{"loaderData":{"4":{"story":{"id":"4e7859f7-8c93-4d47-a5c7-53e95952d956","seriesId":null,"seriesName":null,"currentUserId":"00000000-0000-0000-0000-000000000000","added":"2018-09-08T12:56:23.386Z","title":"Summerhouse Blues","slug":"summerhouse-blues","shortId":"TF6dUMb4","authorNote":null,"disclaimer":null,"type":"Short","paidUrl":null,"synopsis":"Jack and Tracy get the builders in.","partCount":1,"parts":[{"partId":"136bebfa-c402-4a1b-a02b-d38e9117236e","title":null,"summary":"\n\nOnce again, is this realy a BDSM story? Well, not really but it has, at it's heart, a Femdom relat","wordCount":13196,"readTime":66,"number":1,"state":"Published"}],"currentPart":1,"contentTitle":"Chapter 1","content":"\n\n

Once again, is this realy a BDSM story? Well, not really but it has, at it's heart, a Femdom relationship and I hope you'll enjoy it.

You, the reader, should share in my heartfelt thanks to Estragon, Rhonda's biggest fan, who persuaded me that it was worth my effort and, far more importantly, worth his effort to correct the innumerable errors in grammar and punctuation so that Tracy's story could be properly enjoyed. Any errors that remain are my fault, not his.

L.J.

Tracy's Story

I was young and naive when I fell for Jack all those years ago. I was seventeen and he, at the age of twenty five, was the leader of the local gang, Jack the lad, the number one, the top dog and, if his way of running security for the local night clubs was a bit dodgy, well, that’s the way it goes sometimes. For me he was all the thrills and excitement I seemed to be missing at home and if he was a bit rough with me from time to time, well, that’s the way I liked it. I have always found that there’s something thrilling about being overwhelmed by a force greater than yourself so yes, I liked it rough and took everything he threw at me even if it was a bit scary at times. It made me feel oh so grown up and sophisticated to be his girl and I did everything he asked, everything he wanted just so he'd let me be with him. And when, the moment I turn eighteen, Jack, knowing a good thing when he sees one, proposed to me I thought all my Christmases had come at once. My parents, of course, were horrified and tried to stop the wedding but I was too much the rebel, too independent for my own good and, anyway, what did a pair of old fogeys like them know about young love.

Well, they knew quite a bit as it turns out. Almost as soon as the ring was on my finger I found the other side to Jack, the mean and jealous side. As far as he was concerned I was his, his to own and his to control and heaven help any other bloke that dared to look at me twice. For that matter heaven help me if I so much as dared to be nice to another guy. It all got much, much worse when we found out that we couldn’t have kids, especially when it turned out that he was the one firing blanks. From then on his anger boiled over turning on me as being the one who had failed him and on a couple of notable occasions I even found myself down at casualty having “walked into a door”.

And then, fifteen years later, I’m still paying the price for my stupidity as a teenager; just like the old song my mum used to sing, I’m only a bird in a gilded cage. Jack has moved on up from being a hired thug to become a major businessman although I’m pretty sure the basics of what he does are pretty much the same. He’s still deeply involved in the nightclub business and, if he comes home late at night reeking of some tart’s cheap perfume then I’d best keep my mouth shut if I know what’s good for me. As for me, I’m still the stay at home housewife; I once thought about getting a job but Jack won’t let me work, he says it’s up to him to provide and my job is to keep my self and the house looking nice and presentable and play hostess when he brings the lads round. I joined up at the local gym once, anything to pass the time, but when he saw me trying on a new leotard he threw a total wobbler about other men ogling me and insisted we install a home gym instead. I’d leave him in the blink of an eyelid except I’ve got nowhere to go. Mum and Dad both died a few years back, Jack scared off all my old friends and, even if I did find somewhere, it would never be far enough to be safe from Jack and his temper tantrums.

And then, one day, we’re round at the Andersons’ for drinks and it turns out that Jim’s got a new summerhouse in the garden and, if Jim Anderson has a summerhouse then we’ve got to have one. Talk about keeping up with the Joneses. Jack got in one of his tame architects to draw up the plans, one of his tame politicians on the council pushed through the planning permission and, in no time, we’ve got the builders in.

And then, five minutes later, they were out again. It was their first morning and, whilst they were setting up shop I was working out in the home gym and watching through the French windows. Anyway one of the builders sees me as he walks past outside and he only gives me a wolf whistle. I was flattered and, OK, maybe I did strike a pose but Jack happened to be home at the time and he went absolutely ballistic. He storms outside, finds the builder that had whistled at me and, right there and then, beats the living crap out of him. The other builders knew better than to get involved and, ten minutes later, they were all sacked, taking the battered remains of their mate with them. Jack, still fuming, then came and found me, accused me of acting the tart, of leading them on, of behaving like a slut in front of the help. And so, once again, I got another couple of slaps to teach me a lesson.

As soon as I could get away I disappeared off upstairs to patch myself up and keep out of his way, leaving Jack to get on the blower to sort out some new builders, or, as it turned out, a new builder. After making a number of calls Jack talks to Joe Southern who recommends an outfit called “Betty’s Builders”. Yeah, I know, I laughed too, well, until Jack told me in no uncertain terms to shut my trap if I didn't want another slapping. Anyway it seemed that Betty’s Builders was, believe it or not, an all woman building firm which, Jack reckoned, would keep me out of mischief and, as he so sweetly put it, maybe we can get the fucking thing built this time.

Early the very next day Betty herself arrived. Well, she wasn't called Betty really; it turned out that she was called Rhonda and she only used the name Betty to make the name of the firm rhyme and, despite it being Betty’s Builders with an 's' on the end, it was a one man, or should that be one woman, show. I was still upstairs in the bedroom when the roar of a powerful motorbike announced her arrival so it was Jack who went to the door to meet her. They didn't go through the house but went around the side and straight out to the garden to look things over and all the while I’m watching them from behind the bedroom curtains. Right from the start I could see that Rhonda was everything I’m not. Take how we dress for a start. Jack gets stroppy if I'm not dressed like some sort of barbie doll and given that clothes shopping is one of the few pleasures left to me it’s something I quite happy to oblige him with; my dressing table is my morning temple where I put on the war paint, my wardrobe is my treasure house. My clothes are all from the top designer stores, Jack wouldn’t have it any other way and shoes, god I love my shoes. I’ve gotten used to heels, four inches being my standard, five if we’re pushing the boat out and he wants to me to impress. On the other hand Rhonda was wearing biker boots, jeans, a tee shirt and a black leather jacket.

But it wasn't just the way she dressed, it was the way she held herself. Right from the start there was a no nonsense attitude about her; she was no one's possession, she wouldn't take any bullshit, not from Jack and definitely not from a little mouse like me. She was big and strong, hey, she's a builder, right, but it was more than that; Sshe looked like no one, no way, was ever going to push her around.

As they disappeared around the side of the house I couldn’t see them anymore so I threw on a dressing gown and rushed down to the kitchen so as to carry on watching. Quite why, I’m not sure but I'm following every move as I stand at the sink staring out of the window watching them map out exactly where the summerhouse should go. Then they turned towards the house and came in through the back door.

