Billy was in a bad mood. He had decided against going to school that morning. It had looked like being a beautiful, early Spring day and he had decided there were better things he could be doing. He had, the previous week, turned eighteen years old and he would be leaving the place altogether in a couple of short months, so surely it was his decision, and missing one crappy day could hardly prove disastrous, could it? His father, however, had other ideas. He had eventually accepted Billy's decision not to attend classes, but subsequently decided the large vegetable patch he would soon be planting in was in urgent need of digging. He made it quite clear what he expected to have been achieved by the time he returned home that evening.
His parents therefore gone to work and his younger brother to school, Billy turned on the TV and moped. He didn't even know what he was pretending to watch, all he could think of was how his entire day had been wasted by his father's unreasonable demands. As lunchtime approached and still he lazed around, he came to the reluctant decision that he was going to have to get started on his horrendous chore if he had any chance of being finished by the time of his father's return. He changed into an old pair of jeans, a sweatshirt and trainers and set off to the garden shed in search of a spade.
His rate of progress was good, his anger and frustration at his father actually serving him well in his task, and he was considerably more than half-way through the job when he heard Mrs Robertson's back door opening and saw her tottering carefully down the steps on her high heels, a large plastic bag in her hand. His next-door neighbour had long since held a great fascination for Billy, the indisputable number one subject in his varied host of erotic fantasies. She always dressed in above the knee skirts, black stockings or tights and tight tops, which emphasised her large and magnificent breasts. She had long, tinted blonde hair, which always seemed to Billy slightly messed up, as though she hadn't brushed it since getting out of bed, and she took great care to enhance her natural beauty with a careful application of make-up. He knew that she was at least forty-six, as she was older than his forty-five year old mother - who had often mentioned this fact during many a disapproving rant upon her neighbour's dress-sense - but for Billy this somehow only intensified her appeal and alluring sexuality. He also knew that she worked part-time, mornings only, as a receptionist at a local doctor's surgery.
Mrs Robertson had almost reached the large dustbin at the corner of her house when she stumbled slightly and although she herself appeared to be okay, the bag she had been carrying slipped from her grasp and spilled most of its contents on to the path. Quick as a flash, Billy dropped his spade and hurried to vault the low fence between their properties.
"Let me get that for you, Mrs Robertson," he shouted, even as she stooped to begin the clean-up process. "Don't get your good clothes in a mess."
"Thank you, Billy," she said, smiling her incredible, white-toothed smile at him as he approached, causing his heart to skip a beat. He noticed that her lipstick today was a deep shade of red and he couldn't help but imagine kissing those fantastic, glistening lips and just what an incredible experience it would be. "I don't know what happened there!"
Billy knelt down to start shoving the assorted household rubbish back into the black bag. As he was doing so, she was stood only perhaps three feet in front of him and he tried as discreetly as possible to admire her shapely calves. Had he not been doing so, he may have noticed the dribble of milk escaping from what had looked like an empty carton from the inattentive corner of his eye, and avoided squirting the substantial remaining contents of same all over the front of his sweatshirt and jeans, as far down as his knees. The stench of sour milk quickly assailed his nostrils.
"Oh, dear," Mrs Robertson exclaimed. "Look at the mess you're in!"
"It's all right," Billy was quick to reassure her, embarrassed by his stupidity, now concentrating fully on cramming all the assorted rubbish back into the bag. "These are old clothes anyway." He grabbed the two corners of the bag and securely tied it closed, before depositing it safely in the large bin.
"Come in to the kitchen and we can sponge that mess of you," Mrs Robertson told him. "We can't have you going back to your mother like that."
