{ASS} {Joanna} The Hut Behind the Garage (3/3)
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 Three
"I knew that someday you would come back," I said
affectionately, taking her picture from the wall. "I always
remembered your promise that if I kept this picture, then
one day you would return."
I stared with fondness at the young naked woman I had drawn.
There was a curious mixture of petulance, annoyance and
irritation in her expression, as though she had much better
things to do than stand unclothed for the benefit of a
lascivious young man. I loved that woman, how easily I could
admit it now, but we can't turn back the clock: that fragile
young lady is no more.
"The address on the other side is important?" I repeated,
remembering what she had just said. I unclipped the back of
the frame, and, looking down at the back of my picture, I
saw an address and a Swiss postmark.
"Is that what you were after? Is that why you came?"
She sat down heavily on the bed. I wasn't sure what I had
said, but she was upset.
"What is it?" I asked. "What's wrong?"
She was solemn. "You asked me earlier if I was married. I'm
afraid that at the time I rather side stepped your
question."
"I did notice," I observed thoughtfully.
She took a deep breath before continuing. "My life has not
been as easy as yours appears to have been. First, father
was sent to jail, then, shortly afterwards we discovered
that mum had cancer. She could have had an operation, but
with the trial looming she refused. By the time she decided
that she did want it, well, by then it was far too late. I
was left on my own, to fend for myself. Dad was in jail; mum
had just died. At that time there was a man, a friend of
dad, he was older than I was but he was also very kind. He
helped me get through a tough time. Tony, what I'm trying to
tell you, what I'm saying is that I married him."
"Oh," I said. I wasn't totally surprised. Beth was a
beautiful woman and after fifteen years I'd rather assumed
she must have met someone.
"For some time we weren't exactly unhappy, but neither were
we happy."
She stopped and I realized she was nearly in tears. "What is
it, Beth?" I asked, wrapping my friendly arm round her
shoulder.
"I'm lying," she choked. "And I promised myself I wouldn't
do that. The reason our marriage has lasted is - just the
same as with mum and dad - is because Roger has spent most
of it in jail."
"And that's where he is now?" I asked.
She hesitated. "No," she admitted. "No, he's not there now.
Right now he's sitting outside in the car."
I was astounded. "In the car? What's he doing out there? Why
doesn't he come in? Beth, fifteen years have gone by, he
doesn't think I'm going to be upset that you're married,
does he?"
"Aren't you?" she asked, flatly.
I wasn't sure what to tell her. "It's been fifteen years,
Beth. You didn't write, you didn't phone. I had no word from
you, during fifteen years we change."
She smiled cynically. "In fifteen years we grow up," she
said. "In fifteen years we realize there are some heartless
people around."
"But there are also some very decent people."
"Yes, I know that." She paused. "It's just that they and I
have a habit of moving in different circles. Shall I tell
you why Roger is out in the car? He sent me in here to get
the picture you drew of me. I guess I should tell you why.
"As you may know, my father never divulged what happened to
the money he took. But a few months ago the doctors told him
that he shouldn't expect to finish his sentence. After the
initial shock, he decided to tell someone, someone with him
in jail: not me, you understand, his flesh and blood, but a
stranger, that's who he told about the money. I don't even
know the man's name. He provided this man with some
information, but dad couldn't remember everything. Once
again, fifteen years is a long time. But the man told Roger,
and now they're both after the money.
"It appears my father opened a Swiss bank account. The Swiss
are very secretive about bank accounts. You know, even now,
a Swiss banker can go to jail for simply disclosing whether
a particular individual has an account. My father had an
account, he opened it many years ago. Do you remember how he
promised that I would be rich some day? This was his nest
egg and all the money went into it.
"Now, this is the crux, you can tell a Swiss bank to mail
all correspondence about your account to a specific address
every six months or have it sent to an hotel. It appears my
father did something like that, all these years the bank
will have been faithfully mailing to that address. I'm sure
dad will have set things up so that even now that mail is
waiting, waiting for him to return and pick it up: but he
was so secretive that the address went him to the grave."
