Short and Sweet

Yet Emerald Eyes had brought me off twice . . . just like that. And what's more, she hadn't finished.

More unladylike, nasal grunting from me met her fingers' first visit to my vagina, circling the entrance. I would have squealed if I could as her index slipped inside. Or maybe I hungrily sucked it inside; it was hard to tell.

And oh my, didn't it know what it was doing! Without crudely thrusting all the way in, it easily found my G-spot and began to stimulate it with a very acceptable rhythm. My God, if I hadn't have known better I'd have supposed it was using some old R&B rhythm. I dearly wanted to rock along with it but I didn't dare; last thing I wanted was to mess up the beat.

*****

After my third climax Emerald Eyes held me at arms' length and grinned.

'You're shaking,' she said, 'let's go inside and get you warmed up.'

Hard to believe, but her grin was even sexier than her smile. Ready to follow her anywhere, ready to do anything, I just nodded dumbly.

Taking my hand she led me away from the front of the farmhouse, to the right. We didn't actually pass the duck pond going that way, but we did get a little closer.

'Bashful,' she said, her voice strong yet full of love, 'get back to your nest.'

Looking toward the pond I glimpsed a big white shape disappearing into thick reeds.

Can she really tell the seven of them apart? I wondered. And thank God they obey her!

We entered the building via a side door. Passing through a very well-equipped kitchen and a parquet-floored hallway, she drew me into a small room. I wasn't exactly up on houses but reckoned it was a one-time scullery that had been converted into a laundry.

'This little beauty washes and dries,' Emerald Eyes said, patting a futuristic looking white machine. 'I'll put your clothes in and they'll soon be as good as new.'

'Doesn't it iron as well?' I asked, as ignorant of appliances as I was of houses.

'Probably, but I don't know which buttons to press. Now then, how are we going to do this?'

I watched as she removed her jacket and shook her hair free. That solitary wisp had been misleading. I had supposed she'd be all black curls but she wasn't; she had a luxuriously thick, straight mane that fell most of the way down her back. The wisp must have somehow reacted to the warm, wet air.

Never mind her hair, though. Fully revealed at last, her face would have made Helen of Troy gnash her teeth in envy.

The rest of her wasn't as expected, either. Jacket-free, she looked like an office worker, albeit a very senior one: starched, bright white shirt with a small black cravat; a short, no-doubt expensive black pencil skirt with matching nylons . . .

And she was wearing black court shoes with heels!!

Emerald Eyes laughed as I gaped at her feet.

'There's a tree down blocking the road,' she said lightly. 'I had to walk the last few hundred yards. It's a good job I had the jacket in the back of my car.'

'Bloody trees,' I said, frowning as I looked at her, wondering if I almost recognized her.

But then her eyes caught mine again and, as good as hypnotized, I returned her flirty grin.

'How about this for a deal,' she said. 'I take one garment off you, and then you take one off me.'

'Your garments are dry,' I said, foolishly.

'Maybe they are, on the outside.' She laughed and reached out, deftly removing my sodden track top and depositing it in her washer.' Over to you,' she added, flightily.

I was trembling as I unfastened her cravat and, when she merely nodded, her shirt buttons. She took the cravat and tossed it onto a chair before saying, 'Take off my blouse.'

I obeyed and nearly died at the sight underneath. Her tits were large, round and very firm. It seemed to me that they were supporting her racy white lace brassiere, rather than the other way around.

'I suspect you're bra-less,' she said. 'So take off mine before I take off your T.'

Still hypnotized and perhaps brainwashed, I did as she said. And death stepped a little closer.

Those nipples were big and standing out proud. And her massive areolae were as dark as Bourneville chocolate.

Unable to stop myself, I kissed and then flicked at them with the tip of my tongue. They responded by getting harder and even bigger.

I must admit that blew my tiny mind. I hadn't ever had sexual contact with female nipples before (hell, I hadn't had sexual contact with females before, full stop). Until then the sum of my nipple experience had been with guys. And whenever I'd chewed a guy's nipple it had seemed to get harder but smaller. Harder and bigger worked for me, I can assure you of that!

