The Swap, Part II
by Wabbitboy, Decca555@aol.com
Quarrelling neighbours come to an unusual arrangement

The story so far...

On the face of it, the two women should have been the best of 
friends. Their experiences had been almost identical. Both were 
middle-aged, both had been deserted by their husbands, and they'd 
both struggled to bring up their sons alone. But maybe they were too 
similar. Life had been tough, and the drive to succeed gave them a 
competitive edge. But while Mrs Cotterell had sought to 'better' 
herself, Mrs Rawlins remained defiantly down-at-heel. Her boarded-up 
windows and weed-ridden garden remained a constant affront to the 
sensibilities of her genteel neighbour. The two women had barely 
spoken to each other for the past five years and when they did speak 
it was to snap out a complaint. And now, in the depths of the 
hottest summer anyone could remember, the simmering feud blazed into 
life.

Enraged by his arrogance, Mrs Cotterell had taught Mrs Rawlins' 
cocky son, Vince, a lesson he wouldn't forget. Mrs Rawlins, having 
witnessed the whole episode, is determined to get even with her 
neighbour.

Mrs Cotterell bundled the sheets, still damp from the last wash, 
back into the washing machine. She tutted over the black flecks of 
soot from Vince's bonfire, but felt satisfied that justice had been 
done. And, to be honest, she had to admit the perverse pleasure it 
had given her. As the machine churned into life, Mrs Cotterell 
allowed herself the rare luxury of a small afternoon drink. She 
relaxed with the tiniest glass of scotch and recalled the sight of 
Vince splayed out naked at her feet. The warm, trembling glow might 
just have been the alcohol.

Mrs Rawlins sat, chainsmoking, in her front room. She considered 
stomping next door and confronting her neighbour, but she realised 
the moment had passed. It passed as she stood at the window watching 
Mrs Cotterell humiliate her son. Now there was nothing for her to do 
but plan her recompense. An eye for an eye. A son for a son.

Her eyes narrowed as a jumble of half thought-out ideas skittered 
through her mind. But, within the hour fate had played right into 
her hands.

-

Mrs Cotterell's son, Mark, had been enjoying a kickabout in 
Northglen Park. Sunday morning was always the big match for Mark and 
his mates, but this had been a lazy, half-hearted event. The late 
afternoon heat and a few cans of strong lager sapped any competitive 
spirit. Nobody even bothered to keep score and the match had kind of 
petered out aimlessly. After a couple more cans, Mark, feeling woozy 
and tired, wandered home for his tea and a crash-out on the sofa.

"Mum I'm back what's for tea?" he burbled as he stumbled through the 
house. He threw his sweat-stained soccer jersey onto the kitchen 
floor and ambled out into the back garden. In truth, he'd not had a 
great deal to drink, but the oppressive heat coupled with tiredness 
and dehydration, magnified the effects of the alcohol. Overall, 
though, Mark was feeling relaxed and at one with the world. He stood 
in the garden, kind of grinning, aware of the dull ache in his 
bladder. The thought of negotiating the stairs up to the toilet was 
just too much of a pain. He glanced about, saw no one in the 
immediate vicinity, and gently lifted up his shorts. It suddenly hit 
Mark how desperate he was for a pee as he fumbled clumsily to 
release his dick from the athletic support he was wearing. Too late. 
A fraction of a second before he could get out his dick, he lost 
control and the first spurt caught his shorts.

"Fuuuuuuck!" he growled as he finally got release and sprayed the 
flower beds, "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!". A long-delayed pee was the best 
sensation possible. Mark wanted it to go on forever.

What the lad couldn't have known, couldn't have seen, was his 
neighbour, sitting behind a yellowing net curtain, keeping a fierce 
eye on the gardens. She watched in disbelief as Mark relieved 
himself, his legs apart, head thrown back in near ecstasy.

"And my lad takes a beating for a harmless bitty-bit of a bonfire! 
Well we'll bloody well see, won't we."

She stubbed out her cigarette and bolted out of her seat with such 
force that the chair fell over.

"You're a filthy little pig..." she was shouting as she stormed out 
of the kitchen door, but Mark didn't hear a word.

