Bedding the Boss Pt. 02

Heather later discovered that plenty of place-swapping had gone on, with players masquerading as supporters and vice versa. There were many after-the-fact debates about who'd actually been with whom, but consensus had it that even the most retiring girl got shagged on one coach or other.

Indeed that had been the day when Edith finally got her man.

Gary tried to maintain the show of being considerate, but not for long . . . not in a proper gentlemanly way, anyhow. After a bit of shuteye Heather was revived and far from retiring. She had soon had his zip down and, encouraged by what she found, rolled onto her side and hitched up the shirt.

That had been all the invitation Gary needed. He'd slipped into her as smoothly as slipping that fabled hot knife into butter, sighed deeply in appreciation, and then he'd slowly and steadily bonked her for two hundred motorway miles. And it was, in all honesty, one of the best bonkings she'd ever had from a man. Corny or not, he had seemed to care about her orgasm as much as his own . . . or, rather, her dozens and dozens as much as his three.

Except maybe he wasn't altogether caring. Ten minutes after getting of the coach she'd been told he was married. Gary hadn't seemed to think that mattered but she'd been riddled with guilt for ages. Still was even now, if the truth be told . . .

*****

Anyway, the old red rugger shirt was still going strong, considering that it had had more cum stains on it than that slightly more famous little blue dress. Okay, it'd been washed far too many times and most of the colour had gone, along with the creases and grime, but it still felt good on Heather's bare bum, even if the arms did almost trail on the ground.

It's not very fetching but it's still top après-sex ladies' wear, she thought. Wonder if Vic will want to rip it off my back?

Heather suspected the answer would be probably not. It was early days yet, but she was as good as certain Vic wasn't going to be the ripping-the-shirt-off-a-girl's-back type. Not in their relationship. Not at heart . . . and in spite of her double-alpha reputation.

Not that that was going to be a problem. She might not know exactly how it was going to work out with Vic, but shagging her wasn't ever going to be a chore. She really was yummy. Those lovely big boobs of hers! And those legs . . .

Forget three times around the neck, it was more like five!

Mmmm nice! I won't be kicking her out of bed anytime soon!

The hallway outside Heather's apartment door was deserted, as it nearly always was. Casting around, she wondered how the moggie got in and out of Graham's place. Not through the main door, that was for sure; there wasn't a cat-flap in sight.

The moggie was actually called "Charlie Brown", not Tibbles or Ginger Tom. Heather didn't see any sense in the name, but then she didn't see much sense in having a moggie in the first place. There had been cats on Hunters Farm, of course, but they weren't pets and didn't exactly belong to anyone. The farm cats had lived in a barn; they'd found their own food and didn't do much apart from sleeping, fighting and producing the odd litter of kittens.

As far as she was aware, all Charlie Brown ever did was loiter about the back of the chippy.

Heather let herself into Graham's apartment. The dish was on the kitchen floor and had been licked clean. She emptied a fresh tin of Felix into it, refilled the water bowl then went for a bit of a prowl. This apartment was a mirror image of her own, so she knew which windows opened and which didn't.

All of Graham's were locked.

So how did the flipping thing come and go?

She had a quick check to make sure the cat hadn't been locked inside all the while, finding nothing apart from a pile of magazines under Graham's bed. That made her smile, even if it didn't solve the cat puzzle. She'd stumbled on the mags a few days ago. They were general blend of Engineering Institute publications, Golf Monthly and explicit pornography.

And very explicit pornography at that!

Having time on her hands, she had plonked herself on the duvet and flicked through the porn, most of which featured men with big willies and women with misty eyes and enthusiastic expressions. There were lots of close-ups of shagging too, including snaps of men climaxing while the girls faked rapture . . . and that rapture just had to be faked; the guys all seemed to withdraw at the last moment, content to shoot almost anywhere except where God had intended.

One magazine seemed to be beckoning her again. Not an out-and-out bondage mag, but one which had "SEE OUR SIXTEEN PAGE SUMMER SPECIAL" emblazoned on the front. As well as featuring women fastened to beds with ropes, chains and the like, this included good quality pictures of pussies leaking juices and/or semen . . .

