t get in half as much digging as I ought to have done.
After a while I need a piss. All that tea, I guess and, so far, no one has told me where the bogs are. I go over to the gym windows and try and attract Tracy’s attention. She doesn’t hear me because she’s got her iPod going and is away with the fairies. OK, maybe I didn’t knock that hard as I could have done because that gave me the excuse I wanted. I nip in through the back door, slip off the old Doc Martens, and toddle through the house and into the gym. Even then she still doesn’t notice me so I go up behind her and tap her lightly on the shoulder.
Now I didn’t mean to make her jump, really I didn’t. Maybe I should have thought it through because it was pretty obvious that was what was going to happen. As it is, she leaps half out of her skin, the treadmill whips her feet out from under her and she falls backwards into my arms. Result! For a moment or two she was right there, gathered up in my arms and it was all I could do to stop myself from kissing her. However, I was a good girl, I let her down gently and help her back on her feet.
“Are you OK?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she stutters. I really don’t know whether it was the fall or something else but she’s not ‘fine’, not by a long chalk. And that’s when the wicked part of me cuts in.
“Oops, it looks like you’ve got a bit of mud on your leotard,” I say with a laugh and use it as an excuse to stroke her tits. Soz, I know it was naughty but I’m not made of stone and… well, anyway, this is a bit much for her and she pushes me away. Maybe she’s not happy with it but her nipples tell a different story. Them leotards don’t hide much, you know.
And that’s as far as I push it. I ask for the bogs and she shows me where they are before disappearing off upstairs and, for the rest of the day, she keeps herself scarce. Oh well, at least it meant I could get on with my digging.
The next morning is a real scorcher, temperature well up in the eighties with just enough breeze to stop it being too hot for working. Jack lets me in and I set up shop for the day. For the first couple of hours there’s no sign of Tracy and then, around tennish, there she is at the kitchen window. I give her a wave and she waves back before appearing at the back door with a mug of tea. The first thing I notice is that she’s still in her dressing gown and the second thing I notice is that that’s about all she’s wearing. She looks so dainty as she comes across the lawn, her hips are swaying and the dressing gown is doing all it can to give me a show. She’s the sexist thing around and she knows it. She comes over and leans forward to offer me the cuppa. Already, her cleavage is starting to gape giving tantalising glimpses of the goodies it half conceals. However, I’m not playing that game.
“Thanks, darlin’. Just leave it there for me, will you,” is all I say to her and I don’t even look up.
“Just here?” she asks and, out of the corner of my eye, I can see her leaning further forward giving me a right old eyeful. Again I’m not playing but I have to be polite so I straighten up, carefully avoid looking at her tits, and tell her ‘thanks’.
And she storms off in a huff. It was all I could do not to laugh. She’s fuming, poor thing. She’d gone out of her way to give me a show and I’d all but ignored her. What a cruel nasty bitch I am! Five minutes later I see her back in the gym and, this time she’s not turning her back on me. She’s setting up the rowing machine and she’s making sure it’s right in front of the windows where I can’t help but watch her. At first she’s all about showing of that bod of hers but I keep my head down and, after a while, she seems to forget about me. She’s no longer showing off, she’s in her own space, her eyes close and she’s simply perfect, back and forth, back and forth. There’s nothing like watching a pretty girl working out to help the time go by. I just had to make sure she didn’t catch me at it.
And that takes us to lunch.
Instead of my normal sandwiches I’d picked up some Pot Noodles from the corner shop and, of course, they need some boiling water to bring them to life. I could have just gone into the kitchen and helped myself but that didn’t seem right so I go and find her in the gym. As she’s still facing the window she doesn’t see me enter and, for a while, I just stand there watching. It’s even better, now I’m up close. She must be as fit as a fiddle, she’s been giving that rowing machine some welly for quite a while and, although she’s hot and sweaty, she doesn’t look like she’s that puffed out. I coughed discreetly but she’s got her iPod going and doesn’t hear so I walk up beside her. Suddenly she sees me, stops rowing and pulls out her earbuds. I can hear the scratchy sound of the music from where I stand.
“Can I use your kettle, darlin’?” I ask.
“Pot Noodles! Please, Rhonda, I can do better than that. Let me see what’s in the fridge and I’ll cook you something proper to eat.”
“Nah, don’t bother, Pot Noodles is fine by me.”
“Please, Rhonda, I want to, please.” She’s sounding almost desperate. She looks up from the rowing machine with those big puppy dog eyes and I just melt.
“Well, if you put it like that,” I laugh, “who am I to deprive you?”
“Look, give me five minutes to get ready and I’ll make something nice for you.”
That’s fine by me so, as she gets up from the rowing machine, I head for the kitchen to wait.
No, don’t go, please, stay and talk,” she calls out. OK, I can do that.
“I’ll just….” She points at the shower area in the corner of the gym so I plonk myself down on the multi gym while she nips behind the curly wall that keeps the showers private. And that’s all there is, just this curly wall. I can hear her turn the taps on, hear the water running, I can hear her getting under. It doesn’t take too much imagination to see right through that old wall where…. I’m getting quite hot just remembering.
