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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


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


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!


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.’

‘Shows how important you are,’ said I, swigging vino.

‘Usually it feels good, riding to the rescue like the 7th Cavalry.’

‘You and Custer,’ I observed. ‘I hope it wasn’t Little Bighorn when you got there.’

‘It was next to nothing,’ said Hev. ‘We could have sorted it out by video or phone conference. But we ruthless northern so-and-sos showed our face, didn’t we? Well, we showed my face, anyway.’

Somehow I stopped myself saying what a nice face she had. I’d already buggered up all chance of being indignant. Flattering her would only go to her head.

‘Did Vic put up much of a scrap?’ I enquired. ‘When you recruited her to take your place, I mean.’

Never mind Cheshire cheese; Hev was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

‘She was like that old boxer saying “no mas”, except he put up a lot more resistance. From what I saw when I got there, Vic sent me down south on purpose.’

I took that with a pinch of salt. I’m the world’s best exaggerator but Hev was far better when it came to making mountains out of molehills.

And besides . . . I rather liked the idea of Vic wanting to fuck with me, both of us sight unseen.

‘Whatever,’ I said to Hev. ‘What happened took place, didn’t it?’

‘Speaking of which,’ she grinned, ‘you’ve kept me in the dark. I’m desperate to know.’

I grinned back at her. ‘You’re desperate to know what, exactly?’

‘I want to hear your side of the story. I’ve heard Vic’s but I need to compare.’

For once my glass was empty before hers. I shoved it towards her.

‘Get them in and I’ll tell all.’

Chapter Two

Friday night in Hev’s bed was different to a bog-standard Wednesday. Normally we took it in turns to give and receive, more or less making it up as we went along. Not then, though. Hev had got it into her head that, because she’d not fulfilled a “guaranteed promise”, she was deeply indebted to me. Consequently I was free to do anything I wanted.

And I was free to tell her to do anything I wanted, too.

It sounded like a good deal but in practice I struggled. We had already tried just about every sex act under the sun and I wasn’t and never will be into anything downright perverted. Between you and me, I had given my free reign a lot of forethought and not come up with much. In truth best I could think of was swearing.

Well, I told you I struggled!

Right from the start we’d communicated during sex, usually in the form of pleas and thanks amid a torrent of moans and groans. And, when it was her turn to be on the receiving end, Hev was particularly good at providing a running commentary. In fact some of the things she said went beyond rude, well into obscene.

But she very rarely swore.

Maybe it was that posh school of hers; maybe she was still a naughty schoolgirl at heart. I can’t be sure what it was, but she always minded her Ps and Qs. To her a guy didn’t have a “cock”; he had a “willy”. A girl didn’t have a “pussy”; she had a “fanny”. Lovers didn’t “fuck” or “screw”; they “shagged”.

And, as far as she was concerned, the C-word had never been invented. The idea of Hev taking it via strap-on and crying out: “Harder you fucking bitch, fuck my cunt harder . . .”

Well such an idea was so unlikely it was laughable.

Ludicrous as it was, swearing was all I had. Or so I had thought. When it came to it I simply couldn’t bring myself to tell her to curse like an over-implanted porn star. Maybe I’d been called a bitch too often for real (meaning outside of the bedroom). Or maybe I realized she would hate doing it and that me even asking her would taint the valuable thing we had between us. Whatever it was, I simply couldn’t give the command.

So instead I just became bossy and ordered her about a lot. Get on your back! Open your legs! Lick my clit!

I’m sure you get the gist.


How about this for a first? We got to about four in the morning and we slept. Honestly we did. Cuddling each other, our curves moulded into one, breathing as one, we slowly kissed ourselves to sleep.

Only to be woken three hours later by the birds singing in the trees outside.

Bloody, bastard birds!

Okay, on reconsideration, I let them off. It was seven in the morning and they should have started chirping earlier. They probably thought they were giving us a lie in.

Not so Hev. Not by any stretch.

Refreshed and revitalized, she tore up last night’s rule book and switched into hurricane mode.

Here’s a universal truth for you: Hurricane Heather is not a force to oppose. When she goes off in that direction all a girl can do is grip the sides of the bed and let it happen.

Not that she gets violent or anything; she just gets super-energetic. Think of a top gym queen, the sort who regularly leaves guys trailing in her wake. Think of her doing dozens and dozens of circuits, faster and infinitely more efficiently than anyone else.

Then think of her on her very last circuit, doubling the repetitions and trying to halve her regular time.

That was Hev in hurricane mode. Under normal circumstances she could be passionate, to say the least. But given her head . . .

Put it this way: I’ve read the books and know there is supposed to be dead calm in the eye of the storm. Trust me there is no calm in the eye of Hurricane Heather. Like I said, best a girl can do is grip the sides of the bed and take and take.

After all, what harm can it do? Sometimes she blows herself out in . . . Well, in three hours or so.

That morning it was more like four.


Around eleven o’clock we went to Hev’s super-impressive shower room. By then (temporarily) sated, we washed each other without too much intimacy.


Okay, so I’ll be more accurate. We washed each other like lovers who only occasionally needed to pinch buns and squeeze nipples.

And rub pussies, naturally.

