tagLesbian SexVictoria's Third Secret

Victoria's Third Secret



Hello, hello, hello, it's me again, Kat. I'm becoming quite a prolific contributor, aren't I? This is the umpteenth confession I have personally submitted and I have featured in others' recollections as well. That is to say I've featured prominently in darling Mikki's catalogue of lies and fabrications.

Talk about fantasy! That girl's Wonderland is even weirder than Alice's!!

God only knows what the Mad Hatter would do with her.

Okay, so I do have an idea or two. And maybe I'd enjoy watching him doing the doing even more than he would enjoy doing it.

Cutting back to the chase . . .

This latest instalment of my crazy history is intended to read as a story in itself but will refer to a few past events. Therefore I'm including this intro to save readers the bother of backtracking. In other words feel free to skip the introduction if you have read Victoria's Secret and/or Victoria's Second Secret.

That is unless you have the memory of a goldfish and need a friendly nudge.

Or unless you like being reminded about the things hot and horny girls get up to together.

Hot and horny . . . mmmm, mmmm, sounds good.

Right then, here goes. My full name is Katrina but nobody who likes me ever calls me that. To all my friends and lovers I'm Kat; simple as. Physically I am five feet nine with a darkish complexion and a mane of jet-black hair. Looks-wise I have been likened to a taller, younger Kim Kardashian and I ain't going to argue with that.

As if anyone would!

I hate to admit it but I recently turned thirty-one and I've never had a permanent job. Correction: I hate to admit to my age but I am exceptionally proud about my employment status. I'm addicted to travelling, you see. Ever since I graduated I have been working short-term contracts to fund my next trip.

Here there and everywhere, that's where I've been.

More, more, more travel, that's me to a T.

Indeed at this very moment I'm working a six month contract at West Yorkshire Bank (commonly known as WYB). The money I earn through that is going to get me to Honolulu where I'm due to meet a very tasty American babe. Well, she is pushing sixty (although looking at her you'd never believe it) so maybe "babe" is exaggerating a tad. She is seriously beautiful, though, and as horny as fuck. That is one date that cannot be missed.

Sixty years old and she looks like thirty-something.

And a very fucking fit thirty-something at that.

A whole month with her, just the two of us on her ocean-going yacht! I cannot wait!!

And yes, I appreciate that she's a she. Sorry if that comes as a shock but that's the way I am. I suppose that technically I'm bi but, in reality, I've always preferred females and I guess I always will.

So Honey is female and twice my age? Watch my lips. As if I care.

Okay, there is a touch of mother/daughter going on between us, but only the slightest touch. That intimacy aside, most of our contact has always been innocent and very pure lust.

Me and her, hot as hot for each other, ramped up to the nth degree . . .

Let's face it, she isn't my mother and game-play can be cool. Alone together I tend to prefer being prolific with my attentions but that isn't a problem with Honey. Whenever she wants to fuck me I'm free and happily available.

All honesty, I could lie on her baking hot wooden deck and roll with the swell of the waves, taking her tonguing all day long.

Forever and forever, amen . . .

Confession time: I do like having a man every now and then but I generally fail to see the point. In fact I always end up counting the negatives.

Lack of endurance, lack of vigour . . .

Tell me again what I'm missing. Surely it's not peerless wit and Wilde-like humour.

Screw men. They have their uses but not often enough.

Small wonder I haven't bothered with one in over a year.

As a reminder, I'm me, Kat; me, a girl who loves being what I am; and who I am. I'm me, a girl of the world; a girl who will never play second fiddle.

Work-wise I'm fortunate to be a top IT programmer. That's more of a gift than a skill I've learnt the hard way. Don't ask me why I'm so good at it. It's not as if I'm a mathematical genius or anything. But it's a nice gift to have. My CV's crammed with successfully completed projects and I have had repeat contracts just about everywhere I've ever been.

I'm in demand, I get tax concessions because I have yet never worked one complete tax year . . . Life can be win-win, can't it?

Trust me; it can be when I get that rebate. More than once I've been stranded on an "unfriendly" shore, wondering where my next meal was coming from . . .

Scrap that. It's over-dramatic crap. I've always known roughly when my rebate was due. Not that knowing in advance ever made it any less welcome.

One time, in Argentina, almost wasted away and the money hit my bank a week early. Did I go for a big steak or what? And do Argentinians understand the words "big" and "steak"!

Too fecking right they do!!