And then the water turns off, there are a couple of seconds while she towels herself down and then out she pops. Wowser! She’s fresh and clean and cute as a pixie and all she has on is this towel that she’s wrapped around herself and knotted at the front. The towel is just, and I mean only just, long enough to cover the naughty bits. My eyes are popping out of my head.
“There, that’s better,” she says. “Let’s see what I can find in the fridge.” And she sashays off towards the kitchen. I follow on with my tongue hanging out.
When we get there she takes the Pot Noodles from me and puts them on the work surface. Then she’s rummaging about in the cupboards and in the fridge. Does she know that every time she does so the towel is riding up at the back, you can bet your bottom dollar she does but, fucked if I care. I’m too busy enjoying the view. In the end she turns back towards me and in one hand she’s got a pork pie and in the other she’s got some of those tomatoes that come with half the plant attached.
“Is this OK?” she asks.
God, yes, absolutely fucking perfect. And the food’s not bad either. Still, I’m not going to give in that easily.
“Yeah, that’s perfect, darlin'”, I say. “Look, you’d best bring it out to the garden; you don’t want me traipsing mud all over your nice clean kitchen.”
“No! No, please, stay and eat with me. Please, I want you to eat with me.”
I look her in the eye and I see that twinkle. She’s been flirting like crazy and I’ve been ignoring her. Now she’s pleading with me. OK, darlin’, I give in but if you want to play with Rhonda then you play by Rhonda’s rules.
“Stay and eat with you, is that all you want? Let’s see, shall we?” I tell her as I stride forward and, before she has time to react, I’ve tugged at the knot in her towel, it’s come undone and the whole caboodle falls to the floor, puddling around her ankles.
“Rhonda!” she calls out.
“Shut it! You’ve been flashing your fanny at me all morning; that’s what you wanted, now that’s what you’ve got. Now, why don’t you try offering me lunch again?” I stand back and give her a long hard look. Wow, just wow!
She’s shaking like a leaf but she doesn’t run away and, what’s more, she doesn’t try to cover herself up either. She just stands there, pork pie in one hand, tomatoes in the other.
“Please, Rhonda, would you like some pork pie and sliced tomato?” she asks in her little girl voice.
“Thanks, darlin’, that’ll do nicely,”
I go over to the kitchen table and watch as, still without a stitch on, she finds a plate, cuts up the pie and the tomatoes, finds some Branston and lays it all out, nice as you please. Then she cuts a couple of slices of that fancy bread and butters it up a treat before bringing the whole lot over and setting it out on the table in front of me. I might have been drooling a bit and, believe me, much as I like a pork pie, it wasn’t the food that was making me drool.
She’s bends down to pick up the towel but I’m not ready for that yet. I’m enjoying this far too much. I tell her to leave it be and go and fetch me a beer from the fridge. She’s still a little uncertain but she’s still not running away. There’s one easy way to be sure, one way to find out if what I think is true. Once she’s poured out my beer I tell her to come and stand beside me and I turn my chair side on to the table so I’m now sat facing her.
While, with my left hand, I’m eating the pork pie, I reach out with my right and stroke the neat little landing strip she’s shaved down to. She squeaks a bit and jumps back but I put that down to surprise and, when I tell her to get back in position, she does so with out a word.
This time I’m not stroking the landing strip, I’m right inside the airport, and it’s no surprise that she’s ready, willing and able. She even shifts forward a bit and moves her legs apart to make it easier.
“You like that, do you?” I ask her. She just blushes so sweetly. “Well, do you? Do you like me playing with your cunt?”
“I… I…” she stammers. “Oh my god!” she gasps as I shove my fingers further in.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then. Come closer.” I hook my fingers inside her and pull. She shuffles closer. “Randy little cow, aren’t you? Gagging for it. What’s up, doesn’t that hubby of yours give you the attention you need, or maybe it’s me that gets you going.”
I don’t know why I had to mention her husband. I guess I wanted to make sure of what this was all about. Was she loving me or hating him? Makes a difference.
“Please, Rhonda…” she says after a while.
“Please what?” I ask as my fingers do the talking. “Please stop or please make me come?”
“I don’t know.” She’s nearly in tears by now. “I really don’t know.”
And, to tell the truth, I didn’t know either. What the fuck am I doing here? She’s a married woman, for fuck’s sake. Much as it’s fun giving her a diddle while I’m eating my lunch it’s not the right thing to do. I shouldn’t have started in the first place but, seeing as how I have, now it’s time for a smart exit.
“Well if you don’t know then you’d better leave it up to me,” I say firmly. I pull my fingers out of her and hold them up. “Lick,” I order and, blow me if that’s what she does. In fact, in the end, it’s me who pulls my fingers back, not her that stops licking.
“Well, I can’t be sitting around all day, those foundations won’t dig themselves. Thanks for lunch, darlin’.” And, with that, I push back her chair, stand up and head for the back door.
I look at her and nearly melt. I’m being a right bitch towards her and I know it. But the more I say ‘no’ the more she seems to want it; the more I’m the big bad Rhonda the more she seems to like it. It would be so easy just to…. No, I’ve got to stop now or we’re both in trouble, big, big, trouble. I’ve got to be firm, I’ve got to put an end to it, for both our sakes. “But what?” I all but snarl. “Have I left you all hot and bothered Well, tough tittie. You’ve been blowing hot and cold with me since I got here and now you know what it’s like to be on the receiving end. See ya.”
