Heather's Busy Week Pt. 02

'I get another, do I?'

'Absolutely!' She laughed again. 'I'm going for an encore and then I expect Mr Everlasting to thoroughly shag me. On stainless squeaky leather, naturally . . .'

*****

As it happened they shagged twice, with Heather doing most of the shagging. Although this was out-and-out indulgence on her behalf she excused herself. Hadn't she been specifically told not to wear Alex out?

Good job Rita didn't tell me not to use up all his cum; I'd have failed at that one!

Lying on him, with him still in her but semi-flaccid, she had another look at the TV. She was sure there must have been bigger upsets that afternoon, but the anchorman had his head in his hands. Sure enough, in spite of their early lead Hartlepool had lost 2:1. At home. In added time.

A sudden yawn surprised her. Okay, she hadn't slept much since Thursday, but lack of sleep wasn't usually a problem. And Rita wouldn't be back for an hour or two yet.

No, no, no, Heather thought. I don't mind her finding us sweaty and naked, but sweaty, naked and asleep is right out.

'Dreamboat,' she began.

'Dreamboat!'

'Well you are from this angle. Will you stay there while I fetch us our wine?'

Alex nodded so she climbed off him, giggling when half a pint of mixed juices splashed over his tummy. The wine was, of course, no longer chilled. Not that she cared. It was wet and it tasted nice. What more could a girl ask for?

Well, plenty, actually . . .

Alex hauled himself into a sitting position while she visited the coffee table. 'That's tepid,' he said after taking a sip.

'Drink it and I'll get chilled refills. And stop complaining.' Heather sat close to him and gripped his balls in a matey sort of a way. 'It was you who insisted on shagging again.'

'Me!'

She could anticipate most of Alex's jokey objections by now. That was usually the beginning of the end for a male lover. Alex still had a few miles in him, though. He was getting another threeway along with Rita tonight, if nothing else. The gorgeous strawberry blonde was clearly expecting at least that.

Tonight and some of tomorrow morning, Heather decided. Then it's off into the sunset for me. I can always catch Rita alone at a later date . . .

Seeing Alex's sands running out wasn't to say she didn't like him anymore. Her sexual interest in men was just goldfish-like. Two nights were more than most men got. Alex was going to get Friday night right through to Sunday lunchtime, if he could hack it.

And he was also going to get the benefit of her heartfelt advice.

'I'll get those chilled refills in a minute,' she said.

'You really are trying to turn me into an alcoholic, aren't you?'

'I'm not trying to ruin your liver, I'm trying to understand you.'

'That sounds ominous.'

'I've got you and girls sussed,' Heather went on. 'You look absolutely fantastic and you're very good in bed. I don't know about fighting them off in droves, but I'm sure you'll always reap lots of rewards. It's you and men that confuses me.'

'Oho, here it comes.'

'I watched you last night,' Heather continued, relentless and determined to have her say. 'The happiest you were was when Rita . . . well, took you up the ass.'

'Hev!'

'I'm not exaggerating, even if I am prone to exaggeration. I'm being deadly serious for once. When it comes to asses, you're good at giving but you prefer to receive.'

'I've heard enough of this.' Alex tried to stand up but Heather pulled him back down onto the wet leather cushions.

'You're curious,' she said, 'but the front you put up is just that: a front. I blame it on your faulty gaydar.'

'Gaydar!'

'Alex, you couldn't even detect Gill. She was being nice and polite to the birthday boy and not at all flirty. You took her politeness as a come-on because you couldn't see what she is.'

He shrugged. 'A lot of women baffle me, I must admit.'

'Let me enlighten you,' said Heather. 'In my opinion there are four main types. At type level I know them at a glance. You've got lesbians there at one extreme, straighter-than-straight at the other. The straight ones are a total write-off for me, but bread and butter for you. Most of them have never had a gay thought in their lives and never will. The lesbian groups are much more complex. And I say "groups" because there are many. Go look them up. There are sets and subsets and all sorts. Some sets instinctively dislike the likes of me, because of my looks and the way I sometimes dress. Or because they think I might break up relationships. I've often been called "lipstick", although I'm not and rarely use the stuff anyway.'

She chuckled at Alex's expression. 'By and large I get on okay. Most lezzies are like me deep down; they hate labels and pigeonholes.'

'Right,' he said, unconvincingly.

Heather continued. 'In-between the lesbian and straight groups you've got bisexual and bi-curious. Bisexual is fine for me. Bisexuals are experimental by definition, aren't they? I have rarely had any problems with them. Bi-curious, though . . .' She sighed wistfully. 'At one end you've got the women who've watched all the videos. Women who fantasize every night and are just waiting for opportunity to knock. At the other you've got women who suddenly realize they're being eyed up . . . and suddenly like it. They are probably the hardest to seduce. They can be frustrating but trust me, it's very, very rewarding if anything ever happens.'

