Victoria's Third Secret

Hev knew my weekend plans, of course. And she'd probably kept abreast of the weather reports. I was less informed about her plans. There was a certain smugness in her message, however; a smugness than demanded immediate investigation.

Ignoring the obvious IT reply route, I used my work landline and dialled her internal number; she picked up on the second ring.

'Hiya sexy,' she said, 'how's your bum for spots?'

'This is the Governor of the Bank of England . . .' I bluffed.

'What, on internal extension 4414? Leave it out, Kat. I know your telephone number just about as well as I know my own.'

'My foot linings are fine,' I informed her, ignoring her bantering tone best I could.

'Don't tell me, let me guess. All your exercise has been conducted horizontally.'

'Well, now you come to mention it, every road up there was blocked with snowdrifts. We hadn't a lot of alternative.'

'You poor, poor thing; what an ordeal it must have been.'

'You're laughing, Ms Hunter. What do you know that I don't?'

Hev laughed even louder. 'Remember that manicurist's card you gave me?'

'Lizzie the Lezzie!' I exclaimed before clamping a hand over my big gob, 'Hev, you never!!'

'Oh yes I jolly-well did.' More laughter from the other end of line: 'I couldn't possibly reveal all here and now, over the telephone but I'll fill you in on Wednesday. And by the way; I now know how to stop her talking. You'll like my cure.'

'Bet it's something rude,' I countered, my head spinning at the possibilities Hev could have come up with. Right then the list seemed endless.

'Dave will be miffed,' I said into an unexpected silence. 'She has her sights set on you.'

'I thought her sights were firmly set on you, Katrina.'

'She's broadened her horizons. And don't call me Katrina.'

Hev laughed yet again. 'Dave can set her sights on me whenever she likes. Assuming we're all of us adult, mature and all that.'

Even though I had my doubts I chuckled along with her. 'Yes,' I said, 'I'm sure we're all adult and very, very mature . . .'

*****

At this point I must stress that West Yorkshire Bank is not an exorbitant establishment. It's based in West Yorkshire, after all. Back in the day the Marketing Department's idea of "media exposure" only extended to sponsoring Sunday morning whippet racing in Myrtle Park's bottom meadow.

And before you ask no, Sky TV were not interested in covering whippet racing in Bingley. Even if they cover just everything else, they showed not one flicker of interest in that.

Maybe all the flat caps and roll-up cigs put them off.

I'm saying this now because Ms Hanson and I were whisked away from HQ in a Bentley. At least I think it was a Bentley. Apart from knowing Ferraris are red I'm not really up on cars. Identifying a Zafira for me is like a trainspotter copping the Flying Scotsman unexpectedly, not forewarned and in the middle of nowhere.

Not that I'm by any stretch of the imagination a trainspotter. To the best of my knowledge I've had no contact with a trainspotter in any way, not ever, not even unwittingly.

Even boyish Dave, burning with inner intensity, would never stoop to collecting engine numbers.

Or so I sincerely hope.

Moving swiftly on . . .

Vic filled in the drive from Bingley to Leeds Bradford Airport by telling me all about the people we were going to meet. She was very, very proficient in providing data. Impressed as I was with our transport, secretly wondering if the chauffeur was outsourced and paid by the hour, I drank in all she said, memorizing details. By the time we got out of the vehicle and stepped straight in to the VIP Lounge I probably knew as much as she did.

Well, as much as she did in that one tiny area of her vast expertise. Vic was . . . and is . . . in one word awesome. It ain't just her looks; her brain is the size of Canada. Her mental agility isn't too far behind, either.

What a classy, clever woman!

*****

As a somewhat experienced globetrotter I'm somewhat experienced to airports. I've been stuck in some of the finest all around the world. And I've been stuck in a few unbelievably crap ones too. I quite honestly daren't calculate the length of time I've spent waiting in airports. If you ask me a lot of flight schedules aren't even optimistic guesses or wild hopes.

The number of times I've waited in a seat or on a bench, sleeping with one eye open, hoping that my plane would appear back up there on the departure board again, simply hours and hours after suddenly disappearing off of it.

Well, we're talking months, not weeks or days; months.

And listen to me exaggerating again!

Any seasoned traveller with tell you that internal flights are best (South America and some parts of Africa very much excluded).For a start-off there's no pissing about with passports or visas. A girl who knows where she's at . . . one deliberately carrying only hand luggage . . . can be off of the plane and out of there in the blink of an eye.