Her face drops and I hate myself for hurting her but you know what they say, cruel to be kind and all that.
The rest of the day she keeps out of my way. Me, I set to with the pickaxe. There was this tough root that had been bothering me all morning but I hack the fuckin’ shit out of it and have the foundations dug in no time. Not that that it makes me feel any the better.
The next day is another scorcher. She’s up a bit earlier and she brings me out my tea but I’m playing it cool. Yesterday, it never happened, got me? I think she does. She’s very pleasant and all but there’s a distance there as well.
After a while she comes out wearing one of those tennis dresses, you know the sort, the type that shows off her knickers every time she jumps for a ball. They’ve got their own tennis court at the back of the garden and she goes over to the shed next to it and gets out one of those machines that shoot tennis balls. Tennis for one, how sad is that. Still, I’ve got a job to do and it’s not my place to interfere. I try to ignore her, I really try, but I can hear the sound of the machine, the sound of the balls against her racket and, every time I look up, there she is, as lonely as fuck bashing balls around for lack of anything else to do.
And that’s when I discover that I’m short one forty mill ‘U’ bend and I can’t get any further until I get one. Not that that’s it’s a problem. Five minutes into town on the bike and five minutes back again and Bob’s your uncle. I grab my jacket and, as I’m putting it on, there she is, still on her own, still bashing tennis balls, still lonely, and it’s just so sad that I’m thinking ‘why not?’ If nothing else it gets her out of the house.
“Watcha, darlin’. Fuck tennis, I’ve got to nip into town for a forty mill ‘U’ bend. Fancy a spin on the bike?” I call out.
She looks up and, for the first time since she’s come out of the house, she smiles. Now I’m smitten again. Oh well, you do what you do.
“Bike, motorbike, vintage Norton Commando currently leaking oil all over your nice gravel drive?” I prompt.
She drops her racket and runs over.
“Wow! Can I come, really?”
It’s just a run to Wickes but, for her, it’s like the best thing ever. Now I can’t say ‘no’ even if I wanted to.
We go round to the front where the bike is parked. I always carry two helmets, one for me and one for just in case, so I unclip them both and hand her the spare. I’m astride the bike with my helmet on and the engine running when she taps me on the shoulder and motions that she’s going to change her dress. No way, darlin’, no way. That’s not part of the deal. I just shake my head and motion her towards the back of the bike. She gives me a look but doesn’t complain and, prettier than I would have expected, she gets up behind me, shuffles up against my back and puts her arms around my waist.
Now there are two types of pillion passenger, those who make riding harder and those who make it easier. I take it a bit gentle for the first few bends while I find out which one she is but it turns out she’s a natural, she goes with the bike and makes it easy as pie. I push it a bit harder but, apart from hanging on a bit tighter, she’s loving it. Then, when we get out on the main road, I wind the throttle open, the bike does its thing, we move up through the gears and, in no time, we’re doing the ton and more. What could be better, the feel of classic British iron pulling through the bends while a pretty girl hangs on behind. Oh yes!
Even going the long way round we were pulling in to Wickes car park far too soon. We get off, take off our helmets, and I see her grin. It lights up the world, really. Look, I know that’s all that romantic bollocks but you have to remember, I’d never really seen her smile before then. Not really smile, not like that. She’d always been this quiet little housewife and now she’s got this wicked grin that goes from ear to ear. We park the helmets and go on in to Wickes.
It doesn’t take long to find a forty mill ‘U’ bend but they’re right down the back and, at that time of day, it’s as quiet as the grave. Tracy is still all bubbly from the bike ride and that’s when my wicked streak kicks back in.
“Lose the panties,” I order her.
“I said lose the panties. If you’re wearing panties you’re not getting back on the bike, simple as that. So, if I were you I’d go to the bogs, take your knicks off and, when you get back, give them to me.”
I was half expecting some sort of protest but she gives a brief look up and down the aisle before looking me straight in the eye and that wicked grin is, if anything, wider than ever. Sweet as a nut she reaches up under her dress and pulls down her panties and steps out of them.
“Are these what you wanted,” she says, waving them in my face like a flag. “Come and get them.”
She skips off down he aisle, waving them over her shoulder. I race after her and grab them from her, slipping them into the pocket of my leathers. I think I still have them somewhere. Sort of trophy, know what I mean.
We make our way to the checkouts, pay for the ‘U’ bend and, on the way, she’s flouncing around, making the skirt of the tennis dress swing from side to side. I hand over the readies and then we’re off into the car park to get back on the bike.
As Tracy is putting on her helmet she’s still grinning like crazy. She really is up for this, I can tell. She was a little bit uncertain when I told her she wasn’t to sit on her dress but that didn’t stop her.
