{ASS} {Joanna} The Hut Behind the Garage (1/3)
joanna_...@hotmail.com
The Hut Behind the Garage
by Joanna (joanna_...@hotmail.com)
April 1999
Copyright 1999 Joanna de Brito
All commercial rights reserved. Non commercial use of this
story is permitted as long as I am kept informed of that use
by e-mail and all author and copyright messages remain
intact.
Part One
I always knew that eventually she would be mine: well maybe
not always, but from the moment I first hung her picture in
the hut behind the garage. Call it fate, call it destiny,
call it what you will, but I was sure that somehow,
sometime, our paths must cross again, and with the meeting
of our paths must come the mating of our bodies.
She stood at my door: the same old Beth I had always known;
of course, a woman had now replaced the gawky teenager:
there was now sophistication and elegance where before there
had been artlessness. Yes, she was nervous, but that was
hardly surprising, we hadn't met for almost fifteen years,
but here, as large as life was Beth, good old Beth.
"I don't believe it," I exclaimed in wonderment, then seeing
her face drop, I added: "Come in, come on in, Beth. I'm
really pleased to see you."
I spoke quickly, brusquely; maybe I was frightened that
after all these years she would vanish once again unless I
seized her by the hand and dragged her inside.
She stepped reluctantly yet obediently into the hallway and
I shut the door behind her. I had her: it was unbelievable.
Beth: here, at last.
I harried her out of her coat, stealing a secret look at her
as I hung it up. Wow! She had certainly come dressed for
fishing (if you catch my meaning, for I'm not referring to
trout). She wore this slinky black dress that hugged her
figure like it cared. There were heels and all the matching
accessories: jewelry; make up; black purse; the lot. But
somehow it just didn't feel right; none of it: this was
Beth, but a different Beth; she wasn't my Beth, the woman
that had snuggled her naked body into me and had promised me
her soul.
I showed her into the lounge, watching her supple ass
wriggle in front of me. I still couldn't really believe that
she was here: how many times over the years had I wondered
about her, worried for her, dreamed that she might still
have a fondness for me as I did for her. And now she was
here: real, solid, flesh and blood, settling herself down on
my sofa.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have barged in like this," she said,
apprehensively. "I would have rung but your number wasn't in
the book."
"It's not listed," I agreed. She was worried and nervous,
clinging tightly to her purse.
Then, suddenly she arose. "Look, maybe this isn't such a
good idea, it's just that, no that's silly. I just thought -
but you can't turn back the clock - I shouldn't have come."
"That's nonsense," I placated her kindly. "I can't think of
anyone else I would rather have knock on my door without an
invite. I mean it. Beth, sit down, come on, sit down, I
don't want you to go."
She sat, but she was clearly still uncomfortable: she was
nervy, as though at any moment she might bolt for the door.
"Can I get you something?" I inquired; thinking a drink
might well relax her.
"Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?"
I couldn't help noticing that her short dress had ridden up
her thighs and that in her uneasiness she had made no
attempt to straighten it.
"Tea," she said, looking anxiously through the door to the
kitchen. "Look, if I'm putting you or anyone else out..."
"There's no one else to put out," I confided. "And as for
me, I was only sorting out some legal papers, they'll wait.
I'm afraid I hit a pedestrian a few weeks ago and the police
have decided to prosecute."
"I see, I'm sorry." She paused for a couple of seconds. "So
you're not married?"
I smiled; perhaps she was still fond of me. "Me? No. Never
made it to the altar. You?"
"I'm surprised. I rather thought you would be."
"Sorry to disappoint you. Have never even come close."
She was still on edge, so I tried again to offer
reassurance: "There's no one else here, Beth: no wife, no
girlfriend, no one. It's just me and you, just like the old
days."
"Oh," was all I got back for my effort.
I decided that the tea shouldn't wait any longer. "Where
have you been?" I called from the kitchen. "What have you
been doing with your life? I waited for you to write, but
you never did."
"I'm sorry," she said, getting up and following me out. I'd
already filled the kettle when she stepped in; I got out
cups and milk as she said: "I meant to write; I did mean to.
I'm not really sure why I didn't."
"It can't have been easy," I offered. "I mean, after you
left."
"It wasn't," she agreed. "Not at all. There were journalists
camped outside the front door and they were following us
everywhere. Mum kept moving us from one town to another to
keep ahead of them and then came the trial; that was just
awful, even now I don't like to think about it. Honestly,
Tony, I wanted to write, but by the time my head cleared I
felt so guilty, it just got harder and harder and in the end
I guess, well, I just never did."
"It was Friday April 5, 1985," I said reflectively. "That
was the day you left. It was supposed to be a Good Friday.
