tagLesbian SexVictoria's Second Secret

Victoria's Second Secret



Hi it's me again, Kat, here with more exploits to brag about. And trust me, since we last shared a few confidences things have progressed by leaps and bounds, even by my standards.

Pause while I wipe my brow and wonder at my brazenness.

I cannot imagine what would happen if my mother was ever to stumble across the tales I've told.

Or maybe I can. Maybe she'd speak to me for the first time since Christmas 2014. She'd have to do in order to scream and yell in my face.

In other words we'd be back to business as usual.

Okay, I've pulled myself together; let's move along a ways.

As a reminder, I am thirty-one and addicted to travelling. I'm also a "natural" IT programmer and I have shamelessly used that gift to fund my travelling. Put simply, since I graduated I have flit from one employer to another, working short-term contracts to feed my addiction.

A year here, then off a year. A year there, then off again.

Sadly it's not always as easy as that. As I'm sure everybody appreciates, it's harder to save than it is to spend. Consequently the last ten years have been split roughly sixty-forty between earning and globe-trotting. But it's how I want to live. I'd fight to the death to live that way, just as I'd fight to the death to defend my right to prefer sleeping with girls.

Not that I'm a physical fighter. Loving does it for me, not fighting. As far as I'm concerned fighting causes extreme pain and loving causes extreme pleasure.

No brainer or what?

Last time I opened my heart was just over two weeks ago. I was two months into a six month stint at West Yorkshire Bank and had been fucking a female director every Wednesday without fail. At least I had been until the eighth Wednesday.

Then, unable to make it, she'd sent a friend in her place.

(As an aside, perhaps they could do a reality quiz show set in a jungle including a round along the lines of "Phone a Friend". No, make that "Send a Friend". God knows what they'd call the show. I do have ideas but they'd never get past the censors.)

Re-reading it, I finished that last tale rather abruptly, with me debating the pros and cons of being part of an all-female threesome, leaving the decision hanging.

How remiss of me!

For anyone who missed the previous story, the female director is Heather Hunter ("Hev") and the substitute she sent is Victoria Hanson ("Vic"). To complicate matters I didn't find out that Vic is the CEO of my current employers, WYB, until we'd fucked each other to a standstill.

The good news is that Vic isn't remotely as highfalutin as her job title suggests. And, what's more, she enjoyed me so much that it was she who proposed the threesome.

The bad news is that I would be way, way out of my depth with both those alpha babes together. One at a time, no worries; but both at once . . .

Leaving you hanging a little longer on my decision, I'm going to pick up on the Friday following my CEO adventure. Eager to make up for personally missing the latest Wednesday night, substituted or nay, Hev had set up a (twosome) date at the usual time, in the usual place . . .

Chapter One

Officially we finished half an hour earlier on a Friday than we did the rest of the working week, not five o'clock but four thirty. That meant I had to linger in the office longer than usual but also gave me the chance to test a programme or two. Satisfied they were unbreakable, fool-proof and, more importantly, did what they were supposed to do, I set off for the Potting Shed.

My timing was in line with previous visits but tonight there was a difference: tonight there was still a hint of daylight. Not a lot, granted, but enough to notice. Winter was almost over and spring was just around the corner.

Trouble was the TV was warning of bad weather on its way. If they were to be believed "The Mini Beast from the East" was due to hit the UK tomorrow, bringing with it high winds, snow, blocked roads and who knew what else.

A poor weekend ahead . . . if they were to be believed.

Personally I didn't give a toss. Just now the evening was cool but not cold. The wind was a gentle breeze and okay, so Bingley Main Street was grid-locked, but that had nothing to do with climate; it was always grid-locked this time of day, rain or shine. Snow tomorrow would keep a few careful drivers at home and probably speed the job up as a whole.

No, a short, sharp snowfall wouldn't worry me. It probably wouldn't happen and even if it did, Hev had advised me to bring extra clothes. Not so we could go skiing, I hasten to add. In her opinion it took Friday, Saturday and Sunday to make up for one missed Wednesday. The change of clothes was to facilitate occasional sallies into various local pubs for "refreshments".

In other words we were going to fuck the weekend away, breaking off once in a while to snack in some boozer or other.

Fair enough by me, of course. I liked snacking in boozers and, if we were actually snowed in, Hev had half Italy's annual wine production in her fridge; she also had a fair part of Australia's on her otherwise unused granite worktops. If the worst came to the worst we'd have to stay put and get by on pinot, Shiraz and past-due-date Cheshire cheese on stale crackers.