\"Trace, 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,\" Jack said as he led Rhonda into the kitchen.

“How do you do?” I asked politely holding out my hand. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

She took my hand and stared into my face. I'm sure I’d hidden the worst of the bruising from Jack’s beating under my make up but she seemed to be staring right at it and I felt naked and exposed.

“Yeah, tea, nice one. I fancy a cuppa,” she said eventually before releasing my hand.

“Yeah, cuppa tea, doll,” Jack said. “Come along, chop, chop. We workers haven’t got all morning to laze around like some I could mention.”

They stood in the kitchen watching me as I boiled the kettle, filled the cups and poured the milk. I wasn’t that surprised when Rhonda told me she liked hers strong with three sugars, real builder’s tea. Jack also seemed to approve; she was just the sort of no-nonsense type he liked to deal with. With the tea poured it was my turn to stand and watch, keeping out of the way in the corner of the kitchen while Jack and Rhonda sorted out how long she expected the job to take and exactly when she could start. I hardly heard a word that they said; I just stared at Rhonda, she had taken off her jacket to reveal the skin tight Motorhead tee shirt underneath which, whilst perfectly clean, had seen far better days. The body it revealed was strong and fit; this was a person who did hard physical work day in, day out and, without being fat in any way she was stocky, well built, hard and, although Jack would never have found her attractive in a million years something about her spoke to me.

“…and I’ll see you Monday week.” Rhonda turned to me as she finished.

“Err… what… Yes, of course.” I pulled myself out of my day-dreaming.

“Don’t you worry about my Tracy,” Jack joked. “She’s a dozy little cow at the best of times and pretty useless at most things 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 echoed.

“Anything I want, eh? That’s an offer I can’t refuse,” Rhonda laughed and, with that, she and Jack went off and I was left with an empty house. Again.

And so it was, come Monday week, a battered white van pulled up on the driveway and Rhonda got out and started to unload her tools. After a quick word with Jack she loaded up a wheelbarrow and went through the garden, round the back and set to work, putting down pegs and tying string between them to mark out where the foundations were to go. Once this was done she set to with a pick and shovel removing the turf and digging the trenches. As she worked away I stood staring from an upstairs window completely spellbound. I tried to put my finger on what it was that fascinated me so. Watching someone working, well, that in itself had to beat daytime television, watching a woman working, watching a woman do hard, physical work, that had rarity value but neither of these were sufficient explanation for why I stood for so long just staring at her. There was a competence, a self confidence about all her actions, whether it was placing the pegs or swinging the pickaxe. I was so mesmerised I hardly heard the door close as Jack left for the day. Meanwhile, in the garden, it hardly seemed like five minutes before Rhonda had filled her first wheelbarrow load and went to take it round to the skip that was waiting in the driveway. As she did so, she looked up and saw me watching at the window. I pulled back as fast as I could, blushing furiously.

But however much Rhonda bothered me I'd been brought up to be the dutiful hostess so I finished getting dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen to make her a cup of tea, I made myself one too, put them on a tray and took them out into the garden stepping gingerly across the lawn as my stilettos dug in to the turf.

“Is that for me?” Rhonda called out as I approached. “You're an angel. I'm as dry as a bone.”

I passed her the mug, I knew she'd want a mug rather than a cup, and as she drank I stood sipping from the cup I'd brought for myself.

“You're getting on very quickly,” I commented. “You'll be finished in no time working like this.”

“Yeah, well, this topsoil's easy to shift. It'll get harder later,” she replied. “And if I don't get on with it it'll never get done.” She put down her mug of tea and turned back to her shovel.

“Do you mind if I stay and chat?” I asked.

“You're the boss, it's your house, I can't really stop you,” she replied.

“I just don't want to be a nuisance,” I said nervously.

“Darlin', you could never be a nuisance,” she replied. I wondered what on earth she meant.

And then we chatted, or at least I gabbled away inanely whilst Rhonda got on with digging out the foundations and grunting the occasional reply. All the while I couldn't make head nor tail of this woman working in a man's job; how she was so strong and powerful and yet still so much a woman.

“Do you mind me asking...?” I started.

“Well, whether I mind or not it ain't stopped you so far,” Rhonda replied.

“Your husband, what does he think of you being a builder?”

Rhonda stopped digging, rested on her shovel and looked at me if I were some sort of idiot. “Husband,” she repeated, “what the fuck would I want with a husband?”

“What, aren't you married?” I asked.

“Married? Nah, never have been, never will be. I'm not the marrying kind,” she said as she returned to her digging.

And then the penny dropped and I felt small and stupid.

“Oh my god, I'm sorry, you're...” I started as my face glowed red with blushing.

“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?” She flung another shovel full of dirt into the wheelbarrow and looked straight at me. “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.” I felt like a fool and was certainly acting like one.

“Liar,” was all she said as she picked up her pickaxe again and, for a while, there was nothing more to say.

I took the empty cup and mug back to the kitchen and rinsed them out all the while deep in thought. Of course I knew what lesbians were, well, sort of. I remembered oh so well how vicious we had been to poor Julie Peterson back at school when she had made the mistake of confessing that she fancied Annie Roberts. How we refused to have her in the showers with us after games, how we called her a perv, how we did all the things that school kids do to those who dare to be ‘different’. I did feel sorry for Julie at the time but I knew enough not to do anything about it; better to be a bitch to poor Julie that than be tarred with the same brush.

Now, here in my back garden, was Rhonda who not only was a lesbian but didn’t seem to care a fig about who knew. Once again I stared out of the window but this time my curiosity had a focus. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like when she made love. What would she do? I mean, I remember all the whispered jokes from school about ‘strapadictomy’ and so forth but I could never really understand them. What’s the point in a fake dick? How would she get off on that? Of course it never occurred to me to put Rhonda in anything other than the man’s role.

And if she were in the man’s role… at this point my thinking became muddled. I imagined her strong and powerful, taking what she wanted and crushing…. No, start again. Her hands, strong and calloused from all that hard work, her hands around my arms, holding me…. No! No! I stared at the cup I was still rinsing out but I had become some sort of zombie. These thoughts of Rhonda, these stupid, stupid, thoughts… I dropped the cup in the sink and turned and ran to my bedroom.

In a daze I did what I always do when I'm upset; I changed into my leotard and went to the gym. Turning the treadmill away from the window I put some Kylie on my iPod, turned the speed setting up to high and pounded out the miles. Whether I was running away or running towards was neither here nor there; on a treadmill you’re going nowhere fast. I ran and ran and ran until my muscles ached and the sweat flowed. My mind went blank, lost in the pound, pound, pound of my trainers against the treadmill matching the pound, pound, pound of Kylie's disco beat in my ears. And then, still lost in the music and the running, I felt a tap on my shoulder, I turned and there she was. In my surprise I completely stopped, the treadmill whisked my feet out from under me and I would have fallen if she hadn’t made a grab for me and I ended up falling rather clumsily against her. For just a beat too long we stood there with me wrapped safely in her arms. For a moment I even wondered if she were going to kiss me. Heaven knows what my reaction would have been had she done so.

“Careful, you'll hurt yourself!” she said lightly. “I knocked but I guess you didn’t hear me. I really didn’t mean to surprise you like that. Seriously, are you OK?”

