Heather's Busy Week Pt. 04

'I'm finished for today, sir.' Stuffypants pointed over Heather's head, presumably at a clock on the wall. 'And I'm going in that direction anyway.'

Brian nodded to Heather as they went out the back way. In the car, feeling impishly playful, Heather "accidentally forgot" to belt up. Surprisingly, Stuffypants didn't immediately chastise her.

'That previous statement of yours,' she said instead. 'Brian says you made a citizen's arrest, brought in a really nasty piece of work.'

'I didn't bring him in. I detained him until the boys in blue arrived.'

'You do realize that was an incredibly stupid, risky thing to do?'

Heather sighed audibly. 'How did I just know you'd say that?'

Stuffypants started the engine and smiled another faint smile.

'Seatbelt, Miss Hunter.'

Heather fastened herself in and waited until they were under way before asking: 'This uniform business . . . surely you've got one for special occasions? And weren't you in uniform before CID? For training, if nothing else?'

'What is it with you and uniforms?'

'I find them very sexy, don't you?'

'Obviously. That's why I'm in CID.'

'Don't be like that. Show me a pic.'

'What?'

'You must have a pic in your wallet. From graduation, passing out or whatever you call it.'

'Miss Hunter, you are winding me up. Stop it, unless you want handcuffing to some railings.'

'Hmmm, there's an idea.'

'Miss Hunter, stop it!'

They were turning into Heather's street so she bit her tongue until she was partway out of the vehicle. 'A friend of mine joined the police,' she fibbed, noticing Stuffypants' eyes properly for the first time. They were of the palest blue, almost grey and, in contrast to her usual, everyday expression, very appealing. 'She said the girls training with her had an agreement. Or maybe it was an ongoing dare. They all always had to wear something they shouldn't. Undercover, of course. What was yours?'

'You'll have to use your imagination.'

'Fair enough, but don't complain if it runs away with me.'

Stuffypants didn't flinch. 'This had better be the last time our paths cross,' she said. 'And you'd certainly better not cross DI Fazakerley's path again. He hates co-incidences . . . absolutely hates them. Your name should not crop up again. If it comes up a third time . . .'

'I bet yours was a thong.' Heather grinned into the car. 'Dark blue or black.'

'Goodbye, Miss Hunter.'

Heather got out. 'Dark blue might be too policewoman-ish,' she said as she closed the door. 'So, black then . . .'

She watched Stuffypants drive away and out of her life. 'Nice smile,' she murmured. 'Shame about the attitude.'

The postman had been sometime between now and her earlier, flying visit. Perhaps as many as ten letters, most of them junk, littered her mat. No, there was an electricity bill; the rest of them were junk. She went into the kitchen and put the bill on her "to be paid" shelf. Everything else went one-by-one into the bin. Not for the first time, she wondered how Specsavers had got onto her case. Somebody must have given out her details for a joke because her vision was excellent. She took after her dad in that respect, as well as in several others. Vision-wise, Dad had the eyes of a hawk. Hunters Farm had been sited at one of the wider stretches of the Aire Valley. She'd often stood with him, watching deer foraging on the far hillside while both of the farm lads stood by, trying to guess what they were looking at.

Conscious time was passing, she went upstairs and into her spare bedroom/dressing room. Space wasn't an issue as she lived alone. That was why she had two wardrobes on the go: one for student things, the other for best. Gill wasn't a student and had been well-presented on Friday. She also looked to be the sort who was always well-presented. So she was going to get "best" tonight, and knickers to what she'd said about not being bothered.

Heather had quite a selection of dresses but already had a deep sky blue number in mind. She took it off its hanger and nodded. A strapless neckline with ruffled bodice and draped skirt. It was light and sexy without being particularly whore-like. It even covered most of her boobs.

Not wanting to wet her hair, she tied it in a ponytail, clipped that up into a makeshift bun and stepped into the shower. Then, determined to keep water away from her bun, she lifted the showerhead out from its holder before turning it on and testing the spray for warmth.

Not after the weekend you've just had, she told herself sternly. Oh no.

The problem was she had little restraint. She wasn't sure if her sex addiction was physical or mental. It was an ever-growing thing, though. The more she did it, the more she wanted. Dr Strickland could have been talking about her when he was explaining cocaine dependency.

It takes more and more to achieve the desired high . . .