Now I reckon that, if she’s that into it, it’s only fair that I give her a bit of a ride. We start out and, instead of turning left towards her house, I turn right for the centre of town. The traffic is pretty heavy so we’re just pottering along the High Street and one or two people have noticed. There’s an old biddie with a face like she’s sucking a lemon and a couple of guys who point and give her a wolf whistle. Normally I’d object but that’s what she wanted, isn’t it. As we go past the shops I can see our reflection in the plate glass windows. Her dress has blown up around her waist and she’s showing leg all the way up to her armpit.
And then some copper spots us. He’s parked up in a side street and, as we go by he starts to pull out. Bloody coppers never leave us bikers alone and I can just imagine the fuss if he pulls us over. The last thing I want to do is land Tracy in trouble and I can just imagine Jack’s reaction if he got wind of this, so this really is not a good time to get stopped. But I’m on a bike, he’s not. A quick flick of the wrist, and we’re off. God, there’s nothing like it. We scream through the gears and by the time we hit the bypass we’re doing ninety. I vaguely hear his blues and twos but he can’t weave through the traffic the way I can. We’re piling towards the roundabout at the end of the bypass. Now I know this roundabout well and it’s just the thing to test the grip on the tyres I’d just bought. Left, right and then left again, we barely dropped below seventy. I’ll swear the footpegs touched as we went round. I hear Tracy’s scream from behind me but it’s a scream of joy, not of fear. She’s loving this every bit as much as I am.
And what’s not to love. With the cops after us it’s best if we keep off the main roads so I jink into the lanes and we take the long way home. It’s bloody perfect. You know how it gets you, beautiful day, beautiful bike and, best of all, a beautiful girl on the back. What could be better than that? I just wished it could last forever but, of course, it couldn’t, and, in the end, it’s time to get back to her place. We pull back into their drive, there’s the scrunch of gravel as I brake, I push down the kick stand and kill the engine. She doesn’t move, just sits there, hugging me tightly. In the end I had to reach down and unclasp her hands from around my waist or she’ll have had us there all day.
We get off the bike and take off our helmets. She’s still got that big wide smile all over her face and, as she shakes out her hair, I glance down at the seat of the bike, and you don’t have to be CSI to see just how much she enjoyed the ride.
“Looks like someone had a good time,” I say, pointing to a damp patch on the leather. “Go on then, clean it up.”
She just keeps on grinning. She knows that I know just how turned on she was and she doesn’t give a damn. “I’ll go and get a cloth then,” she says and she turns towards the house.
“With your tongue, darlin’, with your tongue,” I call after her. Look, I know, but I wasn’t thinking with my head, right then. She wasn’t the only one right on the edge.
She turns back and, I just nod towards the bike. Our eyes lock and, almost as if in one of them dreams, she goes round to the far side of the bike and kneels down facing it.
“Like this?” she says and she sticks out her tongue and licks, right across the damp patch. Jesus! She licks again and it’s as if it’s me she’s licking, not the seat. She’s the hottest, horniest thing I’ve ever seen and I’m all ready to pounce when I remember she’s married. Back off, Rhonda, back off or it will all end in tears. Toughest thing I’ve ever done.
“Careful, darlin’. Mind the exhaust pipe, you’ll burn yourself. Anyway, that’s enough for now. I need to be getting on,” I say as I turn away from her and head towards the garden.
“Please, Rhonda, please,” she calls out as she chases after me. I should have kept on walking but I couldn’t. I had to turn around and face her.
“Please, Rhonda, don’t leave me like this. I need… I need…” and bugger me if she doesn’t reach down, pull up the hem of her dress and start rubbing herself.
“If you want to diddle yourself that’s fine by me; I’ve got better things to do, build a summerhouse for starters,” I try being tough, I try to be strong, I try to push her away.
“Please….” And she looks so cute and so hurt. I’m the big bad bully and I guess she’s got a point. I’m the one who wound her up and now I’m the one who’s walkin’. How can I get out of this? How can I do the right thing and not hurt her even more? And then it comes to me.
“Tell you what, darlin’, seeing as you ask so nicely, I’ll let you diddle yourself whilst I watch. Now, come along.” In my head it seemed like, if I didn’t actually touch her, then, well, it wasn’t cheating. OK, OK, so that’s a load of cods but, trust me, I wasn’t thinking straight at the time.
“Come on,” I repeat and I lead her round to the back garden. Now I want it to be a bit special for Tracy, I owe her that much so I’m looking all around for ideas. Then I spot just the thing. It’s a bit down and dirty but I just know she’ll love it. Next to the half built summerhouse I’d set up a standpipe for mixing cement and, inevitably, it had leaked. That and the way the wheelbarrow had churned up the ground leaving a muddy mess, that’s what gave me the idea.
“There, just there.” I point at the ground. “Hang on, I’ll get it ready for you.” I reach for the hose, turn it on and soak the patch until it was covered in puddles. “That’s better, now take off your dress and kneel down in the middle.”
She’s a shade uncertain but she’s not stopping now. She gives me a little grin, pulls the dress up over her head, folds it over the pile of bricks and kneels down, right in the middle of it all.
“Lose the bra and move your knees apart,” I tell her. “Good girl. Now scoop up some mud, rub it into yourself.”
