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Victoria’s Second Secret


By LimeyLady



Copyright Mark C Woolridge (writing as LimeyLady), 2018

Distributed by Smashwords




All characters and events in this publication,

other than those clearly in the public domain,

are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Equally importantly, all the characters are

over the age of 18.





Table of Contents



Introduction

Chapter One - Drinks in the Potting Shed

Chapter Two - Fun Friday

Chapter Three - Dave and Lizzie

Chapter Four - Lizzie’s other self

Chapter Five - Saturday satisfaction

Chapter Six - A break for wine and cheese

Chapter Seven - A restroom confrontation

Chapter Eight - Twice as nice

Chapter Nine - The shape of things to come?

Author’s Note

Other Books by LimeyLady





Introduction|



Hi it’s me again, Kat, here with more exploits to brag about. And trust me, since we last shared a few confidences things have progressed by leaps and bounds, even by my standards.


Pause while I wipe my brow and wonder at my brazenness.


I cannot imagine what would happen if my mother was ever to stumble across the tales I’ve told.


Or maybe I can. Maybe she’d speak to me for the first time since Christmas 2014. She’d have to do in order to scream and yell in my face.


In other words we’d be back to business as usual.


Okay, I’ve pulled myself together; let’s move along a ways.


As a reminder, I am thirty-one and addicted to travelling. I’m also a “natural” IT programmer and I have shamelessly used that gift to fund my travelling. Put simply, since I graduated I have flit from one employer to another, working short-term contracts to feed my addiction.


A year here, then off a year. A year there, then off again.


Sadly it’s not always as easy as that. As I’m sure everybody appreciates, it’s harder to save than it is to spend. Consequently the last ten years have been split roughly sixty-forty between earning and globe-trotting. But it’s how I want to live. I’d fight to the death to live that way, just as I’d fight to the death to defend my right to prefer sleeping with girls.


Not that I’m a physical fighter. Loving does it for me, not fighting. As far as I’m concerned fighting causes extreme pain and loving causes extreme pleasure.


No brainer or what?


Last time I opened my heart was just over two weeks ago. I was two months into a six month stint at West Yorkshire Bank and had been fucking a female director every Wednesday without fail. At least I had been until the eighth Wednesday.


Then, unable to make it, she’d sent a friend in her place.


(As an aside perhaps they could do a reality quiz show, set in a jungle, including a round along the lines of “Phone a Friend”. No, make that “Send a Friend”. God knows what they’d call the show. I do have ideas but they’d never get past the censors.)


Re-reading it, I finished that last tale rather abruptly, with me debating the pros and cons of being part of an all-female threesome, leaving the decision hanging.


How remiss of me!


For anyone who missed the previous story, the female director is Heather Hunter (“Hev”) and the substitute she sent is Victoria Hanson (“Vic”). To complicate matters I didn’t find out that Vic is the CEO of my current employers, WYB, until we’d fucked each other to a standstill.


The good news is that Vic isn’t remotely as highfalutin as her job title suggests. And, what’s more, she enjoyed me so much that it was she who proposed the threesome.


The bad news is that I would be way, way out of my depth with both those alpha babes together. One at a time, no worries; but both at once . . .


Leaving you hanging a little longer on my decision, I’m going to pick up on the Friday following my CEO adventure. Eager to make up for personally missing the latest Wednesday night, substituted or nay, Hev had set up a (twosome) date at the usual time, in the usual place . . .



Chapter One



Officially we finished half an hour earlier on a Friday than we did the rest of the working week, not five o’clock but four thirty. That meant I had to linger in the office longer than usual but it also gave me the chance to test a programme or two. Satisfied they were unbreakable, fool-proof and, more importantly, did what they were supposed to do, I set off for the Potting Shed.


My timing was in line with previous visits but tonight there was a difference: tonight there was still a hint of daylight. Not a lot, granted, but enough to notice. Winter was almost over and spring was just around the corner.


Trouble was the TV was warning of bad weather on its way. If they were to be believed “The Mini Beast from the East” was due to hit the UK tomorrow, bringing with it high winds, snow, blocked roads and who knew what else.


A poor weekend ahead . . . if they were to be believed.


Personally I didn’t give a toss. Just now the evening was cool but not cold. The wind was a gentle breeze and okay, so Bingley Main Street was grid-locked but that had nothing to do with climate; it was always grid-locked this time of day, rain or shine. Snow tomorrow would only keep a few careful drivers at home and probably speed the job up as a whole.