Afterwards we dried each other with Hev’s luxurious M&S towels. Then, back in her bedroom, I took a quick look out of the window. It was raining and the trees were waving in the wind. The gentle breeze of yesterday had been overtaken by something more serious. But snow was nowhere to be seen.

‘No sign of the Beast from the East,’ I said brightly.

Hev took the merest glance outside and disagreed.

‘Give it an hour and it’ll be coming down in blankets.’

‘What is this,’ I replied, ‘the old Farmer’s Almanac?’

‘Are you laughing at me?’

Something in the set of Hev’s bare shoulders made me hastily backtrack.

‘No, of course I’m not. I just wondered how you were so sure.’

She grinned at that and pointed to the trees. ‘Wind’s coming from the east and the skies are full. It is pretty obvious, isn’t it?’

Perhaps those farmers knew something after all. I was no meteorologist but I was aware that the majority of Yorkshire weather came from the west. So far as I knew the rain kicked off out in the mid-Atlantic, dropped bucketloads on Ireland then moved on to Lancashire. And then, Yorkshire being God’s Own County, those storm clouds hit the Pennines and bounced right back, emptying the last of their load over Manchester, where it belonged.

Semi-scientific as that was, there was truth in it. Back in my sixth form days a boyfriend (Yuk what an admission!) had gone to play a school soccer match in Burnley. In Keighley we’d been put on stand-pipe warning, meaning anytime soon the main water supply was going to be arbitrarily cut off.

Over the hill in Burnley my boyfriend had had to “take a long stud”.

Okay, so soccer terms mean as little to me as cricket terms. All I know about cricket is that it’s fun to watch a match at the WACA while drinking endless cans of Swan. But back in the day I did get sort of an explanation and here it is:

Apparently taking long stud means the going was very soft, unlike Yorkshire at the time, where it would have taken a sledgehammer to penetrate a nail half an inch into the ground.

That was the difference between west and east, wasn’t it?

Or was it?

‘How can you tell it’s an easterly?’ I asked.

‘Look at the leaves on the trees,’ said Hev. ‘Obvious, isn’t it?’

Then, dismissing the subject, she asked me what I was going to wear.

‘You look good in day-to-day,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to see your weekend clobber.’

Cringing inside, assuming she’d be dressed by Armani, I showed her a pair of tight-fitting blue denims.

‘Promising,’ she endorsed, ‘let’s see your top.’

I had brought two sweatshirts. I held up the plain white one, devoid of any logo.

‘Student clobber,’ she laughed. ‘No, it’s student and around the world clobber.’

Before I could protest she threw up a retraining hand.

‘Great minds think alike,’ she said, producing a similar pair of Wrangler jeans out of thin air.

‘I wear these out of the office all the time,’ she went on. ‘They feel good on my bare bum. That’s why I’m going to ask you to discard your knickers.’

I held her gaze. ‘Is this a two-way sort of thing?’

‘You bet it is. No knickers, no bra. We’ll be equals in every sense of the word.’

Chapter Three

Here’s a confession for you. I rarely go bra-less because my nipples are super-sensitive. Support-wise I have no real problem but, given the feel of clean fabric constantly chafing my nips . . .

Changes of temperature don’t help either. In short, I can get nipple erections at the drop of a hat.

That applied to me during our taxi ride, and in spades. Out of Hev’s lovely warm house, a dose of freezing cold air and into a stuffy cab, my fresh white sweatshirt rubbing on me with every slightest of movements, hard nips were an unavoidable fact of life.

So what, I concluded, alone in the back seat. Hev’s as vulnerable as me; she won’t mind.

The cabbie, coincidentally, was taking no notice of me at all. He only had eyes for Hev . . . Which was disconcerting seeing as the rain was steadily becoming sleet.

For the first time I wondered where we were going. By my reckoning the nearest pub was down in Crossflatts. Failing that it might be Dick Hudsons, overlooking Baildon Moor. But, taking a right as we exited Hunters Farm, we went uphill a way and then took a left.

A sense of dread overtook me.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked timorously.

‘To the Buzzer,’ Hev replied, momentarily breaking off her conversation with the cabbie. ‘I’ve got us a table for one o’clock. That gives us chance for a few aperitifs, doesn’t it?’

Shit. By “Buzzer” she meant the Busfeild Arms! My ex lived three doors away and was very much a local. So had been I, not too very long ago.

Meaning a year or so ago, when I had most recently been her live-in lover.

Perversely, as we went downhill the sleet turned to snow. About halfway down, as we passed a long terrace of houses on our right, it turned back to sleet. At the bottom of the hill, in East Morton itself, it was raining again.

‘Thirty minutes,’ Hev said as we got out of the taxi. ‘Thirty minutes and it’ll be snowing blankets.’

‘What if we get snowed in?’

‘Snowed in a pub?’ She laughed. ‘I’m Lucky Heather, but I’ve never been that lucky!’

I had a wary glance around the car park. Parking in Morton was notoriously tricky. My ex didn’t have a reserved slot so always parked courtesy of the pub. And she always went in for a drink or two every day, by way of paying “rent”.

Her car wasn’t in its usual slot.

