Heathers Hectic Weekend Pt 03

Chapter Sixteen

(Saturday 27th April 2002)

Naz woke to find herself entwined with Heather's naked body, which was as pleasant an awakening as she could remember. Hev was still snoozing so, seizing the opportunity, she kissed her on the tip of her nose. Then she kissed her eyelids, one by one.

Heather was unbelievable in bed, she decided. She was tireless and endlessly inventive. Naz wanted to sleep with her more often . . . like maybe every night.

As if that was going to happen!

Heather's little digression with Majid had been forgiven. In that part of her mind where Naz weighted up pros and cons a sort of balance had been achieved. Put simply: she wasn't going to rock the boat. Heather was a grown woman who liked no strings sex and didn't do relationships. In fact she had the same view on sex and relationships as Naz had had herself.

Before she'd discovered how good sex could be with a woman.

I'm not going to fall out about Majid or anyone else, Naz thought. If I can't have her exclusively then at least I'm going to have some of her. Half a loaf is better than none.

She ran her fingers through Hev's mane of black hair, relishing the feel of it, lifting a handful up to her face and inhaling, smelling apples. And then wickedness overcame her. Untangling herself as subtly as possible, she moved down the bed.

One of Naz's favourite fantasies had her being woken by the tip of a lover's tongue, already most of the way along the road to a cum. She stared at Hev's pussy before kissing her clit as delicately as she could.

Hev sighed and stirred, but only slightly.

Naz kissed her there again . . . and again and again.

Enjoying herself immensely, she transferred her attention to Hev's outer lips, lightly licking, going for the slow build-up.

'That's nice,' Hev breathed. 'That's so, so nice.'

So much for the master plan, she was awake already!

Undeterred, Naz kept on licking.

Half a loaf is better than none, she reminded herself.

'I'll do you next,' Hev breathed. 'Then we'll have to do our chores.'

Naz had no idea what she meant and at that moment didn't care. Her efforts had been rated as "nice" and her own excitement levels were rising and rising. She'd worry about chores later.

Much later.

*****

'Wakey-wakey Alex; it's shower time.'

Alex was stretched out on Naz's battered settee. His eyes were superglued together and a parrot had crapped on his tongue. No, a constipated gorilla had crapped on his tongue, twice at least. He tried to sit up and immediately wished he hadn't. His hostess's hands hadn't been as healing as he'd thought.

He groaned pitifully. He'd felt bad last night but now he felt as if he really had gone fifteen rounds with Apollo Creed; fifteen very violent rounds . . . losing every one.

Heather and Naz were grinning at him.

'Rough?' Heather enquired. 'You shouldn't have set into the brandy so heartily.'

'I think I have got broken bones after all,' he replied, sighing again, pitifully this time.

'Nonsense,' said Naz. 'You're just feeling sorry for yourself. A warm shower, a bit more witch hazel and you'll be as good as new.'

'I don't think I can get up, never mind stand under a shower. And where is it, anyway? Upstairs?'

'Of course it's upstairs.'

'I can't manage stairs.'

'Yes you can,' said Heather. 'You can with a little help from your friends. That's Naz and me, if you haven't guessed. We're going to cart you up there, shower you and then put you in Naz's bed. Then she's going to nursemaid you while I sort out Spider.'

Alex looked at her. She was in Naz's bath robe again: nothing else; just the robe. Naz was even more provocatively clad; she only had on skimpy knickers and bra.

'These are our showering uniforms,' Heather said brightly. 'We did consider giving you a bath, but it's quite a narrow one. We might not be able to get you out again.'

Alex hardly heard her. 'Sort out Spider?' He shook his head. 'What do you mean by that?'

'He's obviously looking for us, even if he doesn't know our names. But he knows what we look like and he knows where to find us. I bet he's planning to be on campus on Monday, tracking us down. So I'm going to get in there first, aren't I, Naz?'

'Don't ask me,' Naz said, pulling a face. 'You're keeping me in the dark, remember?'

'So I am.' Heather grinned. 'It's for your peace of mind. And it's not at all risky. I hope.'

'Heather,' said Alex, 'whatever you do, don't go anywhere near Spider.'

'I don't intend to be recognized. Now then, are you going to shift your ass or am I going to have to lift you up myself?'

Alex frowned. Naz had provided him with covers last night but he was naked underneath them. 'Can't I put my trousers on first?'

'Sorry,' the Asian girl said. 'I put everything in the wash.'

