|Helen and Jill have a plan.|
Here's the blurb for Honey Trap, and a short excerpt.
Helen has taken a fancy to a retired soldier in her neighborhood. Just looking at him causes a flutter in Jill’s tummy. They’ve also been wondering what it’s like to be taken by a real man in a place swarming with pimply-faced boys and dirty old men with beer bellies. Conspiring together, the life-long accomplices set a honey trap for Phillip, who hasn’t the foggiest notion of what is about to hit him. It’s the party of a lifetime for all concerned.
A short and erotic story.
Helen and Jill were on the way to school. They were lucky in that they only lived a few blocks from Sir George A. Macdonald Collegiate and Vocational Institute, what people around there called Crowbar High, and that the morning was neither wet nor cold. It sure beat forty minutes on the bus twice a day, which was what some of the rural people had to put up with. The stiff breeze coming from the southwest held the promise of wet snow. So far this year they had only seen a few flakes. Some sort of vortex was supposed to bring two to four centimeters by morning, which at this time of year would be mush by ten-thirty. A heavily-treed part of town, the cold wind was blocked to some extent.
They were just coming down Helen’s driveway. Jill lived further from school, and the pair had sort of been inseparable since childhood. The trip had become all too routine over the last four years.
A figure came out of a front door up the block, turning to his left and going along up ahead of them. He was on the left side of the street, they were on the right.
Jill was chattering on about her shows. Thursdays were her big night as she called it.
Helen was only half listening as Jill gushed on about that Steven Stimpson guy and one or two others.
Any one of them would have done for poor old Jill, who looked fine but who obsessed about everything from her waistline, (this at seventeen and seven months, waiting for nineteen and legal drinking age with bated breath), her hair, her lips, her skin, and as often as not her breasts. These were either too ponderous one minute or too small and set too far apart the next. Jill was narcissism personified, not that Helen didn’t suffer from a touch of that herself. It was just that she had a slightly better perspective.
Helen had never heard Jill complain about her spleen, for example. Helen at least knew she had one. As to whether she appreciated it enough, it was kind of hard to say.
The man up there had just moved into the neighborhood, maybe a year or a year and a half ago.
He was tall, handsome in a lean and dark sort of a way. People said he had caught a sneak thief in his garden shed, knocking him on his ass as folks around there said, and holding him by the scruff of the neck until the police could take him into custody.
He certainly looked the part, although there was just the trace of a limp—the right leg was a bit shorter or something, Helen thought. He looked to be about six-foot three or four. He stood up straight, something not always true in the lankier men of that height. (Tall women were worse of course, not realizing their true gift.)
A lot of them slumped along like giraffes. His erect posture kind of said it all. He had his hands in his pockets, strolling casually along in his hooded woodland camouflage jacket and faded blue jeans. The fawn tone of the leather hiking boots was a nice match for the season. That guy had no belly, she recalled from seeing him shirtless out on the lawn during the summer months.
There were two types of males in this neck of the woods, or so Jill had always thought. They had the usual crop of lecherous, drooling boys. Most of them had no job, no car, no money, and lived in a back bedroom at their folks’ places. The rest were drooling, lecherous old fuckers with big bellies flopping down over their six-inch belt-buckles and the smell of sweat, tobacco and alcohol hanging about them at all times. Their brassy, obstreperous and none-too-attractive wives were always keeping an eye on them, hanging about pretty much also at all times. Those guys all seemed to have just a little too much money and no real idea of what might be done with it other than speedboats and in-ground pools and vacations to Disneyland with the kids. Her own father being a case in point when he thought Mom wasn’t looking.
Helen stopped on impulse, as the fellow crossed in front of them, turned right at the next intersection and headed towards the downtown area. With a raised arm and a gentle touch of the back of her hand, she held Jill.
“Are you doing anything very important today?”
In Grade Twelve, Jill was the oldest and therefore the most responsible of her siblings.
“Duh. Yeah. Mister Sokololovich’s chemistry quiz. Remember?”
Oh, yes, that’s right. The usual Friday pop quiz on the previous week’s lessons.
Sokololovich was a pudgy balding man, easily thirty-eight years old, with rounded little silver glasses that he peered through like portholes onto a brighter world, a world of promises which appeared to have been un-kept so far in his drab little life.
“Do we honestly believe Avery Jackson is going to ask either one of us out today?”
Or tomorrow, or the next day?
Helen bit her lip.
“Of course.” Jill smiled brightly against the desolation that was her soul. “Ah, no.”
Avery was the desirable male in their senior class, and most likely, the whole town.
Possibly even the whole tri-county area.
“Yeah.” Helen remained unconvinced.
Her eyes slid back to Jill’s profile for a second. Mister Sokololovich they could handle with a little sweet talk and some eyelash-batting. It would be a sacrifice, to be sure—but they could do it.
Jill read this thought as if by a kind of osmosis, the only problem was why? Why would we ever want or need to do that? Helen walked on, albeit a little slower now.
They were just coming to the intersection, as the breeze whipped up dead leaves and a small wave-front of flurries swept in from off the lake. The patterns of snow on the road surface were kind of fascinating in their own right.
“But that’s not until what, eleven-thirty?”
Her friend stopped dead again, grabbing Helen’s chin and turning her head firmly around to look her in the eye.
“Why? What didst thou havest in mind-eth?” Oh, Helen, of dangerous mind and relentless pursuits.
There was that old familiar look in Helen’s eyes.
“Oh, no. No, Hell.” That had been Jill’s private nickname for Helen ever since that summer at Camp Skubegong, when they were like all of thirteen and fourteen years old.
There were four or five of us. We swam out to the sandbar, took off our bikini tops, waved them over our heads and dared them nasty little boys to come on out there. That was the first time they had ever used the power.
It was a secret that only women shared.
Helen grabbed Jill by the shoulder. She stared at her friend for a long moment.
What is this, frickin’ telepathy?
In their knitted tuques and form-fitted pea jackets, wearing the hideous but ubiquitous school skirts, slugging the obligatory backpacks, with everyone in black leggings and soft, cute little boots these days, they would be totally anonymous.
“What, what? Say something.”
But Helen had been wondering what it would be like to be taken by real man for a change.
End of excerpt.
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