Farm Hand

by DX

Copyrighted, 8/2026, all rights reserved

 At the end of my road, right where it intersected with the highway, they raised a colorful, silken flag, and declared war.

 I saw it as I drove past, heading to my farm.  

 Lesbians!

 I knew someone was moving into the old stead when the seemingly ever present ‘For Sale’ sign changed over to ‘Sold’, and I only scoffed, wondering how long before the For Sale sign returned.

 It was a crappy little space of an Irish acre.  The soil was shit, the layout unworkable, and it was too small to ever make profit.  It was a sucker’s trap, a money pit.  

 Then I saw the flag.

 I saw one of them as they unloaded their rental truck.  She had short, buzz cut black hair stolen from a 1950’s poster, and a slim, curveless body.  She dressed in jeans meant for a bigger person in a style the cat threw up, and boots meant for logging in the North West.  

 She smiled and waved as I went by.

 It was a nice, friendly smile.

 I was so taken back that I made no indication of seeing her, and gave only my hard, wizened, grumpy face and perpetual dower expression as my response.

 We are a farming community; a traditional, conservative bunch, who I knew would not take too kindly to a gay rainbow flag being flown in their midsts.

 It was going to cause trouble unless someone did something about it.

 I elected myself to address the issue.

 I dropped off my feed, checked on my chickens, grabbed a dozen eggs, and drove back.  On the way down, I adjusted my expression to look pleasant, but not too pleasant, and friendly, but not too friendly.  I mean, here was this old, grey bearded grizzled guy showing up unannounced and I didn’t want to scare them to the point they wouldn’t hear what I had to say.

 As I approached the front porch she opened the screen door, her easy smile flashing.  She had expressive eyes and soft lips, and a bit of a ghost mustache, a lesbian thing, I thought.  She had one of those piercings through the nose, like a bull, and another through her tongue.  

 I guessed if she cleaned up a bit she might be pretty.

 Very pretty—wasted on a lesbian.

 “I’m Chester,”  I pointed with a turn and tilt of my head.  “my place is up the road.”

 I failed to look welcoming, but she took it in stride.  “Yeah, I saw you drive by a couple times.”  She had a pleasant alto/tenor voice.  “I’m Chase.”

 “I’d like to give you this dozen eggs,”  I presented the eggs.  “and ten thousand dollars.”

 She looked askance, but never lost her smile.  “And what do I have to do for that dozen eggs and ten thousand dollars?”

 “Listen to me for ten minutes.”  I responded.

 Her eye hinted her suspicions as she stepped back.  “Well, I guess you better come inside.”

 In the ocean of moving boxes we set up a card table and a couple chairs.  Who I thought was Chase’s wife turned out to be her step-sister, and she offered to make tea and began opening boxes and searching for the kettle.  I declined, and set down my phone and started my ten minute timer.  

 “I noticed the Canton Brother’s van was here yesterday.”  I began.  “I’m betting they told you your water is out of balance and you needed an expensive water filtration system or your health is at risk.  I’m also betting you had a home inspection for the bank loan to buy this place, and if you check that you’ll see they tested your water and it’s fine.  So that’s thirty-five hundred bucks you don’t have to spend.”

 “Four grand.”  She said, watching me write down numbers on my note pad.  “But the guy tested the water.”  She protested.  “I saw him do it.”

 I wrote four grand, then tapped on my phone.  “Yeah, their doo-hicky machine seems to run a tad high.  You and I have the same aquifer, and here’s a test from a State certified lab from my water three years ago.”  I brought up a file and showed her.  “Because of my farm animals, we test every five years.”

 I talked about tractors and farm equipment, and crop risk and how to off set those costs.  I offered to introduce her to the farmer’s association which would save her a mint.  Each one I wrote down the savings.

 In fourteen minutes, she interrupted several times, I saved her over twelve thousand dollars.  “There you are!  Free and clear.”  I tore the page out of my pad and slid it towards her.  “Money in your pocket.”

 She looked at it, then her warm eyes looked over at me.  “So you always welcome the new guy?”