After rinsing herself in a cursory sort of way, she directed the spray onto her fanny, playing it slowly up and down. Drawing in a breath, enjoying the sensation. This game ranked highly in her list of solitary favourites. She liked to make the build-up steady and undemanding. There was no need to rush, whisper encouragement or pray that her lover wouldn't soon tire. Best of all, her power shower could go again and again. She had, over the years, tended to blank her mind while doing this. When she did this she didn't need fantasies or manual assistance. The jetting water was good enough. Blanking her mind also heightened her climaxes. There was a sharp . . . cleanliness . . . about them. Truly no-strings endings to truly enjoyable sex.

She was, therefore, astonished when an image formed in her brain. A pair of smoky blue-grey eyes, watching her . . .

'No,' she gasped.

But it was too late. Those eyes were staring at her and she was cumming and cumming and cumming.

And it wasn't enough. Heather turned the water-flow up to maximum then used her free hand to liberally coat herself with body wash, whipping it up into thick suds before washing it all off. Repeating the process, every square inch of skin suddenly an erogenous zone.

'Stuffypants,' she whispered. 'I didn't know I cared!'

And that was the truth. She'd half-flirted with the policewoman, partly in instinctive, defensive reflex, partly because she was so easy to get at. Suddenly, out of the (smoky) blue, she really did want to see her in uniform. Or better still, most of the way out of uniform.

It was no good. Getting out of the shower in such a state was impossible. Heather used her trusty left hand to spray water over her clit and moved her right hand lower. Sighing as she did it, she slipped three fingers inside herself. She flexed them a couple of times, watching the pinkie curl daintily in sympathy, feeling silky-smooth fingertips brushing her G spot. Then she began to jill, not being at all dainty, not wanting slow but going for it big-time. Going for it and thinking about Stuffypants all the way. Finally cumming again . . . and not just an acceptable, understandable once . . . but once, twice, thrice!

Somehow her hair survived the experience. She towelled her body dry then went back to the dressing room, plonking herself in front of the mirror. She unclipped the bun and released her ponytail. Her black mane fell obediently down her back, shining and smelling like apples from this morning's assisted pampering. Dismissing Stuffypants as an unexpected daydream, she started to comb. By association, she started to think about Eleanor. How long had she given up golf? Ten years, wasn't it? Ten years without any social life at all. Did that mean ten years without sex? Heather had a horrible feeling it did.

Ten years effectively alone. Then she'd taken up golf again . . . alone.

Tonight she'd be dining again . . . alone.

Heather threw down her comb and reached for her mobile.

'Eleanor, it's me, Heather. How's things?'

'Same as this morning. Carrie's got a bit brighter though. You'd think she'd recovered, even if that's not possible without proper treatment.'

'Are you there at the hospital now?'

'Yes. I'm going to dine at that restaurant again, on my way back to the hotel. Well, I am if you remind me what it's called.'

'It's Mario's. And watch yourself with him. After two decent-sized glasses of Shiraz he starts to speak Italian. Next thing you know, you're lost.'

'Sounds okay to me. I'll order myself a couple of litres.'

'I meant two glasses for him, not you.'

'If I get two litres I can invite him to join me, can't I?'

'Listen Eleanor, I'm really sorry I can't join you tonight. Can I buy you dinner tomorrow, by way of making up?'

'I've still got nearly two hundred pounds of yours.'

'Is that a no?'

'It's very much a yes.' Eleanor paused. 'Heather, I can't tell you how much I enjoyed last night. The things you did!'

'You did wonderful things to me too. So is it a date?'

'It certainly is. Mario's again?'

'Let's see how well he treats you tonight. I'll call you about lunchtime. Okay?'

They said quite soppy farewells and Heather went back to her hair, abandoning the comb and brushing this time. Still thinking about Eleanor. There was no future for them, not beyond this week, she knew that. Age difference aside, on Friday Eleanor would be going home to Kent and her golfing partner. Heather herself would soon be crossing the Channel and exploring the world. She'd quite possibly be experiencing celibacy too, come to that.

Celibacy! Moi!

Seven or eight months ago there had been a swarm of female students, all eager to travel in numbers. Travelling in numbers reduced the risks of rape and murder, they'd agreed. Back then there had been over twenty girls definitely wanting in. Now, three months before kick-off, they were down to just two certain starters: the ever-horny Heather and the very scrumptious Ingrid. And, while Ingrid might be just slightly bi-curious, she gave every impression of being committedly straight. Under such circumstances Heather was honour-bound. Attempts to turn her sexy companion simply could not be allowed. And she would obviously have to cut back on the whorish behaviour, too. Okay, by definition travelling in foreign countries entailed some contact with the natives, so she had that to look forward to . . .

