Snap!

Soon my work began to reap dividends and from above me I heard sounds of gasping. I looked up and saw Lady Barbara's glorious globes of breast flesh bouncing around as her upper body writhed and wriggled on my face, the light from the fire sending flickering shafts of light across her slightly perspiring torso.

Then, with a sudden stiffening, she grabbed the wooden headboard at the top of the bed and began to moan a melange of words, all of which stated one thing: orgasm!

"Yeah, yeah, Terri, you're a wonder, you've done this in a previous life you lovely mouthed little slut, don't stop, you slut, you slut, oh you fucking little slut!"

And then with what I took to be a roar of approval, Lady Barbara's pussy pulled from my face and she clamped her thighs together, graunching and grinding her steaming snatch against my firm flesh there, gritting her teeth and grunting "Fuck, fuck, fuck" as she did so.

I almost cried tears of joy, realising I had just performed cunnilingus on what my daily newspaper called "the world's richest woman – and one of the world's best-looking women!". TypicalSun!

Then, Lady Barbara was taking charge again, this time it was her who used her mouth, licking and nibbling at my mouth, inhaling deeply as she obviously caught the aroma of her pussy from my lips.

After a few moist, sexy, tongue-probing kisses, she ran her mouth down my throat to my breasts and then she was sucking and licking at my nipples, tasting me with a slow, steady tempo, occasionally murmuring "What breasts, oh what fucking superb breasts", none of which did my ego any harm at all.

Then her face was on my belly and her tongue was tracing towards my snatch! Thank goodness it had been only this morning that I had given the little thatch of light brown pubic hair at my mons a trim, and shaved around my sex to freshen up there – I simplylove the feeling of a shaved pussy on silk or satin panties! It's so, oh, I don't know, what's the word? Decadent!

Lady Barbara then shuffled her beautiful body until she was lying directly beneath my widespread thighs and her tongue was licking against my sex. "Oh, Terri," I heard her gasp, "you are so wet, you wicked, wanton woman. Do you really want me?"

I responded without words, grasping her head and thrusting it against me, then gripping her hair and driving her up and down my minge. I heard the world's richest woman give out a giggle, a girlish giggle, and she pulled back.

I felt a sudden flash of panic. She wasn't going to stop, was she?

Then I heard her from between my thighs, her breath hot on my heated pussy: "I take it you do. All right, I'll shut up dahlink. Now just lay back and think of England – oh no, fuck England, think of me!"

And her tongue began to work its wonderful magic over my sexy bits, flicking and licking, sucking and nibbling, kissing and flat-tonguing, driving me wilder and wilder with passion with every glorious stroke of her lips and tongue.

I lay back not daring to believe this was happening to me, then I dropped all thoughts that this was a fantasy and indulged myself as her ministrations dragged a massive, huge, shouting and screaming orgasm from me.

"Oooooh, fuck, that's it, you've got me, Barbara, you've got me, don't stop – yeeees, I'm coming, I'm coming." Or words to that effect.

My orgasm was so much more intense than when I played with myself, finger fucking the evenings away, it was a thing of loud crashing cymbals, blaring trombones and a screaming choir made up of one singer – me! And thank goodness for the howling wind and slashing rain or I'm sure the locals in the saloon bar of The Belligerent Badger would have heard me!

Lady Barbara climbed from the bed, placed more logs on the blazing fire, turned off all the lights and we sat propped up on pillows, our bodies close together, the light from the fire playing across our breasts.

She leaned down and kissed me on the breasts, then on the mouth. "You are so wonderful, you are such a lovely lover, and I want you – which means I'm going to have you," she announced, as if she was announcing a takeover of some major corporation.

"Now, tell me, Terri, what you do – a legal secretary was it? Where? How long? Do you enjoy it?"

So I told her all about the Hastings law firm where I had worked for four years for the odious Mr Bridgenorth, and the way he was always peering down my blouse, or up my skirts, and his disgusting "If I was 20 years younger I'd teach you a thing or two, m'dear" come-on.

"Well," said Lady Barbara, "forget him, he's history from now on. Tomorrow morning we'll call in, hand your notice in and get a glowing reference for you and then you will come onto my payroll. I can offer you a far more pleasant job."

I didn't know whether to scream with relief, or give her the biggest, most passionate kiss I'd ever given anyone. I settled for a small shriek and a passionate kiss. All of which, of course, led to more intense lovemaking.