Indeed a girl who knows where she's at can generally be out of there and sitting in the first taxi on the rank while most of her fellow-passengers are still trying to work out how to undo the luggage compartments over their heads.

Needless to say Vic was far cooler than most "fellow-passengers". She had our journey planned to the extent that, after ten minutes in VIP, we were boarding and, after three-quarters of an hour, we were deplaning.

And yes, we were first off, hand luggage in-hand, tits out and pointing towards the taxi rank.

Then she surprised me.

I don't think I've mentioned this before but Vic is normally exceptionally well-spoken, I'd assumed she'd been to the same sort of posh school as Hev and had had all the rough edges polished off her, probably with ground diamonds.

'Croydon, please,' she said to the cabbie, sitting beside me in the back, polite and precise as per always.

'Feckin' 'ell,' the cabbie replied. 'That'll take forever this time of day.'

'It's not that far,' she assured him.

'Yes it fecking' is. And I'll never get a fare back. Sling your hook.'

'I'll pay double. Then you won't need to find a fare back, will you?'

'That's not the feckin' point, is it? It'll take forever.'

The change in Vic was astonishing. 'You'd best get feckin' moving if it's gonna take a long time,' she growled, sounding like some scary character out of EastEnders. 'None of us are likely to live forever.'

'Not worth my while,' he said, glaring at her in the driving mirror.'

'We can go to Clerkenwell if you prefer,' she said, still matching his accent as she named a name that ended in "Hanson". 'I'm sure Daddy will help you rearrange your business plan.'

The cabbie's thick eyebrows scrunched up. 'All mouth,' he said.

Vic responded by holding up her WYB ID card. Simultaneously she dialled a number.

'Hi Dad,' she said into her mobile, all sweetness and light again. 'It's me, Victoria. I'm having a problem with a cab driver. Could you please speak to him for me?'

The change in the cabbie's attitude was dramatic. 'No need for that,' she said, starting his engine. 'It's a trek to your hotel, but we'll get there soon enough.'

An hour or so later, as the black cab drove off into the distance, 'I asked Vic what that'd all been about. Still back in perfect and precise English, she told me her dad had a "certain reputation".

'And Mamma's even worse,' she added with a giggle. 'In these parts her temper is as legendary as her looks. Very few people cross my dad even now, and nobody but nobody crosses Mamma.'

'And I thought you were so, so respectable.'

'I am. And so are my parents, these days. They're living in Highgate now, by the way. I only made mention of Clerkenwell to stir memories.' She laughed. 'If he hadn't given in so easy I would have suggested Bethnal Green. That always makes his sort think of you-know-who.'

By then I was totally lost. I guessed Vic was referring to London "faces" of old and supposed their reputations still lingered. And in truth I didn't really want to know all the ins and outs. The cabbie's expression when presented with the mobile had been more than enough for me.

'Fair do's,' I said. 'I take it you paid him the double.'

'Yes I did, and I tipped him a pony. Won't keep his north and south shut, but at least it'll keep him onside.'

I nodded towards the very impressive hotel entrance.

'Shall we go register?'

'Nina's already done it. We just need to collect our keys.'

That tickled me for some reason. 'Nina seems to be highly efficient,' I said. 'Can she do bookings in Tassie?'

'It might be a first for her,' said Vic, 'but she could do it, no probs.'

Chapter Seven

Turned out Nina had booked us a suite: two bedrooms either side of a connecting lounge. On her way to the bedroom to the left Vic suggested we unpacked and headed downstairs to "check out the restaurant".

'This place has five stars,' she said, 'so they should do a decent steak.'

I went into the bedroom to the right and put my travel bag on a conveniently placed chair. Should I change or would I pass as I was in such an exclusive eating hole?

While I pondered Vic came into the room. She'd discarded her short, stylish skirt and crisp blouse and looked utterly stunning in lacy white panties and bra.

'The steak can wait,' she said before devouring my mouth instead.

All right, all right, I'm exaggerating yet again. In initial sexual contact at least Vic is invariably soft, gentle and very, very tender. Therefore she did not devour my mouth: she kissed it softly, gently and very, very tenderly.

Even so, it was a kiss that would have knocked my socks off had I been wearing any.

Head reeling in lovely, delicious circles I fumbled for the catch of her bra, finding it on my twelfth attempt.

And oh rats! We were pressed so tight together it didn't instantly fall away. Trapped between us, it stayed more or less in situ.

Leastways it did until she broke for air. Then, sparing the wantonly discarded garment absolutely no attention at all, I made a grab for those torpedo-shaped tits of hers.

Heaven!