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm sorry about your father, your
mother too."
She put her hand on mine and smiled at me weakly. "You were
right," she said. "There are some decent people around."
I finished her story. "So the envelope I found and used to
paint your picture was from the bank, sent to your father.
It was a letter he had already picked up but later
discarded."
"That's right," she agreed.
"I don't quite see where a mailing address is going to get
you. That doesn't give you access to his account."
"The address is the key; once Roger has the address, he has
the mail being sent to that address. Once he has the mail,
he will have the account name, number and so forth. He
thinks that will be enough to be able to prize open the
contents of the account. He does have experience."
I remembered that her father had been jailed for fraud.
Roger had been his "friend".
She continued: "That's why Roger wants the address so badly;
rather, he wants the picture, just to be sure he has the
address right."
"I see," I said. But I didn't, really. I was totally
bewildered.
"Roger told me to do whatever it takes to get it. He knows
we used to be close. He said that I should pay you money if
you wanted money."
"I don't want your money."
"Then he said I'm to trade my body."
"I see. And do you always do whatever he tells you?"
She nodded. She turned her back on me and pulled the zipper
of her dress. It gaped open to expose the skin of her back,
which was laced with the fading stripes of abuse. "It's
simpler to do as he asks," she said without emotion.
"He's outside, you say," I muttered, staring at her bruises.
I found it hard to contain my anger. "Whereabouts?"
I switched off the light and pulled a crack in the curtain.
"Where is this rat?"
"He's across the road. You should be able to see a Ford
Fiesta."
"I see it," I hissed.
I could just see the shadow of a person, but I couldn't make
out any more.
"How can anyone be so low as to sell their own wife?" I
fumed. "How could he possibly think I would accept?"
"But you must," she urged. "It's the only way."
I was incredulous. "You want me to accept you as a whore?
What kind of man do you think I am?"
"I know what kind of man you are," she explained. "And
that's why I want you to do it. Do you remember, I promised
you that the next time we met I would seduce you."
"That was a long time ago, Beth, you don't have to. You're
married."
"Yes, I agree, it was a long time ago, but a promise is a
promise. And yes, now I'm married, and that presents me with
a problem. How do I pay my promise without being unfaithful
to my husband and risking his unpredictable temper? Well, he
has provided me with a solution: if you demand my body as
payment for the address, then I can do what's right by him,
but at the same time fulfill an obligation I've carried all
these years. Don't look at me like that! Don't you see,
Tony, I want to do it, I want to make love to you, but at
the same time I want you to make me do it, because come
tomorrow I will still be Roger's wife and I don't want to
endure his rages."
I was thoughtful. "I can't believe what you're telling me,"
I said. "You've got to leave him. You've got to get out."
"Easier said than done," she sighed. "Please, Tony, forget
Roger, he's my problem. Please, let me pay you for the
picture with my body. Do this thing my way; I know what I'm
doing. Will you accept that? For me?"
I shook my head slowly, what had she come to? But what I
said to her was: "I think I might be open to persuasion."
"You mean, you'll insist that I pay for the picture with my
body?"
"If you agree to my rules. Is that a deal? How badly do you
want the picture?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"I told you fifteen years ago what I wanted you to do. You
just said it yourself. Back then you promised to seduce me;
we had an agreement. It's taken you a long time, but now I
expect you to do it: my way, with my rules."
I said the words firmly, sternly. Her eyes widened as she
tried to work out where I was going. "Yes, sir," she
whispered.
"Then seduce," I commanded.
Her dress was already undone; she pulled her arms out of the
sleeves and pulled it over her head.
"Take off the bra," I said soberly. "I want to see your
tits."
"Yes, sir," she said meekly again, reaching behind her back
and opening the catch. The cups fell forward from her
breasts. They had grown a couple of sizes since I had last
seen them, but they were as firm and high as they had been
that day.