 I paused, and sat back.  “No.  I don’t.”  I became grim and I sighed, trying to brush it back.  “After the wife died a few years ago, five years now, I kinda pulled back.”  I looked at her, trying to play off I was in the acceptance phase of grief when I clearly was not.  “I just watched people come down and buy this place to give farming a go, and watch them make the same mistakes, and fail, and quit, and then watch a couple months later someone else falling into the same quicksand.”  I shrugged.  “Let’s be farmers!  Farming is fun!”  I shook my head.  “It is not.  The only one making money out of this property is the realtor.  Farming difficult, and harder to do it alone.  That’s why it’s a community.  You help each other out.  Something I was not doing.”

 I grimaced, disappointed in myself, but forced myself to smile.  “When I saw your flag, I thought, now there is someone who might need a dozen eggs, and maybe a suggestion from someone who’s made every mistake in the book and then some.  You might fail.  Farming is like that.  You can do everything right and fail, but at least I was a good neighbor and tried to help.  You can tell me to piss off, or whatever.”  I looked at my phone to check the time.  “You’re only out fifteen minutes, and not twelve thousand bucks.”

 I smiled, and pushed the eggs forward.  “And you get a free dozen eggs, free range, maybe organic.  They wander around.”  I dismissed.  “They’re chickens.”

 I then helped her unload the truck and saved her another day’s rental fee. 

 Chase was single and on her own.  She was recovering from some trauma and I didn’t ask what it was.  Bad break up, I mentally decided.  Her sister was only there to help her move in.  

 I fulfilled my promise and introduced her to the farming associations, the planters, the beekeepers, the breeders, effectively giving my endorsement that she was now part of the community.

 Like many who had fallen for the romance of farming, she knew shit about it; but was open and willing to learn.  So, I showed her the ropes, and soon we became a fixture around town.  The old thuggish mentor followed by the eager, energetic, young apprentice.

 As the months passed, she earned her muscle and calloused hands.  She bought goats.  I helped her set up the electric fence and the plumbing for milking machines, and later installed the vat to make cheese.

 She came over to my farm, which I had let wane over the years, and helped be overhaul my big tractor and other equipment.  She brought life back to the land, and to me.

 The old farmer, and his farm hand.

 Over time I couldn’t help notice her ghost whiskers were gone, and I joked to myself she was prettier for it.  When I thought she was flat chested, there seemed to be a few more curves.  I tried not to stare as she helped stack hay, sweating in her tight sports bra, her small, firm breasts against her taught ribs; but stare I did.

 We didn’t talk about her past, it never came up.  Whatever break up she had was her business.  I figured she would be a prime catch, but she didn’t seem motivated to search for Ms. Right.  Farming took up a lot of time, and I guessed she just didn’t have it in her for dating.

 I figured she would find someone when she was ready.

 She flirted with me; however, a lot.

 I joked to myself thinking she had eyes for me, and once when I caught her looking at me, I struck a pose and said something trite, like, ‘Still got it’.

 “Maybe I’m just into mature guys?”  She shot back.

 I smiled, shrugging it off.

 She was a lesbian, and wasn’t into old fucks like me.

 I enjoyed the dream, but didn’t delude myself into believing it.

 It had been almost a year since she arrived, and I invited her to join my annual birthday celebration: a big burger at Rick’s Cafe washed down with a heavily spiked milk shake.

 It had been the first time since my wife died I didn’t spend my birthday celebration alone.

 As I had my after dinner drink, Chase, who didn’t drink, was at the pool table taking challengers.  Before each game she warned them, “I’m a ringer…” but they ignored that, smiling and scoffing at this woman wearing painted on jeans and cowboy boots, and a silken western shirt with too many buttons undone, until the break, and their smiles faded quickly as she cleared the table.

 From my booth I watched her slide around the table, lining up shots.  More than once she had her back to me as she leaned over the table and presented her tight ass in jeans that left nothing to the imagination.

 “Careful where you point that thing!”  I joked, but she only wriggled her butt at me.

 “Come make me!”  She laughed, tauntingly.

 After I finished my second drink, we headed home.  As she drove, I invited her to the second part of my birthday traditions, sitting around the fire pit for a few more rounds of drinking.

 She obliged.

 At the pit, I did my scoutmaster proud by getting the fire going with one match.  As it caught, I moved the lawn furniture, carefully checking for wasp nests, before I sat back on the couch, proud I had made fire.

 Chase came from the house, and handed me a scotch with a little ice.

 Very, little ice.

 I looked at the double, double drink and smiled.  “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

 “Yeah, I am.”  She announced.  “Although I don’t think it’s possible, I’m going to give it a try.”