No, a short, sharp snowfall wouldn’t worry me. It probably wouldn’t happen and even if it did, Hev had advised me to bring extra clothes. Not so we could go skiing, I hasten to add. In her opinion it took Friday, Saturday and Sunday to make up for one missed Wednesday. The change of clothes was just to facilitate occasional sallies into various local pubs for “refreshments”.


In other words we were going to fuck the weekend away, breaking off once in a while to snack in one boozer or other.


Fair enough by me, of course. I liked snacking in boozers and, if we were actually snowed in, Hev had half Italy’s annual wine production in her fridge; she also had a fair part of Australia’s sat on her otherwise unused granite worktops. If the worst came to the worst we’d have to stay put and get by on pinot, Shiraz and past-due-date Cheshire cheese on stale crackers.


There were worse ways to spend a weekend.


And this, co-incidentally, would be our first weekend spent sinning together. I could hardly wait. In fact it was going to be hard pretending I was pissed off with her.


My best travel bag hooked over my shoulder, I went into the pub.


Surprise, surprise! The Late Heather Hunter was there before me. Apart from our very first time I had always been ten minutes early. Well, at least ten minutes earlier than her, anyway.


‘Kat,’ she said, beaming at me, emerald eyes flashing invitation, ‘how very good to see you. Here, I took the liberty.’


I accepted the 250 mils glass of Hardy’s and did my best not to return her grin.


Fuck but it was difficult. Pretending to be grumpy was easy in theory; doing it under her megawatt smile was something else altogether.


‘Looking good,’ she said, still smiling, ‘there again, you always do.’


I muttered something even I didn’t understand.


‘Is that the best you can do?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t you glad to see me?’


Unable to resist any longer . . . already . . . I kissed her hello.


And there went my Equity card.


‘Let’s grab a seat,’ Hev said when I finally released her. ‘Let’s talk.’



*****



We had always chatted innocuously at the bar before. Intrigued, I led Hev to the table I had used with Vic a couple nights previously. Fridays in the Shed were even busier than Wednesdays, so it wasn’t isolated in any real sense of the word. It was, however, as secluded as we were likely to get in there.


‘Well,’ Hev began, ‘out with it.’


‘I couldn’t believe you set me up like that,’ I said, trying to be indignant . . . and failing.


‘By all accounts you adapted admirably,’ Hev countered with another trademark grin. ‘You can stick that on your CV, if it’s not on there already.’


‘Do you mean like an example?’ I widened my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. ‘To all my would-be employers: I proved I was very adaptable at WYB by . . .’


Hev put a hand over my mouth before I could turn the air blue.


‘Not in here,’ she warned. ‘We’re not supposed to even kiss in here, never mind talk explicit sex.’


Clearly she hadn’t fully briefed Vic before letting her loose on me!


Oops!


I kissed Hev again, fleetingly this time, no more than a peck, and then sat back smugly.


She laughed. ‘What are you like?’


‘I’m like young, footloose and fancy-free,’ I replied, ‘and only too obviously.’


She responded by changing the subject. Or rather, by backtracking to one that suited her. It was a Thatcher-like trait of hers. Once she’d conquered the banking universe she’d probably switch to politics.


No, scrap that. She didn’t need any more money but the drop to a mere prime minister’s salary would crush her ego.


‘CVs tend to be very boring,’ she said with a fake yawn. ‘They should all be spiced up if you ask me. Given two candidates with the same qualifications, I’d go for experience every time.’


‘Experience like the sort I could put on my CV?’


‘You got it in one.’


I laughed. It was impossible not to.


‘Wednesday,’ Hev went on. ‘It wasn’t planned. Not by me, anyway. I got the call to go to London Bridge just before lunch. And it was a three-line whip with an immediate start. I think I did well to put contingencies in place before I rushed off.’


‘And how did you manage that?’ I wondered. ‘Didn’t Vic take a lot of persuading?’


‘Hardly any at all, if you must know. She was the one who told me I had to go, you see.’


I blinked at that. I supposed it made sense: within WYB at least, Vic was the capo di tutti capi. But the possibility of her involvement prior to the event hadn’t occurred to me before.


‘You know what London Bridge is, don’t you?’ Hev went on.


‘It’s WYB’s token City office,’ I replied. ‘Half a dozen heads, there to maintain a presence.’


‘How astute you are,’ Hev chuckled, ‘and you are spot on. Top management has always insisted we support them in person, in times of need. Vic used to go, when she was just the deputy CEO. Nowadays she and her deputy are too busy, so I get the honour.’



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