The Seehofer Chronicles Vol. 02

As the esteemed leader of the troupe, Hen wore a tee shirt of vibrant red, emblazoned front and back with white print that proclaimed her to be "Mother Hen". Hen's acolytes wore pink, the adorning text asserting them to be "Hen's Chicks". Whilst Sybil considered that the majority of the group looked sassy and undeniably sexy in their cheap vests, she felt frumpy in the ill-fitting, baggy shirt.

Hen's faction comprised of sixteen girls. The age range encompassed Jemima Shackleton, the youngest at nineteen, to Jane Widdowson, who at forty-eight was the eldest. Henrietta's best friend and designated maid of honour, Mary Leachmore, was the same age as Hen, twenty-six years of age.

It had been Mary, whose boyfriend hailed from Manchester, who had suggested the Mancunian venue. Sybil was amazed that Hen and Mary could be BFFs. Their shared year of birth was about the extent of any commonality the two of them shared, either physically or mentally.

Hen was undoubtedly the queen bee. Whilst subjectively perhaps not the most attractive girl at the party, that honour being bestowed upon the mentioned youngest, Jemima, Hen certainly was the most confident. What beauty she possessed was channelled and directed with the assurance that had won the hand of an eligible bachelor.

Whilst Hen organised the drinks at the bar, Sybil studied her distorted reflection in the mirror. Somehow, her once lean body had become distinctly pear shaped. The shirt hung loose and baggy and her mirrored image looked worse than she had imagined, for her significant boobage had lost any profile and definition within the shapeless garment. The tee shirt, billowing over her hips and the modest bulge of her tummy, fell too low, revealing only a few inches of the black mini skirt.

Her legs that she had once criticised for being too spindly had expanded to yield chunky thighs. Even her new pumps looked frumpy. She had chosen to wear practical flats whilst many of the other girls had selected heels of varying length. They looked so much sexier.

The only person Sybil really knew within the group was her slightly younger cousin, Izzy. Sybil was only there to make the numbers up as a cousin of Izzy, who was a friend of Jemima, who was a workmate of Mary. Or something like that...

Now Izzy did look good. That she did came as no surprise to Sybil. Izzy was inherently attractive and, unlike Sybil, had retained her teenage ectomorphic shape. What did come as a revelation to Sybil was her ever so sensible cousin's choice of couture.

Slim and just under five and a half feet tall, Isobel had belted her long shirt at the waist, boldly forgoing a skirt entirely, the long shirt duly transformed into a mini-dress. With her narrow frame, her legs seemed inordinately long, especially so when fashioned by her "fuck-me" high-heeled shoes.

"What do you think?" asked Izzy excitedly. To a stranger, she might appear like Sybil's sister, sharing as she did the same smouldering Latin looks. Sybil had long concluded that what Izzy may have lacked in the tit department had been compensated for by her bubble butt.

"Dunno...," replied Sybil quietly. "Hardly the hedonistic fest everyone expected. No one is exactly pulling..."

"It's 'cos Hen knows the boys are around somewhere and wants everyone to be on their best behaviour. This is supposed to be a hen night, not a bloody bible reading session! I could do with some action!"

Sybil smirked politely at she thought she ought. Nonetheless, the comment issued by her cousin sounded so un-Izzy-like. Whilst disturbed by Izzy's salacious comment, Sybil believed that Izzy was essentially correct, the whole point of a hen night being to behave imprudently, otherwise what was the point of travelling the length of the country in the search of anonymity.

In truth, feeling frumpy as she did, the thought of retiring to her bed offered more appeal save for one saving facet concerning the evening that stirred in Sybil's mind, a notion that she tried to suppress.

As the evening wore on, a row broke out. The duellists were Hen and best friend, Mary. Tensions had been running high all weekend. Sybil and Izzy had remained together and had been joined by Jemima. It was only the company of the latter youngest, prettiest, and seemingly most vulnerable member of the hen group that gave the evening any purpose for Sybil.

The trio found themselves drawn together as spectating allies when trouble erupted. The potent mixture of alcohol and jarring music that required shouts to make oneself heard all proved grist to the mill.

The faceoff between Hen and Mary was actually the third to break out that evening. Sybil had no idea who was at fault, if indeed anyone was. The spat was more likely the combination of petty perceived grievances that had amassed prior to the weekend and been allowed to go unchecked. Things came to a drunken head when the stags arrived at the same club and Mary was observed by Hen to be dancing "too closely" with her fiancé, the Honourable, or not-so-honourable as it seemed, George.