Heather had always intended university to be blow-out time, with long-term relationships a no-no. The same could be said about her life before university, except before there had been one relationship . . . one that persisted to this very day.

She'd been thirteen, going on fourteen when her parents delivered her to The Manor School for Young Ladies. And delivered it was. Having already been shown around a couple of times, they were expected to simply hand her over at the gates then fade away. She remembered Dad's awkward kiss and Mum's fleeting peck on the cheek. Then she'd been taken indoors, introduced to her roommate, Tanya, and left to unpack.

Alone.

Within seconds, before homesickness could properly kick in, there had been a knock on the door. It was Mary Rose, eager to meet her. ''You look lots more interesting than the other newbies," she'd said. "Don't shilly-shally about with them. Stick with me. I know everything there is to know about this place. I'll show you the ropes."

They had become lovers before they left school and would be lovers still when they were old and grey. Choosing different universities had been the biggest wrench ever. But Mary Rose's parents had wanted Cambridge and for once Mare had been a dutiful daughter. Heather, who could have sailed in there academically, financially and socially, couldn't bear the thought of it. Okay, so climbing up ivy-clad walls to get in through Mare's bedroom window wasn't an unattractive idea, but the rest of the deal . . .

Mary Rose's grinning face, framed in auburn hair (the girl called herself a "redhead", but that wasn't true), was the sexiest view Heather had ever seen. Or ever would see. They'd survived three years of further education by swearing vows of infidelity and determinedly moving from lover to lover. Notes were compared during daily telephone exchanges.

Leastways, they usually were . . .

With a small shock Heather realized she hadn't heard from Mare since Thursday. Maybe she wasn't the only one who'd had a busy weekend! She picked up her mobile and re-checked the missed messages and texts. There were no new messages but two new texts, one from Mary Rose, the other from that unknown number from earlier. Mare's was, predictably, graphic.

F**KED BLUE, I KID U

NOT. STILL AT IT

MOND AFT. THINK I'M

WEARING HIM/HER

OUT. BELL U LTR.

Heather smiled. It was typical of Mare to be just slightly ambiguous. She replied:

F**D BLUE YOU! I

PITY HIM/HER. NOT

BEEN 2 GD MYSELF,

BELL ME.

Then she moved on to the mystery text. This was relatively cryptic:

IT WAS RED.

DC P

Good grief,' she said. Without thinking about it, she brought up the missed call and redialled.

'Hello, DC Parker here.'

Would that be DC Parker in her sexy red thong?'

'Oh, it's you.'

'Little me. I'm ringing to thank you for sharing. Even if it is too late.'

'What do you mean?'

'I've already used my imagination, as instructed. While I was in the shower. I saw it as black and very, very skimpy. Looks like I'd better take another shower, eh?'

'Too much information, Miss Hunter. Way too much.'

'Okay, I'll spare you more grisly details. But only if you come clean.'

'What do you mean?'

'Why tell me? Why after riding off into the sunset?'

'Because I was bored? Because I couldn't take any more winding up? Lots of reasons.'

'None that make sense. Not after we'd said farewell forever.'

Stuffypants' brief silence was prefaced by a deep sigh. 'I couldn't let you always have the last word, all right?'

'Is that it? You don't harbour a secret wish that one day I might shag you?'

'Is that what you fantasized about in your shower? Shagging me?'

'Of course it is. What else?'

'You could have fantasized about me shagging you.'

'I'm sure that could be arranged.'

But Stuffypants was gone. Heather tried to call back but her phone was now switched off. Chuckling, she picked up her blue dress.

CHAPTER TEN

(Monday, 22nd April 2002)

The Manor's careers advisor once told Heather never to arrive at a job interview less than five minutes early. She'd always thought that sound advice and extended it to include lessons and lectures (whenever possible), dates and trysts (always). Consequently she arrived at Ye Olde at ten to seven. Gill was already there at the bar, smiling and as well-presented as expected. Heather smiled back at her, trying to pretend her tummy wasn't doing loop the loops. Gill was all in white, but not in a cricketing sense. She was wearing tight, figure-clinging trousers and a loose-fitting blouse. Tonight she didn't look stocky. Tonight she looked very womanly indeed.