I found my feet, stood up and eased myself from her.

“I’m fine,” I lied. I was far from fine but I wasn’t going to confess this. Physically I wasn’t hurt; emotionally I was a complete disaster.

“Oops, it looks like you’ve got a bit of mud on your leotard,” Rhonda laughed. She reached out and started to brush it off. The mud was right on my chest and as she brushed it off she was effectively stroking my tits. This was more than I could stand and I pushed her hand away.

“Well, if you’re OK can you point me at the little girl’s room?” Rhonda asked.

Still flustered I showed her where the downstairs loo was and took myself off upstairs to shower and change. I looked at myself in the mirror. There didn’t seem to be any mud on my leotard, maybe she had brushed it all off. What was showing, right through my leotard and sports bra, was they way my nipples were rock hard from when she had brushed against them. God I was a mess, really a mess. Somehow that bloody woman had got me so I didn’t know whether I was batting or bowling. I took a long, long shower, so much so that I was wrinkly by the time I had finished and we were all but out of hot water. This calmed me down and I was able to push all my confusion to the back of my mind.

For the rest of the day I avoided Rhonda as far as possible.

That night I had trouble sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes I had visions in my mind of how Rhonda had caught me when I fell from the treadmill. Worse still was how these visions were accompanied by that old familiar feeling from ‘down there’, a feeling I hadn’t had in quite a while. When I did finally drift off I had the most vivid dreams, one of falling, falling, falling until, whomph, I was there in her arms where she held me safe and warm and... I woke up shaking and sweating; as soon as I had got back to sleep there was another one where we were in the garden and she once again offered to wipe the mud away. I looked down and I was stark naked and my body was covered in lumps of thick oozy gunk like I was some sort of mud wrestler. Rhonda reached out but, just as she touched me….

“For fuck’s sake, what’s up with you tonight?” Jack snarled from his side of the bed. “I’ve got an important meeting in the morning and you're keeping me awake with all your tossing and turning. If you can’t lie quietly then fuck off and sleep in the spare room.”

Discretion being the better part of valour, I slipped out of bed and went off to see if I could sleep any better in the spare room.

After my restless night I was so bushed I only got up to make Jack his breakfast before taking myself back to bed and finishing my beauty sleep so it was gone ten before I woke up properly. When I finally came to I ran a brush through my hair, put on a pair of panties and a dressing gown and went down to the kitchen to make some well needed coffee. I looked out of the window to see Rhonda there hard at it in the garden. It was a lovely morning so I made her a cuppa and, still in my dressing gown, took it out to her.

“Thanks, darlin'. Just leave it there for me, will you,” was all she said when I got there. She hardly even looked up at me. I was furious although I'm not sure why. I let the top of my dressing gown fall open a bit and bent forward to put down the mug.

“Just here?” I asked. She looked up and I know I was giving her an eyeful but it was as if she didn't even notice.

“Yeah, that'll do,” was all she replied.

I barely suppressed an urge to pull open my gown and scream “look at me, look at me goddammit!” but I controlled myself and in a foul mood I flounced off back to the house.

I was now really confused. Yesterday I had got these strong signals that Rhonda was making some sort of pass at me but today it was as if I was invisible. I'd all but flashed her my boobs, my beautiful all natural boobs, and she had completely ignored them. What was wrong with her; she was the one who was supposed to fancy other women; wasn't I good enough for her?

Still fuming I took my frustration back to my bolt hole, the home gym. I changed into my leotard and this time went for the rowing machine which I moved right next to the window making sure I could be seen from the garden. Once again selecting the Kylie downloads on my iPod I settled down to find my rhythm. I don't know why I bothered to move the rowing machine because Rhonda never even looked up. However, once I stopped trying to pose for her, I did find myself drifting back to that happy place where the endless back and forth of the machine and the music in my ears meant that the time just slipped away. My eyes closed and I rowed and rowed until I just stopped thinking, until nothing seemed to matter any more.

That, of course, meant that I was once again away with the fairies and it was quite a while before I realised that Rhonda was standing there looking at me. Jerked out of my dreaming I looked up and saw her holding one of those plastic tubs of Pot Noodles.

“Yeah, where’s the microwave, darlin'?” she asked.

“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.” Why on earth was I begging?

“Well, if you put it like that,” Rhonda laughed, “who am I to deprive you?”

“Look, just give me five minutes to get ready and I'll make something nice for you,” I said. “No, don’t go, please, stay and talk,” I called out as Rhonda started for the door.

“If you say so,” Rhonda replied.

“I’ll just…” I pointed at the shower area in the corner of the gym and Rhonda nodded.

The shower area is not quite open to the gym, there’s a sort of curly wall to provide some modesty, but there's no door or anything and as I peeled off my sweat soaked leotard and turned on the taps we were both well aware of what I was doing. I gave myself the quickest of washes, grabbed a towel, rubbed myself down, wrapped it around myself, knotted it off just above my tits and walked back out into the gym.

“There, that’s better,” I said, “let’s see what I can find in the fridge.”

Was I being deliberately provocative? I’m not sure I was being deliberately anything. Rhonda had got me all in a tizzy in ways I couldn’t cope with and yes, I guess I did want some sort of reaction. Rhonda just grunted and followed me into the kitchen, standing in the doorway while I rummaged around looking for something to offer her. I guess I just had to look in bottom drawer and, if I flashed my fanny at her, well, we were all girls together weren’t we? I found a pork pie and some tomatoes, stood up and held them out offering them to her.

“Yeah, that’s perfect, darlin'. 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.” Why did I sound so desperate?

“Stay and eat with you, is that all you want? Let's see, shall we?” Rhonda said and, in two quick strides, she came up to me and tugged at the knot holding my towel up. With one hand full of pork pie and the other full of tomatoes I couldn’t stop the towel from falling and, as it puddled around my ankles, I stood there naked as the day I was born.

“Rhonda!” I cried out.

“Shut it!” Rhonda snapped back at me. “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?”

My knees were trembling and my heart was pounding and I was scared out of my wits. I knew I should run, just run away but the look in Rhonda's eyes made me stay.

“Please, Rhonda, would you like some pork pie and tomato?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Thanks, darlin', that’ll do nicely,” Rhonda said as if everything were perfectly normal.

Still naked and feeling about as embarrassed as I could do, I took the pie and tomatoes over to the work surface, found the chopping board, sliced it all up and put it on a plate along with a couple of slices of some nice crusty bread I’d got in. When I had finished I motioned Rhonda to sit down at the kitchen table and I put the plate down in front of her. Then I reached down to pick the towel up off the floor.

“Uh huh. The towel stays there. I'll decide when you get dressed again,” Rhonda said. “Now, have you got any beer in that fridge of yours?”

It was weird, really weird, to be playing the waitress for Rhonda while still completely naked but now that she'd taken control I didn't have much choice. Well, of course I did; I could have just walked away but, for some strange reason, that never occurred to me. I went to the fridge, found a can of lager, fetched a glass and poured it out for her. All the while I could feel Rhonda’s eyes watching my every move. After I’d done this she had me stand beside her and turned sideways on to the table so as to give me the once over whilst she ate. She even reached out and stroked the fuzz of my Brazilian; I like to leave a little on my pussy lips otherwise it makes me itch too much. The touch of her fingers sent electric currents coursing through me making me shiver and I jumped back in surprise but she told me off and had me return to standing in front of her. As she ate her pork pie with one hand she calmly reached out with the other and diddled with my pussy. I even found myself pushing my hips a little towards her.