In fact, it was the worst Friday of my life."
That broke her mood. She protested: "That's not fair: you
rather enjoyed it at the time."
"How could I enjoy it," I disputed, "when I knew that you
were about to leave? How do you think that made me feel? Any
pleasure of the moment was soured by anticipation of the
future."
I stopped and looked at her with both bitterness and
reproach. "You should have written," I said. "You should
have told me you were okay. When you were able you should
have written; you promised."
She slumped forward. "I know it: you think you have to
remind me? I remind myself constantly." She spoke morosely,
fiddling with the cross that hung between her breasts. She
was now looking so guilty and depressed that I regretted
having rebuked her.
"I'm sorry," I said more softly. "I didn't mean to nag. It's
great that you're here."
I dropped a tea bag into each of two mugs and filled them
with boiling water. As I did, the memories were released: I
remembered the first time she showed me her pussy; her
slapping me round the face; I remembered her teasing and how
it got me through school; I remembered holding her naked
body so tenderly that last Good Friday.
I remembered her final promise.
But I suppose that out of all the many memories, the first
clear one I have of the two of us together is the day of her
eighth birthday.
Beth was what we called a "posh" kid. She was sent to school
in pretty pink frocks, knitted cardigans and with ribbons in
her hair. The rest of the class, on the other hand, were
more accustomed to holed jeans and, if someone was really
lucky, a Star Wars tee shirt.
I remember feeling rather sorry for her because I had just
found out that she didn't have a dad. Later I found out that
she did, but that he was "away". Anyway, being a precocious
young lad, and it being her birthday, I had presented her
with my gift, an uninvited kiss on the cheek. By way of
thanks she slapped mine with every ounce of her considerable
young strength. After which she announced to one and all
that she could not stand boys, and especially could she not
stand me.
It seemed, in my not so humble opinion, more truthful to say
that she couldn't stand anyone. She had no friends of either
sex and could usually be found on her own at playtime
sulking in a corner of the playground.
Her attack on my tender cheek became notorious, a deed
repeatedly retold during the weeks thereafter, parents
laughed, the girls all teased, and every boy in the school
was wary of the palm from hell.
My reaction to her slight was to engage this mother of all
slappers in mortal combat. Whatever she would do, I had to
do better. Whenever she would answer in class, my hand would
rise for the next question, whatever task she would
undertake I had to go one better. Of course, in this
endeavor I was doomed to failure, for whatever she lacked in
social skills she made up for in intelligence: she was the
academic and I was the fool; she was on the top table while
I languished at the bottom.
"Sugar?" I asked, holding the bowl and a spoon over her cup.
She always used to take one spoonful in her tea.
"No thanks," she replied. "I'm trying to lose a little
weight."
"Never," I doubted, giving her figure a quick once over.
"Whatever for? You're as slim as you always were."
She forced a grateful smile and patted herself on her tummy.
"Don't be so sure. This dress hides a multitude of evils."
"You're telling me fibs," I jested. "With a dress like that
I can see exactly what's inside."
She blushed, looking down self-consciously at herself. "You
wouldn't believe... I just didn't know what to wear."
"You look very becoming," I complimented. "But seeing you in
that dress, it reminded me, now that you've entered my, well
let's just call it a rather large hut, I'm reminded of our
old initiation ritual."
"My God," she said. "You haven't changed at all. You're just
as cunning and lascivious as you were back then."
"But I've more now to be lascivious about," I countered.
"You just keep getting more and more sexy."
Suddenly she relaxed and grinned. Fifteen years had past and
we were sparring as though it had all been yesterday.
Of course, I haven't always been faithful. There were times
when she wasn't at the forefront of my mind. For instance,
not long after the slapping incident I forgot her entirely.
I discovered that a jar of worms or a box of matches were
far more interesting than the vagaries of the female sex.
And when these had lost their charm they were quickly
replaced in my affections by a box of old coins, a catapult
and then finally, best of all, a new leather football.
We must have been ten or eleven when we were again thrust
together. Along with two other boys, Terry and Luke, I had
formed a gang called the Mob, as we rather presumptuously
and creatively called ourselves. Of course, like any self-
respecting gang we had built a hut to serve as our
headquarters. It was located in a small waste area between
the back of my dad's garage and our neighbor's fence, and it
consisted of two discarded internal doors that we'd dragged
there at enormous exertion, some corrugated iron and a lot
of imagination. To get to it we had to squeeze between a
tree and the corner of the garage, but once through, we were
in a world of our own. No adult could get through the gap,
and strictly no girls were allowed.
