Seducer or Seducee

"Bloody good job too, who want's that macho bunch?" Given that rumour had it that she was near to being the 'office bike' that was a little rich I thought. I smiled at Emma, who raised her eyebrows as we turned to face each other our knees touching under the table.

Looking right into my eye as she said.

"Remind me boss, where were we exactly?"

We both laughed and, as everyone was leaving, got up, gave each other a peck on the cheeks and went to bed, rather regrettably alone, I thought as I opened the door to my empty room.

****

I was on my back, naked. The bed clothes were pulled back. There was a miniature from the mini bar on the bedside table; why, I don't even drink Scotch! My mind was again recalling the feel of a woman's breast in my hand. But not just recalling it, for now I was also actually feeling it. Not another woman's though, not really, but in my mind it was someone else's. Was it Susie's, the first girl I had sex with, or was it Sharon's the girl I had a threesome with, or was it Emma's? I wasn't sure whose breast took prominence in my mind as I squeezed and moulded my own ample mounds of flesh.

The finger and thumb on one of my hands found the hardened nipple on one of my breasts; they pinched it. That sent such shock memories of other woman in times gone by through me that I grunted and moaned, yes at the same time, I also jerked and shuddered for good measure.

Oh the early memories of feeling another woman's nipples, the rubberyness, the elasticity, the way it grows in your fingers or, more stunningly, in your mouth. And shit, what feelings that was giving me as I recall the sensations on my tongue and lips as they met and began to love Susie's large, round, very dark areola or as they sucked Sharon's nipple between my teeth and gently chewed it. What would Emma's be like I found myself wondering as I took a sip of the Scotch, almost burning my throat as it slid down? Small, pink with nice buds, I smiled as I pulled both of mine away from my breasts, making each nipple go to nearly twice its normal length. Mmmmm.

The next day we worked in larger groups and I saw little of Emma, perhaps that was a good thing. We wrapped up around five and all headed home, some to see their families, others their boy or girl friends, most to go out on the town and me to sweat over a pile of e-mails and other stuff that had piled up.

As usual I was facing an evening and night alone. I don't mind that.Well during the day and evening that is but the loneliness of being by myself all night becomes tiresome. Days are fine, I like the solitude, but as the evening drags on and bedtime alone approaches I get restless and edgy.

Often I drink too much or smoke more weed than I should. I sometimes, come on don't kid yourself with sometimes, try nearly always, go into chat or messenger, find a 'friend' or meet someone new and get into conversation. Occasionally that leads to me masturbating either, as we send messages to each other or, when I log off from him or her or a him pretending to be a her. It doesn't really matter, they are all just jerk off fodder. Now and then, I will meet a couple of 'special' guys and will have phone sex with them, I enjoy that, but as both of them are married, it doesn't happen on weekends.

I undressed and put on my dressing gown, ostensibly because I was getting ready for bed, despite it being only eight o'clock. Deep down, though, as I logged on and found a US chat site I knew there was a more basic reason for being nearly naked!

I flicked around several sites and one caught my eye, it also caught my imagination and sent a surge of high octane lust through me. It was a bi ladies site.

I messed around from room to room for a while, as usual, becoming more and more pissed off with all the bots and the lack of what seemed to be real people. I was contacted by a few men stating their typical crap and making the usual sort of enquiries:

"I'm bored."

"I'm feeling very horny?"

"What are you up to," or even worse, "Wassup?"

"What are you wearing," and again even more crass, "What colour panties are you wearing?"

And so on and so on. Without having even loosened my gown, let alone put my hand inside on my bare tits, I was about to log off when a message came up on my screen.

"Hello, are you a real person, I am."

It was from NYAnnie.

"Yes I am real, very real," I replied.

We did the usual age, sex and location stuff with me quickly establishing that she was indeed real, was clearly more literate than most and probably was female and not some old bloke pretending to be a girl.

We got on well. Sometimes you just click in chat and we did. We shared similar senses of irony and humour and were quickly exchanging smartarse remarks and observations which drew us, intellectually, at least, closer together.

After ten minutes or so we both admitted to being bi, after twenty minutes or so we described our bodies to each other, after another ten or so we exchanged photos and after a further few minutes, Annie asked.

