tagLesbian SexSeducer or Seducee

Seducer or Seducee


I hadn't set out to do it. I had never thought about it or planned such a thing. It just wasn't me, it was not my thing, well it had never been until then. Something must have changed, but was it with me, was it circumstances or what?


I was Acting Head Copy Chief in a big ad agency. Acting, because I was not a full time employee, but a freelancer, as they call self-employed contractors in the ad business. Things were booming and the agency was stretched. With the typical lack of loyalty and 'sell yourself to the highest bidder' attitude of that crazy business, job jumping was rife and good employees were on a merry-go-round of moving from agency to agency. Hence the agency's need for an 'Acting Head Copy Chief.'

In my late thirties at the time I wasn't sure, but was beginning to believe that I was more than the bisexual that had enabled me lead an interesting sex life with both genders in my twenties and thirties. More and more recently, however, I was attracted to women. I still had the occasional 'lapse' usually after too much drink or weed and found myself waking up in a strange bed with a hairy, snoring and farting man, but these were becoming less frequent. Luckily, I was replacing them with more often waking up in my own bed with a soft, smooth, sweet-smelling woman in my arms.

Having been large busted since puberty I had become accustomed to the pros and cons of big tits. Yes, they attracted attention and at times really were like the honey pot that the bees of men flew around, but that's about the total of the pros. The cons are many and varied. Let me, though firstly explain what I mean by large busted. Firstly, it means that my G cup jugs each weigh around four pounds, well as far as I can determine by putting them one at a time on a weighing machine. It means I had to drop out of most sports. That is not just because when I run it hurts, but also because the view of them bouncing around is wild and attracts far too much attention. Another real downer is that men seem to equate the size of a girl's tits to her availability and horniness, but, alas women don't. So generally, the disadvantages outweigh the advantages and, but for one other pro I would have a reduction. The other pro? If they are big enough as mine are you can suck your own nipples and that's a fantastic facility for a single woman with a high sex drive that in the main she has to satisfy herself!

I usually worked from home. My flat on the top two floors of a four storey Victorian town house in Islington, just a mile or so north of the City of London was both my home and work place. It was certainly big enough and the great views over to Highgate and Hampstead in one direction and the City and Docklands in the other were highly conducive to the creative mind. The sort of word orientated mind needed to produce elegant plagiarism, which was the 'grift to the mill', for most copywriters and especially to me.

The flat was spacious and I had furnished and decorated it faithfully to the late Victorian times when it was built. I loved it and loved being there. Sometimes, I wouldn't leave my home for days and I had often remained there for over a week at a time. Being single and a freelancer my time was my own. I often think the most valuable commodity a person can have is control over their time and I had that. I could pretty much do what I liked when I liked.

Although the flat looked very Victorian I had all the latest hi tech gizmos. Fifty inch plasma TVs, laptops, iPad, iPods, iPhone and Blackberry, laser printer and scanner. I worked odd hours. My most creative time was late evening, that is if I hadn't drunk too much wine or puffed too much weed. So frequently, I would be emailing copy to my ad agency clients in the early hours of the morning between two and three. I rarely woke up before ten and often was still in bed at noon.

When on one of my 'stay in' recluses I would sometime not get dressed for days. For some totally unexplainable reason my best work was done in the nude or just wearing panties so the chair wouldn't be marked. Whether making myself feel rather horny by my nudity made my creative, as well as other juices flow or not I am not sure, but I certainly did some of my best work in the nude.

I hadn't wanted to take the job. I don't like the pressure of managing others and I don't like going to work. Working I don't mind. Hard work I relish, but I hate the corporate bullshit of companies, especially ad agencies. That, and it made me lose control over my own time and, of course having to get dressed, was why I was freelance. Oh yes, I also didn't like the macho, totally non PC way of agency life anymore. Whilst by no means a feminist, I do feel females are entitled not to be continually sexually or verbally harassed in the work place, but that is a concept that has not reached the ad business. That seems to be especially the case where thirty something, single women with big tits, long black hair with a few grey streaks and glasses 'who must be gagging for it', are concerned.