 I sipped, not fully registering what she had said, and watched the new fire climb the split, dried logs.  “Why would you want me drunk?”

 She leaned forward in her chair, and I could see down the open space of her shirt.  

 She wore no bra.

 “I want you drunk so you will let me suck your cock,”  She said.  “for your birthday.”  She added with a sly smirk.

 It took a long time to register what she had said.  It’s not that I didn’t believe it, it’s that it was unbelievable.  

 I sipped, enjoying the burn, then looked up at her—her face bright in the flickering firelight.  

 “What?”  I managed to mumble.

 She smiled, happy to confess.  “It’s something I’ve wanted to do since the first day we met, when you came to the house to give me a dozen eggs and ten grand.”  She smiled, laughing breathlessly.  “I’ve been trying ever since.”

 Again there was a long pause as my brain refused to work.  When it finally came up with something, it was rather stupid.  “But you’re a lesbian.”


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Copyrighted 8/2026, all rights reserved.
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Nouveau Art

By DX

Copyrighted 10/2000, 4/2025 all rights reserved.

 Pain stabbed Alex between the eyes as he awoke. Light, white and harsh beamed down on him and he squinted, and tried to see as consciousness flooded his senses. His limbs felt like lead, and as he struggled to move, he realized that he had been strapped down to a gurney of some kind. His jaw ached, and as he tried to speak or call for help, he realized that he'd been gagged.

 Alex lifted his head, ignoring the dull ache in his frontal lobe.  As he did, he could feel the fine hairs on his limbs tingle in the damp air. He looked down and confirmed that he was indeed naked. With his eyes adjusting, he looked around. A large basement, unfinished walls… a dungeon? Iron rings were embedded into the stone, cages hung from the ceiling, benches bristled with spikes, a brazier glowed with burning coals and hot branding irons lay in the heat.

 Motion in the corner of Alex’s eye drew his attention, and he saw Matt, his best friend, hanging by his wrists from chains running from the ceiling. His feet were shackled to rings in the floor and were pulled wide apart. He was gagged, with a fat, red ball strapped tightly into his mouth. His head bobbed as he began to wake. He too was naked, and Alex couldn't help but admire Matt's lean, hard body, the light accenting his rippling abs, his shredded lats, his buns of titanium.  Alex had a body made by Budweiser, and every time he saw Matt, he silently raged in jealousy.

 Alex heard someone grunting, and he looked over and saw Carl was bent over and locked in stocks. Carl was fully awake.  His eyes were filled with terror, and his mouth filled with a gag.

 "Ah, so you gentlemen are finally awake.”  A deep timber voice sounded in the echoey room.

 Alex looked up sharply as a well dressed man walked down the steps to the dungeon, his delicate lips in a bemused smile.

 "I apologize for my methods.”  He said insouciantly, as if kidnapping was a daily occurrence.  “I realize how rude it is of me to drug your morning coffees and secret you to my lair just to meet with you, but I felt it was a matter of urgency." He looked around at the faces of the men, reading their confusion. "Let me introduce myself." He stood at attention and clicked his heels as he bowed slightly. "I am Oscar Wolf. I am a dealer in rare artwork and artifacts.  I specialize in the nouveau.” He looked a little surprised as he scanned the faces of the men. "Still drawing a blank? I assumed since you knew my driver Max so well you would at least know of me. You all know Max don't you? You met him last week and beat him to within an inch of his life, remember? Something about him being gay." His face dropped into full surprise. "Surely you remember that? How many queers do you attack and leave for dead?"

 Alex searched his memory.  Quite a few actually. 

 It was nothing for he and his friends to cruise the streets and beat down a couple queers.

 Oscar seemed a little miffed. “Well, how about this?" He proposed. "You also wrecked my Lexus."

 Alex could see the car in his mind. Black, sleek, and reeking of wealth. He remembered they had been taking a piss in an alley when Matt had gotten into it with some queer.  Alex was pulling up his fly when he turned and saw Matt had the guy against the wall. The pansy had his hands up, trying in vain to avoid the inevitable fight. "I meant no offense." He driver pleaded. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

 "I saw you!" Matt shot back hotly. "I saw you looking at my ass!" His big fists tightened up. "I'm gonna teach you to look at my ass!"

 And the beating began. The driver had dropped to the ground, curled up into a ball and put his hands up to protect his head, but it did him little good against their steel toed boots. When they tired of kicking him, they found steel pipes in a dumpster and went to work on the car.