“You like that, do you?” Rhonda asked.

I couldn’t reply but my cheeks were on fire with my blushes.

“Well, do you? Do you like me playing with your cunt?”

“I… I…” I hate the 'C' word and couldn't find the right reply. “Oh my god!” Rhonda had pushed her fingers between my pussy lips and I gasped with surprise, or was it pleasure.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then,” Rhonda laughed. “Come closer.”

I shuffled a little closer and Rhonda’s fingers continued to play with me. Normally I don’t like the way that Jack goes straight there, he’s no idea about foreplay or warming me up before we start but I guess I was ready and waiting because Rhonda’s fingers were slipping inside easy-peasy.

“Randy little cow, aren’t you?” Rhonda laughed. “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 didn’t know what to say; it’s true that I can hardly remember the last time Jack came anywhere near me but that was only one half of the story. This bloody woman had barged her way into my life and turned it up side down until I was standing stark naked in my own kitchen whilst she diddled me. I really ought to pull away but….

“Please, Rhonda…” I started.

“Please what?” she asked as her fingers worked their magic on my nether regions. “Please stop or please make me come?”

“I don’t know.” I was nearly in tears. “I really don’t know.”

“Well if you don’t know then you’d better leave it up to me,” she said firmly. She removed her fingers and held them up. “Lick,” was all she said.

I leant forward and, like some kind of robot, licked my juices off her fingers. It was the first time I had ever tasted girl juice and, to my surprise, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. In fact it tasted quite nice. It was Rhonda who pulled her fingers away, not me that stopped licking.

“Well, I can’t be sitting around all day, those foundations won’t dig themselves. Thanks for lunch, darlin'.” And, as if nothing were out of the ordinary, she pushed back her chair, stood up and headed for the back door.

“But… but…” I stammered.

“But what? 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.” And with that she was off.

Now I really was in turmoil. I grabbed the towel from the floor, wrapped it around myself and stormed off upstairs, throwing myself on the bed. How had I let myself behave like that. How had I let myself.... My cheeks burned again in shame as I admitted to myself that I couldn't blame it all on Rhonda. Coming out of the shower wearing only a towel had been a stupid move, one designed to provoke a reaction and now I was angry because I had got one.

Worse than that, despite the fact that Rhonda hadn't been in any way delicate or gentle with me, the feeling as her fingers had slipped inside had tickled my fancy and awoken needs I hadn't felt in so long, it's not true. I'd been a horny little cow at seventeen and now, all these years later, I was a horny cow again. If things between Jack and myself had been any better then I would have waited until he got home and he would have got the shag of his life; as it was I couldn't stand the rejection I knew I would get. That left two options, my trusty vibrator, for so long my only friend, or going to Rhonda and asking, no begging, for her to sort me out. I rolled over, opened my bedside cabinet and reached for my rabbit.

Five minutes later I was nicely satisfied, except, somehow, I wasn't. Sure, the rabbit had done its stuff, I'd had a nice little orgasm and it wouldn't surprise me if my cries had been heard by Rhonda out in the garden but there was something missing and although the main itch that Rhonda had left me with was gone I still felt a need to feel skin on skin, to be taken, to be ravished. That was what used to attract me to Jack, back in the early days, the way he would just take what he wanted, use me, ravish me. All that was left nowadays was the brutality with none of the passion, ravishment had turned to rape had turned to assault and battery. Maybe that was why Rhonda had so much power over me. The thought of being ravished by Rhonda was... was what? Scary? Yes, but far more than that. I could feel my juices start to flow again. Before I got any further I wiped off the rabbit and put it back in the drawer; if I didn't get off the bed I'd be there all day.

The next morning I'd still not got any further reaction out of Rhonda. I'd made her some tea and she'd been polite if a bit distant. I ended up moping around the house wondering what to do when it struck me, I'd play some tennis. It was a perfect day for it and we had a tennis court out at the back of the garden. I didn't have a partner, of course, and Jack had drawn the line at letting me have tennis lessons, banging on about not letting me near all those randy tennis pros but he had got me one of those machines you load up with tennis balls and then it fires them at you and you return serve. I got dressed in sports bra, nice white cotton panties and a pretty little tennis dress that came to mid thigh. Then I dug out my racket and set off down to the garden.

I was still bashing tennis balls around when Rhonda came past with her wheelbarrow.

\"Watcha, darlin'. Fuck tennis, I've got to nip into town for a forty mill 'U' bend. Fancy a spin on the bike?\"

I just looked at her.

\"Bike, motorbike, vintage Norton Commando currently leaking oil all over your nice gravel drive?\" Rhonda prompted.

It seemed years since I'd been on a bike, dammit it was years since I'd been on a bike. I had no idea what a Norton Commando was but I could guarantee that Rhonda wouldn't ride anything small and weedy. Whatever, it had to be better than playing tennis against a machine. Meekly I nodded that, yes, I would go.

She dropped off the wheelbarrow and came back to lead me round to the front of the house where her bike stood. It was big, black and mean; my sort of machine, and definitely hers. Clipped to the back were two full face helmets, the sort with tinted visors. She took one for herself and handed me the other. She got on, kicked the machine into life, and nodded me to get on the back. As I approached I saw the immediate problem; if you want to retain any modesty whatsoever a mid thigh tennis dress is not the thing to wear on the back of a bike. I couldn’t talk to Rhonda, not with us both wearing full face helmets and all but I motioned towards the house and plucked at my dress to show her that I was just nipping inside to change. I could sense Rhonda's impatience as she shook her head and motioned me to the back of the bike. Oh well, nothing ventured and all that. With an expertise that comes from long practice, oh how I miss those years, I put one foot on the passenger footrest and swung my other leg over before settling down, cuddled up to Rhonda's back.

I should have known, I should have bloody known; Rhonda treated speed limits as if they weren't part of her world. It had been years since I'd had a good run on the back of a bike and all the reasons I used to love it were still right there. The noise, the wind, the throb of a powerful motor between my legs. I hung on tight as we twisted and turned through the lanes and then thrilled to the full throttle roar once we hit the main road; I loved every minute and there were far too few of them before we were pulling into the car park at Wickes. I jumped off the bike, pulled off my helmet, shook my hair free and grinned at Rhonda like the Cheshire cat. Together we went into the store to find whatever gizmo she was looking for. However, before we returned to the checkouts she led me towards the back of the warehouse until we were outside the bogs.

\"Lose the panties,\" she ordered.

\"What?\"

\"I said lose the panties. If you’re wearing panties when we leave you’re not getting back on the bike, simple as that. So, if I were you I’d go to the bogs, take off your knickers and, when you come back, give them to me.\"

I could tell from the tone of her voice that she was completely serious and, after the initial shock, I wasn't that averse; there's something about big bikes that brings out the naughty in me and if this is what she wanted then who was I to refuse. More than that, the naughty in me decided that if Rhonda could play games then so can I; glancing up and down the aisle I checked out if anyone was around but the warehouse was pretty quiet at this time of day and we were tucked away down at the back. I reached up under the hem of my skirt, whipped down my panties and stepped out of them. I held them up and waved them in Rhonda's face like a flag.