The upshot of the catfight was Hen storming out of the club. Izzy was the only sober member in Hen's clutch of chicks. She seldom drank, finding that alcohol and her fiery Torricellian temperament made for poor bedfellows. Nicotine was her stimulant of choice, principally because of its lack of psychotropic effect.

The congregation of stag and hens broke up after the handbags at dawn spat. Izzy had noted Henrietta storm off. She was the only one of the ensemble who noticed the boyfriend of Mary follow Hen in the company of four of his friends.

Izzy hadn't been that surprised when Sybil had struck up a rapport with Jemima, the young pixie cut blonde being the smallest and prettiest girl in the group. For all her bluster and admittedly confirmed sexual shenanigans with boys, Izzy had long suspected that much of the assumed prurient bravado hid Sybil's alternative predilections.

"Come on!" shouted Izzy above the din to her older cousin.

"Where?" Sybil's question was not unreasonable given the chaotic circumstances.

"After Hen! We can't let her go off alone!"

Sybil's frown revealed that she really didn't give a monkey's about the easily dislikeable Henrietta and her pretentious ways. Regardless of any ill-formed animosity towards the mother hen, Sybil dutifully followed her cousin, taking with her a confounded Jemima by the hand.

Approaching midnight on a tepid summer's evening, the cosmopolitan streets of Manchester were bustling with generally good-natured intent, populated by those in search of a goodtime.

Whilst Izzy maintained visual contact with the fleeing Hen and the Mancunian males, Sybil and Jemima straggled behind, Jem struggling to walk with anything other than a mincing stutter on her long heels.

The comical pursuit ended outside a stylish apartment block that Izzy surmised had once been an industrial cotton mill or some such industrial construct. When Sybil and Jem finally caught up, they found an unflappable Izzy talking to a tall man.

"Come on, we're going in," attested Izzy to her two breathless companions.

"In where?" wheezed Sybil. She really had to do something about her fitness levels. She looked first at Izzy and then the man, of whom all she discerned was the ginger designer stubble on his face.

"This is Sly... It's his apartment. Hen is in there."

"So why do we need to go in?" challenged Sybil.

"Because I invited you..." Sly made the comment accompanied by a beaming smile that showcased the excellent orthodontic work on his bleached teeth.

Like a good many things relating to that evening, Sly's abode remained enigmatically scant in Sybil's reminiscences. It was patently an expensive studio apartment, a modern industrial conversion of some sort.

The room into which they were ushered was essentially a rectangular wooden-decked studio. A kitchen area reposed in one corner by the large panoramic windows and balcony that looked over the cityscape with its myriad of gaudily lit office blocks. The space appeared minimalist, decorated by pieces of expansive bronze sculptures that in Sybil's mind indicated taste until she discerned that all the bronzes depicted naked women.

The only domestic furniture of note was a large sofa complex of three units, which formed an open-ended square that faced a huge flat screen TV.

Only at that point did a shocked Sybil notice Hen reposing on the sofa unit facing the TV. Hen was recognisable by her distinct red tee shirt and was flank by two guys. She was seemingly engaged in eating the face of one of the guys whilst the other male was occupying his hands by rummaging beneath her top where there was a good deal to find.

On an adjacent sofa sat two other men, who alternated their attention between the groped Hen and the three new arrivals.

The tall man named Sly stood beside the three girls. "I think this is called a revenge fuck." Of the three girls, it was the sober Izzy who appeared the least astonished. She was going to pass the obvious comment but was prevented from doing so by Sly's subsequent pronouncement. "I know she isn't yet, but she will be..."

"And is that why you invited us in?" asked Izzy.

"If you want to play, we'd be more than happy. It's up to you. No pressure."

"We're not whores," declared Izzy defiantly.

Sly laughed. "I hope not!"

Whilst Sybil had noticed the bronze sculptures, Izzy's attention had been drawn to the distinct instrument lying upon the island bar in the kitchen. "Are you a doctor?"

"Yes I am," answered the twenty-seven year-old bachelor. "And so are my colleagues." The inactive two men on the sofa politely waved their introduction. Izzy concluded the other two doctors were certainly giving Hen a thorough examination.

Young Jemima's reaction dictated the girls' course of action. She grabbed hold of Sybil's arm and clung on with silent but tearful trepidation. Izzy took the initiative by suggesting that the three chicks went out for "a chat" on the balcony.