"I said you're a filthy, disgusting pig, Mark Cotterell."

Mark heard her voice this time, but he was in a full-flowing state 
of bliss and didn't give a flying fuck. The sun was on his face and 
his bare chest and everything was right with the world.

This was all too much for Mrs Rawlins. As far as she was concerned, 
the boy was laughing at her. She clambered over the wall between the 
gardens and marched up to Mark.

"Don't you laugh in my face young man." she snapped.

All Mark wanted was one more minute of blissful, bladder-emptying 
peace. He simply blanked out the hectoring woman at his side. Big 
mistake.

Fuelled with anger, Mrs Rawlins grabbed Mark's left arm and yanked 
it smartly up his back.

"Don't you laugh at me you disgusting little pig!" she shouted. A 
spray of pee arced around the garden as Mark was spun around. 

Mrs Rawlins had a firm grip of his wrist. Mark wobbled a little 
unsteadily on his feet. He couldn't quite understand what she was 
doing, but he was embarrassedly aware of his dick hanging limply 
from his shorts. He awkwardly tried to shove it back into the tight 
athletic support.

"Don't for godssake make matters worse and start playing with 
yourself." snapped Mrs Rawlins, shaking the boy's wrist.

Mark nervously grinned, trying to figure out if he was missing the 
point of some really bad joke.

"I said don't you laugh at me, young man. I'm not smiling."

The woman began slowly twisting the boy's wrist. Mark wriggled to 
free his wrist. He prised at the woman's fingers. But in vain. His 
body began to twist and buckle under the relentless pressure. Mrs 
Rawlins' apparent strength made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"I don't know what the f... what you want..." he began, as he felt 
his knees bending under him. One leg suddenly gave way and the boy 
went down heavily, grazing his knee badly on the coarse, dry soil.

Instinctively, he lashed out with his free hand and caught Mrs 
Rawlins a glancing blow to the left hip. Mrs Rawlins responded by 
suddenly letting go of the boy's wrist. But before he could regain 
his balance, the woman furiously swung a clenched fist into his 
face.

Mark, taken completely unaware, flew back through the air and landed 
spreadeagled on his back. The thud knocked the air from his lungs, 
and for a few dizzy moments he simply stared up at the dazzling blue 
sky, only dimly aware of the throbbing, stinging sensation in his 
nose. As he began slowly to sit up, he felt two hands grab him under 
the armpits and haul him roughly to his feet. He swayed, but quickly 
regained his balance. The defence instinct sobered him up in an 
instant. He planted his feet firmly apart and readied himself. He 
was convinced Mrs Rawlins was having some kind of weird brainstorm 
and figured his best plan was to make it into the house and lock the 
door. Trouble was, Mrs Rawlins stood between the house and him.

"OK," the boy began, "let's just cool it a bit, huh? We just forget 
about this, huh?"

"Let's not." growled Mrs Rawlins striding menacingly toward the boy, 
"Let's settle this here and now, boy."

She made a grab for Mark's wrist again, but he snappily dodged her 
lunge.

"Uh uh, you don't get me twice." he grinned, finally feeling he was 
getting back on top of the situation.

"Don't you ever..." snapped Mrs Rawlins, pounding her fist into the 
boy's stomach, "EVER laugh at me."

As Mark doubled over, she grabbed a clump of his thick, blond hair 
and smashed his face onto her raised knee.

Mark swayed backwards and then, dazed, crumpled to his knees. Drops 
of blood began to drip from his nose.

Mrs Rawlins yanked the boy to his feet by his hair. He tried to cry 
out but only managed to emit a strangulated nasal snort. He felt the 
taste of blood at the back of his throat. Mrs Rawlins took the 
chance to grip his wrist again. With one deft move she yanked down 
on the boy's arm and forced him to his knees. The stabbing pain from 
his already scuffed knee snapped his dulled senses back to life. 
Mark struggled with all his might, but the woman was wiry and 
powerful. Try as he might, he couldn't move his arm an inch.

"I've never seen anything such a filthy display. You could be done 
for indecent exposure if I decided to press charges. You're an 
animal, Mark Cotterell."