Oh well, he thought, at least I'm not showing myself up by having a hard-on. My dick's as out of it as the rest of me.

He wouldn't have been able to stand unaided but, once he was on his feet, he wasn't too unsteady.

'Okay,' said Heather, 'You support him, Naz, in case his knee gives way. I'll follow on behind, ready to catch him if he falls down the steps.'

Somehow, grumbling all the way, Alex made it up the staircase and into the bathroom. Naz kept her arm round him while Hev turned on the shower and satisfied herself that the water wasn't too hot.

'You're not going to manage on your own in there,' she announced. 'So we'll come in with you after all.' She shrugged off the gown and took over supporting duties. 'Get your kit off, Naz. Show us your so-sexy bod.'

Alex only glanced at Heather. She looked utterly beautiful as always. Even so, he wanted to see Naz. The girl really did have a so-sexy bod. He liked everything about it. No, he liked everything about her. And as for her eyes . . .

Her eyes were dark brown, almost black and possessed a life of their own. They seemed to reflect every ray of light going, in an intriguing, liquid-silvery way. Now, as she unfastened her bra, those amazing eyes were fixed on his.

And there went the lack of a hard-on!

'Good to see the wedding tackle's still working,' Heather said to him. 'That's as good an impression of Blackpool Tower as I've seen in a long while.'

Both naked, the girls escorted him into the shower. Alex guessed they had agreed roles in advance because, without exchanging a word, Heather propped him upright and Naz started to gently wash him.

Oh my God, he thought, just before he lost the ability to think. What wouldn't a red-blooded guy pay for an experience like this!

Chapter Seventeen

(Saturday 27th April 2002)

Rachael woke wondering when she'd last shaved. Officially, she shaved every other day. In practice it probably happened every three or four days. Right now, half past seven on Saturday morning, she'd lost track.

Dearie me, she grinned. The things I wake up worrying about.

Ever practical, she put her hand under the covers and had a feel. Must have been Wednesday, she concluded. She was at that stage where she definitely had stubble but it wasn't too scratchy. In fact she was at that stage where the slight scratchiness was a turn-on. Maybe she was a weirdo, but she liked going down on a girl with slightly scratchy stubble.

Having time to kill . . . and seeing as her hand was there anyway . . . she started to jill, her heart rate picking up immediately, pumping blood where it was needed. Beneath her deft fingers her labia were already swelling and juices were flowing. Keeping her attentions strictly external and avoiding her clit as much as possible, she let her mind wander.

University had been the sexual playground she'd expected it to be. No, it was better. For the first year or so she'd really let herself go. To be honest she'd behaved like a tramp. Nowadays, of course, she'd matured. Nowadays, instead of a never-ending string of flings, she showed some restraint. That is to say she was a single girl with five . . . no, make that six . . . occasional lovers. Okay, so flings hadn't been entirely consigned to history, they did still sometimes enter the equation, but relatively rarely.

Ingrid wasn't a fling. Not anymore. Rachael had classed last weekend as an enjoyable one-off, like a never-to-be-repeated special offer. Her unexpected birthday treat. She hadn't been making a booty call when she rang Inga the other day; she really had been in search of a drinking partner. Not that she'd refused the opportunity when it so wonderfully arose . . .

Nobody in her right mind would refuse an opportunity with Inga.

Rachael's pussy was throbbing quite alarmingly. She didn't want to go off on a hair-trigger so she stopped her external caressing and slid two fingers inside herself. She had more self-control when she did herself inside rather than out; much more self-control.

Grinning again, she went back to Wednesday afternoon. What a pleasant surprise that had been. And Ingrid wanted to do it again next Wednesday! She had even proposed they had a sort of friends with benefits arrangement between now and the end of term. Being a friendly type herself, Rachael had agreed.

It's hard work, she'd thought delightedly, but someone has to do it.

Energized by a simply enormous cum, Rachael leapt out of bed and bounced her Tigger-like way into the bathroom. After peeing and cleaning her teeth she frowned at her reflection in the mirror. She was not a vain person but had always been proud of her looks. Today she looked ever-so-slightly dodgy.

It was the hair, she decided; her crowning glory. Maybe it was time for a change? Maybe she should grow it out and go back to black? Or maybe she should shave it all off. She could have a few months as a traditional, anti-racist skinhead.

As if! She could readily shave parts of her head, but all of it . . .

Not a chance.