The elevated air buzzed with the quixotic vibes of the city at nocturnal play and the associated sounds of traffic and sirens from emergency vehicles. Both Sybil and Izzy took cigarettes from their handbags and even the non-smoking Jem took one as a source of solace.

"What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?" announced Sybil in perhaps a rhetorical manner.

"You mean me...," stated Izzy with some truth. "We don't have to do anything we don't want to do."

"You mean you want to 'play' as that smooth arse put it? Sly by name, sly by nature!" exclaimed Sybil.

"I think he's cute..."

Sybil stared at her reflective cousin. Sybil was drunk but not beyond rational control. Somehow, a swopping of accepted mores appeared to have taken place. It was usually Sybil who was up for it, whilst Izzy remained sensibly aloof to any sexual shenanigans. "You want to be shafted?" It was a typical Sybil expression.

Izzy shrugged. "That's why we came on this weekend. They seem like nice guys..."

"I won't to go..." Izzy looked down at the petite Jem after the youngster had made her declaration.

"You don't have to do anything," stated Izzy of her friend. "Sybil will take care of you, won't you, Sybs?" Izzy stared at her cousin with the blonde clinging to her arm. She could read the dilemma dominating Sybil's mind. Izzy's playful smile was unintentional.

"What's so funny?" snapped Sybil.

"Sorry..." Izzy gratefully allowed her grin to develop, so lighting up her grey eyes. "I never thought I'd hear you behaving like a responsible school teacher, even if that's what you're going to be..."

"I want to go home...," declared Jemima plaintively.

Sybil reached for the young blonde's free hand. Jemima willingly yielded to the reassuring grip. The ever-vigilant Izzy's smile broadened at the interaction. Sybil's blatant and confessional gesture confirmed Izzy's suspicion.

On returning to the studio, Izzy remained the spokesperson. "Jem and Sybil don't feel very well." She addressed Sly directly. "Is there somewhere they can lie down?"

"What's up with them?" enquired the psychiatric doctor with issues of his own.

"Ladies things..." Izzy allowed the declaration to hang in the air to be assimilated by the males. Invariably, they were always slow where menstruation was concerned. Even as doctors, most of them were in denial.

"Both of them?" Sly asked the question with an air of suspicion.

"Both of them...," affirmed Izzy.

"They can use the spare bedroom," stated a ruefully smiling Sly as he looked down at the mini-dressed Izzy as though assessing her virtuous qualities.

Sly thought the short blonde was by far the prettiest of the group, definitely the one the boys had been vying over to fuck. Their disappointment would be offset by the compliance of the girl with the smouldering looks of Penelope Cruz (he wasn't a million miles away from Italy).

Was she really prepared to do a multi-some? Sly decided the answer was an unequivocal yes.

Chapter 11 - A Malady of Doctors.

Saturday, 17^th August 2013.

Manchester, England.

After following her friends' hesitant passage to the corridor that accessed the bedrooms and bathroom, Izzy silently waited for Sly's return.

Aware that she was under the scrutiny of the two sitting junior doctors, Isobel Sophia Torricelli found herself standing as tall as her five feet five inch frame permitted under the augmentation of the three-inch heels she wore.

Although strictly unnecessary, she pulled in her stomach and hence pushed out her chest to maximise the effects of her B-cup tits in their enhancing push-up brassier. She took up what she considered to be a provocative stance whereby she adopted a semi-side on pose for the two spectating males, thereby presenting her boobs in half-profile.

More importantly, her posture displayed her ass in the same oblique aspect. Sybil had referred to Izzy's arse as a bubble butt. Izzy simply knew that her ass stuck out to a noticeable degree. Whether she thought it aesthetically pleasing was none of her concern. The Torricelli girls had few body issues and Izzy was perhaps the more phlegmatic of the two. Her view was one of "take it or leave it". Of course, most guys would take anything on offer.

Izzy blatantly broadcast a "come and get it" look. Adopting that stance utilised by models where one foot was placed behind the other, she doubted that she could have looked any more provocative. A cool draft wafted around her long and enticingly slim legs and up her ersatz skirt to play around her panties. She actually wore a thong, the first time she had done so in public, her boyfriend Josh having been the only previous beneficiary of the garment.