"Now go and open the curtains and stand by the window," I
told her. "I want you to stand there until you're sure that
your dear husband has seen you. I want him to know what's
happening to his wife. I'll then give him two minutes; if
he's stirred to a jealous rage, then he can have both you
and the picture. If he isn't then he doesn't deserve you and
I'm going to fuck you."
She protested. "You don't want to provoke him."
"I can look after myself. You're not the only one who has
learned new tricks."
She looked anxiously towards the window. "But if I do that,
if I stand there then everyone will see me."
"I'm not a perfect man," I apologized. "Fifteen years is a
long time to wait for a letter. Think of it as my revenge."
"You're going to make me expose myself in front of the
window?"
"No, I'm not going to make you; Roger is the only person who
makes you do things, I just tell you what you need to do if
you want the picture. It's up to you whether you obey. Go,
open the curtain and stand in front of the window so that
anyone outside can see you."
"My God," she said. "If it's not one dictator then it's
another."
I waited. I could see my words working within her. She
didn't want to obey, she didn't want to do it, I could sense
it in her eyes, but soon, yes, soon, she was going to do it.
It was still there, as she'd told me that day, I could ask
anything of her and she would obey.
She pulled open the curtain. "How do I know when he's seen
me?" she cried nervously, holding her arms across her tits.
"I don't know," I answered, sitting down on the bed. "That's
not my problem, it's yours."
"There are people out there," she protested. "Walking by."
"There probably are," I answered. "It's still quite early.
Has he seen you yet?"
"I don't know; I can't tell. I can't see well enough."
"Maybe he needs you to draw some attention to yourself."
"What do you mean? You can't mean..."
"I mean you should take off the rest of your clothes."
"What standing here by the window. I couldn't!"
"Do it, Beth. I want you to do it."
"Please!"
"Trust me."
That's all it took, two simple words. I could see the
suspicion and the caution melt from her posture as soon as
she heard them. "Trust me"; that's all it took.
Without turning from the window or trying to hide herself
from view she pulled down her knickers and kicked them off.
Next she unclipped her stockings from her suspender.
"He can see me," she cried excitedly, dropping her suspender
belt to the floor. "He's wound down the window and he's
looking up."
"Good," I said. "Now just let him watch you; roll your
stockings down your legs like it's him you're seducing."
She did as I asked, sensuously rolling them down her long
luscious legs.
She now stood by the window, naked, on open view to everyone
and especially her husband.
"What is he doing?" I asked. "Is he still watching, or is he
coming across to beat our brains out?"
"He's still watching," she said breathlessly.
"Then close the curtain, but stay where you are."
I watched her lean forward to do it, her breasts wobbling as
she did: delicious. Getting up from the bed I crossed to
where she was standing and took her in my arms.
"You realize that standing as we are," I said, turning her
so that we were side on to the window. "That our shadows are
cast onto the curtain; he's now in no doubt as to what's
going on."
"He won't barge in," she said. "He'll just think that I'm
doing what I've got to do to get the picture."
"There's a word for men that sell their wives for profit," I
responded.
"And there's a word for the wives too," she whispered.
"I guess there is," I said, picking her up in my arms and
carrying her across to the bed. Having deposited her there,
I handed her the picture.
"There, it's yours, no conditions. If you want to take it
and go, then do so; if you're a woman of honor then you'll
keep the promise you made to me fifteen years ago and stay."
I kissed her softly on the lips. "I want you to stay, I want
to make love to you," I whispered, allowing my hand to
wander onto her tummy.
"Thank you," she sighed. "But just tonight, I need you to be
strong. We both know the truth, the real truth, why we're
making love, but I don't want to have to lie to Roger. Make
me pay for the picture with my body, then I can tell him the
truth, even if it isn't exactly the whole truth."
"If that's what you want," I conceded.
"So what does that make me?" she asked. "What word is it
that describes wives that allow themselves to be sold? Tell
me, so that I can tell Roger what you think of me. It'll
reassure him to think you don't think so highly of me any
more."