 "So now you remember!" Oscar announced. "I'm glad we got that out of the way. At least now you know why you're here. Max was not only a driver, but a very dear friend to me, and I don't think you should get away with what you did." He snapped his fingers sharply. "Speaking of which, you nearly did. Not like the police were going to worry their little heads over it. And even if they did find you, it's not like Max was going to identify you. You see, Max has yet to regain consciousness. And the doctors believe he will never be the same again. Reduced mental capacity." Oscar paused as he forced down the anger raging within him. "He may never wake up." He looked up, his sharp eyes flickering in the light. "Almost the perfect crime, but you see; you three couldn't help but brag. How proud you were that you ganged up on a helpless man that you didn't realize that one of your co-workers was a closet homosexual. He called me, and we made the arrangements to bring you down here so we could have a little chat about your future."

 Oscar waved his hand, showing off the room. "This is my workshop. This is where I send and receive my priceless works. You see, Max was priceless to me, just like my works of art, and now, you’ve taken him from me. So, I think it’s only fair that you should replace him." He pointed to Matt. "Max was a beautiful man. Absolute eye candy." Oscar ran a delicate finger across Matt's rippling stomach. "I could never tire of looking at him. So that is what I'm going to do to you. Make you my private eye candy."

 Suddenly the shadows peeled from the walls and formed men garbed in black.  They moved in precision towards Matt's struggling body while Oscar stood back and watched. "When transporting ancient statues, we developed a special technique to protect the statue from the sea air, and the bumps and dings of transport.  We seal the statue in several coats of Permalex. A special, synthetic latex coat which protects the statue.  It can be easily removed on destination. It’s great on stone, but it's a little dangerous when it comes in contact with human skin. The natural acids on the skin mix with the Permalex and causes it to bond… permanently.”

 Matt continued his struggles as the men grabbed him and held his head steady. They pulled the gag from his mouth, but before he could so much as swear, they shoved a tube down his throat."

 Oscar sat down in a chair, to watch the show. "That tube in your mouth will deliver the Permalex inside of you. It will coat your larynx, and freeze up your vocal cords. Can't have a noisy statue, can we? It will work through your system, and coat your insides. That will prevent any gastric problems. That massive anal plug being stuffed into your virgin asshole will bond with the Permalex in your body. It also has another function.  The plug is powered by the natural heat of your body, a tiny, tiny voltage, but more than enough to deliver an electric current to the prostate.  Through a series of electric contacts and sensors, it will keep you sexually stimulated, but programmed not to let you experience orgasm. This, I think, creates a continual emission of a raw, desperate and frustrated sexual aura that will create a subliminal appeal in the audience.  Don’t you agree?  People will be drawn to your miasma of lust and longing on a primal level and not know why.”  He smiled as if he tasted something delicious.  “What art!”

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Copyrighted 10/2000, 4/2025 all rights reserved.

Daddy

by DX

Copyrighted, 9/2024 all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced in any format without previous written permission from the author.

 She was bubblegum and candy.  She had puffy, petulant lips and a button nose.  She was petite and slim, with perky firm breasts she liked to display through her flimsy tube top emblazoned with the words, Daddy’s Little Girl. 

 She had playful tattoos of teddybears and unicorns.

 For her, everything was fun.

 She was sprinkle cupcakes and rainbows.  She was a pink forest nymph in short-shorts and sandals with a magic of wand of glitter.

 We had to get rid of her.

 Every season someone arrived in the logging camp who was wholly unprepared for the hard and dangerous work of felling trees.  Most were tree-huggers who didn’t understand that a properly managed forest was healthy for the environment and provided renewable resources, and only wanted to wreck things claiming to save the planet.  They usually weeded themselves out within the first few days when they discovered saving the planet involved walking up a hill and no social media.  The remainder actually wanted to be lumberjacks, enthralled with the romantic idea of manliness, until they discovered the high rate of amputations.

 Every once in a while we got someone like Pink, charmed by woods and nature and cycle of life but sadly, too delicate for the job.  People like her are the weak link in the chain, and weak links caused injuries.

 So when Pink stepped off the bus, giggling and cooing, no one was surprised when Boss Eve took one look at the bouncing fluff-ball of joy and assigned her to me.  

 My job was to get her back on the bus and on her way home before she got hurt, or worse, hurt someone else.