But Heather overcame the temptation and went back into the lounge. Frowning, she had another look at the glossies on the coffee table. They (obviously!) hadn't changed from the other day, but were still bemusing. Well, they were to her anyhow. She considered it quite normal for a single guy to leave soft porn (Penthouse and Club International in Graham's case) in full view, while hiding away the hard-core stuff. What she did find odd was the need to hide away Golf Monthly as well.

Not to mention the Engineering News.

Chapter Ten

Heather returned to her apartment, no wiser about Charlie Brown or men and magazines. Vic was in the kitchen, naked apart from her glasses, a small square of sandwich in one hand, a glass of wine in the other.

'Ah,' she said. 'The wanderer returns. Where've you been all this time? Looking at your friend's porn? Or making out with his cat?'

'He's only got Penthouse,' Heather fibbed, 'and the cat's nowhere to be seen, he must still be out on the tiles.' She collected a glass of Pinot and checked the sandwiches. 'Corned beef and iceberg?'

'I did well to manage that. Another day and the bread would have been stale. You were spot on when you said you had nothing in.'

'There are lots of places to eat in Bingley.' Heather helped herself to another sandwich. 'I have hardly started on the pubs, but I've found some great takeaways. And that chip shop next door is excellent.'

'I did wonder how you kept so trim. In fact I'm still wondering.'

'I've a lucky metabolism. And I make regular trips to the gym.'

Vic raised an eyebrow. 'You also regularly behave like the Tasmanian Devil, I suppose.'

'As a point of order,' said Heather, 'I never made it across to Tassie. Closest I got was somewhere in your namesake: Geelong, at a guess.'

'Something must have blown across on the wind, then.'

'What, some spore doing over a hundred and fifty miles of ocean?'

'Yes; some extremely potent spore.'

'Hmmm, enough about me, let's talk about you. What's your secret, exercise or starvation?'

'Both.' Vic smiled as Heather leered at her. 'I like being like this, even if I am a bit of a giraffe.'

'Vic, I'm hardly a midget, I'm almost five ten. And I utterly adore giraffes. You won't have to starve yourself for my sake, though. I'll make sure you're so exercised you'll need an all-kebab diet.'

'Let's not rush.' Vic's smile slipped a megawatt or two. 'I'm not ready for anything major. I still need fun and flings.'

'No major commitments?'

'Not just yet.'

'That's fine,' Heather said sincerely. 'I don't do major commitments anyway. Just count me in for some of the fun.'

Vic stared at her a while before going on. 'Karen wanted me to be her man. In realistic ways, that is.'

'With a strap-on, you mean.'

'It was more than that. Yes, she wanted me to fuck her that way. And I certainly didn't mind doing it. It changed her out of bed, though. She wanted to be the little housewife in every last way. And the more I fucked her, the more demanding she became.'

'Didn't you talk it through with her?'

'No. I just worked more and more and got accused of neglect. Don't ask why; we simply weren't able to converse.'

'You can converse about anything and everything with me.' Heather chuckled. 'I'll be up for just about everything too. Pre-planned, spontaneous, whatever you fancy. Aggressive, obliging, submissive . . . all you have to do is let me know.'

'Submissive?'

'Well . . . now and then. And only if you insist.'

'Thank you. I'll remember that.'

'Make sure you do. I don't offer myself to absolutely anybody.'

Vic re-raised her eyebrows but didn't comment.

'Honestly,' Heather said, 'I really will be up for anything you fancy, whenever you fancy it. And don't worry about overtaxing me. Just lately I've been practically a nun.'

'What about Graham? How's he going to fit in?'

'I don't know. I've only slept with him once. That might be as far as it goes.' Heather chuckled again. 'But he did promise me a long weekend in the Dales. I'll need to play that carefully, with him being my nearest neighbour.'

'Go on. Keep surprising me.'

'It would be handy having a boyfriend next door. In case my insatiable appetite for hard willies comes back, as it almost certainly will. Close but not too close.'

'But . . .'

'But I need another reward before I make any decisions. I always overrate men first time. The second time's my reality check.'

'Heather, hasn't it ever occurred to you that women are supposed to reward men with sex? You and Graham seem to be the wrong way around.'

'Victoria, haven't you heard about Women's Liberation? I'll be the judge about the ins and outs of my rewards system . . . especially the ins.'

