Holding Out for a Hero

'Carole, even if my street had been deserted with tumbleweed blowing down it, sharing your bed is a must.'

The cabbie, an old acquaintance of Heather's, Majid, laughed out loud at that. She half-expected him to say something embarrassing: "She says that to all the girls", perhaps. But he didn't.

'Okay,' Carole resumed, 'my bed it is, then.'

'Try keeping me out of it.'

'What, with your mixed martial arts skills? I wouldn't stand a chance.'

'So as you said, your bed it is, then.'

Chapter Six

Carole suggested glasses of wine as she unlocked the front door of her sensible terraced home. For a girl who rarely said no to glasses of wine, Heather surprised herself. She didn't answer the kind offer in words. Instead she grabbed hold of her hostess and gave her a proper kiss, this time hotter than all of history's red-hot big-screen lovers put together.

Then somehow, miraculously, they were in Carole's bedroom. Décor-wise, Heather took in absolutely nothing about the house's appearance. Lots of properties like hers had front doors that opened direct into kitchens or lounges. Carole's could have opened into the cellar as far as she was concerned. And the stairs up to the first floor might as well have not existed.

None of that mattered, though. Worrying about short-term memory loss was for another day.

Kissing was, in Heather's considered opinion . . . on the rare occasions she stopped to consider . . . a vastly under-rated occupation. Fully clothed as they were, bodies pressing together as they both tried to snog each other senseless . . .

Yes, kissing was under-rated all right.

Their hands were forever moving on new expanses of flesh, quite politely at first, avoiding the obvious erogenous zones for the most part . . . except suddenly all of Heather was exceptionally erogenous.

Yes, suddenly absolutely every touch was magical, no matter where it was, no matter how soft, gentle or urgent.

And suddenly too much was nowhere near enough.

Carole seemed to like running her fingers through Heather's impressive black mane. She did it a lot and the feel of all the tiny tugs and random contacts of fingertips with scalp was incredibly erotic.

So too was that fully-clad body pressure, breasts on breasts, groin on groin. Abandoning politeness, Heather's grip closed on her lover's buns and squeezed and squeezed.

Oh good grief, was her last fleeting rational thought, I'm groping a policewoman's bum!

Then Carole broke contact and whipped off her T-shirt. 'Like what you see?' she purred.

As if anybody wouldn't have liked her amply filled bra! Not that it stayed on for long. Holding Heather's green eyes with her so-sexy brown peepers, she deftly unhooked and let herself spill.

Heather responded with her hands and mouth. They were much of a height so she had to stoop to get the contact she desperately needed, but potential neck-ache was not a worry right then. Touching and stroking, kissing and licking were all that immediately mattered. Well, along with nibbling, nuzzling and a little soft sucking on two extremely hard nipples.

Yet again Carole broke contact, this time having allowed plenty of intimate attention but clearly ready to progress.

'Get that top off,' she commanded, all authoritative. 'I need to see.'

Her boobs were possibly Heather's best features, amongst thousands of other highlights! She gladly took of her university-branded sweatshirt and exposed herself in all her glory.

As already advertised . . . as just about always . . . Heather was bra-less. And she was by no means flat-chested. Mother Nature had blessed her with springiness as well as a more-than acceptable size. Okay, so her overall fitness and hours put in in the gym helped, but Wonderbra had never featured on her list of requirements.

'Incredible,' gasped Carole before diving in, more or less duplicating all the devout attention she'd had lavished on her own chest.

Then, when Heather was seriously thinking about cumming her heart out, her very latest new lover changed the rules.

'This feels good,' she said, rubbing her bare breasts on Heather's, 'doesn't it?'

'Better than good,' Heather agreed, flooding her panties and then reattaching her groin tightly onto the other girl's.

Yes, yet again!

The next half hour or so was exquisite. Heather concentrated on grinding their lower bodies together while Carole focused on grinding their boobs.

Two additional orgasms later . . . meaning two each . . . Heather took her turn to break contact.

'Those need to come off,' she said, indicating Carole's lower body. 'And I'm the girl to remove them.'

'Go ahead,' said the surprisingly compliant policewoman. 'Be my guest.'

Kneeling before her hostess, still oblivious to her surroundings, Heather very slowly peeled those too sexy leggings off legs that looked even better stripped naked. She wasn't the only one who put in the necessary gym time. Carole's pins were long and shapely as well as muscled. Having them wrapped firmly around her back . . .