There again, I hadn’t a clue what she was driving these days and it was a very busy boozer. Any one of the dozens of parked up motors could be hers.

We went inside and turned right, passing through the middle bar, me recognizing a few faces as I went, returning one or two nods and smiles. We both caught the odd lusty leer, too.

‘I’m going for Landlord,’ Hev announced. ‘Are you joining me or are you playing the girl?’

I didn’t bite. Putting my head close to hers I told her she was playing the girl later, big-time.

She laughed and said okay.

Picking one of the few free tables we sat, Hev on a bench-like affair, me perched opposite her on a low barstool (you know the sort: the ones with heavy cast iron legs that proliferate in pubs in the north of England).

‘Did I ever tell you about Bluey?’ Hev began.

I sipped Shiraz and shook my head. I knew Bluey was Oz slang for a red-haired man, but couldn’t recall hearing the tale. And I would have remembered; very few of Hev’s tales featured men.

‘I was alone in Sydney,’ she went on, ‘in the biggest traffic jam ever seen outside of Calcutta, and my freaking campervan blew a gasket . . .’

Then she stopped abruptly and said, ‘Get a load of those two.’

I guessed she wasn’t referring to guys so craned my neck to have a look.

And I nearly died.

There were two young ladies at the bar. One was a tall blonde with straight hair down to her sexy ass, her perfect figure perfectly displayed in tight black leggings. The other was much shorter and resembled Velma out of Scooby-Doo.


It was her.

It was my ex.

It was Dave.

And I swear she felt me looking at her. Her head turning slowly, like the little girl in The Exorcist, she finally met my gaze.

(Big correction at this point: Velma does not look even remotely like a demon-possessed child. In fact Dave doesn’t really look like Velma either. Her glasses are very similar and her hair is approximately the same colour, but much shorter. And that’s about it for resemblances. Dave would never wear a skirt and turtleneck sweater. She hadn’t been “born with a mystery book in her hand” and she’d never say “jinkies”. It’s just something about her . . . maybe her startlingly bright intelligence.)

The blonde was stunningly shaped but faded beside flat-chested Dave.

Yes, that same Dave who delighted in being mistaken for a boy.

Yes, that same Dave who had split with me more than once, in increasingly terrible circumstances.

That last split had been the worst. Harsh words had been exchanged. I had even revenge-fucked her new girlfriend out of sheer spite.

And here we suddenly were, bare yards apart, staring at each other.

That stare could only have lasted seconds but seemed like forever. I altogether forgot about Hev and returned it best I could.

Then Dave said something to the blonde and walked towards me.

Oh fuck, she wanted confrontation.

Or perhaps she did not.

‘Hi Katrina,’ she said, unsmiling yet civil, ‘fancy seeing you here.’

Wincing inwardly at the use of my “Sunday Name”, I answered her equally civilly. ‘Hi Dave, you’re looking good.’

Talking about looking good, Dave’s eyes had moved onto Hev.

‘This is Hev,’ I said, spluttering a little, perhaps embarrassed to be introducing two lovers.

Old and new, my brain yammered, borrowed and blue.

‘You’re Heather Hunter,’ said Dave, surprising me.

Hev nodded. ‘You’re Davina from the Widget Company. You were very helpful in that partnership project the other year.’

Oh shit, don’t say my two lovers had already fucked each other!

Fortunately, they hadn’t.

At least they hadn’t unless they were actresses on the scale of Judi Dench.

‘Anything but Davina,’ said Dave, ‘please!’

‘Hiya,’ said the blonde, crossing the room and shoving a medium-sized glass of white into Dave’s hand.

‘This is Lizzie,’ Dave said by way of introduction.

‘Lizzie the Lezzie,’ the blonde said, giggling uncontrollably, ‘I’m out loud and proud.’

In all honesty she couldn’t have been much louder. Never mind throughout the pub, people must have heard her down in Bingley.

Like two miles away.

To my amazement Hev didn’t recoil at the girl’s brashness. She offered the blonde a clenched fist and said, ‘Yes, and me too. Sadly my name doesn’t rhyme.’

Still giggling, Lizzie bumped knuckles.

Then Hev turned to Dave who immediately returned her fist bump.

‘Solidarity sister,’ Hev said. And then she burst into a storm of giggles of her own. ‘I haven’t said that in years,’ she admitted.

‘Sounds like you say it every day,’ Dave countered. ‘It sounds good.’

Nobody seemed to want to bump fists with me. I did briefly consider offering my knuckles to Dave but held back. As I said earlier, our last break-up was not amicable. I couldn’t rule out the chance she might ignore my hand and knuckle-rap my nose instead.

‘Join us,’ Hev invited.

I made to scuttle across and sit beside her but was too slow. Before I knew it Lizzie was sitting at my side and Dave was on the bench next to Hev, gazing into her emerald greens and yarning away about partnerships of old.

Chapter Four

Lizzie listened to Dave and Hev for perhaps thirty seconds before yawning ostentatiously.

‘Talking shop on a Saturday afternoon,’ she said to me. ‘We can do better, can’t we? Let’s talk about us. Tell me about you.’

Before I could oblige, she was off.

Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit!