Her serious reflection made her laugh and stick her tongue out at herself. Normally she looked good; alternative, certainly, but good with it. As a teenager she'd modelled herself on 70s and 80s rockers. For a long while she'd fancied herself as Joan Jett, but she'd also put in a stint as a rather skinny Poly Styrene. Her very first effort though (the one she always went back to) had been Siouxsie Sioux.

Rachael had been overwhelmed when she found out Siouxsie had been a driving force in the Bromley Contingent. Coming from Bromley herself she had, as a thirteen-year-old in 1994, dearly wished she'd been born twenty years earlier. In the absence of a time machine she'd gone for the next best thing, dying her hair jet-black and severely spiking it with hairstyling glue.

She chuckled as she remembered the bollocking she'd got at school when she turned up with her new hair and lots of black eyeliner. That had been the first of many appearance-related bollockings, come to think about it.

The Mohican was a university thing. It had been blue to start with and was blue again now. But it had been a whole rainbow of other colours in-between. She would go for something different one of these days, but quite honestly didn't think there was a shade or tone she hadn't tried.

Bristles were the problem that morning. Rachael didn't mind a little five o'clock shadow on her pussy but couldn't abide it on the sides of her head. Armed with clippers and no guard at all, she quickly made herself respectable then hopped into the shower.

And she brought herself off again, still thinking about Ingrid.

Oh yes, she concluded. That's nice, nice, nice . . . to coin a phrase (or, rather, to steal one).

Rachael's daily "uniform" consisted of T-shirts and jeans. While she had often been accused of only having T-s featuring The Sex Pistols, she did have others: lots of others. She lingered over one with a picture of Blondie and the plea "Call Me", smiling wryly. Debbie Harry was one rocker she hadn't tried to emulate. Frankly, she'd never have pulled it off. Her allegiance to Siouxsie was unshakeable, but a thirty-year-old Debbie Harry . . .

Well, nobody should look that sexual. She shouldn't have been allowed.

Chapter Eighteen

(Saturday 27th April 2002)

Putting Debs back in her drawer, Rachael opted for a white T- with Aladdin Sane on it, complete with lightning bolt. David Bowie was, of course, a Bromley boy. She'd been overwhelmed to find that out, too. What were the odds, eh? A small town like Bromley producing both the greatest female rocker of all time and the greatest male rock idol.

(And three points for guessing where Poly was born. Yes, got it in one!)

Although she preferred his early stuff Rachael thought Bowie was ace, full stop. She was done with men . . . or so she believed . . . but if Bowie ever wanted to fuck her, she'd let him. Unless she had a prior engagement with Ms Sioux and a dog collar, that was.

Humming to herself (I Love Rock 'n Roll), Rachael set off for uni. Almost everybody else was off for the weekend but she had business to attend to: Girls' Society business.

Rachael had never felt maternal in any way . . . except when it came to her Girls' Society. When she had first come "up north" the society had been no more than the germ of an idea. She'd known there was a plethora of clubs and societies already in operation. Surely her angle had been covered, she'd feared.

But it hadn't. So she'd printed out notices and fly-posted them here, there and everywhere. She'd even stuck one dead-centre on the door of LGBT HQ. Now, three years on, she could see she had created a monster. And it needed her. On top of the two meetings a week she was contactable just about 24/7. At Christmas she'd gone home a week late on the twenty-third and come back a fortnight early, on the second of January. At Easter she'd gone home Maundy Thursday, come back first thing the following Tuesday.

Lots of women didn't go home at all during breaks. So she had to be there herself, just in case.

In case she was needed.

Today was Saturday Morning Surgery. She'd pinched the concept from the local MP and always got someone calling in, wanting help or advice. Usually there was more than just one; sometimes there were a lot. Personally, she liked the relaxed atmosphere of Saturday mornings. Personally, she liked being in demand.

Graduate and let it all go? Leave her baby in the hands of others?

Like fuck!!

Rachael was as good as certain to graduate cum laude. She had already sorted out funding for the next two years' study. Well . . . more like loans than funding. She'd end up even more in debt, but who gave a toss? Repayment of student loans was subject to salary, wasn't it? If she stayed as a student forever she'd never have to repay, would she?

Stopping in at Khan's Newsagents, she bought two bottles of Lucozade and, after a pause, two Mars bars. She was lucky. Her metabolism let her eat and drink whatever she liked, keeping her perpetually as a skinny girl with surprisingly big tits. Alice (her Girls' Society right-hand lady) wasn't so lucky. She could put on weight just by watching MasterChef.