"Would you like to chat on the phone?"

After fifteen or twenty minutes talking on the phone, we told each other what we wearing; Annie was wearing a bikini in preparation for a swim.

After a further ten minutes we said how aroused we were becoming and Annie said in her twangy American accent.

"Oh God Tina, I so want to fuck you."

Lightheartedly, as it felt as though I had an live wire running from my clit to my tits, I said. "Well then Annie that is exactly what you should do isn't it?"

As we told each other what we doing and as my fingers found my soaked slit between my wide opened legs I moaned.

"Oh Emma I am so near, make me cum, please make me cum."

I don't think Annie realised my gaff, but in any case she was cumming with me as I said the wrong name.

As we said our goodbyes and made probably, unrealistic vows to keep in touch, it struck me that I had not had any form of sex with another woman, in person, for several months. Why the bloody hell I was now getting myself so emotionally involved with women on the net, why I was continually thinking back to the girls I'd had sex with and why I felt so attracted to Emma then, I had no idea?

*

I saw Emma round the agency quite often over the next few weeks, but being incredibly busy, I had little to do with her. She finished her time in Copy and moved onto Production and Mike, at last, found a new copy chief, so I began to ease off and work mainly from home; he did though let me keep the Porsche until the end of its lease some nine months away. It's a wonder what the occasional blow job can do, particularly with married blokes who don't get that from their wives!

One of the accounts I worked on had been nominated for an award at one of the numerous self-congratulatory ceremonies that the incestuous ad industry has each year. Mike had taken two tables of ten at two thousand five hundred pound a table, he was hosting one table and my successor as Copy Chief the other.

I often got invited to these dos as a spare bit of eye candy and that was the case this time. "Some clients prefer old biddies," as Mike explained adding. "And they all like big tits, so hang 'em T."

I got dolled up in a low cut, floor length, 'little black number.' My right boob was covered in sparkly sequins that ran in a slash about two inches wide down over my tummy to my left ankle. The dress had slits to mid-thigh up both sides, so I wore tights, fishnet ones with strappy high heeled sandals. I had my hair half up with long tresses tumbling down my neck onto my bare shoulders. I felt very sexy and hoped I looked that way as well, despite my glasses.

I wrapped a new, white cashmere pashmena round my neck as I ducked into the car the agency had thoughtfully sent me for the half hour or so journey across London to the Grosvenor House Hotel. As we sat in the early evening traffic jams round the City I found myself thinking 'Who the hell was I dressing for?"

Mike an old and a current flame? The client, a very tasty Marketing Director, various other people in the industry or, the graduate trainee, one of whom is traditionally invited to each of these awards? Yes Emma was on my table.

"Hey boss," she said when I met her in the cloakroom "You look fabulous."

"Thanks Emma," you look wonderful yourself.

She was also wearing black, but then nearly all the women were. Her dress was made from a thin voile and fitted her like a glove above the waist, but was slightly flared beneath it. It had a tie on her right shoulder and was off her left one. The skirt was one of those very modern jobs with a sloping hem, the right side of it being some six inches higher than the left, which ended in a point to the side of her knee. Having just been on holiday, I recalled, her bare legs were beautifully tanned and on her feet, with the scarlet painted toenails, she was also wearing strappy pumps. She had her hair up, which made her look unusually grown up and sophisticated, a look I hadn't seen before. She looked stunning.

We had little chance to talk during most of the evening, for the awards ceremony dragged on for ages and was followed by several totally meaningless speeches and then a cabaret. Our job was to schmooze the clients so we had to chat to and dance with them and let them ogle our tits and legs: all part of being in advertising, I suppose!

Near the end, though, after both of us had danced almost continuously for about two hours, the ratio must have been three men to one woman, we managed to have a brief chat in a small bar off the main room. It was quiet and fairly empty.

"God, I feel like being at a meat market," she said flopping down on a chair with complete disregard, or so it seemed, for her skirt riding up her stretched out legs.

"Welcome to advertising Em," I said looking at her. "Women are always just client fodder at these dos, get used to it babe, it 'aint gonna change."