'Okay,' Emerald Eyes said aeons later, 'off with your T-shirt.'

I obediently held up my arms while she took hold of the hem and pulled it up over my head. And I was cool about that if nothing else; I didn't even wince at the momentary coldness of wet cotton as it went over my face.

'Lovely,' she said before assaulting my tits, doing to me much as I'd done to her . . . and effortlessly making me cum yet again.

(That was another first, by the way. A lot of guys had admired my breasts but nobody with a cock had ever done anything creative with them.)

Next up I had to take off Emerald Eyes' skirt. That wasn't as easy as it sounds; the zip was concealed at one side and my fingers were as solid as jelly. But . . . somehow . . . I did it.

Cue another near-death moment. Under her prim and proper daywear she had stockings, a garter belt and the world's thinnest thong, all in matching, tasteful black. And, as if that wasn't enough of a major coronary risk, she had a trickle of juice running down the inside of her thigh, onto her stocking-tops.

'Lick it off me,' she commanded.

Shaking again, I got to my knees. Not allowing myself to wonder, I leant in and ran my tongue up five or six inches of smooth, bare flesh.

'Nice, nice, nice,' she murmured.

She tasted of wild honey and I loved it. Recalling her fingers in my leggings, I tugged her thong to one side and licked the outside of her swollen labium.

'Nice, nice, nice,' she moaned, her hips moving almost tidally.

Encouraged, I licked inward, onto the mouth of her vagina and stopped abruptly as a hot gush flooded over my chin.

'Good grief,' said Emerald Eyes, chuckling weakly. 'That really was nice!'

Oh my God, I'd made her cum!!

She took hold of my arms and pulled me upright, but not before I'd seen that the insides of both of her thighs were wet. And by "wet" I don't mean with mere trickles; her legs were splattered with juice, and so were her nylons.

'Feast your eyes,' she said, 'these stockings are coming off before we go in the shower.'

No two ways about it, I was feasting my eyes. For almost twenty-two years I'd only ever admired other women as role models and fashion icons. Suddenly I was admiring one as a sexual object and I'll tell you this: I had definitely started out at the very pinnacle. There might have been sexier girls somewhere in the world, perhaps even girls who were more beautiful . . .

But I wasn't betting on it.

'A shower,' I said, 'oh yes, yes please.'

Emerald Eyes laughed again. 'Don't you want me to take those leggings off first?'

*****

The rest of the sex was simply astounding. I don't have the superlatives to do it justice. After an hour under an ultra-power shower, with my pussy washed as clean as it had ever been, we retired to bed. And then, after an extended session of cunnilingus (one that made me wonder why I'd ever bothered with men for any function at all), Emerald Eyes asked me if I liked "penetration".

By then I would have agreed to anything, anywhere, anytime. My compliance encouraged her to take me with a wicked-looking strap-on. Pretending I indulged every other day, I did my best not to bat one eyelash . . .

And thank God for that! If Emerald Eyes was twice as good as any man at eating a girl, she was ten or more times better at screwing one.

And that night I was that girl!!

The storm had provided the soundtrack to our earliest physical clashes. I won't be fanciful enough to claim that my cums coincided with the regular flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder . . . even if they often did. No, I'll just say that we lasted a whole lot longer than the weather. By the time we did finally stop for a breather that electrical disturbance had moved on. By then it was probably providing soundtracks for lovers over Scarborough or Bridlington . . . or maybe even Holland.

'Excuse me,' Emerald Eyes suddenly exclaimed, clicking on recessed wall and ceiling lights. 'All this fun and I haven't offered you a drink. What's your poison; shiraz or pinot?'

I went for pinot, fancying something cold and thirst-quenching. She sashayed off to get it, telling me to "wait right there" over her shoulder as she went. Then, pausing in the doorway, she asked, 'Should I check on the washing or are you here for the duration?'

Not prepared to admit I was knackered, I confirmed I was there for the duration. Then, for no obvious reason apart from it being true, I told her I liked her figure.