I hate to admit it but her words went in one ear, out of the other. Could that girl chatter! I suppose that she said things of great interest but can’t remember even one. Well, maybe not true. She told me she was “weekending” with Dave and enjoying it very much.

Looking at Dave and Hev, I suspected Lizzie’s weekend might be shorter than she’d planned, and so might mine.

What had Vic said about Hev and Mamma? Something about buckets of water being needed to get them apart, wasn’t it? It seemed like Hev and Dave were headed the same way.

Now Dave showed no sign of sensing my attention. Her eyes were all on Hev, her body language to say the least, friendly.

Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, went Lizzie, rabbit, rabbit, rabbit.

How the fuck do I get myself into these situations? I wondered. How am I going to get out of this one?

And why are my nips so hard?

Conscious Lizzie had noticed I helped myself to an eyeful of her. She wasn’t exactly dressed for the weather: her low-cut top showed off melon-sized tits. And yes, her nips were standing out too; loud and proud, like the girl herself.

Tearing my eyes off her chest, I looked out of the window. It was snowing now, slightly ahead of old Farmer Hunter’s forecast. Snowing but not settling.

At least it wasn’t settling yet.

Snowed in a pub with these two, I thought, omigod, no.

Next thing I knew Dave was on her feet. ‘Landlord,’ she said, pointing to Hev’s empty glass.

‘I’ve got a tab,’ Hev replied, ‘I’ll get them.’

‘No you won’t,’ said determined Ms Dinkley, ‘you can get the next round, but I’m getting this.’

And that was that. She strode off to the bar like a woman on a mission.

Me? She hadn’t asked and I didn’t really expect her to buy me a drink. Come to that she hadn’t asked Lizzie either. On the face of it, we’d been ditched. The future was all Dave and Hev.

Changing tack, Lizzie indicated Hev’s pint glass. ‘Is that a statement?’

Again Hev surprised me. Instead of barking the blonde out like a hapless young private on a parade ground, she grinned.

And what a grin!

‘We take turns,’ she said. ‘Kat’s going to be doing all the shagging this afternoon. I’m going to be a good little girl. No, I’m going to be a very glad little girl.

‘You’re not butch and femme, then.’

‘Only on an alternating basis, if you know what I mean; a frequently alternating basis. And what I drink doesn’t come into it. I drink pints because I like beer; it is as simple as that.’

Lizzie giggled. ‘A girl after my own heart,’ she said.

Meanwhile Dave returned, bearing a fresh Landlord for Hev and another medium-sized white for her girlfriend. Determined to remain emotionless, I swigged the last of my red.

I’ll go get my own, I told myself. I’ll show the little cow. I’ll show her what’s class and what’s not.

But I didn’t have to. Dave went back to the bar and returned with a fresh white for her and a large red for me.

‘Cheers,’ she said, handing me my drink.

Our fingers touched and the unexpected bolt of electricity was beyond awesome.

Dave didn’t seem to feel it. She sat back in her place beside Hev and resumed their conversation.

So did Lizzie with me.

Wild, all-girl parties were her speciality, if I remember correctly. The sort with no strangers, just a lot of hot, horny babes who hadn’t yet met . . .

Then, only a few minutes later, Hev was away to the bar. Dave was away to the ladies’ rest room.

And Lizzie changed like a chameleon.

‘She’s madly in love with you,’ she told me earnestly. ‘There’s no escaping it. She goes on about you all the time.’

Bemused, I raised a (hopefully) sexy eyebrow.

‘Who is?’ I wondered.

‘Who do you think? I mean the girl who worships your very footprints.’

‘Nah,’ said I, ‘Hev’s just a mate.’

‘Not Hev; I’m talking about Dave.’

My disbelief must have been apparent.

‘Sincerely,’ said Lizzie. ‘And please, don’t think of me as a rival. I like screwing with Dave but we are never going to be an item. We’re friends with benefits; nothing more to it.’

I frowned even deeper. Lizzie didn’t exactly feel like a rival but she was clearly fucking Dave. And was I starting to feel jealousy?

Hmmm, maybe I was.

‘Dave talks in her sleep,’ Lizzie continued. ‘You’ll know that, won’t you?’

I nodded. Too right she did. I’d heard her come out with all sorts.

‘More often than not she talks about you,’ said Lizzie. And last night he cried out your name when she . . . Well, when she had her biggest and best orgasm. I don’t think she realizes she did that. And I’m sure she doesn’t know what she says in her sleep.’

‘We’re history, Lizzie,’ I said evenly.

‘You can still be friends. And it could be to your advantage.’

‘What do you mean?’

The blonde hastily checked to ensure the coast was still clear, which it was. Hev was chatting to a man at the bar, still waiting to be served. Dave was nowhere to be seen.

‘Give the girl what she wants,’ Lizzie said, softly but clearly. ‘Rattle her bones for old times’ sake if nothing else.’

‘Rattle her bones,’ I echoed.

Still unsure about Lizzie’s transformation, I shrugged. Which was the real her? Did she even know it herself?

‘Yeah,’ she replied.

Then, rooting in her bag, she produced a card.

‘Here . . . my personal’s on the back.’

