Heather's Busy Week Pt. 04

He scowled. 'Or was it before 1947?'

'You'd get twenty years,' Heather suggested. 'If caught clipping and coining.'

'It was worse than that,' the man replied. 'I think it came under defacing the monarch's image, which counted as treason. Theoretically, they could have been hanged.'

'I'd never melt this down anyway,' Gill said. Then, as the man tried to hand it back to her: 'We were just about to toss with it. Will you do the honours?'

He nodded and quite expertly flicked the coin into the air, catching it on the way back down and hiding the result under his other hand. 'Heads or tails?'

Gill looked to Heather. 'Your call.'

'Tails never fails.'

'Tails it is.'

They thanked the man and waited until he had resumed his conversation . . . something to do with Steve Gerrard . . . before announcing decisions.

'I'll have a bowl,' Heather said, grinning.

'As if I couldn't guess.' Gill quickly dropped the pretence of being aggrieved. 'Okay,' she said, assuming the role of an interviewer out in the middle, 'can you give me your thoughts behind that decision?'

Heather wasn't the world's biggest cricket fan. Up to now she had done well in holding her own in exchanges with Gill. Or so she hoped. Determined not to crash and burn, she did her best to elaborate, pretending she was addressing Richie Benaud.

'The light is fading fast,' she said, pointing to the nearest window, 'so I'm counting on decent floodlights to keep visibility acceptable. Weather-wise, I'm expecting it to stay cool without raining. I haven't actually seen the pitch yet, but I'm assuming it is flat and dry.'

'It might get damp as the evening progresses,' Gill said smartly.

'I know, but I'm not expecting much turn. I'm happy to rely on pace.'

Gill put down her imaginary microphone and headed for the bar. Heather watched her ass all the way.

What made me think she was stocky? Heather tried not to drool. She's not really even on the short side. Mmmm, nice!

A quick time check. Quarter to eight already. Bed for nine? Surely a sportswoman . . . and an international one at that . . . wouldn't want to linger in pubs all night.

'Here's my view as loser of the toss,' Gill said, setting down two new pints. 'I must admit it, I'd have chosen to deliver too. Receiving isn't so bad, though, particularly under floods. I'll be doing my best to blunt the pace attack and watch out for variations. With any luck, I'll be able to get through my forty overs and set a challenging target.'

The chitchat drifted on from there. Heather said she assumed Gill spent a lot of time away from home.

'I do in the season,' the crick chick replied. 'We mainly play one day matches, but they can be almost anywhere. We have been known to play in Taunton on a Monday, Durham two days later. There's a lot of overnight stays.'

'What are your teammates like? Do you fraternize a lot?'

'I've only played for England a handful of times, so I don't know the team well yet. Lancashire is a different story. We try to be as professional as possible, but after match drinks have been known to happen. And as for my local team . . .'

'What happens after drinks?'

'In my case nothing. As far as I know, I'm the only lesbian on the team. No, I'm the only one on all three teams. Although . . .'

'Although . . .'

'Straight girls have been known to end up in the wrong rooms. We have amazing team spirit, but grassing up bed-hoppers happens all the time.'

'Bed-hoppers?'

'Drunks who wake up somewhere they shouldn't be. Unless they're in their roommate's bed, they're bound to get caught, aren't they? Not that anyone ever has sex, of course. They all do it because they were having such meaningful conversations and didn't want the night to end.'

'As if!'

'Exactly. As if! Sometimes I think I'm surrounded by beersexuals.'

'Personal question,' said Heather after they'd shared a fit of giggles. 'Will you accompany me to the ladies'?'

'Why not? We girls always go in pairs, don't we?'

Heather asked their knowledgeable neighbour to keep an eye on their drinks. Breaking off a sermon on Frank Lampard, he assured her he would.

Ye Olde wasn't the biggest pub in the world and the ladies' toilets were tiny. There were only three cubicles and, when they got there, two were taken. Gill gallantly insisted Heather went first, so she did, even though she didn't really need to go. The other cubicles vacated as she came out, giving Gill a choice of all three. Heather washed her hands then stood waiting, her heart suddenly hammering. At last a toilet flushed and a bolt scraped back.

Here we go!

Heather had positioned herself five feet away from Gill's cubicle door. She already had hold of the hem of her draped skirt. As the door opened she cried, 'Ta-da!' and lifted it high, exposing herself up to the waist.

'Jesus,' Gill muttered. 'What a sight!'

Heather hadn't bothered with any underwear at all tonight. She was wearing the dress, heels and nothing else but perfume and deodorant. She was also getting off on Gill's expression.

