Heather's Busy Week Pt. 06

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Heather weighed the revelation inside her head. 'It's nice,' she concluded. 'Middle name?'

'I don't have one. My family wasn't well-to-do. We couldn't afford middle names.'

'We couldn't afford them either. What is it for friends and lovers? Chris or Chrissie?'

'That rather depends.' Stuffypants was as serious as ever. 'You met Chris earlier, when you were cuffed. Now I'm more like Chrissie.'

Heather bit her tongue at that. She'd known plenty of girls with soft and hard sides to them. Take her old mucker Angie, for instance. Angie could have played Rugby League for the Wigan men's team . . . if she hadn't kept getting sent off all the time. But she could also be sweet and considerate.

Stuffypants (Christina!) was kidding herself if she thought she had a soft side. Her "Chrissie" wasn't sweet and considerate at all. Heather tried to think of a suitable role model with that name and failed epically. She could only come up with the rock stars, tennis players and the likes, all of them strong women who were only too able to kick ass.

And good grief, how many F-words have I used tonight!

'Right,' she said diplomatically, 'I thought it was a bit like shagging Jekyll and Hyde.'

Christina didn't seem to hear. 'At school I was always called Tina,' she went on.

'I have wondered where that name came from before now.'

'Martina. Valentina . . . there's loads of sources. My mum used Tina for me, though. Before she died.'

Oho, Heather thought, here it comes. Someone else who lost a parent aged seven.

'I was eleven,' Christina continued. 'My dad took early retirement and looked after me until I was eighteen. He'd already got over twenty years in, you see.'

'As a policeman?'

'What else?' Christina actually chuckled. 'One of my earliest memories is from primary school. We used to have a Monday morning ritual. Going round the class, everyone had to say what they'd done over the weekend. There was all sorts of feedback. Trips to the seaside. Football and rugby matches. Picnics and barbecues. The first time they asked me I said I'd spent all Saturday in the police station. Talk about instant fame! Everyone assumed I was one of those tiny terrors. An out-of-control six-year-old who could intimidate whole housing estates.

'We had a similar sort of lesson a few weeks later,' she resumed. 'Not on a Monday. I forget when it was, maybe a Wednesday. We did the same going round the class thing, but this time the topic was "What I want to be when I grow up". You can probably imagine the answers. The boys all wanted to be footballers or train drivers. And the girls weren't much better. They all wanted to be airhostesses or film stars.

'I dared to be different. When it came to my turn I said I was going to be a policeman. Not a policewoman, a policeman. And, if you forget the man bit, I did it. I always wanted to be one of the finest. Still do.'

Christina . . . Stuffypants . . . chuckled again. 'Roll on ten years,' she said. 'Careers lessons in the fifth form were a lot harsher than the ones at primary school. I remember this boy said he wanted to be a footballer. Instead of indulging the lad, the teacher questioned his credentials. Was he in the school first team? No. Was he in any other school team? No. Did he play for an external team and had he had scouts watching him? No and no.

'Obviously she pissed him off. And she pissed off a lot of girls, too. By then girls didn't want to be airhostesses, they wanted to be celebrities. You know what I mean: they were going to be famous for being famous, without actually doing anything. And then she came to me.'

Yet again the policewoman chuckled.

'Before I could say anything a voice rang out behind me. It was a boy who'd been with me all the way through school. A boy with a long memory.

'"Please miss," he said, "she wants to be a policeman." That was when I decided men could go whistle. Bollocks to men, I'd never fancied any of them anyway.'

'You made that decision as a sixteen-year-old virgin?'

'Yes I did.' Stuffypants pulled a face. 'Okay, so it wasn't a final decision. I lapsed a couple of times when I was a probationer. I've been man-free since I was twenty, though.'

'Was it hard being brought up by your dad?'

'Not really. I think he got a lot of tips from local mums. They seemed to call in on him all the time, one after another.'

'Didn't he remarry?'

'I don't think he needed to, if you know what I mean. Time on his hands. A constant stream of friendly female visitors . . .'

'I hope he wasn't being naughty while you were in your room, doing your homework.'

'I suspect he did his entertaining while I was at school.' Christina handed Heather her empty glass. 'But never mind my dad's naughtiness, let's be naughty again ourselves.'

'Suits me. I was just this minute wondering about Tina's preferences . . .'

