Is It for Real

Introduction

I don't believe I'm doing this but, after half a zillion third-party tales about me, I'm going to tell one for myself. Yes, instead of letting others betray my excesses, I'm going to betray a few of my own.

Or perhaps I'm going to betray lots of my own, right here, in the first person.

Telling the tale as the one who really knows.

Yes, aren't I just.

And good grief, haven't I plenty to reveal.

More of that shortly, let me introduce myself. I'm Heather Hunter, also known as Hurricane Heather and, to true lovers, Hev. The "hurricane" title is undeniably mine because in my (much?) earlier days I did often act like a demon on speed. Not that I ever did drugs, I hasten to add. I did tons of weed at my exclusive all-girls school, but never anything harder.

Alcohol aside, of course. Alcohol-wise I have the abilities of a fish. As did most of my schoolmates.

Okay, there were a few exceptions, but not many.

Think about it. There in one of the poshest parts of Cheshire, us naughty, underage students could get our hands on any type of booze we fancied. And not just beers and ciders.

Money came into the equation, naturally. We spoilt brats could've sourced coke and Goodness only knows what else just as easily, but none of my circle of friends ever did.

Not to my knowledge, anyhow. Why bother?

Grass and virtually unlimited bevvies; who needed anything more?

Oh yes, all those lovely, lovely bevvies!

My excuse is that being a Yorkshire lass, I'd been brought up to sup as much ale as possible. But I do struggle to account for my passionate love of vino.

Trust me, I can down vino as if it's going out of fashion (as if it ever will). And, while I prefer French, I don't hold anything against other varieties. Italian and German are fine, and the Antipodean wines I have (very regularly) sampled have all been exquisite.

Without discounting the rest of the wine producing world, I've even had some good British vinos.

Grapes grown in Britannia. Well, why not? Back in the day the Romans were here for the best part of four hundred years, weren't they? And those legions wouldn't go without their ration of vino for five minutes, never mind almost half a millennium.

Global warming a recent phenomenon?

The Britannia climate back then didn't stop the toga-clad empire makers, did it?

Where there's a will there's a way.

(Or should that be: Where there's a will there's a greedy relative?)

But enough of that nonsense. I was thirty-three at the time this yarn kicks off; thirty-three, footloose and fancy-free. What did I look like? I hear someone wonder. Truth is I've only ever been flattered as far as third-party descriptions go.

Yes, I do look okay with my long, jet-black hair, never-fading tan and flashing green eyes but, by and large, I have been grossly exaggerated.

Trust me, I can think of a thousand better-looking babes than me.

My body is something else, though. Olympic athletes aside, I am undoubtedly as ripped as can be. If only I'd kept up with all those martials arts . . .

Not to mention my swimming, running, football, netball and (yeah, yeah, I know!) rather indifferent tennis.

Truth is I'm a country lass, born and bred. That posh school was thrust upon me when my dad sold our failing farm to housebuilders, and Mum wanted only the best for my future.

In fact, she made it a condition of the deal.

No fancy education meant no sale. We'd have to sit it out until the Receiver came a-calling.

And that condition applied equally to dad and me.

Not that I wasn't intrigued by the prospect. By then, still but a slip of a girl, I already had muscles on my muscles. Try chasing an escaped bull as a wimp and see where it gets you. Strength is king when you're brought up on a farm.

Or should that be strength is queen?

Yes, maybe it should.

Knowing Mum never gave an inch once she'd set her mind on something, Dad and I swiftly agreed to her demands.

The rest is history, and I don't intend to bore you with it.

Everyone's probably heard one slant or other on all this before. Why persist?

Why not ditch the historic details and get a little closer to a new session of good old sex?

Can't think of any logical argument to that, so here goes . . .

Chapter One

I won't give you an exact year, but Victoria was back in place at West Yorkshire Bank, and I was there as her number two, if unofficially. Everyone had seen me as her substitute whenever she'd been off, even though a few others had more formally stood in as maternity cover, not least the incomparable Mr Carmichael, Vic's old-time mentor and one of the greatest guys on the planet.

If Mr Carmichael promised you something you could put the house on it. And he didn't promise very lightly. It was all or nothing when he was involved, but a girl always knew where she was.

Vic had modelled herself on him and I duly admired her. Learning from the best of the best.

Well, only an idiot would not. And Vic was far from being an idiot.