"Fucking men," she said slurring a little.

"Can be nice," I smiled.

She laughed "Yes can be, but where were we exactly boss?" She said repeating our little in phrase that had no real meaning, but seemed to have enormous significance between us.

"Not sure where we were Em, but I know where we are and we need to get back on duty. Come on," I said holding out my hand.

She took it and I pulled her up, still holding her hand. We stood looking at each other, we were very close, so close I could smell her perfume and see the tiny hairs on her arms and the intriguing freckles on her shoulders. Neither of us moved for a moment as we just stood there.

I knew that I should not be thinking the way I was. It just was not me, it wasn't right, but I couldn't help it.

I squeezed her hand and smiled. She smiled back and said very throatily.

"I think this is where we were wasn't it?"

For one moment I thought of kissing her as her eyes seemed to be suggesting, but I didn't.

"Yes Em, this is where we were, come on, back to tit and leg flashing," I said starting to walk out of the bar ahead of her. I wasn't sure, but I thought I heard a soft "Mmmmmm that might be nice Tina," as we went our separate ways.

I'm ok for the schmoozing, I can cope with clients ogling my tits, I will even flash them a bit for them, hence the low cut evening dress. That's all part of being a female executive in the ad business, well was, it's changing now with PC. I draw the line, however, at sleeping with clients, even very important clients, even clients who win the prestigious ad of the year award, even those who have a suite at the Dorchester and even those who take me and a few others, regrettably not Emma, to Tramp after the Grosvenor. I say I draw the line at sleeping with them, what I mean is if they are men, I am not sure the line would be so definite if the client was a woman!

They had three Mercs waiting outside the hotel for the short trip to the night-club. In the club there was a reserved table, one of the booths in the quiet VIP bar on the first floor. There was masses of booze, Cristal, Scotch, Armagnac, Cognac, Hine, VSOP I noticed, and loads of other stuff. It was now after two so it all seemed a little excessive but the dozen or so of us, eight guys and four women, each ordered something, I had champagne.

Dancing was a nightmare, but I couldn't refuse either my client, the Marketing Director, or his boss, the MD, both guys in their early fifties I guessed. The nightmare wasn't just the crowded dance floor and the energetic antics of the many Russians and Arabs who were there. That I could put up with easily.

It was the pathetic way that the two mature and hugely successful businessmen turned into slobs that got me. No sooner was I on the floor with one, then his hands slid down my back and stroked my bum. It was just a few moments later that he wasn't just stroking it, but actually squeezing each cheek. Over the next hour or so both of the guys did that, rubbed the sides of my boobs, pressed themselves very obviously right against my pubic mound, licked and kissed my neck and tried to squeeze my tits and kiss me on the lips. Around three, the client said.

"Hey Tina, we are all going to finish up at the company suite at the Dorchester for a few drinks. Like to come?"

"All?"

"Well Jim and I and we thought maybe you and Sue would like to join us."

I managed to find an excuse and escaped, just.

Overall, it was awful, but, I guess, all part of the job.

If only the glass ceiling didn't exist and there were more females at the top then it would be so much easier!

****

"So how was your week?" I asked Emma one Friday a few weeks later when I was making a rare visit to the agency.

"Fucking awful," she replied, flashing me one of those lovely smiles.

She had now moved into account planning, which combined, research, media and competitor analysis and lots of other, almost incomprehensible statistical analysis. It was a boring, but essential aspect of modern advertising, particularly with the range of new digital and internet media opportunities. It was mainly an inside job, although trips to clients for occasional planning meeting relieved the boredom for the mainly, very young people in the department, the head was only twenty six and he was tipped to get a main board seat soon.

I was using a spare manager's office in the creative department for I find writing proper, as opposed to plagiarised, copy, which most of us do most of the time, very difficult to do in the hubbub of an open office. I hadn't realised how late it was until she popped her head round the door. It was after eight and the place looked to be deserted.

She looked gorgeous. She had her corn, blonde hair in bunches and she was wearing small, wire rimmed spectacles, which were perched on the end of her pert nose.

"Come in," I said, a surge of unwanted lust running through me as she slid through the door and popped herself down on the long, black leather sofa.