There were worse ways to spend a weekend.

And this, co-incidentally, would be our first weekend spent sinning together. I could hardly wait. In fact it was going to be hard pretending I was pissed off with her.

My best travel bag hooked over my shoulder, I went into the pub.

Surprise, surprise! The Late Heather Hunter was there before me. Apart from our very first time I had always been ten minutes early. Well, at least ten minutes earlier than her, anyway.

'Kat,' she said, beaming at me, emerald eyes flashing invitation, 'how very good to see you. Here, I took the liberty.'

I accepted the 250 mils glass of Hardy's and did my best not to return her grin.

Fuck but it was difficult. Pretending to be grumpy was easy in theory; doing it under her megawatt smile was something else altogether.

'Looking good,' she said, still smiling, 'there again, you always do.'

I muttered something even I didn't understand.

'Is that the best you can do?' she asked. 'Aren't you glad to see me?'

Unable to resist any longer . . . already . . . I kissed her hello.

And there went my Equity card.

'Let's grab a seat,' Hev said when I finally released her. 'Let's talk.'


We had always chatted innocuously at the bar before. Intrigued, I led Hev to the table I had used with Vic a couple nights previously. Fridays in the Shed were even busier than Wednesdays, so it wasn't isolated in any real sense of the word. It was, however, as secluded as we were ever likely to get in there.

'Well,' Hev began, 'out with it.'

'I couldn't believe you set me up like that,' I said, trying to be indignant . . . and failing.

'By all accounts you adapted admirably,' Hev countered with a trademark grin. 'You can stick that on your CV, if it's not on there already.'

'Do you mean like an example?' I widened my eyes but couldn't help smiling. 'To all my would-be employers: I proved I was very adaptable at WYB by . . .'

Hev put a hand over my mouth before I could turn the air blue.

'Not in here,' she warned. 'We're not supposed to even kiss in here, never mind talk explicit sex.'

Clearly she hadn't fully briefed Vic before letting her loose on me!


I kissed Hev again, fleeting this time, no more than a peck, and then sat back smugly.

She laughed. 'What are you like?'

'I'm like young, footloose and fancy-free,' I replied, 'and only too obviously.'

She responded by changing the subject. Or rather, by backtracking to one that suited her. It was a Thatcher-like trait of hers. Once she'd conquered the banking universe she'd probably switch to politics.

No, scrap that. She didn't need any more money but the big drop in salary would crush her ego.

'CVs tend to be very boring,' she said with a fake yawn. 'They should all be spiced up if you ask me. Given two candidates with the same qualifications, I'd go for experience every time.'

'Experience like the one I could put on my CV?'

'You got it in one.'

I laughed. It was impossible not to.

'Wednesday,' Hev went on. 'It wasn't planned. Not by me, anyway. I got the call to go to London Bridge just before lunch. And it was a three-line whip with an immediate start. I think I did well to put contingencies in place before I rushed off.'

'And how did you manage that?' I wondered. 'Didn't Vic take a lot of persuading?'

'Hardly any at all, if you must know. She was the one who told me I had to go, you see.'

I blinked at that. I supposed it made sense: within WYB at least, Vic was the capo di tutti capi. But the possibility of her involvement prior to the event hadn't occurred to me before.

'You know what London Bridge is, don't you?' Hev went on.

'It's WYB's token City office,' I replied. 'Half a dozen heads, there to maintain a presence.'

'How astute you are,' Hev chuckled, 'and you are spot on. Top management has always insisted we support them in person, in times of need. Vic used to go, when she was just the deputy CEO. Nowadays she and her deputy are too busy, so I get the honour.'

'Shows how important you are,' said I, swigging vino.

'Usually it feels good, riding to the rescue like the 7th Cavalry.'

'You and Custer,' I observed. 'I hope it wasn't Little Bighorn when you got there.'

'It was next to nothing,' said Hev. 'We could have sorted it out by video or phone conference. But we ruthless northern so-and-sos showed our face, didn't we? Well, we showed my face, anyway.'

Somehow I stopped myself saying what a nice face she had. I'd already buggered up all chance of being indignant. Flattering her would only go to her head.

'Did Vic put up much of a scrap?' I enquired. 'When you recruited her to take your place, I mean.'