Mike, the MD and I went back a very long way. We went back so far that it was to a time when I still thought I was straight, although a little worried and curious. He was an account manager five or so years older than me and married. I was the junior copywriting dogsbody on a number of his accounts and had a variety of duties that after a few months included sucking his cock and letting him fuck my tits from time to time. We got on well.

"Look Tina, we're in deep shit," Mike said.

"So tell me something new," I replied into my mobile as I sat in my apartment naked apart from a pair of pale blue, lacy shorts.

He went on to tell me about the agency's staffing problems, the projects he had in process, the backlog of copy to be written and the new business pitches he had lined up.

"So why call me? You know I'll take all the work you want to give," I asked idly stroking my right breast with my fingertips.

As part of redefining myself as my forties approached and my sexuality was still at best ill defined, I had found chat rooms and from that, exchanging mails with people I met on there. Obviously, the content of both was rather, shall we say 'intimate and personal?' No, let's call a spade a spade, it was fucking horny, well most was, some was just pathetically pornographic and I quickly got away from that.

"You should write stories," one of the guys said in a chat room one day.

I had previously exchanged a few mails with him describing some of my sexual experiences. I found that interesting, quite sexually stimulating and strangely cathartic.

"I couldn't do that," I had said to him.

"Why?" He had persisted.

"If they were published someone who knows might see them."

"Not if you published them on Literotica," he suggested.

I looked it up, liked it, read some fantastic erotica and was on my way.

"I need help in the agency," Mike was saying.

I was only half listening for I was proof reading a piece I had just written for Lit. As I chatted to Mike, I was stroking myself and thinking of how I would masturbate when I finished on the phone. I even considered nit waiting to finish, I knew Mike would understand.

"Really?" I murmured probably sounding absent-minded as I read my lengthy description of my full, heavy, at the time, 36 G breasts which I was fondling as I read about them.

"Tina are you listening to me? I'm in deep shit and I need your help," Mike said, dragging me away from my sexual meanderings. I closed the story on my laptop and let go of my breasts, although they were still tingling and I had that lovely warmth of arousal all through my body.

In the end I agreed. I would do three months, pretty much full time. I would spend the mornings in the agency, the early afternoons with clients, but would generally leave to be home by four when I would then continue working from home. We agreed a great package, including a Porsche 911, my dream car.


I was two months into the contract. It was working well. I had sorted out many of the problems, had called on a number of old contacts to overcome the copy backlog and do the pitches and had recruited a few key creative and production staff including four copywriters, one of whom was a senior writer, earmarked as my replacement.

I was running a weekend workshop for the copy team. I had set it up at a lovely country hotel, not far from Windsor, just outside London. The arrangement was to meet for dinner on the Friday evening and discuss the loose agenda I had prepared. The overall objective of the workshop was to improve both the quality, but as importantly the speed with which we turned copy projects round, at present it was too slow and cumbersome.

On the Saturday morning we would discuss the overall problem as a group, have a brainstorm and develop loads of potential ways to improve, irrespective at that stage or their practicality. We would then break into four smaller groups of three and investigate the suggestions and come up the best three workable ideas from each group. Later, maybe the next day, these would be presented to the main group and fully discussed with a view to developing one from each group into a workable system the next morning.

The back end of the Saturday afternoon was to be one-to-one counselling and coaching sessions pairing the more senior with the more junior team members; this was recommended by the training facilitator I had invited. He paired us by the most experienced with the least experienced and so on. I was thus paired with the second least experienced writer, Emma.

She was twenty two or so and had just left Bristol University with a solid 2:1 in English and Psychology, a perfect combination for a copywriter in the ad industry. She was on the company's graduate trainee scheme and would spend a time in different departments eventually finding a permanent home with a job in a department that was most suitable for her. She had spent a few months in accounts, which was where all the grads started, and had been in copy for just a few weeks.