They giggled while Vic poured more wine.

'One final question,' she said. 'What was that "airhead" business?'

'Oh, that was nothing.'

'No, do tell me. Someone's been going on about the dreaded grapevine, probably Joanna. What is it that's bothering you?'

'It's the labelling.'

'Labelling?'

'Doesn't labelling apply to girls who shag colleagues on a higher grade? I heard they're all airheads or bimbos. Not that I'm letting it put me off.'

Vic nodded and smiled. 'I think labelling only applies when hard willies are involved.'

'Does it? In that case forget I said anything.'

'Okay then, if you insist.'

'I do insist. Come back to bed. Let's go stimulate our imaginations in the dark.'

'Eat your sandwiches first. You'll need to build up your energy.'

'Will I now?'

'Yes indeed.'

'Oh Victoria, promises, promises!'

*****

There were only two sandwiches left. While Heather hungrily scoffed them down Vic drifted away into the lounge. Heather swigged her wine in a most unladylike manner and then followed, finding her new lover standing at the enormous, south-facing window, seemingly at ease with her nakedness.

Smiling to herself, Heather diverted to the settee and donned a pair of heels she'd casually discarded there days earlier.

'What are you up to?' Vic was watching her reflection in the window.

'I'm getting equality in the height stakes.'

'If it's equality you want, aren't you a bit overdressed?'

Heather got to her feet and, holding Vic's attention in the glass, flamboyantly pulled off the very faded red rugger shirt before swirling it over her head.

'Nice,' Vic said without turning round, 'amazingly good tits.'

'These are boobs, Victoria, or bazoomas. Not tits.'

'Still amazingly good, whatever you call them.'

Heather dumped the red shirt on the settee and went behind the other girl, wrapping her arms around her. Even accounting for the heels Vic was taller, but that was okay; it brought the back of her neck quite perfectly into range. Vic liked having the back of her neck nibbled and chewed.

Nice, nice, nice, Heather thought, running her tongue tip across smooth, olive skin, making thousands of tiny hairs spring upright, like a line of toppled dominos somehow standing back up.

Vic arched sensually, moaning as her ripe bazoomas were mercilessly squeezed.

'You're the sexiest,' Heather whispered. 'I haven't met anyone as sexy before; never, ever.'

She felt the other girl's stomach, admiring bands of muscle, recalling images. When Vic tensed there she had a six-pack that almost matched her own. The sight of their taut bodies straining together had been awesome. Shaved, tanned and toned, not an ounce of flab between them.

'Ye gods,' Vic murmured. 'The things you do to me.'

'Haven't even started yet,'

'Trust me, Heather, you have!'

'Is it back to bed, then?'

'No, here . . . I want you to fuck me here. Here and now, for anyone to see.'

'My, my Victoria!' said Heather, in-between renewed nibbles. 'You really do use that rude word a lot. I wouldn't have expected St Helena's girls to know such language.'

'It's you Manor girls. Talking all the time we're doing it . . . corrupting us.'

'I don't ever swear.' Then, correcting herself: 'Not much, anyway.'

'You don't have to. You can make the most ordinary words sound filthy.'

'Do you like me sounding filthy?'

'Yes.'

'How about the filthy things I do? Do you like them as well?'

'Ye gods, yes I do. That's why I'm shaking so badly.'

'Is it also why your nipples could torpedo battleships?'

'Oh ye gods, yes; yes it is!'

'Go on then, tell me what happens next.'

'I want you to fuck me.'

'Like a man? I've something in my room, if that's what you want.'

'No, I don't want it like that; not yet. I want you to sit me on the window ledge, stick your tongue inside and fuck me!'

Vic's body wasn't just shaking now; it was juddering against Heather, who was suddenly in need of a similar service herself.

Later, she thought. Then, aloud, 'Who do you want to be watching? Just tell me and I'll do it. It doesn't matter who you say, I'll do it anyway. Just you name them. They can watch me fucking you hard. And I'll do it again and again. Until you cum in my face and . . .'

Heather slid her hand downwards as she spoke. When she got as far as "cum in my face" she gently traced a line along her lover's moist and very swollen labia.

'Oh!' cried Vic, and climaxed hard and fluidly.

