Blue Summerhouse

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.

"What, Rhonda?"

"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.

"What?"

"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.