 Officially, I was to get her up to speed on doing the job properly and above all, safely.  I have resting grump face and permanent, glaring eyes of disapproval.  My heavy beard fails to hide my scars, earned over a life of hard work.  

 The bets were on that Pink would be on the morning bus for home.

 I planned for her to be gone sooner than that.

 I started with showing her how to identify Black Widow Spider webs, where Brown Recluses like to live, and how to treat for a Copper Head bite, followed by the many ways loggers get their arms ripped off, or the legs mangled, and how to avoid all of those things.

 While the safety briefing alone usually drove off the pretenders, Pink wasn’t phased in the least.

 She didn’t flinch when I showed her the first aid kit which included tourniquets and a bone saw.  She only nodded, smiled sunshine at me and cooed excitedly, “Yes, Daddy.”

 “Don’t call me, Daddy.”  I responded gruffly.

 In twenty-four hours my new nick-name in camp was Big Daddy.  Even Eve started calling me Big Daddy.

 I took Pink to the thrift store where we got her proper clothes and boots, and I kept the receipt knowing we would be bringing them all back the next day.

 But we didn’t.

 The smallest equipment looked huge on her small frame, but properly decked out, we started her training.

 She paid close attention when I pointed out the poison ivy, oak, and sumac, and she quickly learned the knots every woodsman knows, practicing earnestly with the six foot cord I gave her.  She learned how to field strip a two stroke, sharpen an axe, and how to find North with a watch and a stick.

 She learned to use her tools.  Although cumbersome and heavy, she hauled them up the slope with determination, and in a few, short weeks, she began to put on lean muscle, which she liked to show off, flexing when she caught me looking.

 I couldn’t help but think she was showing off only for me.  Although she flirted outrageously with everyone, she seemed to have a special glance for me alone.  I dismissed it as an old grump’s folly, but it was hard to dismiss whenever there was a muster she was beside me, close to me, brushing against me.  When I looked down, she was always looking up at me, her huge eyes searching for details on my leathery face.  Her proximity to me quickly became normal, expected.  At chow she always sat next to me, and her warm body quickly became familiar.  “More coffee, Daddy?”  She would ask.  “How about an apple for the trail, Daddy?”

 “Don’t call me Daddy.”  I would reply as I put the apple in my cargo pocket.

 As for being on the team, Pink stepped up and proved she was as tough as all the guys.  When they got boisterous, she would just giggle and be coy and cute and diffuse any situation.  

 She instantly mastered the small back hoe.  Soon the guys would ask for my partner specifically, and she would nimbly drive that thing up the steepest, narrowest trail.  “Who called for a hoe?”  She’d announce as she arrived with a big smile on her face.

 Even Boss Eve, a woman who hates women, clapped me on the shoulder.  “I guess your Little Girl Pink’s working out all right.”

 One early morning, just before sunrise, I watched Pink do the walk of shame from Georgie’s trailer.  Gerogie was the camp Lothario.  No woman, not even Eve, could resist his devilish looks and wild flirtatious glances, so it was no surprise seeing Pink sneak out of there.

 I guess it made everything official.  

 At that point I figured she would gravitate towards hanging out with Georgie, but every day she added her name to my roster, and everyday we headed out together, and every day the guys would giggle and smirk, “There’s goes Big Daddy and his Little Girl.”

 On days off, when we headed to town and eventually the bars, she would dress up in her pink short shorts and tight t-shirts.  She often caused a stir at the bar when she put money in the jukebox and took to the dance floor and did a one woman performance that sent many a man to a cold shower.  Occasionally, it caused a stir that usually required me getting up and giving everyone, The Look.  “We’re not going to have an issue, are we boys?”

 “No, Big Daddy.”  Everyone would murmur.  

 “Don’t call me Daddy.”  I would grunt, and go back to my beer.

 But I couldn’t help notice her dance as her lithe body gyrated to the music, almost making love to the melody.  I teased myself that she was dancing for me alone, a silly thought, but I couldn’t help it when I stole a glance from the corner of my eye I saw her looking back at me.

 On night, while Pink was racking up a big score on the pinball machine, Sol slid over to me at the bar.  “Why does she have to dress like that?”

 “‘Cause she wants too.”  I said.

 “Yeah, but it gives guys the wrong idea.”  He replied.

 I eyed him.  “Sounds like that’s their problem.”  I turned, and watched Pink at the machine.  “Besides, I heard she and Georgie.”

