Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Merhaba teyze.info porno sex hikayeleri okuyucuları,derlediğimiz en büyük hikaye arşivini sizlerin beğenisine sunuyoruz.Aradığınız tüm hikayeler burada

Babes

A note about this story:-

So, ‘V’ and I are chatting away when she says to me ‘why is it that all D/s stories are written from the sub’s point of view. Why is it never from the Domme’s. Take Summerhouse Blues, I really love that version of the Rhonda character and yet all we hear about is how Tracy feels. What about Rhonda, what did she make of it all?’

And that got me thinking. ‘V’ was right, there’s a whole different side to Summerhouse Blues, another story and one that ought to be told.

So I go down to the King’s Head where Rhonda and her biker friends hang out, buy her a pint and ask her. She wasn’t happy at first but Tracy thought it was a great idea which helped a lot and, after a couple more pints, she got quite chatty, well, chatty for Rhonda. Even then she wasn’t completely happy and she did insist that I shouldn’t make her out to be someone special. ‘I know you and your stories, Lisa, you always have to make it more than it was. Don’t you go telling porkies just to make it sound good. I only did what I had to,’ is how she put it. Quietly so as not to disturb her, I switch on the tape recorder. This is her side of the story; this is how she tells it. If you haven’t already read Summerhouse Blues, well, it might help but you don’t need to, that’s Tracy’s side, this one is Rhonda’s.

Oh, and Rhonda, like Tracy, is an Essex girl, know what I mean, darlin’, and it wouldn’t be her voice if I didn’t write it like that. There’s a glossary at the end of Summerhouse Blues if you get stuck.

Enjoy

=====

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, I think it myself often enough, how does a great lummox like me end up with the cutest piece of arse in the whole of Essex? How did I end up with Tracy? How did I get so lucky? Well, it’s a bit of a story but, if you’ve sure you’ve got the time well, here goes.

I guess you really have to go all the way back to when this guy slips a roofie into a drink belonging to Sue, Andy’s missus. If it hadn’t have been for that I wouldn’t have got banged up and if I hadn’t got banged up I wouldn’t have… hang on, I’m getting ahead of myself. Anyway, this arsehole knew that Andy was doing a two stretch and he’s thinking ‘while the cat’s away’ and all that. Sue wakes up the next morning feeling like shit and no wonder. With Andy away she had no one to look after her so I go round to arsehole’s house and we have a quiet word about how he should treat the ladies. Next thing he’s in A&E and I’m up on a GBH charge. The beak was pretty sympathetic but I got the usual lecture about taking the law into my own hands and I end up doing time in Bullwood Hall. Nowadays Bullwood is for the boys but back then it was a woman’s prison and as rough and tough as they come. Not that that bothered me much. It only took a couple of barneys before the others knew that there was a new queen bee in town and I didn’t have too much trouble keeping it that way.

What with one thing and another, I ended up having to serve nearly all my time and even when they let me out it was on condition that I stay at this god forsaken halfway house. They tell me I’ve got to report to a probation officer once a week and, if I’m not a good girl I’m straight back in side.

So, there I am, still half in the nick, and the probation officer tells me he’s organised an interview with someone from NACRO about ‘enhancing my career prospects’ or some such bollocks. I go along and this stupid cow starts on at me with “Well, Rhonda, what are we going to do with you. If we’re going to keep you out of trouble then the first thing you’re going to need is a job. There are some vacancies for cleaners that I might be able to organise for you.”

“Cleaning jobs, fuck that. I’d rather go back inside.”

“Would you, indeed? Maybe you have a better suggestion.”

I reached across the desk, grabbed the pile of paperwork from in front of her and flicked through it. Cleaning jobs, day care jobs, dead end jobs for deadbeats. Nothing there for me, nothing at all. However, there was another folder with a blue cover, unlike the pink one which held all the cleaning jobs. Despite her protests I grabbed that as well and, this time….”

“Rhonda, those are training courses.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Why can’t I go on a training course? Some of these look OK. What about this one? Car mechanics. That’ll do.”

“First of all, you’re not ready for a training course, secondly the car mechanics course is booked solid and, thirdly, those are for the boys.”

“Who says I’m not ready for a training course? How can I prove it if you never give me a chance. And as for all this ‘they’re for the boys’ bollocks, fuck that. Anything a boy can do I can do better, that’s fucking sexist, that is. ‘Ere, this one. Bricklaying. This’ll do.” I passed the pile back to her pointing out the one I’d chosen.

“These training courses really are meant for the boys. I really don’t think it will be suitable….”

“Is there a brick laying course for us girls?”