Well it was heaven for me. Judging by her moans and groans Vic wasn't exactly averse either.

Cue another long, passionate kiss. Yes, long and exceptionally passionate. Being soft, gentle and tender doesn't mean that passion isn't involved does it? It doesn't when Vic is involved, anyway.

And somewhere, in the most remote part of my mind, I recalled that change in the black cab. Vic had shown me a new aspect to her. And, reeling again as I was, I could equate that aspect to the way she was in bed. Passion growing, growing, forever growing . . .

Soft, gentle and tender gradually evolving into haste, hunger and wild impulsiveness . . .

Moving of its own accord, my trusty right hand slid downwards, finding her folds, exploring them in as intimately as I could, using only my fingertips, distantly wondering if her nerve-endings were reacting even half as gratefully as mine.

She came after perhaps five minutes. Or was it five centuries or five light years?

And, after several light years of sheer ecstasy, she laughed.

'The steak can wait,' she said again. 'Get naked and get on the bed.'

I obeyed and, for the second sex session in succession, I played the pillow queen while my lover took me to new levels of rapture.

Omigod, didn't she just! Using no more than her lips, fingers and tongue she brought me off time after time, again and again.

And (with no exaggeration at all . . . for once) I would have you know that my orgasm control was as good as it had ever been. After an embarrassingly early first cum I lapsed into intervals of say twenty minutes. Yes, twenty minute intervals and each cum bigger than the last.

Trust me, my tenth was simply titanic.

*****

Showered and dressed we finally checked out that luxury restaurant. And if we were giggling a bit it had nothing to do with the wine that accompanied our meals. No, it was down to us both being panties-less and bra-less.

Small things, I know. But try it for yourself. Being without amid a crowd of prosperous, pretentious folk who were almost certainly all with when it came to underwear . . .

Well try it. Then try arguing with me.

Back in the suite and I took control, muscling Vic into her room to the left. She resisted not at all. In fact as pillow queens go she made me seem reluctant.

Not that there was anything reluctant about either of us right then. Oh my, didn't we fuck!

At some stage, probably after Vic decided I'd had more than my share of giving, we switched to sixty-nine, regularly rotating positions and somehow gravitating into just-as-regularly-rotated tribs . . . in a very matey-matey sort of a way, of course.

Trust me, we both gave as good as we got.

And we both got plenty.

*****

Waking first next morning I found us side by side on our backs but snuggled. I couldn't move my right arm because it was trapped under and around Vic. It felt good, though. My blood supply was not cut off and holding her like that was nice.

So too was looking at her relaxed, staggeringly lovely features in the early light of a new day.

Not one to miss an opportunity, I used my left hand to tease her tits. Bringing her nips fully erect was a challenge that lasted all of a minute.

Still silently slumbering, Vic parted her lips. Sometime during the night . . . and please don't ask me just when . . . she'd ditched her glasses. Without them her face seemed strangely naked and, perhaps needless to report, everything naked about her looked better than best.

But that remote part of my mind was off again, analysing the movement of Vic's eyeballs behind her closed lids, comparing it with the movement of Dave's.

Word to the wise: I do not ever permit myself to compare lovers, not under any circumstances at all. I mean how unfair could it be in a worst-case scenario? Fucking Lover B while thinking about Lover A?

Such behaviour amounted to treachery.

It was as simple as that.

Okay, okay, sometimes I might be with Lover B and remember a great trick I had recently learnt from Lover A. And yes, I might then treat Lover B to a big helping of said trick. But I would never make comparisons. And I would never, ever, ever think sweet thoughts about one girl whilst busy fucking another.

No, never, ever, ever.

Dave wasn't so easy to dismiss, however. No matter how hard I tried to forget the image, I could still see her sleeping eyes moving as I took her higher and higher.

But I'm made of stern stuff, me.

No way was I ready to admit Dave was back under my skin.

I was me, Kat, the bravest of the brave, fiercely independent and free to do anything, anywhere and anytime.

Forcing away the unwanted image, abandoning Vic's tits, I reached for her pussy. And this time there was no fingertip search amid her lovely folds. No, this time I pressed straight in, finding her warm, wet and entirely as expected.

Vic's lower body automatically responded, inciting me in ever deeper.

Convinced I was thinking exclusively of her, I began to slowly piston my fingers, watching her so, so beautiful face all the while. By now Vic's eye movement could only be described as rapid and her breathing was noticeably heavier.

This was me, I reminded myself. Footloose, fancy-free and able to do anything I wanted to do.

Well, wasn't I?