 Sol shrugged.  “Fuck that guy.”  He held up his beer.

 I touched my mug to his.  “Yup.  To his health.”

 To Sol’s point, the male to female ratio in the camp was steep, and you either hooked up elsewhere, or like me, learned to enjoy solitude.  Pink, with her unerring beauty, was a disruptive factor, but she found safe harbor with me.

 We were a team.

 Which was no surprise at the end of the season, when the snows threatened, she added her name to my roster to winterize the fire towers on the Ridge.  This meant taking the half-track up the fire road to all the fire towers.  The mission was to make sure the fire road was clear, pull down any big branches that would compromise the fire break, and service/repair/restock the fire towers.  

 Back in the day the fire towers were manned, I mean, attended, 24/7; a lonely post looking over the canopy of trees for the tell-tale signs of fire.  Now there’s cameras and central monitoring to handle that, but during emergencies the towers may be attended, possibly for long stays, so they needed food stuff, cots, a working stove, heat, water, toiletries, ect.  

 This was a tough job that had to be done correctly.  I often had to do it alone, which was why I liked it.  

 Pink was just plain excited.  This was a test of all of her skills.  There was no back up.  If the half track broke down, we had to fix it.  If one of us was injured, the other had to be the doctor.  We would be alone and isolated for a couple days or more, depending on the weather.

 Although I didn’t show it, I was happy to have her along.

 With the half-track loaded with building materials, food, fuel, roof shingles, nails, screws, and a kitchen sink we needed to install, we headed out before the dawn and made it to Alpha Tower before daybreak.  It was an easy service, but the real work was ahead of us.

 The road was shit.  The fire break was put in seventy years ago and the wheel ruts were so deep you didn’t have to steer.  Even though the half-track crawled at a snails pace, we were tossed around in the cabin as if we were trying to break a bronco.  Our first obstacle, a fallen tree, was hung up against another fallen tree and dangled precariously over head. 

 Trees like these were the worst.  In case of fire, they could form a bridge allowing fire to spread across the break so they had to be removed.  But falling them, tangled in a web of branches, made them unpredictable, and many expert lumberjacks met their fate dealing with them.

 Which was why we called them, Widowmakers.

 Pink got her climbing spikes and went up a nearby tree and cast a line to the widowmaker.  Pulling the rope through, she then connected a cable and fed that along, dropping the end to me where I connected it to the half-track winch.

 Getting to a safe distance, we pulled it down, sawed it up, and shoved it off the road.

 Goes easy when you’re a team.

 It took six hours to make ten miles to Bravo Tower.

 We were tired, but Pink gave me her little smile and we pressed on.  Bouncing over the rough trail, we made it to Charlie Tower by sundown.

 The storm was approaching.

 We secured our gear, battened down the hatches, lit a fire in the wood stove, and readied to hunker down.  For privacy, we hung up a curtain.  To save on fuel for the backup generator, we used kerosene lanterns.

 I gave myself a quick sponge bath, then dressed and headed out to the observation deck, whiskey in hand.  From there, above the trees, I watched the quickening night approach with the bubbling clouds of heavy weather in its wake.

 We were in for a wild one.

 I felt the thunder rattle my bones.

 As I sipped my whiskey, I wondered what was keeping Pink, and I looked back.

 Through the observation window, glowing from the lantern light, I saw her laid out on the futon, like one of those fancy, French paintings.

 She was naked, and beautiful, her face flush with passion.  Her eyes were closed and her full lips were parted as if she was tasting something sweet.  Her nipples were bursting with passion as her fingers played over her body. 

 It took a moment for me to realize, as her fingers toyed with her body, Pink, to my surprise, was not born a girl.

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The Gift of the Ball Thief

By DX

Copyrighted 4/2024, all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced in any format without the author’s permission.

 He watched her from across the street.

 She lived in a quaint, charming house in the middle of the block, like the candy and gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods that lured prey in.  Her front yard was a tiny maze of bursting roses, and every year the block association presented her with a certificate for most beautiful floral display.

 But she wasn’t a witch.

 She was the Ball Thief.

 Her real name was Candice Starling, and back in the day she was the focus of every boy’s wet dream.  Her hair was black as night, and her eyes as cool as winter.  She had strong, full lips permanently shaped in a bemused smile.  Her wholesome, fulsome breasts were magically light, and somehow bigger than her callipygous hips.