We fell asleep in each others arms and were woken around 7.30 by the chirruping of birds and a beautifully bright, sunny Sussex spring day. After showers in my pitifully cramped little en suite, Lady Barbara and I had breakfast of marmalade on toast and Earl Grey tea.

"And tell me," said Lady Barbara, licking a splodge of Robertson's Marmalade off her finger, "what time do you usually get into this hell hole of a Hastings office?"

"At 9am sharp," I told her, "anything later and Mr Bridgenorth goes bananas."

"Well today he can go plantations of 'em," said Lady Barbara, "because we're not going to get there until at least 9.30." And then she added a two-word comment which said everything you needed to know about her opinion of Mr Bridgenorth: "Fuck him."

She drove the big Bentley sedately into the outskirts of Hastings, followed my directions to the office and nosed the big limo into a parking space with the notice "Senior Partner: Do NOT park here".

Striding into the office, Lady Barbara advanced on timid little Trudy, the receptionist, who looked up and gaped when she saw the tall, stunning-looking billionairess advancing on her.

"Can I help you?" she stammered, her eyes flicking towards me, then back to Lady Barbara, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

"Yes you can," snapped the tall woman. "Bridgenorth's office."

Trudy turned and pointed to his office, and added "But you can't ..." then her voice trailed away as it became clear to her that Lady Barbara could and indeed was going in there. I followed, being tugged by Lady Barbara's firm grip, half fearful, half excited at the coming confrontation.

Lady Barbara barged into the room and Mr Bridgenorth glared from behind his desk and started to rise from his seat. "And who the hell are you?" he stammered.

"Neither here nor there," snapped Lady Barbara, plonking herself firmly into the chair reserved for clients in front of the desk. "The fact is that you're Bridgenorth and that's all I need to know right now."

Mr Bridgenorth sat, his face getting redder and redder, then he looked at me. "Simpson," he demanded – it was always "Simpson", never Terri, not even Ms Simpson, always "Simpson – "just what is going on?"

Lady Barbara weighed in on him. "Don't talk to her, talk to me because I'm acting for her, you scrofulous little excuse for a solicitor, you. Ms Simpson here has given you four years excellent service. She is now leaving."

"Not till she's served out her notice, she's not," said Mr Bridgenorth, starting to feel more in control.

Lady Barbara leaned a leather-coated arm on his desk. Placed an elegant forefinger under her chin and fixed him with a look that petrified me and I wasn't even the target!

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," she snapped. "Now you are going to provide Ms Simpson with a fulsome, praiseworthy reference, something which will reflect all the wonderful work she's done for you over the past four years."

Mr Bridgenorth tried to speak, but Lady Barbara rode on over him: "If she doesn't get that superb reference – and I want it in 20 minutes – I will have my lawyers tie you up in Law Society hearings for the rest of your miserable life defending charges of gross sexual misconduct towards Ms Simpson."

The solicitor's mouth opened, shut and opened again. "But, but .." he said, and Lady Barbara stood.

"But me no buts, Mr Bridgenorth," she said. "At Kleinhold Holdings I employ a team of lawyers who will eat someone like you for breakfast and then look around for afters. So get on with the reference. When you've got it done and copied and signed in triplicate, get your office gofer to deliver it to me across the road in that coffee shop opposite. If it's not there in 20 minutes, I'll call my lawyers and they will start making your life a living hell."

Mr Bridgenorth spluttered, then a look of comprehension wafted over his ugly face. "Kelinhold Holdings? You're Lady Barbara Kleinhold?"

And then his face broke into a sickly grin: "My dear young lady, why didn't you say?"

Lady Barbara was ushering me towards the door. "Because it shouldn't have been necessary. And cut the unctuous 'dear young lady' crap, I'm 44-years-old. Now get on with that reference because the clock's ticking."

And we walked out, across the street to the 1066 Old Coffee Shoppe – what a terrible name, I was ashamed to take Lady Barbara in there – and we sat at a window seat and sipped lattes.

"That was so thrilling," I said, when the waitress had delivered our drinks. "But was it true – all that about a team of lawyers, I mean?"

Lady Barbara fixed me with a steely glare, and then her face relaxed and she put a comforting hand on mine. "Look, Terri, you're going to work for me, so you'd better know that when I'm negotiating with someone, I never – and I meannever – say anything that I can't back up, I never joke about things like that."

"Poor old Mr Bridgenorth," I said, "I almost felt sorry for him."