Leastways so I thought until I was called into her office at ten o'clock one sunny Thursday morning, deep into a very decent summer.

'Big problem,' she began after pouring us Columbian coffees (she had her own percolator and only ever did the finest Columbian).

Having heard a million similar opening lines, totally unfazed, I tested the caffeine, which was just as excellent as ever.

'So, share,' I said, in a spirit I soon regretted.

'Next week we have the ultimate teambuilding course,' Vic obliged. 'In fact, it's a management thing we've never tried before. I was supposed to go on it, with our two obvious candidates, holding their hands and what have you. But out of the blue I've got a no-miss meeting on Wednesday. So, you are going instead.'

'Hang on,' said I, 'have you gone nuts? I've been a senior manager for ever and ever. What do I need with a management course?'

'Yes, of course you have. And no, you don't need one. Like I said, I just need you to hold hands on my behalf. You're better at that sort of thing than me, anyway.'

'Right, you would say that.'

'No, I mean it. And I have a bonus for you if you oblige without being forced.'

'Forced?'

'I can be very forceful, as you well know. And after all, I am the Chief Exec.'

'Not when I get you between the sheets again.'

Vic hooted loudly. 'As if we ever get between the sheets. Not until aeons after shagging on top of them, in any case.'

She did have a point.

'Go on,' I sighed. 'Hit me with it. Sock it to me. Pretend I'm Judy Carne.'

That Rowan & Martin reference went over Vic's head but didn't stop her for one instant.

'You can borrow Graham for a week,' she said. 'Take him to Majorca or Lanzarote or wherever. Do to him whatever takes your fancy. Just oblige my pair of promising girls. And the course is an all-girl one by the way. I didn't mention that before, did I?'

Had she hell mentioned that before, but her sales pitch wasn't bad, I had to admit. Graham was an ex-neighbour of mine and we'd had an awful lot of mutually enjoyable sex. I'd even looked after his cat when he was away, which he often was, and I normally have no time for cats.

Cats belong in barns, don't they? They can look after themselves and certainly don't need daily cans or pouches of Felix.

Felix, I ask you! Some people have more money than sense.

Vic had sort of inherited Graham from me. Inherited? Okay, so I'd pushed them together so cleverly she'd gone off and married him. These days I got loan of him maybe one night every two months or so. The idea of a whole week . . .

Well, it was attractive, I can't deny that. A whole week was more than I usually got of him in a year.

That big hard thingy of his, slotting in and out of me for hours on end.

That first simultaneous climax, him spurting into me, me squealing out delighted approval.

Then, not flopping in any way, he'd invariably do it again.

Yes, again and yet again.

Nice, nice, nice.

(At this point I'll apologize before saying Graham is by far the most virile man I have ever pleasured. I swear I won't refer to men and thingies again in this little yarn. Let's just say I'm more a lesbian than I'm bisexual, but I am unable to forgo blokes altogether. It's what makes the world go round after all, isn't it?

Hard thingies in eager fannies, I mean. Like Graham's marvellously shaped thingy, going in and out of me, again and again and again . . .)

'Victoria Hanson,' I countered out loud, already hooked but determined to resist at least a tad, 'what on earth have you got planned for a whole week without your darling hubby?'

'Sleep,' she blatantly lied. 'Playing with the kids . . .'

'I don't do guys anymore.'

'You do Graham every time I lend him to you. Consider this as an exceptional lease-lend agreement. And we both know you'll love it, sunbathing all day and screwing all night, for a whole week. Not to mention drinking gallons of sangria.'

'As I said, I rarely do men anymore.'

'Think about it, Hev; this isn't just for a few hours, you can have him 24/7. And I'll throw in the magic card for good luck.'

I blinked at that. The magic card was a WYB speciality and a treat rarely shared, even among staff of my elevated rank. Frankly, it was a debit card that seemed to have unlimited bounds and it could be used anywhere in the known world. Possession of that card gave the user unparalleled power when it came to spending ability. Normally possession was restricted to people who had to visit and stand their corner in expensive places such as New York, Paris or London. Or a lot of eating venues down in Cornwall, for that matter.

(Apologies to my Cornish friends. But don't they know just how to charge in that most beautiful part of England!)

Given bait like that I simply had to bite. 'I get the card to assist shagging your husband in Lanzarote,' I asked/demanded.

'I meant next week in Derbyshire, so you can be generous and entertain others there on the course, not just our two.'

