The Bottle Drive
By Jed, jedventurer@yahoo.com
He didn't know there was a merit badge for murder. . . 


The Girl Scouts were hot. This was something he hadn't expected. He hadn't
even thought about what they would look like when they came to collect his
cans and bottles. But here they were, climbing out of the full-sized van in
their khaki uniform blouses and short skirts, colorful kerchiefs draped around
their throats. Uniformly tall and long-legged, cheerleader-fit and with
identical supermodel-bland expressions. Two blonds - one honey blond, one
cornflower yellow; three brunettes. The driver - somebody's mom, he assumed -
stayed behind the wheel of the van with the engine idling.

He walked toward the end of his driveway, silently assessing himself.
"Saturday pants", paint and grass stains, and a black Rolling Stones concert
tee-shirt from twenty years past. A crumbled flyer in his hand: "Girl Scout
Troop bottle and can drive. Help us raise funds for operations. We'll pick up
Saturday from 9 to noon". He looked at the five impossibly beautiful teenagers
approaching him, sucked in his gut and straightened his back.

"Hello, ladies. If you're looking for recyclables, then I'm the man for you."

The honey blond stopped in front of him, looked him up and down, and said
"you'll do." He felt an unwarranted flush of pride at this: of course I'll do.

"The bottles are back in the garage," he said. "Three bags worth - you might
want to back the van up the driveway." But they were already past him,
striding purposefully toward the detached garage, spines straight, hips
swaying, long hair floating as if in a breeze. He allowed himself a moment to
enjoy the sight before hurrying after them.

He caught up with them, fumbling for the garage remote in his pocket and
surreptitiously sneaking a glance down the blouse of the smallest brunette
(three buttons undone; no sign of a bra supporting wonderfully high, full
young breasts.) "What troop did you say you were with?"

"We didn't," she said, favoring him with a sidelong smirk, and he knew he'd
been caught peeking.

His flash of annoyance at her youthful impertinence evaporated as she
stretched, arching her back and confirming his no-bra theory. "Do you want
some help with that?" she asked, reaching for the remote and pressing her
breasts against his arm.

"No I think I can manage my own device." He evaded her reach, managing to
brush the back of his hand across the front of her blouse. Definitely no bra,
just wonderful, healthy firm girl under the thin fabric. The door opened,
revealing an empty garage with three large garbage bags in the back.

The tallest brunette - more leg than anything else, with broad shoulders and
big breasts - walked to the center of the garage, stopped, and looked up at
the garage door opener mounted on the ceiling joists. "Heavy duty," she
remarked.

I was just thinking the same thing, he thought, eyes on her chest.

"And private," the cornflower-blond said. They all looked out the garage door,
and she was right: the driveway was shielded on either side by the house and a
privacy fence; directly across the street was the side of a neighbor's garage.
Any passing driver would have to be looking ninety degrees to the side to
notice what went on in this garage. To a casual passer-by, the inside of the
garage was effectively invisible.

The honey blond looked at him, spearing him with her gaze. "You are just about
perfect," she said.

This isn't just about bottles and cans, he thought. "Honey," he said, "I'm
more than perfect. I'm just about damned near . . . "

He didn't get a chance to finish his thought. As the first words left his
mouth, the brunette to his right turned away from him; looked at him over her
left shoulder; and then launched herself in a pivoting pirouette back toward
him, her right leg coming around horizontal to the ground. She gained speed
through "just about", straightened her leg with a whip like motion at
"damned", and buried her right foot in his gut just as "near" cleared his
lips.

The whole thing took less than three seconds from the time she set herself to
the moment when her kick blew all the air out of him with a surprised whoof.
He bent double with the impact and crumbled to his knees with his arms across
his stomach. What the hell did you do that for, he tried to say, but couldn't;
his lungs had flattened and his body ached with the effort of drawing air back
into them. He thought he might throw up, and wondered if he would do so before
he passed out, or after.

He remembered something from High School football - what to do if you get
wracked on a play - and tried to cough. With a racking shudder, he managed to
suck some thready breaths through his teeth. One breath; two; the dark spots
dancing in front of his eyes receded, leaving him with just a dull ache in his
body. He straightened up, tentatively.

It hurt.