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

(Thursday, 25th April 2002)

Carrie had been sleeping on and off for a while. It wasn't fitful, it was weird. One minute she'd be wide awake and as alert as she'd ever been, the next she'd abruptly drop into deep black slumber. Her brand-new dealer must have given her more than she'd expected. It had looked like coke, though. And it smelt like coke. It had given her the usual orgasmic rush. And it had numbed her gums when she mopped up, immediately after snorting.

What had he called it? Power-something . . .

She was in an unfamiliar bed in a large, dingy room, naked apart from her watch. She'd been right about that watch: it hadn't appreciated in value at all. In fact the dealer had laughed out loud when she'd tried to barter with it.

Out of idle curiosity Carrie checked the time. Just short of seven in the morning. That would explain why it was light outside but not why she was still feeling good. She must have been here four hours by now. Coke didn't last nearly that long.

The dealer put a hand on her bare leg. 'Ready for more?'

Carrie didn't particularly care one way or the other. That was weird, too. Coke always made her horny as a three peckered goat. Right now she was indifferent and totally relaxed, even if her arms and legs did have lead weights in them.

'Okay,' she said, wracking her brain for the guy's name. 'Okay Spider. Why not?'

There was nothing spidery about Spider. Her was heftily-built and must have weighed-in over fifteen stones. He climbed aboard for his fourth or fifth ride, unceremoniously easing his rather large cock into her. Carrie took it womanfully, not complaining, not expecting big thrills out of it either. Not really expecting to get anything out of it.

Ten minutes and Spider was done. His cum was trickling from her and she hadn't had even the faintest tickle. Unlike the first time . . . the first time had been straight after the coke rush and they'd gone at each other like animals. No wonder her arms and legs felt heavy!

Carrie hadn't moved much during the latest . . . hopefully last . . . fucking. When Spider rolled away she stayed as she was, letting herself trickle, staring indolently at the ceiling.

The fit of dizziness came on almost stealthily. For long enough she felt okay then, suddenly and out of nowhere, the ceiling was spinning; imperceptibly at first then faster and faster. Years ago, as an under-age drinker, she'd known that awful sensation as the "whirly horrors". She closed her eyes instinctively, but that only made the sensation worse, so she quickly reopened them.

'My God,' she cried. 'Stop it! Stop it whirling!'

'This'll stop it.' Spider was holding a mirror with four lines on it. 'But you've run out of credit.'

'I'll do anything . . . I'll do everything! Just give me that fucking mirror.'

'Anything and everything?' The dealer laughed. 'I might need help with that. Mind if I phone a friend?'

'Anything. Just give it me.'

He handed over the mirror and she pounced on it, blocking one nostril and snorting two lines with the other. Then she switched nostrils and vacuumed up the remaining lines. Moistening her finger she dabbed at the residue before damning convention and licking the glass.

The rush was better than ever. Dizziness forgotten, she sighed and rubbed her pussy. That felt good. She was excited beyond all reason. Bring on a herd of three-peckered goats!

Herd? Flock? Who cunting-well cared!

'Fuck me,' she said, 'that's a relief!'

Spider was dialling out on his mobile. 'Dazzler? It's me, Spider. Round up Willy-Boy and get yourselves over to my place. I've got a hottie here, wanting to party.'

*****

It had been a busy week and Heather was getting used to waking disorientated. Today she was upside down again, but this time in familiar surroundings. Upside down with a pair of bare feet under her nose. Sometime during the proceedings Stuffypants had lost her sexy lingerie. Heather couldn't say when that had happened, not exactly, but could remember peeling off the stockings. She could also remember ignoring the neat pile of clothes and very deliberately tossing the nylons onto the carpet. Presumably her suspender belt had gone the same way.

Taking hold of the policewoman's right foot she slowly ran her tongue over the sole, licking it from heel to toes. Stuffypants sighed contentedly.

'Nice feet,' Heather observed. 'These can't have pounded many beats.'

'I've done my share. That doesn't mean I don't want them massaging, though.'

Heather passed an enjoyable half hour licking, sucking and kissing, making sure both feet got equal attention. Bringing Stuffypants (Christina!) to the boil was a major turn-on. Heather was wetting herself. Really, really wetting herself.

Nice, nice, nice!

She was considering an intensive fanny offensive when something cold and hard touched the bottom of her leg.

'Just checking the size,' Stuffypants said. 'And don't worry. Although you've got very shapely ankles, they're too big for my cuffs. I'll have to bring shackles next time.'

'DC Pants-Parker, were you thinking about handcuffing me by the ankles?'