\"Is this what you wanted?\" I said grinning from ear to ear.

Without saying a word Rhonda just took them from me and tucked them in the pocket of her jeans.

\"Come on then,\" she said as we headed off to the checkouts. She paid for whatever it was that she had picked up and moments later we were out of there.

\"Don't sit on your dress,\" she said as we crossed the car park.

\"How do you mean?\" I asked.

\"When we get back on the bike don't sit on your dress,\" she explained as if talking to a dim child.

\"Er... OK,\" I said but I was far from OK. I knew exactly what happened to skirts worn on bikes if you didn't sit on them. Still, I hadn't hesitated to take my panties off and if Rhonda had ordered it then who was I to disobey.

As I suspected we had hardly got out of the car park before the wind had whipped up the hem of my dress and it was riding high around my waist. I would have been giving all and sundry a good look at my panties except, of course, they were in Rhonda's jeans pocket. Thanking the lord for the full face helmet I tucked myself in as close as I could get behind Rhonda and buried my head in her shoulder blades. Rhonda, probably deliberately, took us right through the centre of town and I glanced sideways where I could see our reflection in the plate glass window of Tescos. I was showing a lot of thigh and probably quite a bit of arse as well. We were certainly attracting a certain amount of attention and I got quite a few wolf whistles.

We were out of town and onto the ring road when I saw the copper pull out of a side road and, immediately, he switched on his blues and twos. Rhonda's reaction was simple and straightforward, one flick of her right wrist and the bike showed what it could do. By the time we reached the roundabout at the end we were passing everything else like it was standing still and then with a lean left, lean right, lean left again we barely slowed and the roundabout was history.

I screamed in pure pleasure; sitting on the back of a powerful bike running at full speed from the law, it really doesn’t get any better than that. The blue flashing lights and two-tone siren were fast fading into the distance; what chance did the copper have against a big bike ridden by someone like Rhonda?. I could have ridden all morning and it was all too soon that we were pulling back into the drive; Rhonda pushed down the kick-stand, leant the bike over and switched it off. For a moment I just sat there hugging myself into Rhonda's body listening to the plink, plink, plink of the cooling engine and waiting for my own engine to cool down as well. It was Rhonda who reached down and unclasped my hands from around her waist indicating that it was time to get off.

I swung my leg back over, stepped down, took off my helmet, and shook my hair free. When I looked up Rhonda was standing next to the bike, also with her helmet off.

“Looks like someone enjoyed herself,” she laughed pointing to the passenger seat; it was slick with my juices but I was only slightly embarrassed; what girl wouldn't get excited after a ride like that.

“Well, clean it up then,” Rhonda said as if I were missing the obvious.

“I'll fetch a cloth,” I replied and headed for the house.

“With your tongue, darlin', with your tongue.”

I turned and looked at her. She was deadly serious and she tilted her head towards the bike. Slowly, and without once looking anywhere but at her, I returned to the bike and knelt down beside it. I leant forward, poked out my tongue and, still with my eyes locked on Rhonda, started to lick the seat clean. This was the second time I'd tasted my juices and this time the taste was mixed with the sharp tang of leather. I don't think I had ever felt so horny in my life. I was licking the seat like I wanted to lick Rhonda, lick her all over, taste every inch of her body, taste her sweat, her power, her....

“Careful, darlin',” Rhonda called out. “Mind the exhaust pipe, you'll burn yourself. Anyway, that's enough for now. I need to be getting on.” She turned and headed for the garden.

“For god's sake, Rhonda,” I called as I stood up and chased after her.

“What?” she turned and asked.

“Please, Rhonda, don't leave me like this. I need... I need...” I wasn't sure what to say so I pulled up the hem of my dress and started to stroke myself down there. “Please, Rhonda.” I repeated.

“If you want to diddle yourself that's fine by me; I've got better things to do, build a summerhouse for starters,” Rhonda said.

I was devastated. She'd wound me up like a clockwork toy and, now that my spring was at breaking point she was dropping me.

“Please, Rhonda,” I repeated, I was close to tears.

“Tell you what, darlin', seeing as you ask so nicely, I'll let you diddle yourself whilst I watch. Now, come along.” And with that she marched off to back garden with me following behind.

“There, just there.” She pointed at a patch of mud. “Hang on, I'll get it ready for you.” She reached for a hose that she had been using, turned it on and soaked the ground until it was covered in puddles. “That's better, now take off your dress and kneel down in the middle,” she ordered.

I was in a daze, I didn't know what to say or do so I just followed her instructions. Slipping off the dress I dropped it on the grass before kneeling down in the muddy puddles. The water was cold but it didn't cool me down one little bit. I sat back on my haunches as I felt my knees sinking into the soft mud.

“Lose the bra and move your knees apart,” Rhonda ordered. “Good girl. Now scoop up some mud, rub it into yourself.”

I reached into the puddle between my knees and scooped up some mud from the bottom. Now that I was committed to this I wanted to make a show of it, to show Rhonda what she was missing. I started with my tits, smearing the mud across me, rubbing it in. It felt so good I took both hands, scooped up some more of the mud and pushed it up from underneath, each hand cupping a breast and oozing across my rock hard nipples. I've no idea how seductive it was for Rhonda but it was turning me on like nothing on earth.

Rhonda was busy doing something with pipes that involved the part we had just picked up from Wickes but I could see that I was distracting her. More and more I put on a show, so that I was soon covered with mud, just as I had been in the dream. If she were to reach out and touch me now I would have exploded but she just watched, the pipes now quite forgotten. I scooped up another handful and, this time, ground it into my pussy. I could feel the grittyness against my sensitive flesh, I was effectively forcing it inside me but I just didn't care, it felt so dirty, it felt so good. Taking both hands I scooped again and pushed the mud against me until I exploded. It felt so good, so good, so incredibly good. Despite Rhonda's instructions I locked my knees together to intensify the pressure and, as I did so I slumped forward and rolled up into a ball, lost in the moment.

“Look up,” I heard Rhonda say when my breath finally came back. I looked up and there she was with her phone taking pictures.

Now that the pressure was off, now that the itch was resolved, I began to feel really foolish. With only the slightest of prompting I had ridden half naked through the centre of town and then made a spectacle of myself like one of the tarts down at Jack's nightclubs. No, worse than that, the tarts were doing it for money, as a business transaction; I was doing it because I was a randy little cow who couldn't keep her knickers on.

“I'd best go and clean up,” I said sheepishly.

Rhonda just smiled and returned to her pipes.

I picked up my dress and bra and headed back to the house. Fortunately Rhonda hadn't ordered me to take my trainers off so, when I did so at the back door, my feet were clean and I could get to the shower in the gym without traipsing mud through the house. It seemed to take forever to get clean; starting with my hair and heading south the mud was caked all over me and down there it had worked its way into every nook and cranny. Once I was clean I had to wash the shower down as it too had become streaked with mud.