Without hesitating Heather pressed into an already rapidly contracting fanny, easing inside, feeling for Vic's most special place, finding it almost at once.

Vic threw back her head and screamed, her hips moving, thrusting powerfully against Heather's very rigidly curled fingers.

'God,' she yelled. 'Oh! Oh! OH!!'

Her second cum was as good as instantaneous and at least ten times as spectacular as anything that Heather had ever witnessed. She couldn't help but be impressed.

'I'm so sorry,' Vic gasped. 'That was the world's worst self-control.'

'You must have been saving it up. We'd no chance of making it as far as the window ledge.'

'I really am sorry.'

'Don't be. It was an honour to be involved.'

Heather kicked off her heels and retrieved the rugger shirt, kneeling before Vic and using it to dry her, dabbing with the utmost tenderness and care.

'I don't do that often,' Vic said apologetically. 'I have to be very, very turned-on to cum like that.' Then, noticeably blushing: 'That's why I called a time-out for snacks. I didn't really want you to stop fucking me, I just knew what was likely to happen.'

'And you didn't want it to happen?'

'Of course I did! It's embarrassing to make such a mess, though.'

'It's not a mess; it was a wonder to behold.' Heather grinned. 'By the way, has anyone ever said you have the most beautiful fanny?'

Vic snorted. 'So says she with the most beautiful everything.'

'No really, I'm not joking. If I ever have to design the ideal fanny, I'll make it exactly like yours.'

'I hope you design better floodgates.'

'That's unlikely. I'll probably remove floodgates altogether.'

Vic laughed. 'Why am I not surprised?'

The shirt did its job and was dropped over a rather large wet patch on the parquet floor. 'I'll sort that later,' Heather said. 'In the meantime, no-one's any the wiser.'

'Apart from anyone watching,' said Vic.

Standing side by side, hand in hand, they looked out of the window, over a sea of roofs and chimney pots, towards the two banks in the valley bottom. Although night had fallen long ago visibility was still fine. Hundreds and hundreds of dingy orange streetlights kept the darkness at bay.

'Can't see any peeping toms,' Heather said, 'unless Dick Van Dyke has bobbed out for a quick chim, chimney.'

'Or unless Tibbles really is out on the tiles.' Vic laughed again. 'Let's hope he's not fatally attracted. You might come home to find someone's pet mouse boiling away.'

Heather pointed to WYB, one of the few buildings still burning any lights at all. 'Top floor,' she said, 'six windows in. Isn't that someone looking this way?'

'It looks like a man.' Vic adjusted her glasses.

'Don't say it's Dom.' Heather was only half-joking. 'IT nerds do late hours, don't they?'

'Dom starts early and finishes at seven. He might have caught Act One in The Ferrands, but Act Five was far too late for him.'

'Was that Act Five? I thought it was Act Six. Or maybe it was Act Sixteen.'

'You might be right. Anyway, that's not Dom; it's just one of the security officers. I can make out the uniform but not his face, which is just perfect. He'll only be able to see us as two tiny, possibly naked women.'

'Perhaps he'll bring binoculars next time.'

'Next time we'll be more discreet . . . wear ball masks or something. Come on, let's give him a wave.'

They waved and, after a moment's hesitation, the man waved back before abruptly disappearing.

'Gone for a quick wank,' Vic said, before clapping a hand to her mouth. 'Oh ye gods, you really have corrupted me!'

'The corruption could get a whole lot worse. Want to find out how?'

'I thought you'd never ask.'

###

Author's Note: Thank you for reading this story. "Bedding The Boss" is part extract, part spin-off from my full-length novel, "Unconsecrated Ground".

If you have read any of my previous offerings you might well believe that I specialize in sex, mostly of the lesbian variety, sometimes straight. I cannot deny that is true but "Unconsecrated Ground" was written as action/adventure with (I hope) a slight sense of humour. The lesbian/straight sex element is in there as well, though . . . along with a serial killer, old mill towns and countryside made famous by the Bronte sisters.

For a taste of my action/adventure style, please refer to "Desperate Dealings" (available in the non-erotic section of Literotica). And if that grabs you, please feel free to read the novel.

Go on; you know you want to.

Best wishes and happy reading

LL