It was a business card. On the front it had all the usual details: telephone, mobile, email and website. Lizzie was a manicurist . . . as I should have guessed from the perfect state of her nails.

That did make me wonder how she’d ever met up with Dave. Dave’s idea of “nail care” was to put on gloves when she went rock-climbing.

And she rarely bothered with gloves.

Bare-handed was best, in all sorts of ways.

‘Ring me,’ Lizzie said. ‘I can see we are similar sprits, so why not?’

I could actually think of several reasons why not. But gobby as she was, the blonde was nothing if not alluring, and my girly opportunities hadn’t been exactly unlimited lately.

Not that I was going without, you understand. Just once every week with Hev was worth ten times a night, every night with anyone else.

But a girl can’t have too much, can she?

And maybe fucking Lizzie would shut her up awhile.

Dave returned before I could accept or reject the blonde’s indecent proposal. Sitting on the bench she drank the last of her current glass of wine, ignoring both of us, off in a world of her own. Then Hev was back, handing drinks all round.

‘Snowing outside,’ she said, ‘exactly as I forecast.’

I couldn’t argue with that. By then it really was coming down in blankets. The stone wall tops were already covered. The road through the village was filling with slush.

Chapter Five

Dave tried to buy more drinks but it was time for us to go into the restaurant. Hev asked Dave and Lizzie to come dine with us but they’d already eaten.

‘I made one of my infamous full English breakfasts before we came to the pub,’ Lizzie said, girlishly giggly once more. ‘I don’t know where Dave put it all. She has the appetite of a horse.’

I shrugged and didn’t comment on Dave’s only too familiar appetites (eating a plate full of fried food was the least of them!). I said it had been nice meeting Lizzie. Then, stiffly formal, I told Dave I hoped to see her around.

‘Come in here and you’ll find me as often as not,’ she replied cryptically.

And that was that. Two minutes later we were at our reserved table, studying menus.

‘Lizzie had a lot to say for herself,’ Hev said after we’d ordered. ‘What was she telling you?’

I instinctively hedged. ‘She’s a free spirit; footloose and all that.’

‘She seemed to like your chest.’ Hev laughed. ‘It’s a good job she didn’t know about no knickers. I think knowing that might have made her spontaneously combust.’

‘I forgot about that,’ said I, laughing along with her. ’I wish I’d mentioned it at some stage. It would have shocked Dave no end. Or perhaps not; perhaps they were knickers-less too.’

‘What did I see Lizzie giving you?’


‘Don’t what me, young lady. She palmed you something. I was sent away to school, remember? I know every prison yard trick in the book.’

‘You’re like the all-seeing eye,’ I grouched, handing her the business card.

‘A manicurist,’ said Hev, reading it. ‘I should have guessed.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Is she going to treat you to a free trim and varnish?’

‘No, she wants me to rattle her bones,’ I said casually, trying to shock.

Hev just laughed.

‘I’m in two minds,’ I continued. ‘Part of me wants to, part never wants to hear her voice again.’

‘Borrow one of my ball-gags.’

I frowned at that. ‘You don’t have any gags. Or do you?’

‘Not at present, but I’ve got an on-line account with a very reliable supplier. A couple of clicks of my mouse and any accessory I want will be delivered on Monday.’

I see-sawed my hand and told her I’d think about it.

‘So what’s the score with Dave?’ Hev asked as our starters arrived. ‘You were on pins in there.’

‘We have history,’ I mumbled. ‘Mmmm, this smells good.’

‘Kat,’ said Hev, ‘tell me.’

I dragged my feet before giving in. Sometime in the early hours of Thursday I’d told Vic that I had only ever been in love with travelling. I had believed it at the time but was suddenly less certain.

‘Dave’s not exceptionally pretty,’ I began. ‘She regularly gets mistaken for a guy. But I fancied her the moment I saw her.’

‘Where was that, at the Widget Company?’

‘That was most recently. As you seem to know, she’s an IT techie. She’s moved around almost as often as I have. Our paths have crossed more than once. We’ve worked together almost as often as we have lived together.’

‘You’ve lived together!’ Hev grinned wider than ever. ‘Do tell more.’

Then I was the one rabbiting on. Hardly noticing the delicious food I told Hev of our various break-ups and make-ups.

Okay, so I skimped on a few details but gave an outline sketch of most of them.

‘It was my love of travelling,’ I admitted. ‘I couldn’t give it up. And Dave has girls after her all the time. I leave her alone ten minutes and she hops from bed to bed. Older girls, younger girls, she has had the lot. I don’t know how she does it. Maybe it’s her gold star.’

Hev’s sculptured, stylish and expressive eyebrows both shot up at that. ‘Is she really?’

‘Yeah, she hasn’t time or space for men. Literally, I mean. Think about it. She reckons that she has never as much as kissed a guy but her time’s not her own. She’s been fucking hungry women all of her grown life. Her social diary has to be as packed as yours.’

‘I’ve known a few gold stars,’ Hev said, smiling a little wistfully, almost as if she was reminiscing. ‘And I am always jealous as heck. If only, eh?’

‘It’s easy to claim and almost impossible to disprove,’ said I, ‘but I believe Dave a million per cent.’

‘Is she good where it matters?’