Well wasn't that an idea to conjure with?

Carole's knickers were white. They were also distinctly soggy, if not downright drenched.

'These must be almost as wet as mine,' Heather said as she gently tugged them off.

And then she clapped a hand to her mouth in awe. Carole was closely-shaven down there. Only a small triangle of very short brown hair had been left for admirers. But it wasn't the fancy topiary that was awesome.

Carole's sex was perfection. Her clitoral hood could have been stolen from an overly flattering statue of Aphrodite. Her actual clit was visible and swollen. So were her outer labia and, as for the mouth of her vagina . . .

Switching into hurricane mode, Heather dived in there, tongue first.

It would have been rude not to.

And yes, Carole smelt and tasted precisely as yummy as she looked.

*****

Time became meaningless and the loss of short-term memory continued. Afterwards Heather couldn't have hazarded a guess at how long she knelt, licked, fingered and chewed Carole as she stood there on her own bedroom carpet, her hips swaying to Heather's ever-varying rhythms.

Then, as if by magic, they were on the bed. Somehow Heather had got naked and Carole was topping an exceeding hot sixty-nine. After that Hurricane Heather took over again and a lot of tribbing ensued.

No, make that an awful, awful lot of tribbing.

Not that "awful" was an appropriate term. Every last touch and caress was laden with pure delight. So too was the feel of those legs at last wrapped around Heather's back. Swarms of orgasms came thick and fast, individually, alternately and mutually. When they finally had to stop to catch breath it was just past three in the morning.

That's right; five or six hours gone in the blink of an eye.

Side by side on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, their synchronized heartbeats very slowly sinking back to normal, Carole chuckled.

'My word girl, you didn't need to beat Amos to a pulp. You could have fucked him to death instead.'

'No I couldn't. I do occasionally do men, but he's not a man. Like you said, he's slime.'

(Fingers crossed again about the men, of course.)

'Do you fancy that glass of wine now?' Carole persisted, 'before we catch some zeds?'

Heather laughed. 'I'm ready for any sort of vino but forget the zeds. I'm not wasting one minute in your bed by merely sleeping.'

Carole laughed with her. 'What are you like?' she said, and not for the first time. 'Come to that, what do you like, red or white?'

'Both. Just get a glass of whatever you fancy. And make it a big one.'

Heather watched the policewoman as, not bothering to cover herself, she left the bedroom. For some strange reason they'd forgotten to turn off the lights and the rear-view was perfect. Carole had looked a million dollars both in uniform and tight leggings but, bare-assed, she was stupendous.

No sleeping tonight, Heather reminded herself, no way José.

As if she was likely to accidentally drop off!

Carole returned with two large glasses, one red and the other white.

'Please say that's Shiraz and pinot,' Heather said hopefully.

'A girl after my own heart,' said Carole, re-joining her on the bed. 'We'll share,' she went on, 'what do you want first?'

'I want another mouthful of your fanny.'

'And I don't want to spill valuable vino. So my fanny's going to have to wait.'

'Put it like that and I'll sample the red.'

'Tonight's been great,' said Carole, sipping a little white.

'No, it's been brilliant,' countered Heather, swigging Shiraz. 'We've miles to go yet but I already know I will want to do it all again . . . For another whole night, I mean. Will you?'

Carole blushed at that, most becomingly. 'I will,' she said. 'But I'm afraid I fibbed about being single.'

'Don't tell me the girlfriend from hell is about to burst in on us with Blackie's crocodile knife.'

'No, she's in Florida. And she's from Manchester, not hell.'

'Not a lot of difference,' Heather's mouth said of its own accord.

Still blushing, Carole asked if she was comparing hell with Manchester or Florida.

'Manchester,' said Heather. 'I've been there but I haven't done Florida; not yet.'

*****

When the wine was gone, perhaps compensating for fibbing, Carole went down on Heather for a long, long time. And her extra years of experience showed. Always patient, always switching her attentions hither and thither, she gave Heather the most thorough pleasuring she had ever had.

Good grief, didn't the girl know what to do with a clit!

She knew what to do with a vibrator, too. Goodness only knew where she produced that from; it must have materialized out of thin air because her mouth and the fingers of at least one hand never strayed away from Heather's sex for even a second.