I knew that she was very popular throughout the agency, particularly with the creatives, but also she seemed to making quite an impression on the suits in account management. But then, when you looked at her golden blonde hair, her blue eyes, her pretty face, her youthfully rounded figure and slender, tanned legs, it wasn't hard to see why, and I realised a little ashamed of myself, I did look at them quite a lot. When you added in her bubbly personality, her smiling, chatty, friendly demeanour, her willingness to help and her apparently strong work ethic, the reason for her popularity and why most of the department heads, me included, were already making overtures to capture her for their group was pretty obvious.

The afternoon had gone well and we were onto the last session, the one-to-ones. Emma and I found a quiet spot in an empty room off the bar. We talked about her career aspirations and why she had chosen to come into advertising and then she had shown me her copy portfolio. Her writing, though inevitably a little naïve, was sharp and punchy and showed a lot of promise, which I told her.

"Oh really Tina," she said leaning forward and grabbing my wrist, "You really mean that?"

"Yes absolutely Emma, you have a good style," I replied turning and looking at her. As she was leaning forward, the long sleeved, blue and white hooped, low cut top had gaped a bit and my eyes confirmed what I had thought earlier that she wasn't wearing a bra.

"I do appreciate that, for really that is what I want to do," she went on slowly and seemingly, well to my mind at least, reluctantly letting go of my wrist, but not straightening up. That made me gulp for her, what looked like perfect, little tits were almost completely on view down the front of her top.

"What write copy?"

"Yes, just like you do."

"You enjoy writing then?" I asked.

"Yes I love it?"

"Do you write for pleasure then?"

"Yes some short stories, essays, some script work, that of course never gets published; all the usual sort of stuff."

We laughed at that and she asked.

"And you Tina, what do you write for fun?"

I could hardly tell her that I exchanged e-mails with men I met in chat rooms and that I wrote erotic stories, both of which served as my masturbation fodder or that I published them on Literotica so I said.

"Oh this and that usual stuff."

She had bent one leg and slid one foot under her bottom on the settee with the other foot on the ground. Her slender legs were very tanned and I could see lots of both for she was wearing one of those micro, hipster denim skirts. She was also wearing dark blue panties, I noticed, gulping again.

I went through some work stuff with her, before we started chatting more generally about our lives, more girly stuff really.

Looking back later, I was surprised at how easily the conversation had flowed and how much I had opened up to her, something I rarely do and had never done before to a girl some fifteen years plus my junior.

I told her about my early days in advertising as a copywriter in the late eighties when I was about her age. As we chatted about that I even went as far as saying.

"Now don't you do this and keep it to yourself, but I committed the cardinal ad industry sin of fucking the client."

"Really?" She smiled, "How exciting, did it cause problems?"

"No not really, because I almost married him." I refrained from telling her that the client I fucked was a woman.

We both laughed at that.

"So you're the footloose and fancy free bachelor girl are you?" She asked.

"Well I wouldn't go that far."

Smiling she said. "Well how far would you go?" before pausing and adding. "To win business?"

As she said that she leaned forward to look at a paper on the coffee table. I was leaning back on the settee and watched as her top slid up her back. The waist of the hipster skirt was well down on her hips so I got another view of the blue lace around her waist, which confirmed that she was wearing a thong. As she leaned forward so her hip moved a little and pressed against the outside of my jean covered knee.

"Are you in a relationship Emma?" I asked to her back.

"No, I've had a few, but kids my age bore me and older blokes tend to get too intense or they're married."

"Yeah I know what you mean," I replied, quite liking the feel of her hip against my leg, but realising I shouldn't leave it there, so I moved a little.

"You reckon you'll ever marry?" She asked suddenly as she leaned backwards until her shoulders were against the back of the sofa, with her body stretched out and her legs under the table. This time her shoulder came in contact with my arm and her breasts and nipples were clearly outlined by the thin material.

"I don't know, but at present I have no desire to get mixed up with any men."

"Why not?" She asked as she turned her face and looked at me.