“Well, no, but…”

“And this course here, you think I can’t do it?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then what’s the fucking problem?”

“The bahis firmaları problem is…. The problem is….” For a few moments she just sits and stares at me. “Oh, very well. I’ll see what I can do.”

She picks up her phone and makes a few calls. Actually she makes quite a lot of calls because, to be fair to her, I can hear that she’s having a really hard time getting through to people that girls can be brickies too. In the end, and after a great deal of argy-bargy, it’s all sorted and I’m to start next Monday.

The training course was the usual bollocks. There’s some half-arsed little bully who likes to throw his weight around as the trainer, a dozen or so pimply youths and me. At first it’s all ‘what’s she doing on a builder’s course’ and suchlike but it turned out I was better than the rest of them and, in the end, the trainer took a bit of a shine to me and I passed with flying colours.

However, passing the training course was one thing; actually getting a job was something completely different. Even when I did manage to persuade a site foreman to give me a chance there was always some arsehole who has to have a go ‘because I’m a girl’ and I keep getting sacked for being a trouble maker. I did manage to find bits and pieces here and there but nothing solid, and not enough to get me out of the halfway house.

And that’s when the NACRO bint says ‘why don’t you start up on your own’. She points out that, if I can’t get on with the other brickies then I’m never going to settle but if I work for myself then the only person I have to get on with is myself. First I thought she was barmy but the more I thought of it the more I liked the idea and that’s how Betty’s Builders was born. Yeah, I know, daft name but the NACRO bint was banging on about something called my ‘unique selling point’ and how I had to make it sound all girly, even if I wasn’t. There was so much fucking paperwork that, at one point, I nearly gave up but the NACRO bint kept banging on and on at me and even organised all sorts of loans and things to get me started.

So, long story short, I’m getting by. I’m not ordering the roller quite yet but the word is getting around that, if you want some building work done cheap and cheerful, I’m your girl. More importantly, I’m able to move out of the halfway house and get a place of my own. Nothing special but it’s mine and there’s none of those stupid rules all over the shop. I even manage to get the bike back on the road. Vintage Norton Commando, ’73 Roadster. Not the quickest bike on the road but when Norton put that eight-fifty twin in the Isolastic frame they created the sweetest little baby and, when it comes to street racing, she just leaves the rest behind.

And then, one day, I get a shout from Joe Southern. It seems that a mate of his, Jack Mason, needs a summerhouse built and he needs it now. Turns out that he’s already had one crew in but one of the lads was caught ogling his missus or summat so he sacked the lot of them. Sounds a bit over the top to me but, seeing as how he’s now dead set on the idea of having a woman builder instead, I’m not complaining. I give this Jack Mason a call and the next day I’m over at his place having a look.

When I get there it’s nothing special, nothing I can’t handle. Basically he’s bought one of those prefabricated jobbies and, in itself, there’s no more than an afternoon’s work. Thing is, he wants a proper job with decent foundations and even a certain amount of plumbing. I reckon it’ll take a couple of weeks and I tell him so.

Now, all the time we’re out in the garden chatting, making sure I know exactly where it’s all going to go, I can see, over his shoulder, this blonde bit staring at us from the kitchen window. This must be the missus, the one all the fuss was about. I still think Jack must be some sort or arsehole for overreacting like that but it’s his house, his rules. I didn’t get more than glimpses through the window but, when we’re finished looking around the garden, he suggests a cuppa, I say ‘yes, please’, he takes me back into the kitchen, and that’s when I first met Tracy.

Talk about gorgeous! There she stood, sex on legs, looking just about perfect in her fluffy slippers and powder blue dressing gown that’s long enough to be decent and yet short enough to show off every inch of those legs of hers. I’m not one to letch after another’s wife and, remember, the last lot got thrown off the job for doing just that, but Tracy, I’d have to be made of stone not to give her the once over.

“Tracy, this is Rhonda. She’s going to be building the summerhouse starting next week. Rhonda, this is Tracy, my missus. Excuse the dressing gown; the little tart is so bone idle she hasn’t even got dressed yet,” Not that I’m really listening. Excuse the dressing gown! That dressing gown needs no excuses. As for calling her a little tart, well, we’ll let that one go for the moment.

Tracy sticks out her paw and offers me a cuppa so, to cover my confusion I shake hands and mumble something about three sugars, please. At this point I stop looking at her bod and start looking at her face and that’s when I see the bruises. kaçak iddaa Oh, she’d slapped plenty of war paint over it but I’ve seen enough battered women to know the signs. ‘Rhonda,’ I say to myself, ‘keep right out of this one. You need the work, you don’t need the aggro’.