 She wore high heels, even when tending to her magnificent roses, and her tiny feet danced like giggling fairies.

 When the kids played in the street, eventually a badly thrown ball would smash into her roses, splinter their delicate limbs, and scatter petals everywhere.

 More often than not, a ball smashed her front window, or dented her screen door, or cracked the siding of her house.

 Even in her controlled, steaming vexation, she was alluring, and the kids would gather and stare as she chided them.  “You must learn to be mindful of other people’s things.”  She would always say.  “You may have your ball back when you return with a parent.”

 No parent ever came.  No ball was ever returned.

 Now, twenty years later, maybe twenty-five, he stood across the street and watched as she came out with coveralls clinging to her wonderful curves and picked apart a load of cinderblocks she had delivered to her driveway.  She hadn’t aged.  The few strands of grey only highlighted her hair.  Her cheeks deepened as her looks soaked in.  Her curves became more curvier, and she was still certainly the subject of every wet dream.

 His wet dream.

 He walked across the street, not because he wanted too, he could watch her haul cement blocks all day, but because he couldn’t look away and was quickly becoming a voyeur.

 She looked up as he approached her, and her steel blue eyes snatched his breath and stopped him from introducing himself.

 “William!”  She said with a breathy smile.  “How are you?”

 William was stunned to silence and only stammered before he regained his footing  “Miss Starling!  You remember me?”  He laughed breathlessly in surprise.  “After all these years.”

 “Of course, and please, call me Candice.  You were in my class in the eighth grade.”  She said knowingly.  “You were all about word problems.  You loved logic.”  Her smile deepened.  “I used to stay up and write them just for you.”

 “I’m honored, and flattered.”  He managed to say.

 “You were an excellent student.  One of my best.”  She pulled off her work gloves and shook his hand.  “How have you been?  You went to work for that big firm… United, something something.”

 He shook her hand and marveled at its softness.  “United Conglomerate Corpora.  Over twenty years now.”  His voice saddened.

 Her face showed his pain.  “Oh, I heard, they just…”

 He shrugged.  “Crumbled like a house of cards.”  His voice lowered.  “We had agreed to stock options instead of a retirement plan.”  He grunted.  “All gone now.”  He forced himself to smile with retuned energy.  “I have prospects, and many, many options.”  He said brightly, then motioned back across the street.  “I’m with Mom until the dust settles.  And she needs the help.”

 “Of course.”  Candice said sympathetically.  “You’re bright and skilled.  You’ll be okay.”

 He nodded.  “I saw you out here and I thought that a little manual labor would be good for me… get some blisters on my hands.”  He reached down and picked up a cinderblock, surprised at its ungainly weight.

 “Oh, no!”  She said, a little embarrassed.  “I can handle this.”

 “Please, let me.”  He said, smiling.  “Mom’s out, and I need something tangible to do.  Seriously, you’d be helping me out.”

 Her eyes were full on concern.  “Well, if you’re sure.”

 “I’m sure.”

 They hauled the blocks down her driveway into her backyard, a wonderland of flora and fauna.  There, they neatly stacked them to wait for her next project, a raised bed herb garden.

 When they finished, they retreated into her kitchen and had a proper visit over tea and cake.

 He returned the following day to help her build the raised bed.

 He returned often, sometimes a few times a week.  Sometimes to help, sometimes to just visit.

 “My boyfriend and I,” she delicately slipped into conversation that she was spoken for, “are going to the open air concert tonight.  Maybe you and your… girlfriend,” she winced slightly, “boyfriend?…would like to join us?”

 He dismissed the idea.  “It’s just me, right now.”  He said, trying not to be too much a downer.  “Three’s a crowd.”  He finished his tea then looked up.  “I just… I appreciate visiting you,”  He grinned.  “and I appreciate you putting up with me.”

 She touched his hands.  “I enjoy your visits!”  Her face brightened.  “I delight having someone to talk to in the afternoons.”  She looked over her tea ware.  “I have all these herbal teas I grow in the garden and I get to share them.  You would be amazed what grows back there.”  Her eyes searched his.  “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

 “I am.”  He assured her.

 As time went on he became a fixture at her table.  Sometimes she had friends over, and on more than one occasion she tried to introduce him to friends closer to his age, subtly playing the matchmaker.

 It never happened.