"I think the word you're looking for is "whore"," I told her
uneasily.
"Then tell me, tell me what I am, so that I can tell Roger."
I gave the lady what she wanted. "Beth, I never thought I
would say it, but what you've become, what you are, you're
nothing but a cheap whore, a slut."
She shivered under the weight of my denunciation. "Thank
you," she whispered.
I allowed my hand to move toward her breast.
No," she said, pushing it away. "No, not yet. You must
undress too." She began the task by unbuttoning my shirt and
I quickly took over. She lay watching me as I removed my
clothes for her, she watched as I revealed my now rampant
cock.
"Can I touch it?" she asked, and when I nodded she allowed
the back of her hand to lightly run along its length. Her
touch was so gentle yet also such torture.
"You must also touch me like this," she said. "Not with the
palm, not with the fingers, only with the back of your
hand."
I began to do so, caressing her body with the rough of my
hand. I let it wander first along the outside, then the
inside of her legs. These instinctively parted to allow my
hand to move higher. She gasped as my knuckles grazed across
her pussy lips.
"You've been practicing," she said accusingly, shutting her
legs so as to squeeze herself onto my hand.
"Searching," I corrected, pulling her towards me. "Searching
for someone as wonderful and sexy as my first girlfriend."
I looked into her eyes and kissed her, not harshly, but
softly, I felt that she was like an injured beast that
needed to be reassured and loved. She had been ready to give
herself to me once; I needed to coax her into being ready
again.
I rolled onto her, allowing the backs of my hands to glide
along the outside of her breasts for the first time. "Do you
remember those long winter evenings when I would try and
tempt you to the movies, or the arcades, or television,
anything that meant not doing homework."
"You weren't an academic," she agreed, pushing me over onto
my back and kissing me softly on the chest. I could feel her
breasts upon my stomach as she bit down upon my nipples.
"Ouch," I cried, "What was that for?"
"That was for making me stand in front of the window," she
accused. Then she kissed where she had bitten. "And that's
also for making me stand in front of the window."
"You're mad!" I said. "You're quite mad."
"No," she said, "I was mad and angry. Now I just feel at
peace, I have this wonderful sense of tranquility."
But this time as I rolled her onto her back, she seemed to
lose that peace for a moment, grimacing in pain. The bruises
on her back may have been old, but they still hurt.
I was concerned. "Are you all right?" I asked. "Should I be
more gentle?"
She placed her palm across my mouth to silence me. "Fuck me,
I want to feel you inside. Please."
"You're sure," I teased.
She bit me again; harder this time and I cried out: "There's
a sheath in the drawer."
She reached across and opened the drawer to which I had
pointed. As she searched about I took charge of her ass,
kissing it and running the stubble of my beard across her
cheeks.
"Where?" she asked, quickly drawing breath as I moved into
the crack.
"There's a box at the bottom on the left," I said.
She withdrew a packet and pushed me onto my back. "Now," she
said, tearing it open. "You stay right where you are until I
tell you otherwise."
She took my cock in one hand holding it near the base. I had
to lie there and watch her. She gently moved her hand along
my cock, maintaining her grip and therefore rolling the
foreskin up and down.
"You've been a bad boy in your past," she accused.
"How do you mean?" I said tensely, feeling the excitement
her hand produced.
"You made me take off my knickers as a kid and show myself
to you."
"I was a kid too," I protested.
"After my mum came, I had to spend the rest of the afternoon
without any knickers. How do you think that felt, having
nothing but fresh air blowing around my pussy?"
"I don't know," I gasped as she caressed the end of my cock
with the sheath. "How did it feel?"
"It was very embarrassing," she whispered, very slowly
beginning to unroll the sheath onto my cock. "Knowing that
at any moment the merest gust of wind might expose me. I
just hated it."
"I can imagine," I said sympathetically.
She hit me, it was quite hard for a playful punch; her fist
connected with my shoulder. "You're teasing."