Which meant, of course, that a continual stream of
inquisitive maidens, all curious to know what we did within
our secret headquarters was eager to pay its respects. If
we'd told them the truth, that for the most part we did
nothing in our hut but sit and feel bored, we wouldn't have
been boys. So, we invented stories; gruesome stories of how
we took kidnapped girls there, tortured them and only
released them once their parents had paid us a hefty ransom.
And the girls loved it; they listened wide-eyed, willingly
believing every word, every part of the tall tale, their
imaginations filling in the details that we had overlooked.
While the other boys scoffed, they were taken in. And the
taller the tales became, the greater the desire to visit the
actual location of the supposed horrors.
It was Terry that told me that Beth was also of their
number. She had not come to me; I still rued her slap and
knew well the reason. For the first time I had the chance to
demonstrate my superiority; I had something she wanted.
"Tell her that if she wants to see our headquarters," I
declared. "Then she must be blindfolded, and when she gets
here, she's got to agree to be properly initiated."
"Not Beth," Luke protested. "I don't want Beth here. She's
weird."
"She can come and be initiated," I repeated stubbornly,
emphasizing the final word.
"Oh," he said.
I had no idea what initiation would involve and still didn't
when Terry led her into the garden with a scarf tied over
her eyes; but whatever it might turn out to be, Beth had
with the naivity of childhood immediately accepted that she
must endure it. Terry helped her through the secret passage
between the tree and the garage and brought her the few feet
to where we were crouching.
He then unfastened the scarf and Beth looked round
curiously, suitably impressed by the hut we had constructed,
her long hair hanging loose on her shoulders and framing
those large questioning eyes.
"This is the rope we use to tie up our victims," Luke told
her seriously, showing her a few feet of nylon string.
"And that's the blood of the ones whose family didn't pay,"
I explained, pointing at the remains of a pool of engine
oil."
She stared horrified.
"And now you've seen our headquarters, if you don't let us
initiate you," Luke added venomously. "Then we'll have no
choice but for your blood to join it."
"No one leaves here unless they've been initiated," I
informed her. "We all had to do it once." That was a lie;
none of us had ever done anything of the sort.
"What has she got to do," Terry asked, wiping his nose on
his sleeve.
I guess I said the first thing that came into my head. I
know I didn't plan it or discuss what we were going to make
her do with the others. It was all part of the fantasy, the
game we were playing. And of course, let's not forget the
considerable influence of a natural boyish curiosity.
"You've got to take your knickers off and show us your
willy," I pronounced. "Then you've got to tell us a secret,
something that no one else knows."
"If you don't, then we'll cut you up into little pieces,"
Luke added.
Looking back, I have no idea now to what extent that she was
playing the game because she was lonely and needed friends,
and to what extent she believed our grisly invention.
Whichever it was, the outcome was the same: she lifted her
skirt and pulled down this functional pair of thick navy
knickers. She then stood there holding her dress out of the
way so that we could see her.
We all stared at her hairless willy. At the time we didn't
find it sexy; neither did we find her erotic; we were young
boys motivated by curiosity rather than lust. We examined
her as we might examine a fly we had just fed to a spider or
as me might inspect a Victorian penny piece. A girl's willy
was something we hadn't seen before up close, and that made
it interesting.
I have to confess, however, that in the years afterward
there was many a time when I would think back to that day,
to her holding her skirt so that we could look, and holding
that image I would pump my cock until it was dry.
"Take them off," I instructed pedantically. "I said you had
to take them off, not just pull them down."
She glowered at me, but otherwise didn't make a fuss. She
pulled her knickers over her shoes and I reached over and
took them from her.
"Where does it come out?" Terry wanted to know, visually
examining her slit. "You, know, when you do a wee."
"Yeah," I said, my curiosity aroused. "That's also part of
the initiation. You've got to do a wee in front of us."
"That's not fair," she complained, pulling a face that I
would come to know very well. I can only describe it as a
mixture of petulance, annoyance and indignation. It was a
look I came to love, and sometimes I would tease her just to
inspire it.
"I don't care whether it's fair or not," I said, exerting my
newfound authority. "If I say that it's part of the
initiation, then it is. Are you going to be awkward, because
if you are then we've got to drain out all your blood and
bury your cut up body."
I have no idea what I would have done if she had called my
bluff, but she didn't.
Instead, she moved away from the hut and crouched over the
ground. She stayed there straining for a moment before,
suddenly, a golden stream of water gushed forth from between
her legs. It formed a steaming puddle on the bare earth,
which then ran in little rivulets down towards the far
fence. We watched in awe of her display.
Once finished, she stood up jubilantly. She was like a young
toddler presenting to its parent the contents of its first
potty.