'No, just one ankle fastened to one rail.' Yet another chuckle from Stuffypants. Humour-wise, she must be in record-breaking territory by now. 'I wouldn't be able to get at much with both your ankles secured together, would I?'

'You could cuff my hands again,' Heather said impulsively. 'Together around a rail, I mean. If you do that you'll be able to get at everything you want. Assuming you're not pressed for time, that is.'

'Be careful, you might give me ideas. I've got the morning off.'

'I haven't. But I'd like to know what your ideas are . . .'

*****

Heather had expected a serious spanking when she volunteered to be handcuffed. In fact she'd thought she deserved a bit of a thrashing, but it never happened. She didn't get her armpits licked or objects inserted into her vagina either. Stuffypants seemed content to while the morning away by sucking toes and practicing her cunnilingus. Not that she needed much practice; she had the art off to a T.

Although she never mentioned it, Heather suspected the policewoman was "making love" to her; that she was out to prove she could be a friend and lover after all. And she was typically thorough in the way she went about it. Thorough and not a little pig-headed. Heather offered to swap roles more than once without getting the courtesy of a reply.

Maybe she never speaks with her mouth full . . .

Eventually, after hours on end, Stuffypants unlocked the cuffs. 'I have to be at the station for one o'clock,' she explained. 'And I can't turn up in uniform. I'd never live it down.'

Heather was examining red circles on her wrists, wondering why she'd got them now, after gentle sex rather than last night, during plenty of more vigorous stuff. 'Will you join me in the shower before you go?' she said. 'I've got a fantasy to play out, and you are involved.'

Stuffypants shook her head in mock resignation but went along willingly enough. She joined in the mutual soaping and lathering willingly enough, too.

'Now,' said Heather, passing across the detached showerhead, 'spray me down there while I jill.'

The policewoman played the jetting water up and down, to and fro, aiming chiefly at Heather's clit; she'd quite obviously done that sort of thing before. Aroused as always, Heather slid three fingers inside herself and went for it big-time.

'Look into my eyes,' she commanded. 'I want to see them staring at me when I cum. And that won't take long.'

'I know it won't. You could cum non-stop for days on end.'

'This is where I first thought of you,' said Heather. 'I was jilling here in my shower, and thought of your beautiful smoky grey eyes and . . . oh, here I go! Here I go! Good grief, yessss!'

Those smoky grey eyes narrowed. 'I suppose it's my turn now.'

'It certainly is.' Heather took back the showerhead. 'Do you want it at maximum power?'

'Is that how you had it?'

'But of course.'

'Hit me with it, then.'

Heather played the water around a bit but aimed ninety per cent of it directly at Stuffypants' clit, watching her use three fingers on herself.

'Look into my eyes, Miss Hunter. I want to see your lovely green peepers when I cum.'

'Have you done this thinking about me?'

'Not in the shower. I tend to fantasise about you in bed. I . . . oho, here goes!'

Heather held the policewoman's stare all the way through. It was an exciting experience and she would have repeated it given half a chance. Indeed she would have repeated it numerous times. Stuffypants was still worrying about getting to the station, though.

'Once more,' Heather beseeched. 'You do me while I do you.'

The policewoman frowned. 'Who gets control of the showerhead?'

'You do,' Heather said generously. 'You're quite good at it.'

Stuffypants was quite good at mutual, too. And, fortunately, she believed in finishing what she started. She frowned again but kept going when Heather, grinning, issued her challenge.

'First to cum is a wimp.'

As she'd secretly hoped, the call of duty wasn't as strong as the need to win. And it was a two way sort of thing. Their joint efforts went on and on, with both of them perilously near and both of them determined to prevail. Ultimately, having endured significant misuse of jetting shower water and concerned about the passing time, she called for a truce. After a fashion, anyway.

'Together,' she gasped. 'I'll be ready whenever you are.'

'On three, then. Okay?'

'One,' Heather replied.

'Two,' Stuffypants endorsed.

Then, staring into each other's eyes, fingers thrusting at full speed, their voices united to cry out: 'Three!'

'That was excellent,' Heather admitted, her body still rocking and rolling.

Stuffypants smiled thinly. 'You're a bad influence, Miss Hunter.'

'Fancy being influenced some more?'

'Yes, but it's not going to happen.' Swiftly towelling herself, the policewoman headed back to the bedroom and started to dress.