'Let me have it both weeks and I'll play along.'

Vic laughed. 'You're as tough as ever. Are you sure there's nothing else you want to factor in?'

'I'd like to take you here and now on your desk, knickers off and legs akimbo. But your PA's likely to notice.'

'You could do it in a handful of minutes. We both know that.'

'Yeah, and we both know I do sex in hours and days, not mere minutes.'

'We could have a quickie.'

'My quickies take far too long. You'll have to reward me another time, after I've had my wicked way with Graham.'

'So, you're up for it?' Vic said, her normally inscrutable expression for once slipping.

'I am if Graham is,' I replied.

Throughout our conversation Vic had been tapping away on her mobile. Grinning, she held it up so I could see her most recent text exchange.

"THINK I'M WINNING THROUGH," her message read. "STILL UP 4 IT?"

"UNREASONABLY UP," Graham had replied. "THE CAT'S DONE A RUNNER, JUST IN CASE."

Sod the fib about the flipping moggy, they'd obviously negotiated in advance.

The dirty cheats.

'Deal?' Vic enquired.

Spitting on it like a horse dealer, I shook her hand.

And there we were, bargain sealed.

Chapter Two

'So,' I began as Vic topped up our coffee cups, 'who are these obvious candidates?'

Vic named names and I ran the duo through my memory in several ways, ranging from work reports to sexuality. Lottie was mid-twenties with a chest that could have stopped buses. Perhaps five and a half feet tall she had short, bleached blonde hair and a cheeky, sexy face. I'd seen her out and about in Bingley plenty of times, sometimes part of a gaggle of girls, sometimes as half of a couple, usually if not always with a guy.

But definitely not always, and by no means did she restrict herself to just one boyfriend.

Tell the truth and shame the devil, I had her down as bi-curious at least, maybe more, but not much.

Rebecca was more my age and wasn't she tall! I come in a shade under five eleven and she had two inches on me. She also had the most scrumptious long hair in red/auburn. As for the rest of her . . .

Well, her boobs were more proportioned than Lottie's, they matched the general theme without for a second letting the side down. Neither did her legs. I had only ever seen them in work clobber, but I was struggling to think of a better pair. Having them fastened around my neck would be a treat.

No, it would be wondrous.

Shame was I'd never seen her around and about, so I wasn't up with her tastes and preferences. She was from Keighley or Shipley, as far as I knew, and consequently went out in those battlegrounds in khaki or steel armour.

(Only joking, again. I've done a lot more of Keighley than Shipley, but I haven't experienced anything untoward in either. Legend has it that the two towns collide with spectacular violence from time to time, but I've always been lucky enough to miss out. Otherwise, I've only ever seen gentlemanliness to a degree which is well over the top.

Goodness knows where all those broken noses come from. Maybe everyone plays Rugby League on a Friday or Saturday night out in those parts.)

'Remember,' Vic said sternly, breaking into my mental ramblings, 'don't screw the crew.'

We both cackled at that like the witches we were. We'd been "crew" on the day we'd met, and we'd cheerfully screwed that very night away. And I'd screwed other crew mates since as well, even if Vic claimed she'd kept her nose clean.

As if!

'Don't worry,' said I, crossing my fingers behind my back. 'They're probably both straight anyway.'

'There's going to be another dozen on the course,' Vic advised wisely. 'Use the privilege of the card to wine and dine, then screw one of them instead. Or, knowing you, screw three or four of them.'

'What, all at the same time?'

'That's your decision, not mine. I'm just signing off your carte blanche expenses remember? We can share intimate details when you and I have our head-to-head.'

'You mean a week on Monday?'

'No, I mean very unofficially, out of the office, when we have a long night together, when you bring Graham back from paradise and he's called away from afar. And when will you be returning, pray?'

'I'm not sure. But I'm going to do a cancelation check as soon as I get back to my office. Sooner we're off the better, I suppose. Unless you really do have alternative arrangements and a timetable of your own.'

'Hev, I'm a relatively young mother. Would I stray as easily as that?'

'Yes. When we have that one-to-one, I'm going to torture you for descriptions of her every last lick.'

'How do you know it's a "her"; guys can lick as well as girls, can't they?'

'No, they can't. Girls are infinitely superior. You know that as well as I do.'

'I suppose,' Vic conceded after a pause.