Alice doesn't have to eat it, she told herself. I can easily do two.

The Union Bar was open as a bar eleven until eleven most days (eleven until midnight Fridays and Saturdays). The doors were, however, left open from eight of a morning, after the cleaners had done their thing. That left the premises available for three hours for anyone wanting to practice their darts or Space Invaders (yes, among all the glittery modern game options, they had Space Invaders . . . and Pac-Man, too). It also left them available for homeless societies to hold surgeries.

Alice was playing pool on her own, right hand against left. She looked worried, probably because her supposedly weaker left hand was down to two stripes; her mighty right had five spots on the table, all of them badly placed.

'Have a drink of this.' Rachael handed her a Lucozade. 'Maybe it'll work like Popeye and spinach.'

Alice had a great swig then groaned when she saw the Mars bars. 'Bitch,' she said, before taking one and demolishing it in a couple of ravenous bites.

And then she took a right-handed shot and potted the black, in-off via two cushes.

'That's your fault,' she said. Then, star-bursting into a grin, 'Play you for a pint?'

They were halfway through their game when the first "patient" arrived.

'Pretend to be me with your right hand,' Rachael suggested to Alice. 'Give yourself a chance.'

The patient was a second year student. Her landlord had just discovered that she was sleeping with her female flatmate. This revelation had offended him so much that he'd given them notice to leave, and short notice at that.

Rachael had heard this sort of drivel before. She knew the type. The bastard might be homophobic but was more likely a grasper. Sure he was offended, but only because they'd been using one room instead of two. Never mind the fact he'd been paid for both rooms, he could have crammed someone else in, got even more filthy lucre.

'Fill in the blanks and sign here.' Rachael passed the girl a generic form. 'By Monday lunchtime I will have a hundred signatures on it, guys as well as gals.'

The girl read the standard text. It said that the university as a whole abhorred the landlord's attitude. If he didn't withdraw his notice to leave, he would never get tenants again.

'Is that feasible?' the girl asked.

Rachael pointed to the very bottom line. It was underlined, in bold, and read: ASK MARK CARTER IF WE ARE JOKING.

'Who's Mark Carter?'

'He had five rental properties,' said Rachael. 'He pulled the same trick and we closed him down. I think he's stacking shelves at Morrisons, nowadays.'

'Respect,' the girl said. She held out her fist and Rachael bumped it.

Client number two was chatting with Alice. As she took her place Rachael noticed Heather arriving. She did not for one second take Heather to be client number three. If Heather had a landlord issue (and she didn't even have a landlord!), she would have sorted it out herself.

The latest client was the most awkward sort to deal with: a fresher who'd fallen out with her true love. Fortunate enough to be in halls, the girls were next-door neighbours. They had clicked very early on but, as of last night, they'd argued big-time. Heated words had been exchanged.

'Thank God for you,' the weeping girl said. 'Thank God for Saturday Surgery. I couldn't have waited until the next meeting. And I couldn't have fessed up in front of a crowd, anyway.'

'Look,' Rachael began, 'I can't speak for your girlfriend, but maybe she's chilled by now.'

'Not a chance.'

'So it's over?'

'Yes,' said the fresher amid more weeping. 'I can live with that. I've broken up before. It's the hatred I can't stand. How can she love me one minute, hate me the next?'

The estranged lover was also a member of the Girls' Society. Rachael . . . giving the usual rider that she couldn't guarantee anything . . . promised she'd "have a conversation". 'I don't know her so very well,' she said, 'but I know she's good at heart. I'll tell her you still want to be friends.'

Waving off another satisfied customer, Rachael joined Alice and Heather. 'Never seen you in Surgery before,' she jested. 'Have you miscalculated opening time or what?'

'Believe it or not,' said Heather, 'I need your assistance.'

Chapter Nineteen

(Saturday 27th April 2002)

Naz, with Heather's assistance, had thoroughly dried Alex before depositing him naked on her bed.

'Right then,' Heather had announced. 'I'm off to do the deed. Goodness only knows when I'll be back. I may be some time. Don't wait up for me. And don't do anything I wouldn't do while I'm away.'

Even Alex had laughed at that. Heather had fully dressed after the shower but Naz was only wearing a fresh pair of flimsy knickers. Although she was determined to give him more TLC, she was sexually aroused. So too was Alex. He'd now had two "below jobs" from her and probably fancied his chances of getting a third.