He thought he could manage to spit out his outraged question now, but bit his
words back when he realized his hands were tingling and his shoulders were
aching. His arms were behind his back, his hands pulled up high between his
shoulder blades, and he couldn't bring them back around. I'm tied up, he
thought. They tied me up while I was heaving my guts out.

Now all five girls surrounded him, hands on his shoulders keeping him on his
knees. Still hunched over, he was eye-level with smooth, rounded thighs and
dimpled knees, hemmed in by a forest of smoothly competent girl-flesh. He was
suddenly, desperately and involuntarily aroused.

"It's amazing, how little it takes to subdue a man," the brunette said. "One
kick, and the fight's over before it starts." She crouched down in front of
him. He looked into her eyes. She quirked a conspiratorial smile at him, her
expression almost sympathetic; he looked downward, to her breasts pushing out
against her blouse, her smooth knees and thighs with her skirt taut- stretched
across them. Looked back at her eyes - all sympathy gone, replaced with
resignation. For an instant, he felt guilty.

She reached up, was handed a rope - thin cotton chord, clothesline, fashioned
into a simple noose. His heart jumped and fear clutched at his throat. He
stifled a moan as his balls tried to suck themselves up into his body.

The Grl Scout slipped the noose over his head, snugging it around his throat.
Hands under his shoulders lifted him to his feet and held him still while
somebody wrapped his ankles in more rope. He looked down at himself, teetering
with his feet close together and his hands high up behind his back; his
erection tented his Saturday pants.

"What are you girls going to do to me?" he finally managed to ask.

"We've done everything to you that we're going to do," the honey blond said.
"Now we just have a little mechanical adjustment to make, and we'll be on our
way." She climbed up into stirrups formed by the hands of two brunettes and
removed the cover of the garage door opener. "I'm increasing the channel
selections on your unit here," she called over her shoulder. "I'll set it so
that it responds to any handheld unit used within one hundred feet of here.

"The other thing I've done", she added, "was to wrap the free end of the rope
around this transmission gear in the opener. If you can tear your eyes off my
butt long enough, you'll see there's not a lot of play in the rope any more."

Caught again. He followed her directions, and saw that she had indeed
integrated the clothesline into the workings of the garage door opener. The
rope now led from the unit, over a metal support brace, and down to the noose
around his throat, with almost no slack in it.

The blond replaced the cover on the unit. "The next time somebody within in
range uses their garage door opener . . . "

"Or answers a cordless phone. . . " the tall brunette said.

". . . your garage door goes up - and so do you."

"One last thing." With a smile, the brunette who had kicked him placed her
hand gently over his lips. When she removed her hand, he couldn't open his
mouth. "Duct tape," she said. "Can't have you disturbing your neighbors."

"Goodbye, Mister," honey blond said. "Thanks for the bottles." The five
departed through the side door, bottles clinking, and pulled the door closed
behind them.

With the click of the latch, he was alone. Standing in the center of his
garage with only dusty sunlight coming in through two small windows in the
door. He peered through the windows, watching the five lithe beauties as they
skipped back to their van, swinging his bags of bottles and cans, long legs
flashing and hair shimmering in the early summer sun. They disappeared into
the van; a desultorily waving hand was his last sight of them as the van
pulled out of sight, past the opening to the tunnel that was his driveway.

Alone.

My balls hurt. My stomach hurts. He tested his bonds. I can't move.

I'm going to die.

He wondered who it would be that triggered the mechanism of his death. He
hoped desperately that it wouldn't be the neighbor to his right; the guy was a
jerk who never maintained his property, and he stayed up to all hours playing
his guitar, badly. He shouldn't get the satisfaction. Better it should be the
young wife in the house on the left, the sun-worshipper who liked to tan in
her green bikini in her back yard. Nice legs, flat stomach. The thought of her
being his inadvertent executioner seemed somehow more appropriate. To his
surprise, he found himself becoming aroused again at the thought.

A door slammed. To the right.

Damn. I can't die with a hard-on for my dickhead neighbor. A click overhead,
axles starting to turn, the heavily-oiled chain starting to draw through the
gears. He looked up; the rope quivered - maybe it won't catch? - then drew
taut. He sucked in a last desperate breath, nostrils flaring, as the noose
moved against his throat.

Simultaneously, two garage doors in two adjoining properties were raised,
heavy-duty motors smoothly lifting their loads and flooding identical dark
one-car caverns with early-morning sunlight.