And off we went cackling again, two genuine witches who could hardly wait.

Yes, genuine witches. All we were missing was a pair of matching broomsticks.

*****

I was waylaid a couple of times en route back to my WYB lair, so it took a while to get there. Sitting down behind my paper-strewn desk I did wonder at the continuing use of papyrus. Here we were, very much in the digital age, and still there were letters and post-it stickers everywhere I looked.

Thinking "digital" I opted to check my e-mail before searching for cheapish holidays in the sun. Sure enough, one had already arrived from Victoria, addressed to Lottie and Rebecca with me copied in. I opened it and read with interest.

Starting with an apology for "unavoidably" pulling out, Vic went on to say she'd recruited a "willing" replacement who would be well provided for when it came to purchasing power.

"The drinks and snacks will be on her," she added. "She'll also drive you to the venue in a decent car and support you far more adequately that I could. She is, by the way, Heather Hunter and she will be in touch about travelling arrangements shortly."

Typical Victoria flipping Hanson. She always took the minutes of every meeting, assigning the actions to everyone apart from herself.

Still, by "decent car" she meant the bank's lovely green Jag. I'd no more got my hands on that before than I'd had possession of the magic card. Reaching for the phone, I rang Transport and was assured the vehicle was available for me from five o'clock Friday, not expected back until Monday, the week after.

Obviously, Vic had assigned herself a task after all. Or, much more likely, she'd delegated that one to her luscious PA.

Deleting her e-mail, I noticed the arrival of another, this one from Lottie.

"I've wanted a night out with you forever," she said, ignoring the fact we'd hardly ever exchanged a word. "And a night out with you buying all the booze . . . yippee! What a shame Bex will be there to cramp our style."

Almost instantaneously a message arrived from Rebecca.

"Sounds like five nights of fun," she started. "Victoria was going to pick us up outside the bank seven Monday AM. Are we still on for that?"

I created a new e-mail addressed to them both. "I'll see you outside WYB at seven Monday morning. Look out for the wheels; they're going to be ace."

Chapter Three

The temptation to flaunt my borrowed wheels that weekend was immense. I'd looked up other Jag enthusiasts and found out the Queen was a big fan and Posh and Becks actually collected them as a hobby, like new ones and old and of every type under the sun. There were countless others too, but I'm not going to name-drop.

After Her Majesty, Posh and Becks, what bigger names could I come up with, anyway?

Apart from maybe Lisa Ann. "Who's Nailin' Paylin?" has to be the funniest porn I've ever seen.

As if I know anything about the sex goddess's taste in luxury motors. Men and ladies maybe, motors, no.

And apologies to HM at that, I got carried away. Please don't send round the beefeaters to carry me off, never to be seen again.

Well, never until my turn comes, head on the block, up there on Tower Hill.

Not that out current, longest reigning and most wonderful monarch would ever stoop as low as to order beheadings.

I sincerely hope.

Anyhow, I restricted myself. That is to say I went in to work that Saturday morning, totally unpaid; I hadn't been paid overtime in five years or more. No, it was more like eight years. But I still put in the hours, working on the principle I had a more than generous salary and bonus scheme (mostly thanks to Vic), and clearing some of that inexplicable paperwork could only help us all in the long run.

Flipping paperwork!

Mind you, clearing all my email took just as long, if not even longer.

Improved communications? Bah humbug. If I had my way, I'd ban the penny post, never mind all this IT black magic.

I'd un-invent telephones too.

Well, I would until communicating suited my needs. Then I'd soon be using my mobile, cap in hand.

*****

Where was I?

Oh yes, I was doing unpaid overtime. And here's a confession: I was there to be seen in my flash Jag, an up to date one that even Posh hadn't got yet.

No, scrap that. She had probably got the first model off the production line, with its seat properly set to suit her so-sexy ass.

And why not? If you've got it, flaunt it. That's my latest motto and it doesn't contrast too badly with my oldest favourite saying: Solidarity, sister.

Excuse me for yet another digression. The old words always get to me, always make me want to sing "Sisters Are Doin' It for Themselves."

Never mind Posh's sexy ass, get a load of Annie Lennox in those old videos.

Oh yes, yes please.

Not that Aritha's sexy ass goes unnoticed. Maybe she was a little older than Annie but older can be a lot better, can't it? I've always believed that and looking at her bum doesn't change my views at all.

Call me a perv and ask me if I care.