‘She’s brilliant; nearly as good as you.’

Hev laughed again but her eyes were serious as she pushed aside her empty dinner plate.

‘Dave still means a lot to you, doesn’t she?’

I shrugged. Seeing her again had brought it all back. I just didn’t want to say so.

‘That last break-up was final,’ I mumbled. ‘Harsh things happened between us. And even harsher words were exchanged.’

‘She doesn’t seem to hold a grudge. Maybe it’s less final for her than it is for you?’

I shrugged again and said nothing.

‘Listen,’ Hev went on, ‘you were right when you said Dave’s not exceptionally pretty. She is drop-dead fucking gorgeous.’

I gasped at Hev’s use of the F-word.

‘Dave wants you, Kat,’ she continued. ‘She never took her eyes off you when we were in the bar.’

‘You could have fooled me.’

‘I mean it.’ Hev was remorseless. ‘She was talking to me and thinking about you all along. And you were doing the same with Lizzie; letting her tell her life story and watching Dave, trying not to be noticed.’

‘Lizzie said Dave wants us to be friends again,’ I confessed, ‘when you went for more drinks. And she wasn’t gushy about it. She was almost credible.’

‘There’s too much hate in the world,’ Hev said. ‘Every friendship is a step in the right direction.’

‘It looked like she wanted to befriend you,’ I countered.

‘If you spurn her I might well befriend her. But if you do what you secretly want to do, I’ll keep my hands to myself.’


‘I’m not one for relationships, you know that. But I’m not a relationship-breaker either. Back at uni I was little better than a tramp. But I only ever shagged with kindred spirits.’

She shut up at that and drained her umpteenth pint glass. I passed her the business card.

‘I’ll ring Dave on Monday, once Lizzie is off the scene. See if she hangs up on me. Take it from there.’

‘And what am I supposed to do with this, Katrina?’

‘You’re supposed to keep me out of temptation. Mixing with one of Dave’s girlfriends is a very bad idea. In fact it’s a recipe for disaster, especially after last time.’

‘What happened last time?’

‘Trust me, Hev, you don’t want to know.’


Blankets of snow were still falling. Somewhat reluctantly Hev called a cab and only sank one last beer before it arrived.

Shortly before three o’clock, after skidding and sliding as we went up hills and around bends, we were back at Hunters Farm and I soon fulfilled my promise to have her as a girl.

Three hours I had her. I kid you not. Three hours fucking her with her own favourite strapless device.

Nice, nice, nice!

Finally running out of vim, I rolled off her and mused on the difference between guys and gals. In a mellow state of mind I wondered why I had missed out on my own gold star. Okay, cocks were designed to please girls, but Mother Nature had missed a trick. Half an hour at a time was about as good as I had ever got.

What the hell was that all about?

Fair enough, I knew about refractory periods. And I knew they weren’t exclusive to men. But I had had many female lovers, most of them ready, willing and able to go on and on forever.


Hev was queen of all queens when it came to cumming. That girl really could go on forever and ever. When she got off the bed I assumed she was headed for the toy drawer. I also assumed it was my turn to lie back and face the force of the hurricane. But to my surprise, she went to look out of the window.

‘It’s a winter wonderland out there,’ she said, ‘no way will we make it back to the Buzzer. It looks like we’ll be dining in my kitchen.’

‘Cheese and crackers,’ I responded with a grin.

She grinned back at me. ‘What do you fancy; Cheshire or Lancashire?’

Chapter Six

Almost incredibly the cheese was within the sell-by date. The crackers came out of a brand-new packet and the butter . . .

Well, I didn’t check that but it tasted all right. So did the icy cold pinot we used to wash down our snack.

It was cosy in Hev’s kitchen, by the way. Her heating system was so state-of-the-art that we didn’t need clothes. But Hev had donned an unbelievably old rugby shirt before setting off to “fix us our snack” so, somewhat short of choice I had donned my white sweatshirt and called it good.

Okay, so my pussy was totally exposed but it wasn’t as if Hev hadn’t seen it before, was it? Hell, she knew it inside out and upside down. She probably knew it better than I did.

And what about that old shirt of hers! It had obviously once been red and large, maybe fifty years ago. Now it was pink with white patches, totally shapeless and had sleeves that nearly touched the floor.

Even so Hev looked superb in it.

There again, she’d look superb in a manky old bin-liner.

‘Dare I ask,’ I ventured, nibbling cheese and sniffing appreciatively at my vino, indicating her shirt.

‘What did you say to me? I “don’t want to know”.’

‘You don’t want to know about our last bust-up,’ I agreed. ‘But when it comes to that rather unique fashion accessory, I do want to know.’

‘It’s a memento of a big rugby match,’ Hev said after a pause. ‘I was drunk, temporarily into guys and I got carried away.’

‘Do you mean by a big prop-forward?’

‘Yeah; after I’d rewarded him for scoring the winning try he carried me to the changing rooms and threw me into the bath. And that is all you’re getting. Apart from the fact I’ve never seen anywhere near so many hard willies in the same place.’

‘There went your gold star,’ I said, chuckling, picturing the scene.