"No," I said, looking down at her other hand. She had just
finished unrolling the sheath and was squeezing the air from
its nipple. "You're teasing me."
"That's because you like being teased," she said, making
little circular movements about the end of my cock with her
fingernail.
I parted her legs and moved my finger towards her hole. "So
if I like being teased so much, tease me some more."
I saw her thinking. What was she planning now?
"What was that word?" she asked eventually. "Tell me again.
That word that describes women who have sex for profit?"
"Whore," I repeated. "The word is "whore"."
"So say it, tell me again. Tell me what I am."
"You're a whore," I grimaced, feeling my cock jump in her
hand as I uttered the word.
"A dirty stinking whore," she agreed, reacting to what she
knew had just aroused me. "That excites you, doesn't it? So
why do you like to think of me as a whore? Is it because you
like to think of me being fucked by other men?"
"No," I said, feeling somewhat betrayed by my cock. I did
find the word arousing, but that wasn't how I wanted to
think of her, not in my mind. The problem was, there was no
hiding the way my cock thought, and now I had to explain why
it liked what it did. "It's because a whore gets paid, and
therefore she does whatever I ask."
"That's right," she acceded, slowly stroking my erection. "I
need that picture and you know that whatever you ask of me,
I daren't say no. What are you going to make me do, Tony?"
Feeling the need to ask her to do something, anything, I
told her to put her hands behind her head. "Keep your hands
like that," I said. "It's to remind you of what you are."
"But I've never been unfaithful before," she whimpered,
holding her hands where I had instructed. "Not in all the
years I've been married."
"Well, you're acting the slut tonight."
"Yes, but that's because you're making me."
I cradled her head in my hands, running my fingers through
her hair and stroking her scalp. "You are beautiful," I told
her, looking deeply into her eyes. Those eyes smiled back at
me and, keeping her hands laced behind her head, she pulled
herself up to kiss me. I ran my hands over her slender neck
and pristine shoulders.
"Your husband is a fool," I said, "not to value you more
highly."
"But he does value me in his own way," she corrected,
pushing her groin into me.
Her comment annoyed me a little. I didn't understand why she
was so tolerant of his indifference. My emotion vented
itself by grabbing hold of one her tits in each of my hands.
"You better keep your hands where they are," I warned her,
squeezing and massaging her breasts. "Otherwise I might
think twice before allowing you to take the picture."
This surprised her. "You wouldn't dare; you wouldn't dare
renege on our deal after I've fucked you."
"Don't worry," I reassured her. "If you do exactly what I
tell you, then you can leave here with what you came for."
I rolled her nipples through my fingers, feeling their
hardness and the reaction of her body. "You like that, don't
you?" I asked.
"Don't you?" I repeated, when she didn't answer.
"Yes," she grimaced. Suddenly I saw a way of both teasing
her and demonstrating my dominance over my "whore". I
stopped touching her breasts.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
I responded to her question with one of my own. "When was
the last time you made love to Roger?" I asked.
She was confused by the question. "I don't know. Maybe last
week. Please, never mind him, can you, can you do that again
to my breasts?"
I ignored her. "Maybe? Don't you know for certain when you
last made love to your husband?"
"Yes, it was last week." With her hands still clasped behind
her head, she reached up to lick my nipples in an attempt to
distract me. She very nearly succeeded.
"And how does he make you cum? What does he do?"
"He bangs me hard," she gasped. "He says that is what I
like. It makes me cum quickly."
"But it isn't what you like," I diagnosed. "You like to be
teased; you like to be tormented."
"No," she cried. "That's not true. I hate it."
I ran my hand down the inside of each of her legs. "Remember
now, if you move either of your hands, then you lose the
picture."
She was helpless, as much as she wanted to bring herself
pleasure, without use of her own hands or some help from me,
she was powerless to arouse herself sufficiently to find
release.
I traced the outline of her areolas with my fingers watching
with a smile as she tensed. "If it's not true that you like
being teased, then I shall enjoy so much more the prospect
of teasing you."
