Honey Trap

By Ian W. Cooper

Helen has taken a fancy to a soldier living in her neighborhood. Just looking at him causes a flutter in Jill’s tummy. They’ve 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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian W. Cooper
• Release date: Nov 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781927957523

Ian W. Cooper

Ian Cooper has written fiction, non-fiction and worked for newspapers and magazines. He likes to make people laugh as well as think. His writing has a strong sense of the dramatic. Out of work and recovering from a life-threatening illness, someone suggested writing his sexual memoirs, which he initially rejected for the amount of research involved. He didn’t want to have to make it all up from scratch. A single dad and semi-retired from his most recent experience in the construction industry, Ian squeezes a little writing time in between raising a daughter and building a home-based business.

Book preview

Honey Trap

Ian Cooper

Copyright 2014 Ian Cooper and Long Cool One Books

Design: J. Thornton

ISBN 978-1-927957-52-3

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. The author’s moral right has been asserted.

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Table of Contents

Scene One

Scene Two

Scene Three

The Far Side of Nowheresville

About Ian Cooper

Honey Trap

Ian Cooper

Scene One

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