Okay, enough of that, let's get nitty-gritty.

Sex-wise this year, after a relatively quiet Christmas, I have hit an exceptionally rich lode. First off I got it together with one of the Bank's most senior directors, Heather Hunter . . . or Hev to friends and lovers.

How to describe Hev? She's a couple of inches taller than me, her jet-black mane is longer than mine and her all-over tan has to be seen to be believed. As does her stunningly athletic body.

I'm happy with my looks but Hev eclipses me in every way. She's amazing in bed, too, and not as ferociously dominant as I had originally expected. She's also nearly as addictive as travelling. I've been sharing a bed in her luxuriously renovated farmhouse every Wednesday night since the day we first met.

Sharing a bed with Hev is like . . .

I can't swear enough to explain it. Sharing a bed with her makes simple, everyday sex seem . . .

Well, like simple and very much an everyday occurrence.

Put quite simply, sex with Hev is something else. I could have had ten thousand other lovers and not one could possibly come within a fraction of her.

So, seven consecutive Wednesdays and we had burnt off seven zillion sex calories and counting, up, up, up.

Then, unable to make our eighth date, Hev sent along a friend to take her place. Vic is even taller than Hev and has Italian blood in her. In bed she is quite tender and gentle but can build passion to an extraordinary degree.

In all honesty, Vic might even be more beautiful than Hev (if such a thing is remotely possible).

She's not quite as assertive, but she is exceptionally persuasive.

She is without putting too fine a point on it, explosively good.

And she never told me she was the CEO at WYB until the morning after.


By now, as we move on to Chapter One, on top of eight Wednesdays at Hev's I have had a whole bonus weekend with her and a very sultry threesome with her and Vic. Oh yes, I've also agreed to a weekend away with my ex, who up until recently wasn't speaking to me.

And Vic has told me the two of us are going to have an affair. Forget about her husband and the kids (kids!), we are going to have an affair.

End of.

Chapter One

Without blowing my trumpet too loud, I have always considered myself to be unreserved. That is to say I'm no shrinking violet. But as far as putting thoughts into actions goes, Vic puts me in the shade.

Perhaps that's why she's a super-performing superstar exec and I'm a mere desk jockey.

Perhaps that's why she's mega-rich and I'm a relative pauper.

Or perhaps I'm reading too much into the meaning of life and everything.

Here's an example of her ultra-efficiency.

Shortly before seven Thursday morning, Hev's disobedient birds off on an early chorus, Hev off brewing coffee. Vic and I were still cuddling in Hev's bed when she suddenly suggested we met up again . . . meaning me and her, as a twosome.

'I don't do secret affairs,' she told me. 'But for you I'll make an exception.'

And then there I was, ten thirty that same morning, being summonsed into my boss's office.

Before I go any further I'll apologise about the way I portray my boss. Normally I like my bosses; I've even fucked a couple of them . . . in a matey-matey, chummy sort of a way. I can't see that as a possibility for Gary. As I have said before, he gives arseholes a bad name.

Chances of me fucking him are as negative as Antarctic temperatures.

All truth be told, I'd fuck a dead penguin before him.

And that's with sincere apologies to dead penguins the world over.

Where was I?

Right; ten thirty and called into Gary's office: for once he was smiling and, copping a load of the girl in there with him, I was all on board.

Fit or what!

As an aside I'll reiterate that I like girls, full stop. The few guys I like fit into a narrow band but I am into girls of all colours, shapes and sizes. Back in my uni days I'd even had a spell when I'd gone for girls who were . . . well, less-than physically attractive.

Ugly, manly, flat-chested . . .

Call it what you will, I'd had my spell and I'm not ashamed. A girl doesn't have to look spectacular to feel spectacular, does she? And some of those ugly, manly ones were nothing if not awesome in bed.

Yes, in bed; between the sheets where eagerness is all that matters.

And forget my views on Gary . . . or suspend them at least. For once he really was smiling and in an expansive and warm sort of a mood.

'Thank you for sparing us a moment Katrina,' he gushed. 'This is Nina, Ms Hanson's PA.'

Given the ID I recognized the blonde instantly.

'Nice to meet you,' I said.

And was I fuck joking. Nina was beyond beautiful. She made Jessica Stam look like a wallflower. That hair of hers!

Believe you me, she must have put Vic's "don't screw the crew" maxim to a test. Nina was a large step beyond dynamite. I know I keep exaggerating and I swear I'll stop.