I gulped when I saw what she was wearing. Mike had mentioned that 'the kids' in Planning were becoming more and more outrageous in their get ups.

"We seem to have got a group of particularly tasty young birds in there all at the same time and they try to outdo each other. It's like going into a fucking brothel." He'd told me a while ago.

"Is there any other sort"? I quipped back.

"What?"

"Oh never mind and in any case what do you know about brothels?"

She was wearing a kilt. Short, mid thigh and pleated with a slight flair it was predominantly red with some black and green patches, very Scottish. On top she had a simple white, cotton blouse, with buttons all the way up the front, with one more undone at the neck than there really should have been. The hem of the blouse was outside the waist of the skirt with the lower buttons undone, thus occasionally giving a nice flash of her bare waist and tummy The outline of her bra was very clear under the thin cotton of the blouse. Around her neck she was wearing one of those highly fashionable, very long multi-string necklaces with beads, little square and round pieces of what looked like glass and other bits and bobs attached to it. As she moved, some of the necklace slid inside the blouse and some stayed outside, often resting on one of her breasts and stretching the fabric tight across the small mounds. Her dangly earrings matched the necklace. Her legs were covered in white nylon. From the way the kilt reared up her legs as she sat opposite me on the low sofa, I quickly saw that they were tights and not stockings.

"Drink?" I had asked.

"Lovely. So that's what you bigwigs do behind closed doors after hours is it?" She smiled as I poured two glasses of Chablis Premier Cru and walked across the office and handed it to her.

"Oh you'd be so surprised Emma what goes on."

"Would I?" She replied seriously looking straight into my eyes.

"So why was it so fucking awful?" I asked in response to my earlier question about the weekend.

"Oh I broke up with my boy-friend, had a smack in my car and a massive row with my mum."

"Oh dear, that sounds tough," I said walking round the room behind the settee where she was sitting.

"You still live at home don't you?" I asked.

"Yes with a fifteen grand student loan to repay I need to for a year or so, I only get a fucking pittance here until I finish training and, hopefully get a permanent post."

"Yes they do that on purpose to test the grads sticking power, or so HR say."

"It's bloody terrible for my sex and social lives, living at home."

"Yes it must be."

"I have been in more bedsits and had more shags in the backs of cars in the last year than when I was at uni," she laughed adding quickly. "Just joking boss."

A vision of her half undressed on the back seat of a car swept into my mind. I looked over her shoulders from behind and down her slim body and legs. God she was attractive and so fucking sexy. My mind again went back to those times with Susie and Sharon when I was just starting out on the pathway to being a lipstick lesbian.

"Well I do have a spare bedroom in Islington" I said, jokingly adding. "Yours for a small fee any time."

"I might take you up on that sometime, but then I'm now off men."

We looked at each other and laughed as we said at the same.

"Where were we exactly.

I was still standing behind her and the settee on which she was seated with her white nylon covered legs stretched out before her. I rested my hand on the back of the sofa, just inches from her back.

"Well the offer still stands Emma, anytime you've been out on the town and don't fancy the slog out to Essex."

"Is going out on the town first an essential?" She asked looking over her shoulder at my arm resting on the sofa.

I don't know what prompted me or what gave me the courage, but I slid my hand along the back of the settee as I replied, rather hoarsely.

"No Emma, you could use it any time that you don't fancy the journey home."

My hand reached her shoulder. I wanted to stroke it, but I couldn't pluck up the guts to make that move, instead it slid behind her shoulder, she was leaning forward a little. I saw her look closely at my arm and I guessed she knew that my hand was behind her. Looking up at me, she leaned back so that she was pressed against my hand. It felt good, but I didn't know whether it was an accident or whether she was showing out and giving me a sign and, presumably, she was thinking the same. Pulling a woman is fraught with far more challenges than a man!

"It is rather a tiresome trip to Chelmsford," she said holding my gaze.

I smiled as my heart started beating faster. Was she wanting to stay tonight? Shit, it couldn't be better. I said, softly, my voice hardly louder than the Bach concerto playing on the iPod.

"Especially on a late Friday night Emma," as I wiggled my hand a little.