‘I’d lost it long before then.’ Hev poured us more wine, even though I didn’t need a top-up. ‘Come on, let’s go in the lounge and watch some videos.’

Oddly enough, I’d hardly ever been in Hev’s main living room before. My previous visits had been to her bedroom (most of the time), her bathroom (when nature decreed), her shower room (every morning after, and never alone) and her kitchen (usually to sip wine). As far as I could recall we had fucked in her spare bedroom once as well, by way of a change.

Oh yes: we’d fucked on her staircase too, by way of another change.

As lounges go Hev’s was large and expensively furnished. I sat on a white leather settee and Hev used a remote to switch on a massive flat-screen TV. I had expected her to tune in to some porn channel but instead she fiddled with a laptop. Obviously she’d linked it in.

Equally obviously, she could perform basic techie tasks for herself.

No surprise there, then.

‘I compiled a sequence for you,’ she told me.

And hadn’t she just! The first film began with a busty blonde on a massage table. She was being tended to by an older brunette with a stunning and deeply tanned body. Quite rapidly, after liberal application of oil, the massage became intimate. Then a second masseuse arrived on the scene and I realized.

‘Is this to put me in the mood for next Wednesday?’ I enquired.

Hev was beside me on the settee. She put a hand on my bare thigh and squeezed it playfully.

‘It’s a sequence of all-girl threesomes,’ she said. ‘It might give us a few ideas.’

‘Us,’ I echoed. ‘Do you mean you, me and Vic? Have you sent her a copy?’

‘I mean everyone should use the information superhighway. Knowledge is power; no?’

The three women on screen were naked by then, the blonde on her back, a masseuse’s mouth on each tit. Excitement raced through me as I watched. The two masseuses were working as a team and the blonde was clearly enraptured.

And I’d had doubts about submitting to treatment like that!

‘I cheered when you agreed to play,’ said Hev. ‘I suspect Vic did too. We had our doubts as well as our hopes, you see.’

‘I tossed a coin,’ I said.

‘Tails never fails.’

‘Oh but it does. I had to toss the flipping thing four times until it gave me the right answer.’

Hev’s left hand had miraculously moved onto my pussy. Not to be outdone, I put my right hand on her pussy and very gently started to rub.

How civilized was that! I had a wine glass in one hand, my girlfriend’s sex in the other and there was increasingly hot and horny footage on the big screen.

(Hev is, by the way, ambidextrous. She can bring me off just as efficiently with either hand. There is a slight difference when she uses her left, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less enjoyable. One of these days I’m going to get her to blindfold me, find out if I can tell which is which.)

That footage consisted of maybe half a dozen separate films. The first was two onto one all the way through. The second, featuring two blondes and a spectacular black woman, was less rigid. Although it was essentially still two onto one, the twos were constantly changing.

‘That body,’ said Hev, referring to a close-up of the black woman. ‘Oh my, here I go!’

I ground my groin against Hev’s hand, doing my best to catch up. Yes, it was partly in admiration of that astonishing body on-screen but it was also in honour of a realization.

I wasn’t going to be a sacrificial lamb on Wednesday night. Teams could be constantly changing for us as well.

Oh yes, yes please.

Chapter Seven

By Sunday morning the snow had stopped and, by lunchtime, the roads had been ploughed. As far uphill as Hunters Farm they had, anyway. Not one to miss an opportunity, Hev called us yet another taxi.

‘We’ll have to go the long way round,’ she explained, ‘but I want to eat in the Buzzer again. I want to try the Mighty Mixed Grill. And don’t worry; I’m paying.’

It could be embarrassing going out with Hev. She always tried to pay for everything. The girl was a winner, too. Despite my best efforts to pay my way she nearly always succeeded in thwarting me.

‘I’m buying the beer,’ I insisted.

‘Huh, you’ve never downed a pint in your life.’

Was that a red flag to a bull or what? We arrived at the pub just before noon, cabbing it the long way round, but then took the same route as the day before: passing through the middle bar, returning one or two nods and smiles, catching the odd lusty leer.

‘Two pints of Landlord, please,’ said I, flourishing a tenner.

The busty barmaid flashed me a smile and a nice eyeful of tit as she obliged.

‘I’m impressed by your sturdy stance,’ Hev remarked, heading for the nearest free table. Then, as she looked out of the window: ‘I spy company on its way.’

She was right. Two minutes later Dave and Lizzie were at the bar and two minutes after that they were sharing our table.

‘We meet again,’ said Lizzie, plonking herself down beside me.

‘Told you I could usually be found here,’ Dave added.

As if I didn’t already know!

But hey, was that a smile in my direction? If it was it was only a small one. But it was a start.

Tomorrow, I reminded myself. I’ll ring her during her morning break. Tell her . . .

Tell her . . .

Well, I’ll think of something.

In all honesty I was flapping. Yes, I’d known all along that there was chance of our paths crossing again. But I’d dismissed that chance as a possibility, not a probability.

Yet there we were, as were Dave and her giggly sidekick. Possibility, probability or what, it felt as if we were destined.

Tomorrow, my brain repeated. I’ll ring her tomorrow.

Turned out I didn’t need to.