Mmmm, thought Heather. White certainly works for her. I'd fancy her even if I wasn't a sucker for melting brown eyes.

'Hev,' Gill said formally, clearly unsure if air kisses were in order.

Heather was excited but not in the least unsure. She approached the smaller girl and kissed her smack on the lips, maintaining contact way beyond accepted levels of politeness.

'Ahem,' a voice cut in. 'Less of the canoodling at my bar.'

Heather let go of Gill and returned the barman's grin. Billy was part of the fixtures and fittings in here. His wit and occasionally acid tongue were legendary.

'Billy the Barmaid,' she said. 'Watch it or I'll canoodle you.'

'In your dreams,' he countered, dramatically rolling his eyes. 'Now are you ready to order, or what? I'm overrun with thirsty drinkers here.'

He wasn't. The pub was moderately busy but Billy rarely let a queue form at his bar. When it came to serving drinks he was efficiency personified. Perhaps that was because dealing with queues got in the way of gossiping. And good grief, could Billy gossip! He was the sort who had you pouring your heart out when you'd only known him two minutes.

'What's your fancy?' Gill smiled at Heather again. 'G&T?'

'Landlord in here. Every time. And I asked you out, so I'm buying.'

Billy pulled two pints while Gill bickered about paying for them. She only bickered mildly but, sensing a potential alpha female clash, Heather made sure she won the brief debate. Being "dressed as the girl" wasn't enough to make her go all submissive. Not while there was still a toss to be had.

They managed to bag a table in the far corner of the pub. The table was one of those found in every boozer in the north, if not every boozer in the UK: a heavy, ornate cast iron base topped with a circle of frequently polished wood. Normally drinkers would sit on small stools at such a table: the sort with heavy, cast iron bases topped with durable, round red cushions. Being in a corner they had the choice: stools or intersecting benches built-in to the walls. They chose the benches, sitting knee-to-knee. A cosy position with adequate provision for any under the table activities that might arise.

'Cheers,' Heather said, raising her pint.

Gill returned the toast and took a swig, getting a beer moustache in the process. Chuckling to herself, Heather leaned in before it could be wiped away.

'Let me,' she said.

Gill stared at her, starting to smile as Heather dabbed up the froth with her tongue. Needless to report, that smile was too much. Heather had to kiss it. Perhaps two minutes later, perhaps longer, they broke apart.

'Best not canoodle too much,' Gill said. Then, smiling again: 'No lipstick at all tonight, eh?'

'I don't have any that matches this dress. I've got the Red Hot Red in my bag, though. If you want me to put some on . . .'

'Lipstick- and makeup-free is fine by me.'

'So I see. It would be an absolute crime to hide those wonderful freckles. And your eyes don't need any help.'

'Stop it, Hev, you'll make me blush.'

Heather shut up for a moment. Then, under cover of the table-top, she put a hand on Gill's knee. Gill didn't complain so she sidled a little way up her thigh. Now Gill took another swig and sighed. 'We're going to be late with the toss.'

'Forgotten all about it,' Heather lied. 'What is it, best of three?'

'No way. We toss once. The loser has to lump it. Here, what do you think of this?'

Heather looked at the coin. It had a young Queen Elizabeth on the front and was dated 1955.

'People can't possibly have carried this in their pocket,' she said. 'It's enormous.'

'It's a half crown. Crowns are even bigger.'

'Half a crown. That's . . .'

'Two and six,' said a strange voice. 'That's twelve and a half pence to you young 'uns.'

The speaker was sitting at a nearby table. He was mid-forties and had been in conversation with a much younger man, possibly his son. 'Sorry to barge in like that,' he went on, 'but you don't see many of them anymore. May I?'

Gill's hesitation was minimal. 'Here,' she said, passing it across. 'My grandad gave me it.'

'My grandma gave me one every week,' the man said, staring at the coin. 'My mum couldn't afford spending money, so gran divvied up instead.' He laughed. 'They never lasted beyond Saturday morning with me. I got a lot out them, though. A fistful of comics . . . Buster, Victor, Valiant, things like that . . . then next stop the sweet shop. My change all went on pineapple chunks and a quart of American cream soda. You want to take care of this one, mind. Silver coins dated before 1957 really did have silver in them. Gangsters in the 1960s used to collect them in buckets from amusement arcades and cig machines. The silver was worth more than the coin, you see. They could melt down a hundred quid's worth of coins and sell the silver for a hundred and fifty. God only knows what they'd get for it nowadays.'