'This is for you later,' she said seductively. 'But not so very much later. Let's finish our drinks and get on with it.'

*****

Gill lived in a new-looking block of flats. She'd gone for a minimalist approach. Furniture was thin on the ground, the few items all black leather on shiny chrome. In contrast the walls were painted brilliant white. Not that Heather took a lot in during a mad dash for the bedroom. She vaguely noticed the crick chick passing one wall in particular; a wall unbroken by windows or black-and-white pictures. Tonight's outfit had made the girl momentarily invisible. Then she'd grabbed Heather's hand and here they were, standing before a chrome-legged bed, ready to rattle bones on a black and white striped bedspread.

Good grief, she thought, it'll be like shagging on a zebra skin rug!

A kiss seemed to be in order after all that dashing about. True to form, Heather couldn't keep it low-key. A gentle meeting of lips soon became frantic eating of mouths. And Gill was as bad as she was. As they hungrily clashed Heather could feel hands on her. Hands everywhere. It was like been mauled by an octopus. Too much into the eating and clashing to complain, she stood there and took it. Allowing all sorts of liberties until Gill finally pushed a daring tentacle up inside her skirt.

'Desist,' Heather said, holding her at arm's length. 'I'm opening the bowling. Remember?'

Gill laughed. 'Give me middle and leg and I'm yours.'

Heather didn't quite understand that so she unbuttoned Gill's blouse in response. That proved to be either the correct answer or near enough. The crick chick stopped laughing and started deep-breathing instead. Three buttons down and Heather's suspicions were confirmed. The girl didn't wear a bra because she simply didn't need one. Whilst not entirely flat-chested, her boobs were very small. Very, very small. Put together, they wouldn't have been the size of a Golden Delicious. Excitement grew inside Heather as she undid the remaining buttons. Small certainly could be beautiful. And different was a turn-on in itself.

'Let's have this off,' she said, tugging the material away from Gill's shoulders.

Then gasped in delight. Gill might have had small boobs but her nipples were massive. And Heather was a bit of an expert when it came to nips. Her own had once been described as "enormous, permanently hard diamond-cutters". While that had some truth in it . . . well, just possibly . . . observers were often misled by her areolae, which certainly were outsized. Gill hardly had any areolae. She was all nipple.

And all mine!

Heather pushed the crick chick towards the bed and eased her into a sitting position. Then she chewed and chewed and chewed.

Time passed in a blur. At last, sure she'd paid sufficient attention to both nipples and both tiny, oh so, so sweet boobs, Heather stood up. 'Over,' she said, smiling as she kicked off her heels. 'One down, thirty-nine to go.'

Gill had flopped back on the bed. 'That wasn't one over. That was at least twenty.'

Heather removed her dress then, joyfully naked, went back to the bed and unfastened Gill's trousers. 'Bum up,' she commanded. Then as her order was obeyed: 'Wriggle!'

Gill's thong was (surprise, surprise!) white and as minimalistic as her décor. Heather pulled it to one side and licked her labia, savouring the taste and making her squirm. Five minutes was plenty for that. Removing the thong altogether she moved into attack mode. There had been enough foreplay, now it was time to get serious. Rita's version of Venus Butterfly was very much the order of the day.

All told, Gill took the assault well. She warmly welcomed the attention to her clit and G-spot and hardly objected when knowing fingers probed elsewhere.

'Hev,' she sighed.

Heather didn't reply. It would have been rude to talk with her mouth full and besides, she had orgasms to conjure out of thin air. Lots and lots of orgasms.

'Fortieth over, over,' she finally declared.

Then, grinning, she repositioned herself between Gill's widely spread legs. 'Let's do this during the interval,' she said.

Gill watched her inch forward. 'Scissoring,' she said, making a statement, not at all asking a question.

Heather knew that very few girls liked scissoring. 'You betcha,' she replied.

Gill was obviously one of the exceptions. Or perhaps she was too alpha to wimp out. 'Okay,' she said, 'anything to pass the time.'

Clearly aware of the rules of the game, she raised her leg, draping it over Heather's. Heather kept on inching, raising her free leg and draping it over Gill's. Their pussies were kissing now. Kissing sloppily.'

'Mmmm,' said Heather. 'Nice!'

She made a final adjustment then experimentally thrust upwards with her groin, rubbing her sex over Gill's. Gill's draped leg anchored itself onto Heather's then she tried an experimental thrust of her own. It was inch perfect. Chuckling, Heather anchored her draped leg to Gill and began for real. Talk about natural teamwork! They instantly had this off to a T. As Heather moved up, Gill moved down. Heather could feel her whole sex running along the crick chick's. One moment they were sloppily mouth-to-mouth, the next her vagina was kissing the topmost tip of Gill's hood. Then they'd reverse the motion, wet lips gliding over wet lips, until Gill was kissing Heather's tip. The sensations were so exquisite. So, so exquisite.