 Days and weeks, then months flittered on the calendar, until one day, as the fall leaves fell like snow, he went to visit.  She smiled like a spring morning when she saw him at the door.  

 “Come in!”  She ushered.  “There’s something I want to show you!”  She moved with the energy of bee, almost buzzing, as she sat him down in the kitchen in the chair where he usually sat.

 He watched her in askance as she retrieved four little jars from the shelf above the door.  They were glazed, earth-ware pottery about the size of a baseball, fat and stout, with proper fitting lids.  He had seen them a thousand times and paid them no mind, figuring they were the part of the wonderful, magical decorations she had throughout the house.  Seeing them up-close, he noticed the lids were wax sealed in place.

 She took her usual seat across from him.  She picked up one of the jars.  “I take a pottery course at the community college.”  She studied the jar, scrutinizing its invisible flaws.  “I made each of these.”  Her eyes flashed at him.  “They are very special.”  She set it down on the table for him to inspect.  “Each one contains a man’s testicles.”

 Her voice was like a saber, so keen it took seconds to bleed.  

 He said nothing as his mind tripped and fell and lay on the floor wondering what it could have tripped over.

 She went on, picking up the first jar.  “A man broke into my house.”  She said, almost speaking to the jar.  “He was going to hurt me.  He had duct tape, a gun… but I lucked out.  With my self defense training I got the upper hand and restrained him.”  

 She rolled the jar in her fingers before setting it down and picking up the second.  “This one is his brother.”  She snorted a laugh.  “His sister-in-law came to see me.”  She pushed forward the first jar.  “She figured out something had happened because her abusive husband had changed almost overnight and she put it all together.  She was also in my class, and smart like you.”  She pushed forward the second jar.  “So she introduced me to the sister in law.”  She shook her head sadly.  “Poor thing, looked like a prize fighter… he had beaten her so bad.”  She tapped the lid of the jar, brightening.  “He’s nicer now, and getting nicer by the day, or so I’m told.”

 She pushed forward the third jar.  “This one’s empty.  It’s sort of a place holder in my collection.  I found out about this guy through a series of friends of friends.  He was a human trafficker.  He forced girls into prostitution.  He was the first I used my special herbal remedies on.”  Her face hinted of pride as she thought.  “Grown in my garden and distilled in my basement, my little magic potion drugged him up so I was able to get a band on him.  It’s a very strong, very tight, rubber band that cuts off all the blood flow to the testicles.  After a couple hours the testicles are unsalvageable.  I stayed with him for several hours after to be sure.  My potion not only dopes him up, but it messes with his memory so he woke up with no idea what happened and a black ball sack with dead balls.”  She smiled gently.  “I hope he went to the ER.”  She nodded.  “I’m sure he did.”  She shrugged.  “Or maybe not.”

 She regarded him, watching for some reaction, but he only watched her numbly, unable to process what she was saying.  

 “This guy was a college.”  She pushed forward the last jar.  “I discovered he was…” She paused, thinking of a diplomatic term.  “behaving inappropriately with students.”  Her lip sneered with disgust as she set down the jar, unwilling to touch it any more than she had too.  “No need to be ribald.  Let’s not get caught in details, but to say the least, he doesn’t do that sort of thing anymore.”

 She sat back, and her eyes smiled at him as she presented her little collection.  “Do you remember what the kids used to call me back in the day?  The Ball Thief.”  Her hand fanned across the table.  “How prophetic.”

 He looked at the jars.  He felt a touch of delight that she trusted him enough to share her secret.  What she had done was illegal, albeit justified; but she trusted him enough to disclose her superhero secret identity.

 He nodded.  “Thank you for telling me.”  He finally said.

 She watched him for a moment, then slid forward and touched his hands.  “I have one more thing.”  She rose, and returned the jars to the shelf.  She then opened a cupboard and retrieved a fifth jar.  “I made this last month.”  She set it before him.  “I wasn’t quite sure why I made it, or why I glazed it in these colors and pattern.”  She admired it.  “Sometimes art is that way.”  She looked up at him.  “I also think it’s my best work.”

 He smiled simply as he admired the squat, little jar.  “Yes, I think so.”  He noticed the lid had not been sealed in wax.  He looked at her curiously, then slowly lifted the lid.

 It was empty.

 “I think I know why I made this now.”  She said warmly, and held his hands as they held the jar.  “I made it for you.”

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