When I finally emerged I looked at the clock and it was gone twelve. I went to the back door and, feeling incredibly cheeky, stepped out still not wearing a stitch of clothing.

“Lunch in half an hour,” I called out. Rhonda waved in reply.

I had just started peeling the spuds when I heard Jack's Merc pulling up outside. Quick as a shot I raced upstairs to put on a tracksuit and was just in time to meet him in the hallway.

“Hi darling,” I greeted him. “You're home early.”

“Yeah, I've just stopped by to pick up some papers. Look at the state of you; what the fuck have you been up to?”

“Just a work out in the gym,” I replied. That would explain not just the outfit but my hair which was still wet from the shower.

“That bloody gym, you'd spend all day in there if you could,” he remarked. “What's for lunch?”

“I was going to make Rhonda egg and chips,” I replied. “Ready in half an hour, is that OK?”

“I suppose it will have to be,” and with that he stomped off to his study.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn! I was hoping to serve Rhonda her lunch the same way as I had done yesterday. Now we had Jack to contend with. I went down to the kitchen and continued preparing the spuds. Half an hour later the three of us were sitting round the kitchen table eating egg, chips and beans.

“Well, she may be a dozy cow but my Tracey sure can cook,” Jack said to Rhonda. “I hope she's looking after you OK.”

“Yeah, no problems,” Rhonda replied.

“'Cos she sits around the house all day doing fuck all whilst I'm out working all the hours god sends just to keep the little bitch in the luxury to which she has become accustomed so the least she can do in return is look after you.” Jack’s low opinion of me was clear in every word. I hated how unfair he was being but knew enough to keep my trap shut.

“No, she's been very helpful,” Rhonda assured Jack. “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,” Jack blustered.

“Nothing like that,” Rhonda replied. “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!” Jack snorted. “She’d be worried she'd break a fingernail, wouldn't you, doll.”

“Yes, Jack,” I replied meekly.

The rest of the meal was torture for me. Jack never seemed to let up; it was put down after put down after put down. Rhonda was really nice about it but it still hurt. Finally, come two o’clock, with a 'don't wait up, I'll be late tonight' he finally left. I saw him out and went back to the kitchen where Rhonda was standing by the back door.

“Thanks for the grub, darlin', I'd best get back out there.”

“Rhonda, you're welcome, I like cooking for you,” I replied.

“Do you? Looks like it suits both of us then,” and with that she was off.

I cleared up the kitchen and stacked the dishwasher. Another empty afternoon loomed ahead of me so I wandered out into the garden to see how Rhonda was getting on.

“Do you mind if I chat?” I asked as I approached.

“Nah, don't mind me, you chat away.”

And chat away I did. Somehow Rhonda's broad shoulders seemed just the place to put all my troubles. I told her about this and I told her about that and I told her about the other. Sometimes I wondered if she were really listening but then she'd cut in with a pithy comment and I knew she'd taken in every word I'd said. Talking, just talking and not being afraid to say what was in my heart was just wonderful, almost as good as the sex, well, almost. And all the while Rhonda was fitting pipes or laying bricks or doing some other builder type thing and soaking up every word.

“D'ya know somthin' darlin'?” she said eventually.

“What, Rhonda?”

“That husband of yours is an arsehole, d'ya know that?”

“Rhonda, he's not that bad, you don't understand him,” I replied.

“Oh, I understand him all right. He beats you, doesn't he?”

“No!” I replied but I couldn't stop my hand going to my 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 know he beats you, you know he beats you and that ain't right.”

“But I've nowhere else to go,” I said, an even to myself that sounded pathetic.

“Give me your phone.” Rhonda put her tools down and reached over. I dug in my pocket, found my phone and passed it over. She fiddled with it for a moment or two and then gave it back.

“Next time, or better still, before next time, you call me, got that?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I replied.

“I'm not joking, girl. Really, I'm not.”

Work on the summerhouse seemed to continue far too fast for my liking. By the end of the week all the foundations were laid and the drainage was sorted, or so Rhonda said. She told me that that was the worst of it done and she'd be finished in another week. I'd got used to having her around and I knew I was going to miss her when it was over. During the time she was there we talked and we talked and we talked; well, to be honest I did most of the talking but she listened and let me babble on regardless. Much as I wanted to we didn't go on any more bike rides; I started dropping more and more heavy hints but Rhonda just never seemed to pick up on them. This, of course, was driving me crazy. We'd got to Thursday in the second week and I was making her lunch as usual when something inside me flipped out and, instead of putting the plate on the table I just tipped it all over Rhonda's lap. She just looked up at me with a bemused smile.

“You did that on purpose, didn't you?” she said calmly.

“No, Rhonda, I didn't, honest I didn't,” I replied blushing.

“And now you're lying to me. What did I say about lying?”

“You told me I wasn't ever to lie to you.” It may have been more than a week ago but that event was forever locked in my memory.

“So first you've been a stupid 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...” I started until I saw the look on her face. I couldn't lie to her then, or ever again.

“Please, Rhonda, please will you smack my bottom,” I asked.

“Maybe I will, maybe I won't,” she replied, “but first of all I’m not going to sit around in these jeans all day, am I?” She stood up and the remains of her lunch fell from her lap to the floor exposing the greasy mess that was her jeans.

“No, ma'am,” I replied.

“You caused this, you can sort it out; I assume you have a washing machine somewhere, the sooner they're in the sooner they're clean and dry so get on with it,” she said and stood before me with her hands on her hips. For a moment I stood around like a dummy until I twigged what she wanted and, kneeling down in front of her, I reached for the buckle of her belt and started to take down her jeans. I slipped them to the floor and she stepped out of them. I looked up and there she was, stood over of me in her tee shirt and a pair of men's boxers. Of course I hadn't expected lacy panties but neither had I expected boxers but they suited her just fine. I started to get up but she stopped me so, still on my knees, I shuffled to the utility room and got the washer-dryer started.

When I returned Rhonda just pointed at the mess of food on the floor. Still on my knees I shuffled towards the cupboard under the sink to fetch a cloth but, again she stopped me.

“Pick up what you can with your hands and the rest, lick it clean. I just hope for your sake that you're the proud housewife I think you are.”

I went over to where the food had fallen, reached up and took the empty plate from off the table and scooped what I could onto it. Then, putting my hands on the floor in front of me so I was on fours, I started to lick up the rest. Rhonda then told me to put my hands behind my back which made it harder and, inevitably, my hair fell forward and into the mess.

How can I explain it; well, I can't even explain it to myself. If it had been anyone else, especially Jack, I'd have rebelled; if anyone else had done this I would have been seething with anger and told them to fuck off in no uncertain terms but, because it was Rhonda, because, for the first time in my life I’d found someone who understood me, behaving like this was both liberating and intensely sexy. With Rhonda, as I licked up the mess from the floor, I felt a freedom, a freedom to be, as my mum used to put it, a mucky-pup. A freedom to indulge, a freedom to get down and dirty. By the time I had finished my face was covered, my hair was covered, and, because I'd finished off by wiping the floor with my tits, the front of my tee shirt was also covered with gunk. I was filthy and in heaven.

With the floor now cleanish I knelt up and grinned at Rhonda.