But like wow. If ever I get important enough to warrant a PA I'll get one just like her.

And I certainly won't have any maxims concerning my crew. Not negative ones, anyway.

'Well hello,' Nina said, her eyes drilling me, charming me and doing things eyes should never do to me. 'Ms Hunter has told us good things. That's why we need you so urgently.'


The cover story was that capable IT cover was required for Victoria's visit to Croydon on Tuesday morning.

'Ms Hunter recommended you very highly,' Nina assured me. 'Between the three of us and off the record, Victoria isn't so hot on IT issues. And Tuesday's meeting is important. She needs support. No, she really does need you.'

'What is this meeting all about?' I blundered.

'God only knows,' Nina replied. 'She'll explain in detail as you travel down. All I know is that it's a partnership thing. Last time Victoria went down to see her opposite number she was set upon by a fleet of technical experts. This time she wants back-up.'

'And I happen to agree with Ms Hunter,' Gary chipped in. 'You have a wide band of experience in all sorts of business sectors and with every IT system going. I'm sure you can deal with anything that might crop up.'

I frowned at him.

'Seriously,' he said. 'You know all the answers and aren't afraid to speak your mind.'

How convincing was that, on both counts.

'Tuesday morning,' I said tentatively.

'You'll fly down on Monday afternoon,' said Nina, 'and overnight somewhere nearby. Then you'll fly back on Tuesday. It won't take a whole day out of your day-to-day schedule.'

'We'll talk about your schedule later,' said Gary, his eyes on Nina's tits (as were mine more often than not, if the truth be told). 'When I have the times I'll credit you with lieu days.'

I understood that right enough. Unlike some other employers WYB didn't pay short-term contract employees overtime. Instead they gave time off in lieu and, at the end of the contract, paid up in cash. Arsehole as he was, Gary and I had an understanding about that. Already, not halfway into my term, I'd "accrued" a month's worth of holidays and lieu.

Well face it; I was working to earn to go on an extended holiday. I wasn't going to take days off in the meantime, was I?

'So,' Nina said brightly, smiling wider than ever, 'have we got a goer?'

Confused beyond all reason, nodding assurances and saying platitudes, I retreated to the safety of my own territory, slumping onto the swivel chair behind my desk.

My inbox flashed at me . . . insistently.

Automatically, I opened it.

Message one was from Victoria Hanson.

"Hope that went well," it read. "And I hope you're bringing a toothbrush."

Omigod, this was her way of getting us together.

And what a fast worker she was. Half a morning and she'd fixed everything already including two flights. She was CEO material without a doubt.

Fingers trembling like never before, I responded.

"I'm in shock. I don't even know where Croydon is and I'm out of my depth. Help!"

Vic's answer came back swiftly.

"Croydon's in South London. You can't really miss it. Never mind the whereabouts; we're having an affair. Remember? I've got us somewhere nice to stay. Don't think about it, just say yes."

Call me useless but I didn't think about it.

No, I just typed in "yes".

And then, before I could have second or third thoughts, I sent my message.

Chapter Two

So on to Friday and my date with Dave (aka Davina, a woman who I had lived with on more than one occasion). In all honesty I've lost track of the number. All I am sure of is that we had hooked up together as many times as we had split up.

Well, up to that Friday we had. Now we were rekindling our friendship but not the co-habiting. Or so I kept telling myself. Whatever we were doing, I must admit it felt like a new beginning.

Make that yet another new beginning.

Not that I was in the mood for wimping out.

Usually I describe Dave by comparing her with Velma from Scooby Doo. In many ways that's less than accurate. Dave never wears short skirts or turtleneck sweaters. Okay, so her hair is a match for Velma's by colour, if not style, but . . .

Well, it's the glasses, isn't it? Taking her body part by part, I can't come up with another similarity.

So maybe my powers of description are crap. Maybe I can't really see beyond the obvious.

Maybe some things are beyond explanation.

I believe I implied earlier that I'm a girl of the world. True, true, true! I really love having sex.

Love it, love it, I love it!

And having sex with Dave is as good as it gets. Who cares if she sometimes goes off on a track of her own?

Not me. I tended to like her tracks, wherever they happened to lead.

Velma's thick-rimmed glasses, bobbing inside my legs as her tongue lovingly lashed my labia . . .

Yes, yes, yes!

But that was all anticipation, wasn't it? We had history, and lots of it; lots and lots and not all of it featuring happy endings.