"You're hateful."
"Insults will only make it worse," I cautioned her softly.
"How long do you think I can hold you in agony without a
climax? How long, dear Beth?"
"As long as you choose," she replied in anguish.
I tickled the inside of her thighs with the tips of my
fingers, watching with delight the conflicting reactions on
her face as my fingers got closer to her cunt. Before
getting too close, however, and to her annoyance, I cut
away, bypassing her most sensitive areas. I moved back down
and began the circuit again. This time, though, as my
fingers closed on her cunt, she snapped her legs shut upon
my hand, using her thigh muscles to press it into herself
and give herself some arousal.
"Naughty, naughty," I teased, tapping her on the leg with my
free hand. "Open up. Come on, that isn't allowed."
Slowly and with both reluctance and frustration she reopened
her legs. "Please," she begged.
"Please?" I repeated, taunting her. "What does "please"
mean?"
"It means I want you to put your penis inside me and fuck
me."
"But I'm not going to do that," I teased. "Not until you
cum. Once you cum then I'll enter you."
She gazed up at me despairingly, but she refused to plead
further. Looking into her eyes, my fingers wandered along
the familiar territory of her inner thigh, but this time,
rather than cutting to the outside at the last moment, I let
them continue the final furlong to the opening of your
pussy.
"What is it you want me to do?" I mocked her lightly, my
finger wandering towards her clit. She held her breath and
immediately I held my finger still.
"What is it?" As her breath began to exhale, my finger moved
onto her clit.
"Is this what you want?" I asked, rubbing softly on her bud.
She swallowed hard, pushing herself onto my finger. I
watched as her breath quickened to keep pace with her pelvic
motion. Still she kept silent.
Her breath was now hard, and her motion fast: it wouldn't be
long now. I could see the tension, the arousal in her
features. She was close, very close.
"Obviously, that isn't what you want," I sighed, removing my
finger. "Otherwise you would speak to me."
"No!" she cried, her agonized body screaming at her as it
was pulled forcibly away from its climax. "I mean yes,
please, don't stop. That's exactly what I want."
"Perhaps we can try something else," I said. My fingers
moved to her breasts. "Let's see how sensitive you are
here."
I stroked her chest, up and down the valley between her
tits, around the outside, but never once touching them. Her
breathing was now much calmer, but her face showed concern.
"Do you like this?" I asked.
"Yes," she responded, much more communicatively this time.
"How long can we make this last?" I taunted, brushing the
outer surfaces of her tits. "How long?"
"This isn't fair," she accused.
"Oh, it's perfectly fair. Think of all the times that you
promised that I could stroke your breasts or feel your
pussy, and then you welshed: that wasn't fair."
My fingers caressed the underside of her breasts, finding
her nipples and teasing her gently.
"It encouraged you," she said simply, her mind diverted by
my torture of her tits.
I remembered the countless hours I had devoted to homework
solely due to the carrots she had dangled before me. Not
only had she encouraged, but also she had done so long after
others had given up. And she had not withheld her kisses.
How could I now gainsay those crumbs that I had so treasured
when they had fallen at my feet?
I moved over her and kissed her softly on the lips; I felt
her lips part in response and I accepted that response
eagerly.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, pulling her hands free from under
her head. "That was unkind."
I held her hands within mine and kissed each of them gently.
Then, letting go, I parted her legs and pushed my cock into
her. "I've had enough of playing," I told her. "I just want
to love you."
As I pushed my erection into her, she kissed me repeatedly
on my cheeks, little pecks rather than kisses, but building
to a crescendo.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Finally, we made love. It wasn't a bout of physical sex or
great passion; it was two people demonstrating a fondness
for each other. I remember more about us rubbing noses, or
her laugh as I bit gently upon the lobe of her ear; I
remember more of these than the strength of her orgasm. I'm
sure she had an orgasm; I know she did, the memory of that
is also very special. What I'm trying to say is that we did
so much more than simply exchange orgasms, that even if
neither of us had cum at all, the sex would have been just
as special. To be able to say that, for me, is a very rare
experience.