With a shock, Mark was suddenly aware of his dick, still flopping 
out of his shorts, but as Mrs Rawlins twisted his arm further, he 
needed his free arm to stop his face being ground into the earth as 
she pushed him forwards. He yelped with pain as the woman wrenched 
his arm back and back, her other hand tightly gripping the back of 
the boy's neck.

Mark tried to gasp out an excuse, but as the woman's strength 
finally overcame him, his face finally thudded painfully into the 
hot, dry soil.

His nose stung and tears welled up in his eyes. Apart from the 
futile flailing of his legs, Mark was unable to move a muscle. The 
woman's grip on him was solid, and the pain in his shoulder 
excruciating. He grimaced and, with all his might, heaved the full 
strength of his body against the woman's hold. Nothing happened. 
Mark had never before felt such utter helplessness, and the feeling 
freaked him. Sweat trickled into his eyes and the dry soil stuck to 
his damp skin. The more he strained, the more he hopeless he felt. 
He tried to speak, but his chest felt paralysed.

"You're a nasty little flasher. That's how you boys get your kicks, 
is it? Exposing yourselves to respectable women? I've a good mind to 
call the police here and now."

Mark whimpered what might have been an apology.

Then, as suddenly as she had unleashed her attack on the boy, Mrs 
Rawlins let go her grip on him. Mark's body uncoiled like a taut 
spring. His numb, frozen shoulder creaked painfully back into place 
and he flopped, gasping, onto his back.

Mrs Rawlins looked down at the boy's spreadeagled body, at the broad 
chest heaving, and glistening with sweat, the muscular thighs spread 
wide apart. A nervous, trembling wave of excitement shuddered 
through her body at the sight. She had discovered reserves of 
strength never tapped into before. Her anger and frustration had 
overcome a strapping twenty-year-old youth, and she was buzzing with 
the adrenalin surge. She desperately wanted the youth to get up and 
challenge her. She ached to face him again, to take him down again. 
But the boy stubbornly lay at her feet, utterly exhausted.

Angry and frustrated, the woman once more grabbed Mark by the hair. 
With her other hand she dug her fingers into his shoulder and hauled 
him to his feet. He tottered uneasily and began to mumble.

He turned away from Mrs Rawlins and began fumbling his fat dick back 
into the jockstrap.

Mrs Rawlins was on a high she'd never experienced before. The reason 
for the quarrel was long forgotten. There was no grievance, no sense 
of justice or fair play. Her sole aim now was the pleasure of total 
triumph over this athletic young lad.

She made a lunge from behind and grabbed both the boy's arms. A 
swift kick to one ankle unbalanced him and he fell flat on his face. 
Mrs Rawlins was on him in an instant.

Squatting on the boy's back, she took hold of his ankles and bent 
the boy back like a bow. As she leaned back, she pressed his face 
into the ground. There was no pretence now, not even to herself. As 
Mark let out a howl of pain, Mrs Rawlins knew that what she was 
doing was purely for her own selfish enjoyment. Her stomach twisted 
into knots of excitement as the boy begged for mercy, and the more 
he cried, the harder she pulled on his legs till his spine felt like 
it would snap.

Now, holding both ankles tightly in the crook of one arm, she 
reached down and began to tug at Mark's shorts.

"If you want to expose yourself, boy, let's see what you've got."

Mark reached down and grasped his shorts, desperately trying to 
retain the last shred of dignity left to him. Mrs Rawlins yanked and 
yanked, slowly but determinedly, each tug inexorably inching Mark's 
shorts down his thighs until, with one mighty pull, the shorts were 
around the boy's knees.

From here on the battle was over. Mark was overpowered and he knew 
it. His body fell limp. Mrs Rawlins relaxed her grip and let go his 
ankles. She removed his shorts almost daintily and faced no 
resistance whatsoever as she pulled down his jock.

Mark lay, face down and naked, motionless in the garden. Overwhelmed 
by guilty pleasure, Mrs Rawlins eyed the youth's smooth backside. 
Mark stirred and began to raise himself up on his elbows. Mrs 
Rawlins gleefully pressed a foot into his back.

"Down boy. You're not getting up yet."