She goes over to the kettle and, while Jack is prattling along about summerhouses, I can’t help but stare at her arse. Once again, it’s the dressing gown what does it. It’s just the right length and, while still decent, it’s dropping plenty of hints of what’s underneath. Jack offers me a seat at the kitchen table and as it’s about time I stopped being so bleedin’ obvious, so I take off my jacket and sit down.

The thing is that, now that the tea is made and Jack and I are chatting away, she’s the one doing the staring. I’m pretending not to notice, just saying yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir, and keeping the customer satisfied but every time I look up there she is, leaning against the kitchen worktop giving me the once over.

And then it’s time to go. I stand up, turn to Tracy and tell her that I’ll see her on Monday.

“Err… what… Yes, of course,” she replies.

“Don’t you worry about my Tracy,” Jack puts in. “She’s a dozy little cow at best and neither use nor ornament most of the time but if there’s anything you want, anything at all, you come and ask her. Ain’t that right, Trace?”

“Yes, please, anything you want, just ask.”

I had to laugh. Anything I want, just ask. Don’t tempt me, doll, don’t tempt me. If you knew what I wanted you’d run a mile and, as for Jack, it’s a good job he’s so clueless or I’d be out of there in no time, just like the last lot. Still, she’s a married woman and I’m no home wrecker, so it’s strictly hands to myself time, even if she has got bruises under her eyes.

Come Monday, I’ve got my tools to take so, instead of the bike, I’m there with my old wreck of a van, pulling up outside ready to get started. Jack meets me out front and walks round with me, making sure everything is all set. However, he’s not sticking around; as soon as I’ve got the marker pegs in the ground he’s off to whatever it is he does to earn a living. Meanwhile, there at an upstairs window, half hidden behind the curtains, I can see Tracy watching me. She’s been there for ten or fifteen minutes so, on my next trip to the skip with a barrow load of soil, I look up and give her a wave. She scuttles out of sight; it seems like I wasn’t supposed to notice. However, five minutes later, there she is making her way across the lawn wearing skinny white jeans, tight tee shirt and the daintiest stilettos, the heels of which are sinking into the turf. She’s carrying a tray with two cups of tea which is just what I needed.

“Is that for me? You’re an angel. I’m as dry as a bone.”

She puts the tray down on the garden table and brings mine over. It’s a nice big mug of strong hot rosie with three sugars, just how I like it. Then she kind of dithers about a bit as if she’s unsure what to do.

“Do you mind if I stay and chat?” she says after a while.

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

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

I just looked at her. She’s the best piece of eye candy I’ve seen in ages and she doesn’t want to be a nuisance.

“Darlin’, you could never be a nuisance,” I tell her. Thing is, it’s not just the eye candy bit. I really meant it. I hardly knew her and yet but already I like having her around. Brightens the day up, sort of thing. She goes over to the garden table, grabs one of the chairs and plonks it down so she can chat, and boy, can she chat. I’m there, digging away and, all the time she’s telling me this and telling me that and, well, it’s kinda nice. I mean, god knows what she’s talking about, I’m not really listening half the time, but it’s company, like, and it sure beats working on my own.

And then she asks “Your husband, what does he think of you being a builder?”

I just look at her. Husband. Really? me!

“Husband,” I reply at last, “what the fuck would I want with a husband?”

And then she asks if I’m married. Hello darlin’, just look at me. Do I look like I’m married?

“Not the marrying kind,” I reply, picking up my shovel and shifting another load of soil into the barrow.

It still takes a moment or two before the penny drops. It was so sweet the way she blushed and looked a little lost. She mutters something stupid as if she thinks she’s upset me. It’s time to put the record straight.

“That’s right, darlin’, I’m a dyke, a lezzy, a rug muncher, can’t be doin’ with the boys, only fancy the girls; what’s up? Does that bother you? Scared I might attack you?” I fling another shovel full of soil into the wheelbarrow and look her straight in the eye. “Maybe you’re scared that I won’t attack you.”

“No, no, I’m not like that. I mean, I don’t mind what you are but I… I’m not like that.”

Poor darlin’, it’s probably the first time she’s ever met a full blown butch and, for all her fluster, all her blushing, I can tell it’s sparked her interest. There’s a part of me that kaçak bahis can’t help but have a little tease so I mutter “Liar,” as, once again, I turn back to my work.

That seemed to get to her and, with a brisk ‘well, I’d better get on then’, she picks up the cups and heads back to the house. I could still see her at the kitchen window, staring out at me. I know she was rinsing out the tea cups but that only takes a moment or two and she was stuck at that window for ages. Poor thing, I wanted to go over, give her a hug and tell her that the big bad lezzie wasn’t going to bite but I guess that would only have made things worse.