“Go and get cleaned up. When you're ready I'll be waiting in the lounge,” Rhonda ordered.

I nipped upstairs, threw my dirty clothes in the wash and dived under the shower. I thought carefully about what I was going to wear; I've got this cute little pleated tartan mini skirt that I bought back in the days when I was still trying to pique Jack's interest in me. That, plus the tightest plain white blouse I've got with not too many buttons done up.... Panties, there's a question. I nearly didn't wear any but, if I'm to be the naughty little schoolgirl, then that didn't quite work for me so I settled on plain white cotton. On the other hand I didn't bother with a bra. I'm a bit floppy when I do that but, again, I'm going for the naughty little girl look. White ankle socks and plain shoes were perfect to finish it all off. I dried my hair, brushed it out and used a couple of scrunchies to give me pigtails either side. I posed in front of the mirror; say it myself what shouldn't, I didn't look too bad. I sashayed downstairs to where Rhonda was waiting in the lounge. Still wearing only her tee shirt and boxers she was sat on the sofa with her feet up on the pouffe reading the paper. Feeling rather pleased with myself I went over and stood in front of her.

“Please, ma'am, I'm ready to be punished,” I said in a little girl voice.

Rhonda looked up at me. “Play with yourself,” was all she said.

“What?” I replied.

“Stand there, put your hand down your panties and play with yourself,” she repeated.

I looked at her and she stared right back at me. In this battle of wills there was only ever going to be one winner so I reached for the hem of my skirt, lifted it up and slipped my other hand under the elasticated waistband of my panties and reached for my pussy with my fingertips.

Rhonda nodded briefly but then just returned to her paper. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, she read every single page of the damn thing including the sports pages and the financial section. I mean, once you've finished with the bits about which celebrity is shagging which other celebrity what else is there? Who wants to know how stock prices are doing or whether Spurs are beating Chelsea; well, Rhonda apparently. I was frantic and furious. When she'd asked me to play with myself I assumed I'd be putting on a show for her but now she was ignoring me. I tried upping my game, moaning a lot and playing with my titties through my blouse but that didn't do a thing. Then I went the other way and just stood there.

“Did I tell you to stop?” Rhonda asked with out looking up.

“No, I just thought....”

“Don't think, just get on with it,” and with that she returned to her paper.

Of course she knew exactly what she was doing and it was only moments later that I cracked, grabbing the paper, hurling it across the room and I throwing myself on my knees in front of her.

“For god's sake, Rhonda...” I wailed.

“Ooh, temper, temper.” Rhonda scolded but she took her legs off the pouffe and put one foot between my thighs and, instinctively, I moved forward until I was effectively humping it. I lifted my head and looked her straight in the eye.

“Please, Rhonda,” I begged as I worked my pussy against her foot. “Please...”

“Please, what, darlin'?” she said, wriggling her foot.

“I need... I need...” Did she really want to make me beg? Of course she did. “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,” she said calmly. I was anything but calm.

“I need you to make me come!” I almost shouted. “Please, please, it's special with you, it's always special with you and you'll be finished tomorrow and I'll never, ever see you again.”

There, it was all out in the open. I was too ashamed to carry on and, as the tears rolled down my face, I slumped back away from her foot.

“Come here,” was all she said. I looked up again and, this time, her face was the face of compassion. She held out her arms and I knelt up and she hugged me, she kissed me, she took me, she possessed me. Up until then it had just been fucking; right there on the sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace Rhonda showed me how to make love. My clothes, our clothes, were torn from our bodies and with her hands, with her tongue, with every part of her body she ravished me.

Was she rough, I guess she must have been judging by the bruises all over me when I washed myself that evening but although she was rough she was never violent and when her hand gripped inside my pussy squeezing until I screamed it was a scream of joy, not a scream of pain. And then, when she pinned me to the floor and sat on my face I wanted to give back all the joy she had given me, I wanted to make her juices flow the way she had made mine.

At last, exhausted and satisfied like never before, she wrapped me up in those big strong arms of hers and we lay on the hearthrug just being together.

“I never did get round to smacking that cute little tush of yours,” she joked as she kissed the tip of my nose.

“Ooh, yes please,” I joked back.

“Maybe another time.” She kissed me 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,” I pleaded.

“OK then, but after that....”

And, after that reality returned. I got up and, still stark naked, went to the washer-dryer and found that it had indeed got to the end of the cycle and Rhonda's jeans were clean and dry. I insisted on ironing them for her which Rhonda found hilarious and it's quite a feat to iron jeans when your lover is standing close behind you and has her hands all over your body. But, even so, we couldn't spin it out any longer and, eventually, Rhonda had to go back out and finish off the summerhouse.

The only problem was that, when it came to getting dressed again Rhonda couldn't find her boxers. We both made light of it at the time and, five minutes later, it had totally gone from my mind.

The very next day the summerhouse was finished. Rhonda was gone and I really thought I'd never see her again.

And then, two weeks or so later, it's two in the morning and Jack staggers in pissed as a fart. I'm in bed huddling under the covers hoping he'll just pass out when I hear an almighty crash from the lounge and a bellow from Jack of “Oy, cunt, what the fuck are these?”

I slipped out of bed, put on my dressing gown and went to the top of the stairs. There at the bottom is Jack and, in his hand, there are Rhonda's boxers. He must have found them when he tripped over the sofa. I know there is absolutely no way I'm going to talk my way out of this one so I dash back to the bedroom and slam the door. Of course there's no lock, nothing to stop him and I can already hear him pounding up the stairs. I grab my handbag and dash into the en-suite which has got a lock. It's only a flimsy thing and it’s not going to hold him long but as Jack's hammering on the door I find my phone, scroll through the address book, find Rhonda's name and press dial. Please pick up… Please pick up….

And then the door gives way and Jack is upon me. He doesn't even ask questions; he knows the boxers aren't his, he's put two and two together and now he's going to feed them to me, literally. And, after he's stuffed them in my mouth he starts in with his fists. I go down but he picks me up again and throws me out into the bedroom. There he really sets to and I'm in a living hell. Vaguely through the ringing in my ears I can hear the torrent of abuse, slag, slut, whore; all the words he loves to call me. I even passed out a couple of times but not for long, he's soon slapped me back to consciousness and started in again. One eye is closing and I can feel the blood trickling down the side of my face. I'll be lucky to keep my teeth at this rate.

And then, just when I really thought I was going to die the cavalry arrived. At first I thought I'd lost it, that I was dreaming but then it got so loud that even I could hear it clearly, the roar of a dozen or so high powered bikes pulling into the drive. Jack drops me like a sack of potatoes, goes to the window, and pulls back the curtains.

“What the fuck...”

He dashes downstairs and now it's my turn to crawl to the window and peek out. There in the drive, all lit up by the security lights, is a ring of bikes and, right in the centre there's Rhonda standing tall with some sort of spanner thing in her hand. Casually she uses it to take out one of the Merc's headlights and I can see from the dents all over the body it's not the first time she's hit the car. Another back handed swipe and the windscreen's gone. At this point Jack reaches the front door. I opened the window to hear what's what.

“What the fuck...” Jack shouts. “Leave my fucking motor alone.”

“I've come to pick up my boxers,” Rhonda says casually as, once again, she swings the spanner thing at the Merc.