Lady Barbara sipped her coffee and looked at me. "Fuck him," she said, and glanced at her diamond-encrusted Rolex. "Time's ticking, where's your reference?"

Just then, we saw the poor little Trudy trot across the street, an envelope in her hand. She rushed into the shop and handed it to Lady Barbara, it was her name that was neatly typed on the envelope, not mine, I couldn't help but notice. Typical Mr Bridgenorth.

The billionairess opened the contents and glanced at them. "Excellent," she said, stuffing the envelope into a deep leather raincoat's pocket. Then she looked up at timid Trudy standing by our table and handed her a card.

"Trudy, this is the card of my personal assistant, Constance Cunningham. If you have any trouble over the way I barged into Bridgenorth's office this morning – and I meanany trouble – then you call Constance and I'll see it's sorted. Understood?"

Trudy nodded so frantically I thought her silly head would drop off.

We drove to London, and Lady Barbara smoothly braked the Bentley to a halt outside a glass-fronted monster of a building on the South Bank. A tall, dark-haired, middle-aged man in a sharp Armani suit, ran down the steps in front of the building, opened the door for myself, nodded to Lady Barbara, said "Thanks for the night off, Lady B, the party was terrific".

Lady Barbara smiled back at him and said: "On the contrary, Johnson, thankyou– my party was sensational." And then she took me up to the reception area.

Behind it sat a burly, extremely strong-looking man in a sergeant-major's best blues uniform, the upper breast covered in campaign medals. "Buxton," said Lady Barbara, "this is Ms Simpson who is going to be working for me. I'll get her all security carded and so on, but this is just to introduce her."

Buxton stood and I thought he was going to salute me!

Up in her palatial and pristine office, with great views out over the city, Lady Barbara buzzed a button on her desk and short, flat-chested blonde with frizzy hair walked in.

"Constance," said my new boss, "this is Terri Simpson, she's going to be my confidant. You'll both get along famously."

Constance grinned at me and then in a voice that I took to be part-Cockney said: "Welcome aboard, Terri. But gor blimey, Lady B, she ain't gonna come to work dressed like that, is she?"

Lady Barbara laughed. "Most certainly not, my dear. We'll have Bruce in later to look her over, but first I want someone from security to get her ID and all that – make it Rossiter, he's very efficient."

"Gotcha," said Constance and in less than a minute Rossiter, who was a former member of the Metropolitan Police Force, as I was told, had photographed me, taken a close up of my eyes for a laser scanner entry point in the underground car park, taken a fingerprint for a security pad and tape-recorded my voice saying three times "Terri Simpson". He said he would have my security pass to me in a couple of hours.

When he had left, Lady Barbara made me sit on a couch in front of her desk and she cleared her throat. Then came her announcement. "Right, you are to be my confidant, a sort of super PA, understood, Terri?"

I nodded but said, firmly I hoped: "But how do you know I'm going to be any good?"

Lady Barbara smiled warmly. "Trust me, I know. I have an instinct for these things. Right, you are going to be paid three thousand pounds a week, and I'll arrange for a month's salary in advance to be paid into your bank account. It's in Hastings is it?"

I nodded, my jaw dropping at the thought of all that money. "Scribble the details on this pad," said Lady Barbara, pushing a pad across and a huge black pen. "Add your home address while you're about it," she ordered.

I pushed the pad back to her, and Lady Barbara picked up a phone. "Genevieve," she said, "how's that Sydney project going? Signed and sealed? Well done, you've got that wrapped up quickly. Now for something far less onerous."

And then I nearly fainted when I heard my new employer's instructions. "Right there's this little cottage down in East Sussex." And she peeled off my address. "It's mortgaged to a Terri Simpson, that's Terri with an 'i'. I want the mortgage paid off using my savings account, and I want it all signed off to Terri.

"Oh, another thing. Just down the road from that address is a public house called The Belligerent Badger. I'm pretty sure it's a free house, but it may have some tie in with a brewery. I want to buy it. If you have problems with a brewery – although it may not come to that – buy the brewery. But anyway, I want the pub.

"When you've bought it, I want it signed off also to Terri. And one last thing – the publican or landlord, or whatever the term is in the licensed trade, is a man called Major Phibbs. Find out the arrangement he has with the owner. He must continue to run it and I want him to get a healthy pay rise. OK?"

I was speechless as Lady Barbara put the phone down. "I, er, oh gosh, how can I ever thank you?" I mumbled.