Ten minutes later I see her go into their home gym. It’s built on the side of the house like an extension and it’s got these big French windows which open out onto the back garden so it’s not very private. From what Jack told me she was in the gym when the last lot got thrown off site and I’m beginning to understand why. If he only knew….

She’s huffs and puffs a bit, turning the treadmill machine around so it’s facing away from the window. I’m not sure why she bothered ’cause the rear view is just as the rest of her and I end up with a front row view of that pretty little arse of hers. Talk about two plums in a sock, all nicely tucked away in her tight pink leotard, as she pounds out the miles. It was more than a little distracting, I can tell you, and I didn’t get in half as much digging as I ought to have done.

After a while I need a piss. All that tea, I guess and, so far, no one has told me where the bogs are. I go over to the gym windows and try and attract Tracy’s attention. She doesn’t hear me because she’s got her iPod going and is away with the fairies. OK, maybe I didn’t knock that hard as I could have done because that gave me the excuse I wanted. I nip in through the back door, slip off the old Doc Martens, and toddle through the house and into the gym. Even then she still doesn’t notice me so I go up behind her and tap her lightly on the shoulder.

Now I didn’t mean to make her jump, really I didn’t. Maybe I should have thought it through because it was pretty obvious that was what was going to happen. As it is, she leaps half out of her skin, the treadmill whips her feet out from under her and she falls backwards into my arms. Result! For a moment or two she was right there, gathered up in my arms and it was all I could do to stop myself from kissing her. However, I was a good girl, I let her down gently and help her back on her feet.

“Are you OK?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” she stutters. I really don’t know whether it was the fall or something else but she’s not ‘fine’, not by a long chalk. And that’s when the wicked part of me cuts in.

“Oops, it looks like you’ve got a bit of mud on your leotard,” I say with a laugh and use it as an excuse to stroke her tits. Soz, I know it was naughty but I’m not made of stone and… well, anyway, this is a bit much for her and she pushes me away. Maybe she’s not happy with it but her nipples tell a different story. Them leotards don’t hide much, you know.

And that’s as far as I push it. I ask for the bogs and she shows me where they are before disappearing off upstairs and, for the rest of the day, she keeps herself scarce. Oh well, at least it meant I could get on with my digging.

The next morning is a real scorcher, temperature well up in the eighties with just enough breeze to stop it being too hot for working. Jack lets me in and I set up shop for the day. For the first couple of hours there’s no sign of Tracy and then, around tennish, there she is at the kitchen window. I give her a wave and she waves back before appearing at the back door with a mug of tea. The first thing I notice is that she’s still in her dressing gown and the second thing I notice is that that’s about all she’s wearing. She looks so dainty as she comes across the lawn, her hips are swaying and the dressing gown is doing all it can to give me a show. She’s the sexist thing around and she knows it. She comes over and leans forward to offer me the cuppa. Already, her cleavage is starting to gape giving tantalising glimpses of the goodies it half conceals. However, I’m not playing that game.

“Thanks, darlin’. Just leave it there for me, will you,” is all I say to her and I don’t even look up.

“Just here?” she asks and, out of the corner of my eye, I can see her leaning further forward giving me a right old eyeful. Again I’m not playing but I have to be polite so I straighten up, carefully avoid looking at her tits, and tell her ‘thanks’.

And she storms off in a huff. It was all I could do not to laugh. She’s fuming, poor thing. She’d gone out of her way to give me a show and I’d all but ignored her. What a cruel nasty bitch I am! Five minutes later I see her back in the gym and, this time she’s not turning her back on me. She’s setting up the rowing machine and she’s making sure it’s right in front of the windows where I can’t help but watch her. At first she’s all about showing of that bod of hers but I keep my head down and, after a while, she seems to forget about me. She’s no longer showing off, she’s in her own space, her eyes close and she’s simply perfect, back and forth, back and forth. There’s nothing like watching a pretty girl working out to help the time go by. I just had to make sure she didn’t catch me at it.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

 Bir cevap yazın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir


izmir escort ankara escort sivas escort adana escort adıyaman escort afyon escort denizli escort ankara escort antalya escort izmit escort beylikdüzü escort bodrum escort tuzla escort aydınlı escort maltepe escort izmir escort gaziantep escort izmir escort izmir escort izmir escort bayan pendik escort gaziantep escort didim escort sakarya escort sakarya escort bursa escort kocaeli escort bursa escort bursa escort bursa escort bursa escort bursa escort canlı bahis illegal bahis illegal bahis kaçak bahis canlı bahis illegal bahis sakarya escort bayan sikiş izle hendek travesti