When it was over, I lay sated upon her, my sweat mingling
with her perspiration. "Can I, can I ask you to move," she
begged. "It's my back, it hurts a little."
I rolled off of her, pulling the sheath from my deflated
cock. "Are you all right?" I asked.
"It still aches," she explained. "My back." Then she said
rather meaningfully. "I was injured; a car hit me about a
month ago."
My jaw dropped, two pieces of a jigsaw had just fallen into
place. "It was you, wasn't it?" I said. "It was you that I
hit!"
She nodded.
"I can't believe... Oh, I'm sorry Beth. But they gave me
some other name, they said the person I knocked down was, I
don't know, was Liz somebody."
She nodded again. "I haven't been known as Beth Harris since
dad was arrested. I chose Liz as it's another derivative of
Elizabeth."
I was still trying to connect the pieces. "But I saw you, I
saw you on the pavement. I saw you after, after, you know,
after you stepped out."
"You didn't look too closely," she teased. "From what I can
make out you were in quite a bad way yourself. The effects
of shock can be quite traumatic."
Suddenly I remembered what she'd said about how she had
found me. "So that's how you got my address?"
"The police gave it to me while I was in hospital, and, of
course, they gave me your name. I was surprised, and also a
little hurt, emotionally, I mean: I thought you might come
and visit."
"I wanted to, but the insurance company, they said I should
stay away." Then as I reflected upon what might easily have
happened, I added: "I could have killed you."
She disagreed. She took my hand in hers and sighed: "But
that wasn't our destiny."
I looked at her hard, there was something puzzling me. "But
you said that Roger had caused your bruises. It wasn't
Roger, was it? They were caused by the accident."
She shrugged. "When I told you that, I wasn't yet ready to
tell you the truth."
She was hiding something. I couldn't put my finger on it,
but I was sure she still wasn't telling me the truth: not
the whole truth. What was she hiding?
I wrapped a dressing gown round myself and looked through
the window. The Ford Fiesta was still there and Roger was
still sat in the driver's seat. There was something wrong.
Somehow I was being set up.
I threw on some trousers and a shirt.
"What's the matter?" Beth asked. "Where are you going?" She
knew I was suspicious.
"I want to meet Roger," I said sternly. "I want to find out
for myself what kind of a louse sells his wife in the hope
of a financial reward."
She didn't stop me; neither did she encourage me. She
watched me finish dressing, pick up the picture and leave
the room.
I walked to the car with the picture in my hand. I knew that
somewhere inside the house Beth would be watching, wondering
what was going to happen.
Would Roger have one of his rages? Or would he accept what
we had just done as the final fling of an aging romance?
I went straight to the driver's side and looked in through
the window. I was confused by what I saw. There was no man
inside; Roger had vanished. Instead, there was a coat and a
hat that had been draped over a large pillow to give the
appearance of a person.
I looked back toward the house and saw Beth standing in the
doorway draped only in one of my shirts. It was unbuttoned
and gaped open exposing her pussy to the street.
I was about to ask her where Roger had gone when I completed
the jigsaw: there was no Roger; Roger didn't exist; Roger
was a figment of Beth's imagination. She had told me one of
her tall tales and I had swallowed it whole.
But if there was no Roger, neither was there a Swiss bank
account, and if there was no bank account, then there could
be no money; it was all baloney, all of it. How much had she
told me that I could trust?
Only one thing stood out as having substance: Beth had done
what I had asked her to do all those years ago, she had
seduced me on our next meeting.
This too must have its consequence, as Beth reminded me from
across the road. "Don't forget how the story ends," she
called. "Don't forget your promise, what must happen after I
seduce you."
So now gentle reader, please turn back the clock, rewind its
hands, return please, and read once more the opening
paragraph of my story.
The End
The Hut Behind the Garage
by Joanna (joanna_...@hotmail.com)
April 1999
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