Seeing her again had thrown me, and this is God's own truth. Our last split had been quite brutal and seemingly final. Yet a couple of chance meetings in the Busfeild Arms and there we were, off for a weekend in the Lake District.

And there I was, nervous as a whore in church.

As if I ever did churches!

Dave picked me up at five o'clock outside my latest digs. Finishing as per usual at four thirty on a Friday I had run home, swiftly changed and was waiting for her outside, travel bag in hand. Don't ask why but I did not want her to see inside my rented hovel.

Maybe it was because her East Morton cottage was pristine.

Anyhow, she picked me up at five on the dot (never even a second late; not her) and off we went, me admiring her brand-new Zafira.

'A bit bigger than the Mini,' I said.

'I like the altitude,' she replied.

And I laughed. The vehicle wasn't really high off the ground but gave the impression it was. It also gave the impression of strength and security. I liked it, even if Dave was driving like the proverbial bat out of hell.

Not that speeding was ever likely to get us there much quicker. The roads were busy even though we bypassed Keighley and Skipton and headed into the (supposedly) quiet North Yorkshire wilds. No, speeding wasn't really a possibility.

At first our conversation was, to say the least, stilted. We'd lived together a few times, remember? We knew each other inside out and had argued big style. Tensions were simmering not too deep under the surface.

Walking on eggshells or what?

Sporadic as it was, we made the effort and, avoiding touchy subjects (such as my travelling habit) we got along decently enough. And, around maybe quarter past six, we reached Ingleton. Without asking me in advance, Dave turned into a large car park outside of a pub.

'I urgently need to eat,' she said, 'and I bet you urgently need a pint.'

I glanced up at the pub sign. 'Normally I'd prefer wine,' I said, 'but they've got Black Sheep, and that's my favourite beer.'

'You'd have said that whatever sort of beer they were selling.'

The earnest way she spoke made me laugh. A second later so was she and, miraculously, the ice between us was broken. In fact I even dared to kiss her before we went inside.

Were we suddenly back on track or what?


Planning a weekend walking in the Lakes is always a gamble. Planning a weekend walking there in March is to say the least, hit and miss. Replete with steak and chips and, in my instance, three delicious pints of bitter (Dave had Britvic orange), we pressed on.

And the weather closed in nastily.

When we left Ingleton it was drizzling heavily. You know the sort: that Peter Kay stuff that really wets you through. By Kendal there was a touch of sleet under Dave's wipers. And, when we got to Windermere and set off uphill towards the Kirkstone Pass, it was actually snowing.

That Beast from the East hadn't gone away after all.

Bloody Putin! Why couldn't he leave us alone and pick on the French. Or better still, Germans.

(Please accept my apologies to any Gallic and Germanic readers; and to any Russian ones, too. I didn't really mean it. In my opinion aggression should be kept to the football or rugby pitch. Failing that cricket is a great solution. It keeps those Aussies and South Africans in order after all, even if we do occasionally have to let them beat us.


The Queen's Head is maybe three miles up the hill. And by up I mean up. As we inched our way to our goal the snowline was maybe half a mile beyond Windermere. That is to say we then were faced with two and a half miles of slush which rapidly changed to packed ice.

Dave's driving was excellent. I only had ten close calls as far as heart attacks were concerned. Or was it more like thirty?

Anyway we at last pulled up on the car park and trudged our way indoors.

And what a delight it was to be out of the weather. I'd seen publicity claiming the pub had been in operation since the days of Queen Elizabeth (meaning the first one, not our current monarch). So, as good as four hundred years of feeding and watering hungry wayfarers. Four hundred years! If only the Kirkstone Pass Inn couldn't claim over five hundred . . .

Not that too many folk were going to get to the Kirkstone Pass Inn that evening. It was a few more miles uphill and the pass was as good as closed already.

Taking charge, Dave announced our presence at reception. Within moments we were in a room with a four-poster bed, cooing and gasping in admiration.

Say what you will, when it comes to impressing visitors the Brits are top drawer. Our friends over the Channel might possibly match us but everyone else trails in our wake. I'm talking common or garden here. Obviously Dubai and Lost Wages can super-impress, but at sixty quid a night?

Increasingly expensive as it is, in my opinion Britain and France still lead the world when it comes to affordable quality accommodation. And, of course, our classic pubs have history behind them.

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byLimeyLady© 10 comments/ 11952 views/ 9 favorites

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