Drinking pint for pint with Hev is not for the fainthearted. If I wasn’t so pig-headed I wouldn’t have tried to keep pace. She could make 1970s televised darts players look teetotal . . . yes, even the Welsh ones. But I’d started so I was determined to finish.

My one appearance on Mastermind, eh: I’m Katrina from Yorkshire, specialist subject chasing lost causes.

‘You and your pints,’ Lizzie cooed as Hev drained her third glass in maybe half an hour.

‘Years of practice,’ said Hev. ‘When I was at uni I drank gallons of Marston’s every day. Between you and me, Taylor’s Landlord is even better. I can drink Landlord until it trickles out of my ears. Same again please, Kat.’

Well, I had insisted on paying.

‘She drinks like a fish with hollow legs,’ I observed as I got to my feet.

Lizzie giggled and Dave rolled her eyes.

‘You and your mixed metaphors,’ she said, sparing me another hint of a smile.

I ferried drinks for four back to our table then decided a trip to the loo was in order. I’d already had an ocean of coffee back at Hunters Farm. Those three pints had gone straight through me.

Before you ask, I didn’t need to pull down my knickers in order to pee. Hev and I were panty-free again.

And don’t even think about bras . . .

Flushing dutifully, I exited my cubicle only to find Dave barring my way to the hand basins.

Her expression was deadly serious and I suspected the worst.

To my panicking eyes she looked like thunder.

Then suddenly she was in my arms, sobbing and saying “sorry” over and over again.


Crazy but true. Maybe Lizzie the Lezzie’s words had been true.

Hev had said much the same, too. And she could read minds.

I wasn’t sure what I was expected to do. I hated tears and shows of emotion but this was better by far than a punch on the nose. Ruffling Dave’s sexily short hair I told her that I’d intended to ring her Monday, to “clear the air”.

‘I was going to ring you,’ she said. ‘Well, I was going to ring WYB and ask for IT.’

‘That’d have found me,’ I said. ‘What were you going to say?’

Dave mumbled and muttered and told me next to nothing.

I enjoyed the feel of my tits on her flat chest and matched her for silence awhile. Then she grew noticeably uncomfortable. Leastways, so I assumed.

She’d stopped sobbing so I let go of her. She didn’t back off. Instead she stood her ground.

‘Better be off,’ I said. ‘We’ll be being missed.

‘We can’t leave it like this,’ Dave countered.

Her tone was even, maybe emotionless. I did my best to pick up the vibe.

‘What’s gone is gone,’ I said. ‘What’s done is done. But there’s no reason we can’t be friends.’

Dave’s Velma Dinkley glasses instantly steamed up.

I can’t see without my glasses!” a cartoon voice yelled inside my head.

Ignoring it, taking my life in my hands, I kissed her snub of a nose.

‘We can be,’ I assured her. ‘We can be friends.’

She nodded and waved me on to the basins.

‘I need to compose myself,’ she said. ‘I’ll follow you out in a minute.’

I swiftly rinsed and dried. Then, halfway to the door her voice stayed me.

‘You and Hev; are you . . . are you . . .’

I turned back to her, remembering Lizzie’s words from Saturday. ‘We’re friends and we shag well together,’ I said. ‘In all honesty we’re very, very good friends. But we have no commitments. It’s unlikely we ever will. You can ask her out if you like.’

‘How can you think that?’ Dave snapped. ‘I thought you’d changed.’

The anger in her eyes thrilled me. In a way the anger was what I wanted.

‘I’m still the same me,’ I said steadily, ‘albeit older and wiser.’

‘Lizzie said you turned her down.’

I struggled at that. Fortunately Dave was too wound up to notice.

‘She offered you it on a plate,’ she persisted. ‘You left her dangling.’

‘I’ve given up on screwing your girlfriends,’ said I. ‘Call it a resolution. I’m still free as a bird but I’m not going to be touching any of your special friends ever again. It gets me into too much trouble.’

Dave surprised me by laughing.

‘I suppose that’s better late than never.’

‘What about Lizzie,’ I ventured. ‘Are you . . .’

‘We’re much the same as you and Hev. We shag well together. But commitments are right out.’

‘Is there anyone else on the scene?’

‘One or two, but only casually; there’s nobody special. What about you?’

‘I’m off for a month on the high seas in August,’ I admitted. ‘But that’s an every-other-year thing.’

‘You won’t fall in love on the high seas?’

‘Been there, done that. It won’t happen again.’

‘What, you really did fall in love on a boat!’

‘No,’ I said meaningfully, ‘I fell in love long before my first month at sea, back in good old Blighty.’

Cue a repeat steam-up of those so-sexy glasses.

I can’t see without them!

As if she needed to see anything . . .

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘we really will be being missed . . .’

Dave cut me off mid-flow. ‘Do you weekend with Hev often?’

‘No; this is a one-off. Do you weekend often with Lizzie?’

‘This is the third time in about a year, so it’s sporadic rather than just a one-off. Have you anything on for next weekend?’

My heart lurched, performing crazy, impossible gymnastics.

‘Not as yet,’ I allowed tentatively.

‘You don’t work overtime?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘I do, but I’ve got next weekend off as well as this. I’ve booked a room up in The Lakes. Why don’t you come with me?’

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