"Well I just don't want the emotional attachment and dependence."

"Just the sex?" She smiled.

"Well I'm not so sure on that either really."

"What, no sex?"

I laughed, "Actually not much no, but to be truthful Emma, I find that difficult without some form of emotional involvement."

"And that you don't want so you have a classic Catch twenty two don't you?" She asked seeming to press her arm more firmly against mine.

"Yes I suppose I do."

"And I know precisely what you mean and how you feel Tina, I am a little like that myself."


"Yes, I sometimes go weeks even a couple of months without."

I laughed. "You need to be careful, young lady, that can be bad for you?"

"Well you don't seem to do too badly on it do you, and you go ages don't you?"

"Well yes that's true I do, if you mean what I think you do?"

She looked right into my eyes with an assurance that belied both her age and her organisational position in relation to me as she coolly said.

"I meant going ages without having a man Tina, without having sex."

I felt things were getting a little too intimate, too open and too frank. I knew that I shouldn't be doing what I was doing, thinking what I was thinking and hoping for what I was hoping.

Would you like a drink or something?" I asked.

"I'd kill for a beer."

"Good idea any type?"

"Becks preferably, but anything will do," Emma replied looking into my eyes and smiling.

I returned with two beers in the bottles and sat alongside her on the settee. She was still pretty much stretched out although her legs were bent at the knee and her bare feet, she had removed her shoes, were on the ground. Her skirt had risen just about as far up those beautifully tanned legs as it could and her top had also been stretched upwards leaving a three or four inch band of bare flesh round her waist.

She turned to look at me, our eyes met.

"So where were we?" I asked.

She stared right into my eyes and without smiling said quietly.

"Yes Tina, where exactly were we? Something to do with not having men very often I think."

Before we could follow that avenue the training facilitator came and advised it was time to stop and get ready for dinner.


Seeing my bloated nipples in the dressing table mirror as I stood there in just my jeans as I got ready to shower and change for dinner, my mind went back to when I was waiting to go to university. It went back to when I was experimenting sexually, when I was examining my sexuality, when I was finding myself, when I was originally 'engineering' my life-style and sexuality.

I found myself recalling the feel of a breast in my hand, a female breast. I was remembering the sensations that raced through me as I cupped one, as I stroked, caressed, squeezed and rubbed it. The feelings that gave me, the emotions I experienced as I did that to a breast that was not mine, to a breast that was another woman's, yes the feelings I got as I started to make love to another female.


The dinner was fun. We were all there dressed just slightly more smartly than for the training, well the females were. At least the guys seemed to have changed their tee shirts! Most of us were wearing jeans, what else? Emma, though, was still wearing the ridiculously short skirt, but had put on one of those sparkly tops, with very thin spaghetti straps. I was wearing my tight jeans, which were slightly, but not overtly hipster, but which clung to my bum and pubic mound like a second skin. They were tucked into black, knee-length boots, very fashionable, I was assured by Marie Claire. I had slipped on a threequarter sleeved, white cotton, scooped neck tee which I was wearing outside the jeans. Over it I had a short cardigan with three buttons, which were done up. Nice package, I had thought, as I looked in the mirror just before leaving my room to go down to the bar. As always, though, my breasts were the dominating feature of my appearance and madly I found myself wondering whether Emma liked big or small ones. This was unusual for me as I rarely looked at woman as potential conquests, that just wasn't me, I didn't do things like that!

As usual with a bunch of advertising creatives, all the arrangements quickly went to pot. We stayed in the bar far too long, drank too much and didn't sit down to eat until nearly nine thirty. God knows what the other diners thought as we drank loads of wine, got louder and louder and continually changed places as about half the team in twos or threes went out for a smoke, well I think it was just that, but who knows?

At one time Emma was sitting next to me. The men had sloped off to the bar and there was just her, me and three other girls still at the table. We chatted, but to be truthful I was a little pissed and I could not recall just what we talked about. I do remember, though, saying something about it now being all girls together and one of the others at the end of the table said.

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