If she was hot when she was licking the bike seat then that had nothing on this. She’s scooping great dollops of mud out of the puddles and smearing it across her tits. She digs in with both hands and then, smears it up over her rib cage and up under her tits so that she ends up offering them to me.
I tried to pretend that I wasn’t looking, tried to pretend I was fitting the ‘U’ bend we had just picked up from Wickes but I wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Talk about down and dirty, she’s all but covered and making no secret of the fact that she’s getting right off on it.
She takes another handful of mud and, this time, it’s not her tits that get the treatment, she just pushes it in, right between her legs. It’s as if she can’t get enough as she grabs another handful and, using both hands, rubs it into herself. I can see she’s losing it. Every bone in my body wants to grab her, push her down into the mud and then grind it into her, just as she’s doing. Instead all I’m doing is standing there watching. Meanwhile, she’s having trouble staying upright and she’s no longer looking at me, she’s not really looking anywhere. She’s got her thighs clamped together and she’s mewing like a kitten and then she topples sideways into the mud, coming like a good’un.
And, yes, I know it’s more than a bit naughty, but I get out my phone, turn on the camera and snap away. Trust me, those were for my own very private collection. I tell her to look up and she does. She’s a little shaken, she’s covered from head to toe in mud and her hair is matted beyond belief but there’s still that shadow of a defiant grin.
And then it’s all over, well, for her it is, and I can see she’s beginning to feel a little foolish. No need, doll, no need. That was maybe the sexiest thing I’ve seen, ever.
“I’d best go and clean up,” she says as, shakily, she gets back to her feet. Using the tips of her fingers she picks up her dress and bra and then heads for the back door. I could imagine her heading for the shower and it was all I could do not to chase after her and jump in with her but, having set my limits, however stupid they might be, I was going to stick by them.
Twenty minutes later, little Miss Temptation is back. She appears at the back door, all cleaned up but still without a stitch of clothing on her.
“Hi, Ronda, lunch in half an hour,” she calls out. I wave back not quite sure what to do about this one.
However, whatever it was that she was planning wasn’t to be. She’s still cooking lunch when Jack comes out into the garden to see how I’m getting on. Apparently he’d been working nearby so he just nipped home for lunch. Good job he hadn’t done so thirty minutes earlier or we’d all be in the shit. I show him what I’m up to and he’s happy enough. Apparently I’m a ‘good worker’ in his books. God knows what the others must have been like.
We’re still chatting when Tracy, now dressed in a track suit, calls us in for lunch so Jack and I go in and sit down at the kitchen table facing each other. She’s like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth as she serves up egg, beans and chips with a nice dollop of brown sauce to go with.
“All OK?” Jack asks.
“Yeah, fine. This is lovely grub.”
“Well, she may be a dozy cow but my Tracy sure can cook. I hope she’s looking after you OK.”
“Yeah, no problems,” I tell ‘im.
“‘Cos she can be a right lazy little cow. She just sits around the house all day doing fuck all while I’m out working all the hours god sends bringing home the bacon. The very least she can do is get off that fat arse of hers and look after you once in a while.”
I glance across at Tracy and I can see how this is hurting. ‘Oi, fuck face,’ I want to say, ‘show some fucking respect here’. But of course I don’t. It’s so not my place to get involved. However, I’m not going to let that one go completely.
“She’s been great, really helpful,” I tell him. “Brings me my morning cuppa and today we even went shopping together.”
“What, two birds out shopping; how many dress shops did she drag you round? I’m not paying you to go shopping, you know.”
“Nothing like that,” I reply, holding back my anger. “I was short of a forty mill ‘U’ bend for the waste disposal so we went to Wickes together.”
“My Tracy in Wickes? Don’t make me laugh!” he snorts. “She’d be worried she’d break a fingernail, wouldn’t you, doll.”
“Yes, Jack,” Tracy replies meekly.
And this just goes on and on and on. All the while Jack’s telling me what a dozy cow Tracy is, how she never does any work, how she’s a waste of space, how useless she is. I try to defend her a bit but, apart from telling him about her making me tea, what can I say. He’s being all lord of the castle, I’m having to bite back my anger and, as for Tracy, I can see that she’s almost in tears. At long bloody last he finishes his meal and, telling Tracy not to bother waiting up for him as he’s off out that night, he drives off back off to his office. Tracy sees him to the front door and, when she returns, I’m on my feet as well.
She’s still hurting and I long to hug her but, what with all that’s going on, I’m not sure that hugging her would be that clever. However, the least I can do is tell her how much I appreciate her.
“Thanks for the grub, darlin’, that was delicious, just how I like it. I’d like to stop but I can’t sit around all day. I’d best get back out there.”
“Rhonda, you’re welcome, I really love cooking for you.”
“Do you? Looks like it suits both of us then,” and with that I’m off.
I’m still working on the plumbing when Tracy comes out to see me. There’s no games this time. Jack killed that mood stone dead and she’s back to that sad look on her face. She plonks herself down on the pile of bricks.
“Do you mind if I chat?”
“Nah, don’t mind me, you chat away.” After what I saw at lunch then, if she wants to come and dump on me, that’s fine. She deserves better than him, even if she doesn’t know it.