Oh my, I could do this all night.

Gill wanted her turn at bowling, though. They'd been groin-to-groin, supporting themselves on their elbows. Gill suddenly upped anchor, upsetting their equilibrium. Heather, guessing what was coming her way, allowed herself to be pushed flat. Gill immediately swarmed onto her.

'This is my opening delivery,' she said. 'Prepare to be fucked.'

Heather prepared by digging her heels into the mattress, one knee either side of the crick chick, who was already starting to grind. 'Oh yes,' she said. 'That's nice.'

And it was nice. Gill's body was strong as well as attractive. Her grinding was, at first at least, sensitive if a bit on the firm side. Heather felt an approaching climax and, sure others would follow, didn't fight it. Showing admirable character assessment, Gill didn't falter when Heather came.

'Over one,' the crick chick breathed. 'Thirty-nine to go.'

Heather was quite happy with that. Time wasn't much of an issue and she'd already had lots of fun. She had an energetic, competent lover ensconced between her legs, eager to press on. What was there not to be happy about? Smiling dreamily, she closed her eyes . . .

And saw Eleanor, alone at a table, despondently sipping minestrone. Mario was a few tables away in the background, whispering sweet Italian nothings to a much younger woman.

No, Heather thought, blinking the image away. No, it's not happening like that!

Determined not to feel guilty, Heather detached her feet from the mattress and wrapped her legs around Gill's back, hooking ankles midway between her hips and shoulder blades. It was a born whore's position, granted, but it was time for her to be submissive. And oh, good grief, wasn't she being submissive! She wasn't gripping or controlling or even guiding. And for once her hands were behaving themselves. Gill was free to deliver at any pace she liked and she was gladly receiving the bowling, bouncing on the bed springs under the powerful, wonderful, beautiful thrusts, but otherwise motionless.

As a rule Heather liked to be in control, even when she wasn't the active partner. Some folk didn't like guidance, though, and some took it as interference or downright insulting. Gill was probably not so touchy but she didn't want to take a chance. Not while everything was going so well. She smiled inwardly as the crick chick moved on her, moved on her, moved on her. She'd been showing her appreciation by whimpering all along. Now Gill was at it too. Every new movement was producing synchronized yelps, punctuated by occasional words of often graphic encouragement.

Oh my, I really could take this all night!

Back in her days at The Manor, Heather had belonged to Jacqui's exclusive "video club". As well as having the biggest and best room in the whole school, Jacqui had a large-screen TV and a top-of-the-range VCR. She also had an endless . . . if mysteriously obtained . . . supply of blue videos, mostly Danish or German dubbed in filthy American. And American dubbed in filthy American. The actresses in those videos never tried to guide an active partner, did they? Oh no, they regularly made demands and shouted encouragement, but guidance was right out. And they certainly knew what they were doing.

Heather tried to take a leaf out of the actresses' book when it came to receiving, although she did have an issue with all the swearing. Her rough and ready ex-farmer of a dad, a man often under severe provocation from painful accidents or unruly beasts, usually got by with "bloody" and "bugger". She hadn't completely inherited that level of self-control, but did keep it toned down. Personally, she hated the C word and had little time for the F, even if it did sometimes slip out of its own accord. Sex-wise, she used "fanny" and (most of the time) "shag". If today's lover had one, it was always a "willy", never a "cock". "Pussy" was borderline acceptable and, even though she felt she should disapprove, she used "cum" all the time. That was the pedant in her, she supposed. Even in the heat of the moment she just couldn't say: "Come on, please come in me." To her that didn't work. "Come on, please cum in me" might not be poetic, but it wasn't at all ambiguous and made perfect sense.

Gill was going faster and harder. Heather climaxed twice in quick succession then caught her breath. There was no question about it, she was building up to something major. Maybe even a big number seven. Not wanting to rock Gill's boat, she hastily transformed a laugh into a cry of ecstasy. According to Mary Rose, orgasms were like waves: every seventh cum was out of all proportion. Also according to the self-styled "redhead", it didn't matter if a girl only had one orgasm during her night of sex or a thousand. There was an internal counter that clocked 'em off in units of seven, whatever the interval in-between.

For a split second Heather doubted herself. Then she womanned up. Unhooking her ankles, she contorting her body into an even more whore-like position, her legs now pulled right up over Gill's shoulders, making herself an unmissable target.

'Harder,' she urged. 'That's it, harder! I'm going to really, really cum for you!'