She enjoyed the sensation of Mark's back rising and falling with his 
panting breaths beneath her feet, and even the felt gentle pulse of 
the boy's pounding heart. Mrs Rawlins was so hypnotised by the 
thrill of victory that she never noticed the approach of her 
neighbour.

As the two women faced each other, time seemed to freeze. Mrs 
Rawlins braced herself for the mother of all slanging matches, until 
she noticed the outstretched hand offering a small glass of scotch.

"Peace offering." said Mrs Cotterell.

Mrs Rawlins stared back in disbelief. What was the old witch up to 
now?

"Take it." continued Mrs Cotterell, sipping from her own glass. 
"Tell me, when did we ever have a falling out?"

"You mean apart from every day for the last ten years?" countered 
Mrs Rawlins.

"I mean you and me. Personally. When did WE ever quarrel? Wasn't it 
always noise, mess, rudeness, inconsiderateness? Was it me playing 
music at four in the morning? Was it you lighting bonfires on 
washing day? It seems to me, Mrs Rawlins, that the only problems we 
ever had were with these two young tearaways. Go ahead, it's a quite 
good scotch actually."

Mrs Rawlins tentatively took a sip. What Mrs Cotterell said made 
sense, but no way was she about to trust her.

"Between us, we seem to have solved our little misunderstanding. You 
are obviously able to control young Mark, and I can certainly take 
care of Vincent." Mrs Cotterell continued.

Mark whimpered. Mrs Rawlins dug the heel of her shoe into the small 
of his back. The boy yelped and was quiet. Mrs Rawlins was beginning 
to understand.

"Does your Vincent help with housework?" Mrs Cotterell continued, 
"Does he wash his clothes? Do the dishes? Does he do anything, apart 
from demand to be waited on?"

"Oh, tell me about it." sighed Mrs Rawlins, taking another sip.

"Aren't you just longing for him to leave home?"

"Are you seriously suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"Don't think of it as losing a son. Think of it as gaining a 
houseboy."

Good scotch or not, Mrs Rawlins downed it in one. She looked Mrs 
Cotterell squarely in the eye: "He's up in his room." she said, 
"First landing, second on the right. There's no lock on the door."

Mrs Cotterell smiled, handed Mrs Rawlins her glass and elegantly 
stepped over into her neighbour's garden. She disappeared into the 
house.

"Well it looks like we're to become better acquainted, Mark." cooed 
Mrs Rawlins. The boy could hardly hear the conversation, and what he 
did hear made no sense.

There was a noise of banging, of furniture being knocked about and 
raised voices. Then all fell quiet. More banging and then silence 
again. Mrs Rawlins held her breath for a long moment. Had Mrs 
Cotterell miscalculated? Had she overestimated her ability?

Suddenly, Vince was pushed out of the backdoor. Mrs Cotterell held 
the writhing youth, bawling an incomprehensible stream of 
obscenities, in a firm lock. One arm crooked around his neck, the 
other pinioning his arms, the boy was still naked. The strong woman 
was able to briskly march him out of the house and across the 
garden.

Manoeuvring the lad over the wall was awkward but not too difficult, 
though, unlike Mark, Vince was not subdued. He continued to struggle 
against Mrs Cotterell's hold, screaming pathetically futile threats.

"He's a little boisterous, your boy." smiled Mrs Cotterell, 
tightening her grip.

"He runs wild. I could never control him."

"He just needs some firm discipline. They need to learn who's the 
boss."

Mrs Cotterell pushed Vince down to the ground. Though he struggled 
violently, he was a skinny youth and no match for a woman of Mrs 
Cotterell's hefty build. Having forced the boy down to his knees, 
she let go the neck-lock and jabbed a foot into his back. He fell 
face down. The triumphant woman planted a foot heavily on Vince's 
back.

"You're fuckin' dead you fuckin' crazy bitch I'll fuckin...."

Mrs Cotterell pressed her foot firmly into Vince's back.

"That's quite enough vulgarity, young man."

The boy gasped for breath as she moved her weight fully onto him and 
stood on his back.

"Well Mrs Rawlins, what do you say? Do we have a deal?"

Mrs Rawlins planted both feet firmly onto Mark's broad back. The two 
women smiled and shook hands.

"Deal!"