At first she just chats, nothing special, nothing specific, but it’s really nice. OK, all I do is grunt once in a while, but it’s the best conversation I’ve had in ages. She tells me all about herself, how she married Jack really young and how they can’t have children. And then she starts to tell me about Jack, trying to defend him, trying to tell me how he loves her really, how it’s not as bad as it looks. Oh, she doesn’t use those words but I can read between the lines. I let her ramble on a bit but then I’ve had enough.
“D’ya know somethin’ darlin’?” I cut across her.
“That husband of yours is an arsehole, d’ya know that?”
“Rhonda, he’s not, he’s not that bad, you don’t understand him,” she insists.
“Oh, I understand him all right. He beats you up, doesn’t he?”
“No!” but as she says this her hand goes up to her eye where the bruising was still only just going down.
“Don’t you lie to me, darlin’, don’t you ever lie to me,” I’ve had enough of this bullshit. “I know he beats you, you know he beats you and we both know that ain’t right.”
“But I’ve nowhere else to go,” she says in her little girl voice. And there she sits, lost and lonely. Even if I didn’t fancy the pants off her I would still have done what I did next, I couldn’t have done otherwise.
“Give me your phone.” I put my wrench down and reach over. She goes into her pocket and pulls out one of those iPhone things. It takes me a minute or two to sort it out but I find the contacts and add my number to it. I even use it to call my phone so I’ll have her number should I ever… well, you never know, do you? That done I pass it back. “Next time,” I tell her, “or better still, before next time, you call me, got that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she replies.
“I’m not joking, girl. Really, I’m not,” and I wasn’t. A bit of mucking around is one thing, even if it is a shade too close to cheating for my money, but this was different. I wanted her to know she had an out, one she could use any time. I’m not a marriage wrecker, really I’m not, but I’m also not going to stand by while she’s getting grief from some jumped up little bully who beats up on girls because his dick don’t work.
After that we settled into a pattern. I’d set up of a morning and, as soon as she saw me, she’d come out with tea and toast. She’d then sit and chat while I got on. It was fun, fun for us both. I’m not the chatty sort but she more than makes up for that and she’d be babbling away ten to the dozen while, bit by bit, the summerhouse is nearing completion. Every now and again she starts dropping hints about how it would be nice to go back to Wickes but I’m not buying. It was hard enough resisting temptation the last time, I’m not sure I could if we went again. Anyway, we’ve done that one and, even if she is wearing her tennis skirt, I’m still not biting.
And then, with the summerhouse all but finished, she invites me in for lunch as she does every day. This time it’s pie and chips and, no sooner has she put it on the table than she ‘accidentally’ tips up the plate and the whole lot falls into my lap.
“Oops!” she says, sweet as you like.
Now, I’m not perfect and I’m not made of stone. I’ve had the prettiest little thing throwing herself at me all week and now she’s done this. What am I supposed to do, walk away? I look up at her and I can see the twinkle in her eye.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
“No, Rhonda, I didn’t, honest I didn’t,” she replies but, come on.
“And now you’re lying to me. What did I say about lying?”
“You told me I wasn’t ever to lie to you,” she says, and now we’re being both playful and serious. I don’t know where this is heading but we’re a long way beyond simple flirting with each other.
“So first you’ve been a silly little girl and then you’ve lied to me. I think you’re trying to provoke me; I think you want me to smack that pretty little bottom of yours, the one you’ve been flashing at me all this past week.”
“No, no…” she starts but I give her a look and she knows that we’re playing for real. No lies, just the truth.
“Please, Rhonda, please will you smack my bottom,” she asks, calm as you like.
“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t but, first of all, I’m not going to sit around in these jeans all day, am I?” I push the chair back from the table, stand up and let the whole greasy mess fall to the floor. “You caused this, you can sort it out; I assume you have a washing machine somewhere, the sooner these jeans are in the wash, the sooner they’re clean and dry so get on with it.”
I stand there with my hands on my hips while she works it out. Then she kneels down in front of me, undoes my belt and flies, and pushes my jeans to the floor. She’s about to get back to her feet but I shake my head and say ‘uh uh’ so, still on her knees, she shuffles off to the utility room. I hear the washing machine start up and then she’s back again.
This time I point at the mess on the floor. She heads towards the cupboard under the sink but I’ve got other ideas.
“Pick up what you can with your hands and put it back on the plate. As for the rest, lick it clean. I just hope for your sake that you’re the proud housewife I think you are.”
She looks at me and there’s still that twinkle in her eye. Oh, on the surface, she’s all sorry and all that but this is what she wanted. This is why she threw the food in my lap in the first place. This is the game, the serious game, the one we both want to play. She scoops up what she can and then gets down on all fours and starts licking. Just to muck with her I tell her to put her hands behind her back. Now she can’t stop her hair from falling forward and, as well as having food all over her face, she gets it in her hair as well. The next bit is all her idea. She’s cleaned the worst of it up but there’s still quite a bit of gravy about the place. Keeping her hands behind her back she lies flat on the floor and starts to squirm about in it all so as to wipe it up with her face and tits, rolling about in it all.
“That’s enough,” I say after a while and she gets back up onto her knees. Talk about mess! Her face, her hair, her clothes are all a disgrace but she’s got this great big sexy grin on her face and she’s looking as sexy as hell.