She was soon brought down to earth by my reminder that she
still had to tell us a secret.
She thought for some moments before saying: "My dad told me
last night that he's got a lot of money coming to him. He
said that we'll all be rich when I grow up."
Her dad had appeared out of the blue a few weeks earlier. My
mum had said that we were not to talk about him and that he
was a bad egg.
"That's not a secret," Luke protested. "What's so
interesting about that?"
"My dad's no different," I commented. "He says that when he
wins on the horses we'll be able to go abroad on holiday.
That just seems to make mum miserable though."
"Tell us a real secret," Terry told Beth.
She thought for some moments more. "Do you know how babies
are made?" she asked triumphantly.
We all shook our heads, mouths open. "A boy puts his thing
into a girl's willy," she pronounced confidently. "And he
wees in her and when his wee and her wee mix it makes a
baby."
"That's disgusting," Terry said, pulling a face.
"I don't believe it," I announced.
"Why has he got to do it like that?" Luke added. "They could
both wee on the ground and let the baby grow there."
Beth was crestfallen. This was her best secret and it had
only been met with ridicule.
"Beth, where are you?"
We all jumped. It was my mum's voice and she wasn't too far
away. Beth was still exposed and I still held her knickers
in my hand. I stuffed them in my pocket and she pulled down
her skirt.
Mum poked her head between the tree and the garage. We all
just stood motionless, I know I blushed red and the others
also wore guilty expressions. Fortunately, mum didn't seem
to spot them.
"There you are!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't you answer?
Beth, your mother's here; she's come to take you home."
Beth had no alternative but to leave. It was a strange
feeling, one of power and control, to know that I had Beth's
knickers in my pocket and that she had no choice but to
leave without them. I viewed their possession as adequate
compensation for her slap on my cheek all those moons
before. Suddenly, in that youthful way in which grudges get
forgotten, she was forgiven.
"Do you remember that day we first showed you the hut?" I
asked her. She had been telling me how she had found me: how
she had been taking a walk when she had bumped into an old
school friend. Indirectly through him she had gained my
address. "The day when your mother came and you had to leave
without your knickers; do you remember that?"
"Do I hell!" she declared vehemently. "I was really angry,
especially when you refused to give them back and kept
threatening to show all the boys at school."
"I was a real beast," I observed with a smile.
She relented. "You would have been if you'd meant it."
"But I blackmailed you for months afterwards."
"I know," she smiled back. "You kept making me undress. But
what you didn't know was that suddenly I became the envy of
every girl in class because I was allowed behind your
garage. Within a couple of weeks I went from zero to hero.
Whatever story you told about the horrific goings on behind
the garage, I could polish and embellish; I became a witness
of every gory act and my street cred soared. Everything you
did to me became ten times worse in the retelling; you
stripped me naked and cut me open, I even had the appendix
scar to prove it. Every sordid deed made me more of a saint
and you more of a god."
My smile widened. "I wondered about that."
"But you were rather gentle actually, though I don't think
you knew that, or the power you could have wielded if you'd
chosen. At that time I couldn't have refused anything,
whatever you'd asked, how could I have explained it to the
other girls at school?"
"I've no regrets," I said. "If I had been vicious, I don't
suppose our friendship would have lasted."
"No," she agreed softly. "I suppose not."
For the next year or two she became part of our gang, she
lost the ribbons and the pretty pink dresses and became a
real tomboy, though on the strict understanding that as a
girl she must be bottom in the pecking order. She was goalie
in football, fielder in cricket, ball girl in tennis,
whatever it was that no one else wanted to do. But she
always came back for more.
"Do you remember drowning wasps?" I asked, coming out of my
reminiscence. "We would half fill an empty unwashed jam jar
with water and cut a small hole in the lid with Terry's
penknife."
"I remember being made to hold the jar while the wasps
crawled all over it," she observed dryly. "I had to hold it
while you lot watched from inside the hut. That was scary."
"I told you that I was a beast," I reminded her.
But things were definitely changing; she learned that she
too had power. She would make us show her our cocks before
she would even consider dropping her own knickers, and even
then she might find some excuse and we'd miss out totally.
She learned what a powerful bargaining chip her knickers
could be and it got harder and harder to dislodge them.
But she made up for it in other ways. Once she came back
from two weeks holiday abroad. While she'd been away we'd
completely rebuilt the hut; it was now a shed. It had come
from Luke's next door neighbor who had been replacing it.
We'd volunteered for the "job" of taking away the scrap. We
now not only had a much smarter headquarters but we'd been
paid handsomely for the privilege.