Never mind Cheshire cheese; Hev was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

'She was like that old boxer saying "no mas", except he put up a lot more resistance. From what I saw when I got there, Vic sent me down south on purpose.'

I took that with a pinch of salt. I'm the world's best exaggerator but Hev was better when it came to making mountains out of molehills.

And besides . . . I rather liked the idea of Vic wanting to fuck with me, both of us sight unseen.

'Whatever,' I said to Hev. 'What happened took place, didn't it?'

'Speaking of which,' she grinned, 'you've kept me in the dark. I'm desperate to know.'

I grinned. 'You're desperate to know what, exactly?'

'I want to hear your side of the story. I've heard Vic's but I need to compare.'

For once my glass was empty before hers. I shoved it towards her.

'Get them in and I'll tell all.'

Chapter Two

Friday night in Hev's bed was different to a bog-standard Wednesday. Normally we took it in turns to give and receive, more or less making it up as we went along. Not then, though. Hev had got it into her head that, because she'd not fulfilled a "guaranteed promise", she was deeply indebted to me. Consequently I was free to do anything I wanted.

And I was free to tell her to do anything I wanted, too.

It sounded like a good deal but in practice I struggled. We'd already tried just about every sex act under the sun and I wasn't and never will be into anything downright perverted. Between you and me, I had given my free reign a lot of forethought and not come up with much. In truth best I could think of was swearing.

Well, I told you I struggled!

Right from the start we'd communicated during sex, usually in the form of pleas and thanks amid a torrent of moans and groans. And, when it was her turn to be on the receiving end, Hev was particularly good at providing a running commentary. In fact some of the things she said went beyond rude into obscene.

But she very rarely swore.

Maybe it was that posh school of hers; maybe she was still a naughty schoolgirl at heart. I can't be sure what it was, but she always minded her Ps and Qs. To her a guy didn't have a "cock"; he had a "willy". A girl didn't have a "pussy"; she had a "fanny". Lovers didn't "fuck" or "screw"; they "shagged".

And, as far as she was concerned, the C-word had never been invented. The idea of Hev taking it via strap-on and crying out: "Harder you fucking bitch, fuck my cunt harder . . ."

Well such an idea was so unlikely it was laughable.

Ludicrous as it was, swearing was all I had. Or so I'd thought. When it came to it I simply couldn't bring myself to tell her to curse like some over-implanted porn star. Maybe I'd been called a bitch too often for real (meaning outside of the bedroom). Or maybe I realized she would hate doing it and even asking her would taint the valuable thing we had between us. Whatever it was, I simply couldn't give the command.

So instead I just became bossy and ordered her about a lot. Get on your back! Open your legs! Lick my clit!

I'm sure you get the gist.


How about this for a first? We got to about four in the morning and we slept. Yes, honestly we did. Cuddling each other, our curves moulded into one, breathing as one, we slowly kissed ourselves to sleep.

Only to be woken three hours later by the birds singing in the trees outside.

Bloody, bastard birds!

Okay, on reconsideration, I let them off. It was seven in the morning and they should have started chirping earlier. They probably thought they were giving us a lie in.

Not so Hev. Not by any stretch.

Refreshed and revitalized, she tore up last night's rule book and switched into hurricane mode.

Here's a universal truth for you: Hurricane Heather is not a force to oppose. When she goes off in that direction all a girl can do is grip the sides of the bed and let it happen.

Not that she gets violent or anything; she just gets super-energetic. Think of a top gym queen, the sort who regularly leaves guys trailing in her wake. Think of her doing circuits, faster and infinitely more efficiently than anyone else.

Then think of her on her last circuit, doubling the repetitions and trying to halve her regular time.

That was Hev in hurricane mode. Under normal circumstances she could be passionate, to say the least. But given her head . . .

Put it this way: I've read the books and know there is supposed to be dead calm in the eye of the storm. Trust me there is no calm in the eye of Hurricane Heather. Like I said, best a girl can do is grip the sides of the bed and take and take.

After all, what harm can it do? Sometimes she blows herself out in . . . Well, in three hours or so.

That morning it was more like four.


Around eleven o'clock we went to Hev's impressive shower room. By then (temporarily) sated, we washed each other without too much intimacy.


Okay, so I'll be more accurate. We washed each other like lovers who only occasionally needed to pinch buns and squeeze nipples.

And rub pussies, naturally.