Lady Barbara smiled. "Oh, I'm sure you'll find a way, Terri. Now let's get you outfitted."

Minutes later, I was standing stark naked in front of a man in his late 20s named Bruce. "Don't worry, dahlink," said Lady Barbara, "he's not turned on by you in the slightest, are you Bruce?"

Bruce grinned at her. "Ooooh, you bitch," he said, in what I was sure was a deliberately strained accent, "just watch yourself or I'll scratch your eyes out, even with all your money!"

Half an hour later, Bruce had all my measurements and was away to order suits, dresses, evening wear, lingerie, shoes and perfume for me.

Then a dark-haired little man who was called Edgar came in, took one look at me and screeched: "Oooh, fuck, Lady B – she's so lovely, but that hair! It'sawful. Must have been ashocking accident. Come on, ducky, let's get you repaired, you poor old thing!"

And in a large dressing room attached to the office, was a sort of hairdresser's salon, and also a shower and a bath. Edgar shampooed me, cut my hair, styled it and an hour later I was paraded in front of Lady Barbara.

"Edgar, you old magician, you've worked wonders. I knew she was lovely, but this is beyond my wildest dreams! Take the rest of the day off, you're a sweetie."

When he had left, Lady Barabra announced: "Fuck, I'm famished, time for lunch." She pressed her desk button again and moments later two smartly-dressed waiters were plying us with dishes of lobster bisque and green salad, washed down by a split each of Krug champagne. It was the loveliest champagne I'd ever tasted.

After lunch, Bruce returned with a trolley and hanging from it was an array of dresses, suits and evening wear. Boxes of shoes, packages of stunningly sexy lingerie and several wildly expensive perfumes were also dragged into the office.

"And the watch?" asked Lady Barbara, when Bruce had put everything in a large, walk-in dressing room, on the opposite side of the office to where I had been transformed by Edgar.

Bruce delved into his pocket and produced a little leather box, which he passed to Lady Barbara. When he had left, Lady Barbara handed the box to me and I opened it to reveal a diamond-encrusted Rolex. I gasped and Lady Barbara laughed.

"Look at the back," she said. I turned the wonderful little timepiece over and on the reverse was the inscription: "To Terri, my love, Lady B."

I stepped into her arms and we kissed. "This has been the most exciting day of my life," I said, when our lips disengaged.

"And it's going to get more exciting," said my new boss. She picked up her phone and punched a number: "Constance, scarper, I'm going to be busy with Terri for a while. See you on Monday. And enjoy the Chelsea match."

Lady Barbara then walked to the office door and locked it, then turned towards me. As she did, she removed her blouse, her skirt, then her panties and her bra. The boots, she kept on.

"Strip darling," she said, in a husky, almost breathless voice, "I want you and I want you now."

Although I was standing by the massive window looking down on old London town, I didn't even give it a second thought. In seconds I was nude and Lady Barbara was in front of me, her mouth seeking my nippple-erect breasts. Then she pushed me onto a long, low, white leather couch.

I parted my legs and Lady Barbara knelt before me, her bare back and buttocks on view for anyone in the big office blocks about two miles away who had powerful enough binoculars to focus on us. But all I was focusing on was her wonderful tongue working its magic on my sex.

"Fuck, you taste so fucking gorgeous," I heard her say, as she surfaced momentarily for air, before delving back to my seeping sex trench, her tongue like an electric probe tickling, tormenting and delighting me all in the same movement.

Soon her dexterity had me moaning and sobbing and then my already perfect day was made even more thrilling and as I looked out at the gleaming towers of the city, I was brought to a crushing, crunching orgasm via the mouth of the world's richest woman. I was in heaven!

Lady Barbara then stood, smiled a silly smile as if to say "Haven't we been naughty?" and then kissed me full on the mouth, her lips tasting thrillingly of my moist pussy.

"Now let's see what sort of a job Bruce has done – it's dress up time, dahlink," she said, and we entered the large walk-in dressing room.

Lady Barbara first made me put on a really sexy matching pair of blue satin bra and briefs, which fitted snugly and outlined my curves perfectly. Then she helped me into a white shirt – Italian, I noticed – and a superbly tailored dark grey jacket and skirt. On my feet I slipped black Manolo Blahniks and they felt as if I'd been wearing them for weeks, they were so comfortable.

I stepped in front of the full-length mirror and gasped. "Oh goodness, I look smashing, Barbara," I gushed. "It fits like a glove."