This should have been the big news when Beth returned, but
she out scooped us. None of us had ever been abroad and she
knew it. By now she was a master of the art of the tall
tale.
"Do you know that out in Spain the women lie on the beach
without anything on their tops," she excitedly reported.
Luke stepped in immediately to give us the benefit of his
assumed knowledge. "You might get the film stars and the
models doing it; they do that sort of thing all the time,"
he explained. "Everyone expects it. But not ordinary people;
you wouldn't get ordinary people doing it, not in front of
everybody."
"My mother did," Beth fired back triumphantly.
"I don't believe it," Luke argued. "You're lying."
"Am I, know it all," she gloated. "Well it's the truth, my
mum did sit like that and I can prove it."
We all fell quiet; she had silenced us. Her mother! We were
trying to imagine Beth's mum on a beach, lying there with
her bare breasts exposed for anyone to see, but it was too
much for our imagination.
But an even more intriguing thought had struck me. I was
looking strangely at Beth and she felt my look. I knew she
sensed what I was thinking.
"I have pictures," she blustered. "I told you I could prove
it."
She pulled the picture wallet from her bag and then said
confidentially, "But you've got to promise not to tell
anyone. I'll get killed if mum finds out."
We all promised. And then suddenly, there we were handing
out her holiday snaps including five of her mum having fun
on the beach.
"I don't believe it," Terry confessed, staring at one of the
photos.
"And no one says anything?" Luke asked her. "They just let
them walk around like that and no one thinks it's wrong."
"Only on the beach," she explained. "You can't walk round
topless in the hotel or in the shops. But on the beach it's
just accepted."
I was flicking through the pile of pictures; I knew what I
was after, but I was pretty sure too that I wouldn't find
it. "There's none here of you," I said finally.
"I was taking the pictures," she retorted prettily.
"So what were you wearing?" I harried. "Did you go topless
too?"
She poked her tongue out at me and gave me her look. "There
are a couple of pictures of me," she admitted. "But I've got
them well hidden away. You'll have to use your imagination."
My jaw dropped; she knew what she was doing, she was teasing
me, keeping me on the end of the hook upon which she had
placed me. I was now determined to pinch a peek at those
pictures, and because of that she was going to ensure that I
failed. And I didn't doubt that I would.
"I found something else too," she revealed conspiratorially.
"At the back of our garage with my dad's tools I found a
pile of dirty magazines."
Our eyes opened as wide as she had intended. "They're full
of pictures," she added mischievously. "Pictures of women
with absolutely nothing on."
"Have you brought them?" Luke asked desperately.
"I could," she said. "I could bring one or two. But it would
be dangerous. If dad found out, he'd skin me alive."
"You've got to do it," Luke insisted. "If you just brought
one or two he'd never notice."
She hesitated. "If I do then you'll treat me as an equal
member of the Mob?"
Terry and Luke both looked expectantly to me. I sighed, I
knew when I was beaten: "It's a deal."
We spent the afternoon poring over the magazines. We all
must have looked at every picture from every conceivable
angle. Except Beth, of course, she spent her time grinning
and laughing at us.
"Whatever makes them pose like that?" Luke asked
rhetorically, finding one particularly explicit picture in
which the model seemed to be doing splits. No one answered;
we all had questions of our own.
Beth came up behind me. "What are you doing?" she asked,
leaning upon my shoulder.
"I'm copying it," I said. I had taken a pencil and paper and
was sketching the picture as best I could. "If you're going
to take the books back, we need something to remind us. I
can hang this on the wall, over there." I nodded towards the
back of the shed.
I managed to draw three of my favorites before she had to go
home and I fastened them to the back wall with drawing pins
leaving a large gap at the centre.
"That doesn't look right," Terry griped. "It looks odd."
"That's because there's another one going in there," I
informed him.
"I don't know if I can bring the magazines again," Beth
said. "I know I'll get caught. It's too dangerous."
"I wasn't thinking of something from a magazine," I
revealed. "I was thinking of you, Beth. That space is where
I want to put a picture of you."
She blushed. I hadn't said anything about how I wanted to
draw her; in fact I would have been quite satisfied with a
portrait. But it was obvious the conclusion to which she had
jumped, and the others immediately fell right on in with
her.
But amazingly she didn't object, instead, she just gave me
her look, and when she did that, I did nothing to correct
her misunderstanding. I let her think that I wanted to draw
her naked.
End Of Part One
The Hut Behind the Garage
by Joanna (joanna_...@hotmail.com)
April 1999
-----------== Posted via Deja News, The Discussion Network ==----------
http://www.dejanews.com/ Search, Read, Discuss, or Start Your Own