Alternating between digital pressure and mechanical vibration on the clit, Carole brought her willing victim off three times before switching to internal, at which point said victim gave up counting.

'Oh yes,' she sighed, 'more, more, please, please more!'

Chapter Seven

Mission accomplished, Carole sleepless and purring satisfaction, Heather kissed her goodbye and set off for uni . . . but not before agreeing another rendezvous in the absence of the girlfriend from Florida and/or hellish Manchester.

'I'm not trying to steal you from her,' she said, 'I just want a series of overnight loans.'

'She's very possessive,' said Carole, 'but I want a series of overnight loans too. And I can always lie about my shifts.'

That tickled Heather. 'You coppers are very dodgy, aren't you?'

'Yes, but only in pursuit of what's right and proper in the eyes of the law. Now begone before I have to drag you back into bed.'

'Promises, promises . . .'

Content with her lot, Heather headed in towards campus. She'd been telling the truth when she'd said she wanted more of Carole. But she'd also known there had to be someone else. Nobody who looked like Carole could ever be single. If she really didn't do guys there had to be a girl waiting back there in the wings. Or maybe there was a whole harem of girls back there.

Exclusivity was never a requirement in any of Heather's many relationships. Come to that, out and out relationships weren't really her thing. She preferred "occasional liaisons" to "relationships". Mary Rose aside, red-haired witch that she was, it had always been so. Probably under a spell, she'd gone from one new lover to the next ever since school (and while she was still at school), regularly retracing her old steps but rarely if ever embarking on a true relationship.

Apart from that very first: the one that would never come to its logical, happily married conclusion, but was still totally unbreakable.

Flipping red-haired witch!

To some extent back at school but mostly here at university, Heather had mixed with a wide range of "women who have sex with women" and liked the way a lot of them were. A few wanted to be clingy but, like Wild West gunslingers, plenty of them just wanted to do the deed and tilt their Stetson as they politely said, 'Thank you, ma'am. Hope to see you around some time.'

And then off they'd ride into the sunset.

In other words, although her admiration of and lust for Carole was sincere, she knew that nothing was forever. And she knew herself, too. Occasional re-acquaintances were fun but first times were best.

Yes, whatever she felt for Carole, somebody new would happen. Somebody new always did.

*****

Mr Khan's Emporium usually had one billboard outside advertising the local rag, quoting whatever its latest headline was. Today there were three boards and the headlines made Heather cringe.

"SUPERGIRL TO THE RESCUE" said one.

"WONDER WOMAN HERE SAVING LIVES IN LANCASHIRE" said another.

HEROINE STUDENT TACKLES ARMED ROBBER" read the third.

To make matters worse, those were all national headlines. For once the local rag didn't get a look-in.

Suddenly reluctant to go in the shop Heather made to walk past. But she was too late; Chini had seen her through the window and was out there in the street, embracing her like a long-lost sister.

Mr Khan's wife was younger than him. She was also very well put together. Heather hadn't previously spared her one sexual thought but the press of her chest was most agreeable. Chini might well get a sexy thought or two later on.

In fact she might well get an hour or more's worth.

When the older woman put her lips to her ear Heather tensed in sensual expectation. Then she nearly died as she listened.

'Thank you, thank you,' said Chini. 'I don't know what I'd have done without him.'

Ashamed of her lascivious mind, Heather made to pull away. She wasn't sure about the restrictions of Chini's religion but didn't need to be. The woman loved her husband beyond the call of religious vows and intents.

But Chini kept hugging her tight, seemingly oblivious to their boob-on-boob contact.

'You didn't only save my husband's life yesterday,' she went on, 'you saved mine as well.'

Mr Khan was on his stool behind the counter, watching what may have been a re-run of an old cricket match. Not being a fan of the sport Heather couldn't be certain. It might even have been live. All she knew for sure was that India was giving Australia a trouncing, that little batsman who used to play for Yorkshire bashing fours and sixes in all directions.

As any Yorkshire player would, of course.

Apart from a clean white bandage on his arm (much more professionally applied than her rather hasty effort), Mr Khan was his usual self. He was also surrounded by copies of every newspaper under the sun.

'They've more or less got it right,' he said after expressing his undying gratitude, indicating the folded-open dailies.