Afterwards we dried each other with Hev's luxurious M&S towels. Then, back in her bedroom, I took a look out of the window. It was raining and the trees were waving in the wind. The gentle breeze of yesterday had been overtaken by something more serious. But snow was nowhere to be seen.

'No sign of the Beast from the East,' I said brightly.

Hev took the merest glance outside and disagreed.

'Give it an hour and it'll be coming down in blankets.'

'What is this,' I replied, 'the old Farmer's Almanac?'

'Are you laughing at me?'

Something in the set of Hev's bare shoulders made me hastily backtrack.

'No, of course I'm not. I just wondered how you were so sure.'

She grinned at that and pointed to the trees. 'Wind's coming from the east and the skies are full. It is pretty obvious, isn't it?'

Perhaps those farmers knew something after all. I was no meteorologist but I was aware that the majority of Yorkshire weather came from the west. So far as I knew the rain kicked off out in the mid-Atlantic, dropped bucketloads on Ireland then moved on to Lancashire. And then, Yorkshire being God's Own County, those storm clouds hit the Pennines and bounced right back, emptying the last of their load over Manchester, where it belonged.

Semi-scientific as that was, there was truth in it. Back in my sixth form days a boyfriend (yuk!) had gone to play a school soccer match in Burnley. In Keighley we'd been put on stand-pipe warning, meaning anytime soon the main water supply was going to be arbitrarily cut off.

Over the hill in Burnley my boyfriend had had to "take a long stud".

Okay, so soccer terms mean as little to me as cricket terms. All I know about cricket is that it's fun to watch a match at the WACA while drinking endless cans of Swan. But back in the day I did get an explanation and here it is:

Apparently taking long stud means the going was very soft, unlike Yorkshire at the time, where it would have taken a sledgehammer to penetrate a nail half an inch into the ground.

That was the difference between west and east, wasn't it?

Or was it?

'How can you tell it's an easterly?' I asked.

'Look at the leaves on the trees,' said Hev. 'Obvious, isn't it?'

Then, dismissing the subject, she asked me what I was going to wear.

'You look good in day-to-day,' she said. 'I can't wait to see your weekend clobber.'

Cringing inside, assuming she'd be dressed by Armani, I showed her a pair of tight-fitting blue denims.

'Promising,' she endorsed, 'let's see your top.'

I had brought two sweatshirts. I held up the plain white one, devoid of any logo.

'Student clobber,' she laughed. 'No, it's student and around the world clobber.'

Before I could protest she threw up a retraining hand.

'Great minds think alike,' she said, producing a similar pair of Wrangler jeans out of thin air.

'I wear these out of the office all the time,' she went on. 'They feel good on my bare bum. That's why I'm going to ask you to discard your knickers.'

I held her gaze. 'Is this a two-way sort of thing?'

'You bet it is. No knickers, no bra. We'll be equals in every sense of the word.'

Chapter Three

Here's a confession for you. I rarely go bra-less because my nipples are super-sensitive. Support-wise I have no real problem but, given the feel of clean fabric constantly chafing my nips . . .

Changes of temperature don't help either. In short, I can get nipple erections at the drop of a hat.

That applied to me during our taxi ride, and in spades. Out of Hev's lovely warm house, a dose of freezing cold air and into a stuffy cab, my fresh white sweatshirt rubbing on me with every slight movement, hard nips were an unavoidable fact of life.

So what, I concluded, alone in the back seat. Hev's as vulnerable as me; she won't mind.

The cabbie, coincidentally, was taking no notice of me at all. He only had eyes for Hev . . . Which was disconcerting seeing as the rain was steadily becoming sleet.

For the first time I wondered where we were going. By my reckoning the nearest pub was down in Crossflatts. Failing that it might be Dick Hudsons, overlooking Baildon Moor. But, taking a right as we exited Hunters Farm, we went uphill a way and then took a left.

A sense of dread overtook me.

'Where are we going?' I asked timorously.

'To the Buzzer,' Hev replied, momentarily breaking off her conversation with the cabbie. 'I've got us a table for one o'clock. That gives us chance for a few aperitifs, doesn't it?'

Shit. By "Buzzer" she meant the Busfeild Arms! My ex lived three doors away and was very much a local. So had been I, not too very long ago.

Meaning a year or two ago, when I had most recently been her live-in lover.

Perversely, as we went downhill the sleet turned to snow. About halfway down, as we passed a long terrace of houses on our right, it turned back to sleet. At the bottom of the hill, in East Morton itself, it was raining again.

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