“Go and get cleaned up. When you’re ready I’ll be waiting in the lounge.”
While she’s getting cleaned up I go through to the lounge, sit down on the sofa, and put my feet up on the pouffe. Then I pick up a copy of the local rag which is lying on the coffee table and start reading. I’m well aware that wearing only my boxers and a tee shirt sitting in another man’s lounge reading another man’s paper and about to do who knows what with another man’s wife but, quite frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck.
Ten minutes later and she reappears. She’s got herself all dolled up in this schoolgirl uniform. You know the thing: short pleated skirt in some sort of tartan, tight white cotton blouse, white ankle socks, and plain patent leather shoes. Nothing too tacky, it even looks like it might be the real thing. To round things off she’s put her hair up in bunches, one either side, and she’s looking good enough to eat.
“Please, ma’am, I’m ready to be punished.” Oh, yes!
However, it’s not going to be that easy. She’s been mucking with me all week, now it’s my turn.
“Play with yourself,” I tell her.
“Do as your told and don’t answer back. You stand there where I can see you, put your hand down your panties and play with yourself.”
She gives me a look. This isn’t what she expected. However, I don’t out stare that easily and, after a moment or two, that sheepish look returns and her left hand reaches down and pulls up the hem of her skirt to reveal her nice white plain cotton panties. Then she slips her right hand under the waist band and I can see her fingers working away.
At this point I go back to reading the paper. Not that I’m that interested in the local news but it’s driving her crazy and that’s what I’m after. At first she tries turning up the volume, while her right hand stays in her panties her left hand undoes a couple of her blouse buttons and she starts playing with her tits. I note, at this point, that she’s without a bra. Very schoolgirl, very charming. However, I play dumb and pretend not to notice.
This makes her go the other way. She just stops, standing there, one her hand still down her panties, the other on her tits but this time not moving a muscle.
“Did I tell you to stop?” I don’t even look up.
“No, I just thought….”
“Don’t think, just get on with it,” and with that I go back to the paper.
This has exactly the desired effect. She takes her hand out of her panties, leans forward, grabs the paper and flings it across the room. Then she throws herself on her knees in front of me.
“For god’s sake, Rhonda,” she almost cries.
“Ooh, temper, temper,” I tease but I do take my feet off the poof, sit up straight and push my right foot between her knees. She gets the message, opens up and I push it in further so that she can rub herself against it.
“Please, Rhonda,” she begs as I work my foot against her. “Please…”
“Please, what, darlin’?”
“I need… I need…,” there’s a pause while she decides just what she needs. “I need to come, Rhonda, I need it so badly.”
“But I’m not stopping you. I sure you have a vibrator in that bedside table of yours,” I say, piling on the pressure.
“It’s you I need, not a vibrator! Why won’t you understand? I need you, I need you to make me come!” She’s desperate now and I’m beginning to crack. “Please, please, it’s special with you, it’s always special with you and you’ll be finished tomorrow and after that I’ll never, ever see you again.”
That shook me a bit. I hadn’t worked out the bit about it all ending tomorrow. What’s more she’s slumped back and she’s crying. She’s stopped doing the thing with my foot. I’ve pushed things to far.
“Come here,” I say and I gather her in. No more games, no more mucking about, she wants me and I want her and, for the moment, the rest of it can go hang. Mind you, that doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on her. I ain’t got time for blouse buttons, one good yank and it’s history. The skirt doesn’t last much longer and, as for the panties, they never had a chance. I push her down onto the floor where there’s a hearthrug, one of those sheepskin jobbies, and I let her know what it’s like to be loved by a real woman. I like it rough, she likes it rougher. I’ll never forget that first time I made her come, my hand gripped inside her and she’s screaming “harder, Rhonda, harder, please, please harder!” I give her everything I’ve got, she takes the lot and loves every second.
And then it’s payback time. She’s had her fun, now it’s my turn. I pin her to the floor and sit on her face and ride her ’till I’ve had enough. That’s it, darlin, give Rhonda all your lovin’.
After the storm comes the calm. Along with the sex, comes the loving. We’re still lying together on the hearth rug but now she’s tucked up in my arms where she belongs. She’s banging on about how strong I am. That’s right doll, strong enough for the two of us. Doesn’t mean I don’t need her as well; there’s no point in having big strong arms if you haven’t got someone to wrap them around.
“I never did get round to smacking that cute little tush of yours,” I joke in between kissing the tip of her nose.
“Ooh, yes please,” she jokes back.
“Maybe another time.” I kiss her once again. “Now, we’d best see how those jeans of mine are doing. I can’t lie about her all day, I’ve got work to do.”
“Oh, please, ten minutes more,” she pleads.
How can I say no?
And all of a sudden it’s nearly three o’clock, half the afternoon has gone and I really must be getting on. We get up from the floor and, while she goes and sorts out my jeans, I’m searching around for my tee shirt and boxers. Tee shirt, no problem but the boxers seem to have disappeared off the face of the earth. I remember her throwing them across the room, buggered if I can find where they landed.