Even more reluctantly, Heather skimmed the first few articles. And slowly let out a sigh of relief. As far as she could see, Mr Khan was correct: the reporters had more or less got it right. Detailed accounts weren't there (making her believe their "sources" hadn't actually been there either), but there was one heck of a lot of info about her published.

Naff all personally about the knife-wielding robber, but all sorts about her, except no photo, thank the Lord.

The press mostly agreed that she was twenty, a second year university student in Business Studies, hailing from Bingley across in West Yorkshire. She was very sporty, exceptionally good-looking (they said this as if excusing the lack of images through innate modesty and inbred politeness), and she'd steadfastly refused to comment on her heroics.

Opinions on her reticence varied. Some reckoned she was shy and retiring. Others claimed she was a clever woman who wasn't prepared to jeopardize the police case against the (un-named) suspect.

And how unfair was that! The knife-wielding would-be murderer got anonymity while the public got her bra-size.

Well, they would have if the whole world wasn't by now aware she never wore the flipping things.

So they got her shoe-size and inside leg instead!

Amplifying on her sportiness the consensus had it that she was excellent at football and hockey and very proficient in self-defence. For a moment or two she worried about that before she decided it could have been a lot worse. There was no mention of mixed martial arts and she'd openly admitted she was trained in self-defence in her police statement.

Their version matches mine, she assured herself. Thank Goodness nobody's told them about ju-jitsu and everything else.

All told Heather was relieved. Declining Mr Khan's offer of free newspapers for life, insisting on paying for her energy drink and Snickers, she assured him she'd be back as usual tomorrow. Then, escorted out of the shop by an ever-attentive Chini, she set off for campus.

Every step of the way she expected to be assailed by reporters. That didn't happen; even so she took an alternative route in. Her big problem was, however, that sneaky or not, she had to end up at Main Building which, immense as it was, had just two entrances.

And those so-and-so journalists seemed to know everything about her, from personal measurements to her love for Marston's.

They probably even knew about her Rampant Rabbit addiction . . .

Expecting the worst, expecting crowds of vultures, Heather laughed. The daily papers had carried lots of detail about her but all skimped on describing the actual confrontation. That went to prove that the snitches hadn't actually been there in the emporium. That meant she knew who to trust.

And, consequently, she knew who not to trust.

As it turned out (as she approached Main Building like a stealthy missile) she saw nothing of concern. If anything the forecourt was emptier than usual. As a contrast to yesterday it couldn't have been any starker.

Must have moved on to a new story, she thought bullishly, heading for the front entrance.

Then a student couple intercepted her. 'Hey,' the girl student gushed, 'you're her, aren't you?'

'You're the one everyone's in love with,' the guy student added, even more gushingly.

By then Heather had been at university over a year. She knew she had over twelve thousand fellow students on and off campus and that memorizing all of them was an impossible task. Yet, that much said, she smelt a rat. These two were scruffy, but scruffy out of a bottle. Instinctively she knew they were plants.

'I seriously hurt someone yesterday,' she said mildly. 'If you don't want hurting too, just go away.'

'Can we quote you on that?' said the guy, like the tosser he was.

Heather bared her teeth at him and he drew back as if she was sheer poison. That wasn't the normal reaction she got when she smiled but this time it pleased her.

'No you can't,' she replied, 'go forth and multiply. And tell Costumes and Wardrobes they're missing a trick or three.'

Chapter Eight

Yet another morning of education sped by. Heather got a few pats on the back but most of her fellow students sensed that she wanted to move on. Well, some of them did. As a girl accustomed to droves of propositions, she got more than she was used to, most of them very ignorable ones from predatory blokes.

All of them ignored or, at best, deferred.

Unlike the three that came from gals, all of which were gratefully accepted.

Delaying lunchtime in the Union Bar, she made an outgoing call. Carole was on a different shift today but she was due to be on a break just then. Or so she'd told Heather. And so in reality she was.

'Hiya sexy,' Heather began. 'Are you free to talk?'

'Hiya Hev . . .'

Those two words made Heather prickle with excitement. At some point last night she had told Carole she was "Hev" to lovers. And that she, Carole, now most certainly qualified.

'How's it doing?' she asked, as if she wasn't picturing Carole's naked body, wriggling and writhing.