Grinning at me, she bent her arms like a bodybuilder and clenched her muscles. And the sight of her blew me away. Relaxed, she was soft, feminine perfection. Clenched she was something else.

'Oh my God,' I gasped, conscious every muscle below my waist had clenched simultaneously, but not in the same way as hers; not exactly. 'Don't worry about the washing machine,' I went on, still gaping at her, 'if it hasn't done its job we can always use your stomach as a washboard.'

'You say the sweetest things.' Her grin broadened. 'Pinot, wasn't it?'

'Yeah,' said I. 'Make it a large one.'

Two minutes later she was back, bearing glasses the size of goldfish bowls. I goggled at them. There had to be most of a bottle in each.

'Cheers,' she said, passing me mine.

'Cheers,' I replied. Then, as much for something to say as anything else: 'I'm Chrissie. When I'm not hiding up trees I work at WYB.'

That struck her as amusing. 'Oh dear,' she chuckled, 'another resolution bites the dust.'

Avoiding her eyes, I studied her anew. Yes, I had seen her somewhere before. And, now she had put the lights on, I noticed she had lighter colouring down below. I couldn't possibly call it "white bits", but she'd definitely been out in the sun wearing microscopic bikini bottoms.

'Sorry my tan isn't all-over,' she said. 'I couldn't find a nudist beach in Lanzarote.'

'What do you do for a living?' I enquired, a little nettled she hadn't responded to my intro, determined not to directly ask her name.

'I'm a banker too,' she said, swigging vino.

A distant chamber of my brain clicked into life. Somehow, vaguely, I recalled a magazine article from maybe six months ago. WYB had sailed through the global Credit Crunch while other banks fell by the wayside. But then, in 2014 when the waters had calmed, some hacker had stolen a shedload of data and the shares had impersonated an Acapulco cliff diver.

That had been before my time, of course. I'd read on, fascinated, learning how badly the "new" CEO had handled the crisis. Within months he'd got the boot and the board had gone on their knees to the ex-deputy CEO, begging her to ride to the rescue. The ex-deputy . . . now an almost mythical banking legend; one Victoria Hanson . . . had been on (much) extended maternity leave. She'd agreed to their pleas and, back in the saddle, her first actions had been to recall the CEO-before-last as a consultant and to appoint her long-term protégé as deputy.

Then, presenting herself as the female-friendly face of finance, she'd introduced a whole raft of new products and deals, backed by a series of TV adverts featuring a homely, game young woman who always prevailed against masculine adversity.

And then Ms Hanson wangled her way onto Question Time, taking opportunity to publically apologize for the security breach and to assume full personal responsibility. The fact that her question had been rigged wasn't picked up on. But the irrevocable assumption of responsibility for a fault occurring in her absence was not missed. The impression she made was immense and, when the market opened next morning, WYB shares rebounded and kept on rebounding.

By New Year 2015 they were higher than ever and the legend had been born.

More to the point, a photo of that protégé had been included in the article. And she was sitting on her bed beside me at that very moment.

Oh my God, I'd just been fucked by the deputy CEO!

At last the "Hunters Farm" link clicked into place.

'You're her,' I gasped. 'You're Heather Hunter!!'

'So I am.' She chinked her ridiculously large glass against mine and grinned that grin. 'But, seeing as it's your turn to do the shagging, please call me Hev . . .'

*****

Author's Note: Please do excuse the overdramatic finale; I honestly couldn't help it, but at least I tried! Heather never did want to retire and has been nagging away at me like a fishwife for what seems like ages. Her idea of making a comeback was along the lines of Frank Sinatra: a brand-new album and a television spectacular. To her disgust, I decided something more modest was in order.

Going ahead, I don't intend to write many more long series. My plan is to publish short(ish) one-offs featuring characters new and old. In Heather's case I will be often dipping back into her past, maybe enlarging on adventures she's already hinted at on Literotica and elsewhere.

Finally I would like to sincerely thank you for reading this story (and I hope some of the other stories of mine). I will be eternally grateful for votes and feedback, be it critical or otherwise.

Thanks again and see you soon.

LL