“Your boxers?” Jack is confused as fuck, as, quite frankly so am I.

“Yeah, seems I dropped them here earlier when I was screwing Tracy,” Rhonda replies.

It was only much later that Rhonda told me that she'd been down at the clubhouse when she picked up my phone call and all she could hear was Jack bellowing at me about boxer shorts. That's all she needed to hear, that and the simple fact I was calling her at two in the morning. Most of the gang were still with her at that time of the night so it wasn't as if she had to round up a posse or anything.

“You were screwing my wife?” Jack's confusion is almost amusing except, well, we're not home yet.

“I don't think you'll find that she's your wife any more; she's mine now,” Rhonda says sternly. She looks up at the window and sees me. “Grab your stuff, darlin',” she shouts, “just enough to go on the bike; you're coming home with me.”

That's all I needed to hear; I throw on a tracksuit over my jim-jams, put on some trainers, shove a few bits in a holdall, nothing much, just some clean undies and my toothbrush and then hurry downstairs, or hurry as much as I can with the stabbing pain that's coming from my ribs. When I get to the door Jack bars the way but by now the bikers can see what a mess he's made of my face and the mood is getting ugly.

“Do you know who I am?” Jack snarls. “Do you know what I do to people who fuck me about?”

“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?”

“How do you know about...?” And then Jack stops. Even when he's this drunk Jack knows when to stop talking and, more importantly, when he's beaten. “Here, you want her, take her, the fucking slag's no use to me anyway.” He grabs my arm and throws me out of the door. I stagger down the front step, lose my footing and, as I fall to the ground I hear a collective gasp from the surrounding bikers. Then I feel a hand on my arm helping me up, her hand. I struggle to my feet and smile through the tears.

“Go to the bike, darlin'. We're nearly finished here. I just need to...” And with that she swings at Jack with the spanner thing and he falls to the ground howling.

“You hurt her, I hurt you, and 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 Rhonda was punching home her words with a series of kicks to Jack's groin.

“U-h-understood,” Jack groaned.

Rhonda turned to where I stood next to her bike.

“Come along, darlin', it's time I took you home.” She tossed me her spare helmet, put the spanner thing in the panniers, we got on the bike and with me snuggled in behind her we roared off into the night and freedom.

Epilogue

Well, would you believe it but it's barely a week after Rhonda's rescue and Jack's body is only found washed up on Canvey Island beach. The coppers found my mobile number in his wallet and I got called in to identify the body and, believe me, it wasn't pretty. Rhonda hadn't exactly been gentle with him but who ever it was who had done this had been far, far rougher. They told me that he'd been dead long before he'd gone in the water and that whoever put him there had wanted the body to be found; apparently there are plenty of places the body could have been dumped where it would just disappear into the North Sea never to be seen again. They grilled me pretty hard asking me if I knew anyone who held a grudge against him. Hah, you'd have to search far and wide to find anyone in Essex who didn't have a grudge against him but I played dumb, even I know that grassing to the coppers can be unhealthy. The grapevine has it that Dawed Hussain found out what had happened to his charlie and that was that, game over. Rhonda assured me that she'd kept quiet and it wasn't her that had let the secret out but, as she pointed out, if she'd known Jack’s involvement then it wasn't exactly the best kept secret in town.

Anyway Jack didn't leave a will and, after a bit of to and fro it turned out that, as I was still technically his wife, I got the lot, well, the lot after various vultures had had their share. I managed to sell the house for well over a million and I was more than happy to see it go; I never, ever, wanted back in there again. As for the clubs, there were various factions only too keen to move in on Jack's share and a tough lawyer friend of Rhonda's made sure I didn't do too badly. All in all it worked out as enough to set me up nicely and a good bit over to invest in a local building firm and now Betty's Builders employs quite a few of the girls from the club and is large enough to take on the big boys. Rhonda is still the boss while I run the office and look after the books. Turns out when you get down to it that book keeping is just sums and is easy-peasy; who'd have thought it, a thickie like me helping run a business.

Rhonda and me, well, after I moved in and saw the state of her place I just had to set to sorting it out for her, it's the least I could do after all she's done for me and, once I'd given it a good top-to-bottom and spent quite a bit of Jack's cash here and there, I'm beginning to get it looking pretty decent. Rhonda moans about having to take her boots off because of the new carpets and how she preferred those battered old armchairs I threw out when I got the new three piece suite but, secretly, I think she rather likes it. She certainly likes my cooking; if her jeans get any tighter around the waist I'll end up having to put her on a diet. She says I fuss too much but there's a smile on her face when she does so.

As for the rest, well, I look after Rhonda and she looks after me; I'm her girl and she makes sure that everybody knows it. And if we both like a bit of rough and tumble in the bedroom, and other rooms for that matter, I know deep, deep in my heart that she would never, ever hurt me, we love each other far too much for that.

Glossary

An American previewer told me that they struggled with some of the terms used. I have therefore added a glossary although I'm not sure how many of these are British only and how many are commonly used the other side of the pond.

\n
Knickers – women's undergarments - panties - not those stupid trousers worn by golfers.

Dodgy – not quite legal\n
Casualty - E.R.\n
Copper - policeman\n
Blues and twos - blue flashing lights and two tone siren used by police\n
Norton Commando - one of the greatest motor bikes ever produced along with the Vincent Black Shadow and the Triumph Bonneville - don't even talk to me about Harley Davidson, Ducati or, heaven help us, Japanese iron\n
Throw a wobbler - lose your temper\n
Keeping up with the Joneses - buying products because the neighbours have brought them, suburban one-up-manship.\n
Shut my trap - keep quiet \n
Slapping - beating\n
Stroppy – Angry or argumentative\n
Cuppa - cup of tea.\n
Dozy little cow - dim witted woman\n
Kylie - Kylie Minogue - pop icon\n
Loo - toilet - polite term\n
Bushed - tired\n
Pot Noodles - cheap fast food snack of little food value eaten mostly by impoverished students and those who don't know how to cook. In USA known as Ramen, dehydrated noodles for the microwave\n
Tizzy - confused state\n
Pork pie – minced or chopped spicy pork in a pastry case usually eaten cold\n
Easy-peasy - very easy\n
Gagging for it - (very) ready for sex\n
Diddle - play with yourself\n
Tough tittie - Hard luck

Wickes - The UK equivalent of Home Depot\n
Tickled my fancy – 'amused me' but can be used sexually as 'aroused me'.\n
Bogs - restrooms - vulgar term\n
Tescos – well known UK supermarket chain \n
Birds - (young) women\n
Don't make me laugh - expression of disbelief as in “You must be joking”\n
Grub - food\n
Twig - understand\n
Boxers - boxer shorts - a type of (male) underwear\n
Tush - backside\n
Pissed as a fart - very inebriated\n
En-suite - small bathroom directly attached to a bedroom and for the exclusive use of that bedroom\n
Charlie - cocaine\n
Essex marshes - remote part of Essex bordering the north sea and notorious for it's use by persons smuggling drugs from Holland\n
Canvey Island - Low lying area on the North Bank of the Thames - not actually an island except after severe flooding.\n
Grassing – telling tales – especially to the police

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