Less swiftly, Heather pulled on her usual student clobber: a clean black thong, white "virgin socks", ripped blue jeans and a tight white T-shirt. Having simpler . . . and less . . . items she was fully dressed and smirking long before her companion finished.

'No pants, DC Pants-Parker? What would Fazza say if he knew?'

'He'd probably spread a few more rumours.' Stuffypants picked up her trophy and stashed it inside her tunic. 'But he's not going to see me like this, is he? So he'll never find out.'

'He might get an anonymous tip-off.'

'I'll know who to blame if he does. Now, do you want a lift or what?'

With her uniform and chequerboard hat hidden under her hi-vis raincoat, Stuffypants led the way to her car. 'Put these back in the glove compartment,' she said, passing the handcuffs to Heather. 'And fasten your seatbelt.'

Ten minutes later she pulled up outside the university. Unfazed by double yellows, she broke into one of her brightest, rarest smiles. 'Last night was good but you don't have enough toys. Next time I'll bring some of mine. If there is a "next time".'

'I'm curious about your toys,' said Heather. 'Of course we're having a "next time".'

'In that case I'll include my new strapless strap-on. When do you want me?'

Heather wished her social diary wasn't just a mental one. She was badly losing track. Tonight, Thursday, was officially free, but she had Eleanor pencilled in as a possibility. Alex was down for Friday . . . perhaps Saturday and Sunday as well. Sam was definitely in for Tuesday. What else? Had she agreed actual, firm dates with Gill, Ruth or Rita? And what was she going to do about Rachael?

'Wednesday should be good for me,' she said hopefully.

'Same time?'

'Let's make it earlier. I might make Thursday morning classes if we start sooner.'

'I won't have Thursday morning off next week, so that suits me. Say five at your place?'

'Good grief, you're keen!' Heather laughed. 'So am I, actually. I can't wait to see these toys of yours. Especially the strapless jobbie. I'm intrigued by the possibilities.' She leant across and helped herself to a kiss. 'Five o'clock at mine. I'll have red wine waiting on ice.'

Heather got out of the car and closed the door. Stuffypants had driven away long before she'd shrugged on her backpack.

'Strange woman,' she murmured. 'But not just hot in bed. That girl is on fire.'

For once it wasn't raining. Heather had her successfully dried-out hoodie over her T-shirt and was warm for a change. Spring had arrived at last. Stuffypants must be sweltering under all that gear.

Dismissing the policewoman from her thoughts . . . until her next shower . . . Heather made a beeline for the Union Bar. There were still ten minutes of the morning's last tutorial to go, but she wasn't going to crash in as late as this. Star student or not, crashing in this late would be taking lateness beyond a joke.

The barroom was as quiet as it ever got. Pool balls were clattering but only a couple of video machines were in use, so the electronic din in the background wasn't too bad. And, although the juke box was on, it was playing one of David Bowie's less raunchy numbers. Confident it would be followed by ELP or Iron Maiden, she made for the bar.

'Marston's and cheese and tomato,' said the regular barman, making a statement rather than asking a question.

'Yes please. And do you always have to stare at my chest?'

'I'm a man. I'm hard-coded to stare. And it is usually out in the shop window, isn't it?'

Heather laughed and handed over a fiver. 'I suppose I should be glad I've been noticed.'

She found a table and, peeling off cling-film, took a mighty bite of baguette, just as Brain Salad Surgery began. Ever-so-slightly raunchier than Changes, in her considered opinion.

She swigged beer and took another meaningful bite before powering up her phone. It had been off since Ruth made her indecent proposal, around about this time yesterday. Twenty-four action-packed hours that suddenly felt like a year. Her mobile had never been off for so long. Vodafone would be sending out search parties!

Hmmm, only three missed calls and five texts. And mostly from Rita. In fact they were all from Rita, barring one missed call from Eleanor. She rang Eleanor first.

'Good afternoon, Heather. Thanks for ringing back. I thought you should know that Carrie has disappeared.'

Heather hadn't expected that. 'Er . . . how, exactly?'

'She's done what you youngsters call "a runner". There was a medical emergency in the bed next to hers last night. At twenty-three minutes to one, according to Dr Strickland. Apparently she'd got hold of her clothes somehow and took the confusion as chance to escape.'

Eleanor's voice had started off as calm as usual. Now she became more animated. 'That little minx has always been resourceful. I should have known better when she meekly agreed to go for rehab.'

'Don't blame yourself, Eleanor. And don't blame her. It's her addiction that's behind this.'