'As I said, a lot of women baffle me.'

'I can be baffled too,' Heather confessed. 'Some lezzies who openly hate lipstick aren't averse to the odd tumble, as long as it's done on the quiet. And a straighter-than-straight girl can, out of the wide blue yonder, desert camp and become curious. I suppose it's all part of life's rich tapestry . . . and bugger all to do with you and men.'

'Ah, here we go.'

'There might be dozens of sets and subsets of women,' Heather said obligingly, 'but if you ask me there are very few sets of men. As a female, I don't need gaydar to know that. Just about every man I ever meet wants to shag me. I know that sounds big-headed, but it's the same for most women, not me exclusively. A girl can tell in the first two seconds.'

'What about me?'

'You didn't even take one second to suss.'

They laughed at that. On TV Soccer Saturday had given way to a rampant Leeds United, who were giving some team in blue a bit of a hammering.

'I reckon there are the same four basic groups for men,' Heather resumed. 'With gay on one extreme, straighter-than-straight on the other. You can write-off the straights and leave them as bread and butter for me. And thank you, seeing as there's supposed to be over ninety per cent of all men in that group. In-between . . .'

'Hold on. What happened to the gays?'

'I'm tidying up first. Which won't take long; bisexual and bi-curious work pretty much the same for guys as they do for gals.'

Alex thought a moment then nodded. 'So gays . . .'

'This is purely my opinion, right?' Heather held Alex's gaze. 'I haven't researched it in depth. It doesn't directly affect me, does it? I'm going largely on things I've heard from bisexual men.'

'Right.'

'If you ask around schoolyards the kids will say there are two sorts: butch and bitch. I am sure there are lots of other subsets but, essentially, I agree. Except I'd say there are definite givers, definite takers and happy souls who are ready to do both.'

'Are you calling me a happy soul?'

'No, I think you're a taker. I just don't believe you accept that. Okay, you really do go to bars and clubs intending to pick up someone small and pretty. But Rita's wrong. You don't make the first move because you daren't; you hold off because, deep in your subconscious, that's not what you really want.'

'Hev . . .'

'Don't Hev me. I bet you sit there like a wall-flower, sipping pink gin, don't you?'

'Heather! That's positively homophobic! Not to mention slanderous!'

'Pink gin is actually a man's drink. James Bond has been known to indulge. The bitters in it are almost pure alcohol.'

'And your point is . . .'

'Subconsciously, you steer clear of effeminate men. You want to be shagged by studs.'

'So why do I feel like shit the morning after?'

'That's a man thing. You men are always sizing each other up, aren't you? Submitting might be fun at the time, but it is embarrassing admitting it later.'

'I could keep schtum,' he practically mumbled.

'Not with Rita cross-interrogating you,' said Heather. 'I know how persuasive she can be.' She checked the TV while Alex lost himself in introspection. Leeds were now ahead by three goals and still looking dangerous.

'How do you do it?' he said after a long pause. 'Are you psychic?'

'How do I do what, precisely?'

'Read into everything.'

'I can't read into everything, just the obvious. The less-than obvious baffles me. For example, I haven't the faintest idea what causes your subconscious to play up on you. And I haven't the faintest idea why your fingers and tongue feel so good on my clit. Someone's being giving you lessons and it's not Rita. She uses different techniques altogether.'

'Hev,' Alex said tentatively. 'Can you keep a secret?'

*****

Carrie was lying naked on her bed, pleasuring herself. She had tiny vibrators held by bands to the first and middle fingers of each hand. These toys were her recent "find". They only had a battery life of half an hour and weren't rechargeable. They were, however, cheap. She'd got two dozen of them online, so using them two at once wasn't a problem. And their lifespan was usually long enough for her needs. Who cared if they were then only fit for the bin? Dropping them in a bin was easier than cleaning them, wasn't it?

At this stage, early in proceedings, she was concentrating on her nipples. For some reason it felt better doing that cross-armed, possibly because she liked to pull her tits together. She'd got good tits; everyone said so. Big without being way, way too big. Okay, they were out of proportion with her athletic body but never out of control. There wasn't a red-blooded man on the planet who didn't want to fuck her tits.

That fucking whore Hunter! That fucking cunt!

The thought came unbidden. No, not a thought, an image. Hunter had an incredible body and didn't she know it! In the football changing rooms she was always the first stripped and last to be kitted up. Carrie didn't do girls but, like everyone else, simply had to admire her physique. Supermodels would kill for a body like that. And her stomach! When totally relaxed there was the noticeable outline of a six-pack. When fully tensed she could win body-building contests. Well, her stomach could, the rest of her was all pretty woman.

She's got good tits, too. Not as good as mine, but amazingly firm. I couldn't play or train bra-less like she sometimes does. Not in my wildest dreams.

Still stimulating her nipples, Carrie remembered meeting the whore. She'd turned up for trials pre-season, all green eyes, white teeth and raven hair. Half the dressing room had had their tongues hanging out as she whipped off her T-shirt.