I go through to the utility room where, god bless her, she’s ironed my jeans. Ironed jeans, that’s a first!
“I can’t find my boxers, doll.”
“Looks like you’ll have to go commando then. I’ll find them later and keep them as a souvenir.”
And that brings home to us both that it’s all but over. We kiss, and kiss again, but then I’m off to the garden to finish up and she’s back to the front room to straighten around.
The next day I only had a couple of hours left to do before the summerhouse was completely finished. Jack was hanging around all the time so I never got to say goodbye to Tracy, well, not properly. Notch in the bedpost. That’s what I tried to tell myself that but I knew I was lying. Still, there was nothing I could do about it. Still felt strange, knowing she was out there but knowing that I might never see her again. Felt wrong.
A couple of weeks later, I’m down at the Kings Head with the rest of the gang when Spikey comes over and says “that Jack Mason, wasn’t he the guy you were working for the other week.”
“That’s right, what about it.”
“Well, there’s a story going round the grapevine. One of Dawed Hussain’s shipments of charlie goes missing in the marshes and the next thing that happens is Jack Mason is cocaine king of Basildon. One or two people are joining up the dots, know what I mean. You might want to tell him to watch his back.”
“He’s nothing to do with me, nothing at all,” I tell him.
I thought about telling Tracy but I’m pretty sure she’s know fuck all about Dawed Hussain’s charlie or anything about that part of Jack’s business. As for Jack, I owe him nothing. It really ain’t my business.
And then, the very next day, strange how these things happen, it is my business. I’m back down the King’s Head and it’s getting late when my phone goes. I pull it out and the display says ‘Tracy’. I press the button and say hello but all I can hear is screaming. One voice is Tracy, that’s clear, the other must be Jack and he’s banging on about boxers. I put two and two together and I know just what I have to do.
“Oi, guys, I need some muscle and I need it now. Come on, no time to finish your pints. This happens now!”
The guys don’t bother asking questions, they know when I’m serious, so we pile out of the pub and, five minutes later, we’re pulling up outside Tracy’s place. We keep the revs up to make our selves known and then I get off the bike and pull out a pipe wrench I keep in the panniers just for moments just like this. Boomf, one swipe and the windscreen of Jack’s merc is history. Boomf, and a headlight’s gone. I wanted the alarm to go off but he can’t have set it. Still, we’re making enough noise to wake the dead.
Just then the front door opens and there’s Jack, quite obviously more than a bit pissed.
“What the fuck…,” he shouts. “Leave my fucking motor alone.”
“I’ve come to pick up my boxers,” I say, sweet as anything. Boomf, there goes the other headlight.
“Your boxers?” Jack is struggling to work out what’s going on.
“Yeah, seems I dropped them here earlier when I was screwing Tracy.”
And then the light starts to go on.
“They’re your boxers. You’re the one screwing my wife?” Jack says, swaying gently as he tries to take it all in
“I don’t think you’ll find that she’s your wife any more; she’s mine now,” and that’s telling him. While this is going on the bedroom window has opened. I look up and there’s Tracy looking out, watching everything. “Grab your stuff, darlin’,” I shout up, “just enough to go on the bike; you’re coming home with me.” She nods and disappears from the window.
“Do you know who I am?” Jack snarls. He’s getting angry and things are about to get nasty. “Do you know what happens to people who fuck me about?”
And then I play my trump card. Thank you, Spikey, you’ve saved the day.
“I know exactly who you are, Jack Mason, and I know exactly what you think is going to happen but, before you make any stupid moves let me just assure you that if any harm whatsoever comes to Tracy, or me, or any of the crew, even so much as a snagged fingernail, then Dawed Hussain might get to know what happened to that shipment of charlie that disappeared in the marshes last month, get me?”
That scares the shit out of him.
And then Tracy arrives at the front door. I can hear the gasps from behind me. She’s hurting and she’s hurting bad. There’s blood all down the side of her face, her eye is closed and her lip is split. She’s holding her stomach which is obviously giving her grief, I’m guessing a cracked rib. The whole mood changes, getting ugly. The gang weren’t expecting this. However, they hold themselves back. They know they’re only there as backup. This is my quarrel, and mine alone.
You bastard, Jack Mason, you’re going to pay for this, even if it does cost me another stretch for GBH.
“Go to the bike, darlin’,” I say to Tracy. “We’re nearly finished here. I just need to…” And with that I swings at Jack with the pipe wrench and he falls to the ground howling.
“You hurt her, I hurt you. In fact, if you ever, ever even so much as touch her again I’ll hurt you so bad you’ll spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair, get it? Better still, just keep right out of my way. I never, ever, want to see you, or anybody connected with you, ever again. And remember, one slip, one little slip and Hussain gets the news, is that completely understood?” All the while my Doc Martens are pummelling his kidneys. He’s going to be pissing blood for a week and even then he should think himself lucky. But I haven’t got time for this. Far more important is to get Tracy as far away as possible as quickly as possible. A&E will do for a start.
I turn to see her standing beside the bike. She’s bruised, she’s battered, I can tell she’s in pain but she smiles at me and I know it’s going to be all right.
“Come on, darlin’. It’s time I took you home.”