Having been intent on promoting her corporeal image, it was only when satisfied with her sexual credentials that she became aware that Hen was missing. Izzy assumed Hen had retired to one of the bedrooms during the smoking sojourn.

"So how does this work?" asked Isobel with a calmness that surprised and thrilled her.

"Up to you...," stated Sly.

En route from his escort duties, Sly had collected a can of lager each for his two friends, one for himself, and one for Isobel, which he held out in offering. Testimony to her suppressed nervousness was her acceptance of the can. The air was punctuated by the sound of four tugged ring-pulls and the resulting hisses. The amber nectar felt cool as she traced its bubbling passage down her oesophagus.

"I have a few questions though...," stated Sly.

"Cool..." Izzy suppressed a gaseous burp as she replied.

"We're clean... Honestly... But do you want condoms?"

She shrugged. She had her contraceptive implant to fall back upon. Sly interpreted her response as a negative.

"Do you mind if I film?"

"Film?" Her question was involuntary. She really was out of her depth and knew that Sybil would have dealt with the situation so much better.

"Yeah, I like to film. Purely for later private consumption amongst ourselves. It's not going to be uploaded. If you feel uncomfortable at any time, just say so. We have taken the Hippocratic Oath. Well, the modern version of it... By the way, that's Gary on the left and Ray." He grinned reassuringly at the conclusion of his speech.

She paid no heed to the named males. Her mind screamed no. However, once again, she found herself ambivalently shrugging.

"Cool... Let me fetch my cameras..."

A fugue of detached otherworldliness descended over Isobel. She felt as if she were a passenger atop an alien body. She pressed a red lacquered nail into her palm and disturbingly felt nothing. The first camera was an expensive camcorder mounted on a portable tripod, the second a small hand-held device.

"Why not take off the cute dress and sit on the sofa?" suggested Sly after setting the camera running.

It required only commitment on Izzy's part. She understood that to do so would unleash a chain reaction that she had little control over other than to press the abort button. She noticed the two-seated men watching her, now sitting forward in preparedness. One was blatantly squeezing his crotch.

From somewhere deep within her psyche, from a hitherto undiscovered location, arose the compelling compunction to accede. It was a part of her untapped mind that demanded approbation on the most primordial of levels.

Her next sentient thought occurred when she found herself sitting in her matching blue underwear on the opposite end of the sofa to where Hen had been sitting. She could recall nothing about disrobing and despite feeling the cool air caress her exposed flesh, only the crumpled tee shirt, belt, and removed shoes lying untidily in a heap on the floor confirmed her striptease had taken place.

Her dissociative glances noted the observing Sly and his grin of appreciation. Only with implied stupidity did she come to understand that she was the source of his pleasure. Although not unexpected, that she had provided the foundation of his approbation induced a head-rush more powerful than the nicotine upon which she had recently imbibed.

She observed the two other guys stand up and disrobe as if retiring for bed. She had never watched strangers undress. They appeared as indistinct, amorphous entities with no discerning individuality. That their respectively sported and clutched erections were their most salient points was elucidating.

An impartial observer might have wondered if the players had only one script to follow. The now naked doctors sat on either side of Isobel. Whilst Ray, sitting to her left, kissed her, the right flanking Gary proceeded to fold back the cups of her brassier, so exposing her still supported B-cup tits.

Isobel was first and foremost aware of being surrounded by warm, damp flesh, the bulkier Gary on her right. Other than that, it was only a melange of detached groping hands to which she was sentient.

Her head was twisted to her left and a mouth clamped over her burgundy glossed lips. She screwed up her eyes and fastened her mouth tightly shut. Her stifling act only seemed to impart greater vitality to her suitor's advances and finally she had to yield to the tongue that pushed into her mouth, whence she tasted recently consumed lager and salt and vinegar crisps.

The aberrant gastronomic experience distracted her from Gary's endeavours. Having exposed her breasts, he was resolved on removing her insubstantial thong. This he achieved most adroitly by raising her bum and slipping off the flimsy construct down over her thighs before tangling them around her feet.

Everything was occurring with such rapidity that even her intelligent mind proved to be inadequate when it came to processing cogently all that was happening to her.

Events were acknowledged in disjointed sequence. Ray mercifully ceased his kissing. Instead, he focused upon her tits with their coral nipples. His mouth latched onto her left teat, his teeth sinking into her boob flesh as he sucked upon the engulfed areola. Her shout of understandable shock and pain was the first appreciable sound she emitted.