Fucking lesbians.

Carrie had hoped the tall, exceptionally beautiful girl would fall flat on her arse every time the ball came near. She didn't. On the contrary, she stood out, both in her preferred position and when deliberately moved elsewhere. Selecting her had been a no-brainer, even after she had confessed hockey would sometimes have to take precedence. Occasional non-availability was no reason to shun her. Carrie had been discriminated against herself; that experience would rankle forever. She couldn't discriminate against a fellow female. Not when it came to football.

Guessing there was twenty minutes left in the batteries Carrie moved her right hand. Avoiding her clit, avoiding penetration, she worked on the rest of her pussy. She was wet down there. Very wet. The smell was strong and she could feel juice trickling between the cheeks of her bum.

Up until yesterday, Carrie had thought her initial impression was wrong. She'd even felt a degree of affection. Heather fit into the team wherever she was asked to play. She was also not "up herself" at all. Without exception, her teammates liked her. If there was ever a vote for a new team leader she'd walk it. Naz, Carrie's vice-captain . . . her very straight vice-captain . . . was halfway in love with the cunt. There was no doubt where her vote would go.

Thank fuck the season's as good as over!

Carrie brought her right hand back up to her tits and slid her left down her body, only stopping when it reached her box. Ignoring the rest of her pussy she kept it there, teasing her entrance. Fifteen to go, she reckoned. Five minutes of this then a big last ten. And no more thoughts of Heather fucking whore Hunter.

Except the cunt would not get out of her head. Friday night . . . the biggest night of her fucking life . . . wrecked and ruined. Fuck begrudging affection and admiration, the cunt had blown it once and for all. And fuck that fucking "truce". She'd played along because she wasn't an idiot and had no choice. The police were squared off now, though. She could wreak her revenge.

But how? Hunter was a trained fighter, capable of beating up sixteen stone robbers. No girl in her right mind would take her on physically. It would have to be psychological. And, sadly, it would have to be after she'd stumped up that dress money. It was needed now Ross was out of the picture.

Because of that fucking whore!

Carrie had never before had a sexual urge about another woman. Now she did. Suddenly she didn't want psychological. Suddenly she wanted something very physical indeed. She had no idea how she could pull it off, but suddenly she wanted to fuck the cunt. Not in a filthy, lesbian way, of course. Oh no, she wanted to fuck her hard. Hard and hard and harder, until she was begging for a mercy she would never get.

Both Carrie's hands were between her legs now. She eased the two business fingers of her left inside, pressing the tiny vibrator onto her G spot. The fingers of her right did likewise onto her clit. Then, knowing her orgasm would come soon . . . but not too soon . . . she started to daydream.

Somehow (fuck knows how) Hunter is here in this bedroom, on her knees. She's apologizing profusely and promising to atone. Anything Carrie wants her to do is fine. So is anything Carrie wants to do to her . . .

Carrie orders her to strip and get on the bed. Hunter does. Carrie orders her to lie face-down. Hunter does. Carrie dons her prized twelve inch strap-on as she studies Hunter's prone form. Her pussy is swollen and parted. It looks like an overripe peach and it is leaking big-time. The stupid cunt probably thinks she's going to enjoy this . . .

A big cum dragged Carrie back into reality. Big but not big enough. She shifted her fingers a little then cursed as the buzzing faded on her clit. Angrily, knowing the other battery would also imminently fail, she removed both gadgets and threw them onto the carpet.

'What's a girl got to do to get properly fucked round here?' she snarled.

Then, knowing the answer, she climbed off the bed. Her dressing table drawers held at least ten tiny replacement vibrators. Better yet, they held five packets of coke. And not titchy, next-to-useless packets; the packets Ross gave her were far larger than his too-tiny tasters. So too was the amount inside. At her pleading, he'd been increasing the dose. Although not so very quickly, if you asked her. If you asked her, he'd been skimping.

She picked out two new toys (both of them purple) and one of the packets. The toys went on the bed while she lined up the coke on a mirror. The mirror was one Alex had given her as a birthday present, once-upon-a-time, back in their childhood. It had a cartoon of Snoopy on it, in WW1 flying kit, on his way to fight the Red Baron. Not feeling any poignancy at all, she went for a piss.

Fucking Alex, she thought. He's been fucking that fucking cunt all weekend. Or maybe she's been fucking him all weekend. I wouldn't put it past her.

Carrie flushed away the empty packet and shook her head at Ross's stinginess. He'd given her six packets for three blowjobs. Okay, she knew how much the stuff went for elsewhere, but six packets! He used to be much more generous than that. Perhaps it was just as well he was off the scene.

No, was it fuck.

Going back into her bedroom, ready to snort, she felt a nagging fear. That first packet hadn't done much for her last night. And she was down to just five. What if the other packets didn't do the trick? What then?