I Want Your Sex

Foreword

Hello I'm here again, Heather Hunter reporting for duty, ready, willing and able. And please don't worry about me being long-winded this time around. I was extremely nervous when I first put my thoughts down in writing. Tentatively rereading my rashly written Loving Made Easy, it shows.

Good grief; doesn't it just!

This time that ain't gonna happen.

Right now, my "literary virginity" no longer intact, I'm not nervous at all.

In fact right now I'm rather hot for it.

And that's whatever "it" might transpire to be. I still have tales to tell, and lots of them.

So here goes . . .

*****

Chapter One

I have seen a lot of vaginas in my relatively short life but Kat's is far and away the best. Forget all those raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens; her fanny will always top the list of my favourite things.

As if I care for raindrops on anything.

And as if I don't actively dislike cats.

"Kats" were different, though. I love everything about Kat. Never mind her in white dresses (and blue satin sashes), her being naked does it for me. Like every time, without fail.

There we were, yet another Wednesday night at Hunters Farm, and I was face-first between one of the finest pairs of legs in existence. Kissing, nibbling, nuzzling and generally having fun.

Yes, it was impossible for a girl to share a bed with Kat without enjoying herself. By then I'd lost count of the times I'd shared my pit with her. And trust me; the novelty hadn't worn off at all.

Well it wouldn't have, would it? Her repertoire of bedroom activities is extensive and her hunger for sex is bottomless. In many ways we could have been made for each other.

The taste of Kat's sex was particularly fine that evening. So was the feel of my tongue moving on her sweeter than sweet skin, our rhythms forever striving to match, forever pursuing new heights for us as a couple.

The smell of her was supreme. She smelt wildly exotic, like some fabulous orchid.

To complete the set of all five senses, her accompanying soundtrack was almost musical: groans, sighs and tiny yelps of appreciation punctuating soft yet urgent words of encouragement.

And, amazingly, for once she wasn't swearing like a trooper.

Not as much as usual, anyway.

In case you're wondering, there were no whiskers at all to be found on Kat's kitten. She'd shaved in anticipation. Down there she was as smooth as I was. She was self-lubricating too, big-time.

So was I, even though it was early on in proceedings and she had hardly laid a finger on me. We had only been at it an hour, you see. So far she hadn't had chance to lay anything on me.

So far the doing was all coming from my direction.

And how exciting was that!

Unaided by toys I'd already penetrated Kat with all my naturally available implements, and more than just once. But still I wanted more. And, as I pressed my tongue deep inside her again, I was rewarded with a gush of lady juice.

Nice, nice, nice!

Can there be anything better than making a girlfriend cum her socks off?

Not that Kat ever bothered wearing socks.

Think closer; think about your girlfriend trembling against you, billions of nerve-endings exploding, her fanny bucking onto your mouth, harder and harder . . .

Her soundtrack accelerating with the motions of her body, extremely urgently now, getting louder.

And louder and LOUDER!!

Then that final release; her screams, her yells, her cries, muscles contracting harder than hard as her hips thrust and thrust, as if she's riding the wildest bronco ever.

Yes, as if she's riding the wildest bronco ever known to any woman the world over.

That latest cum of Kat's was spectacular by any standards. I'd brought her off many times before, but that one was unquestionably special.

Where did they use to test A-bombs? Bikini Atoll, wasn't it? Apparently, after some of the very big explosions, the ground shook so hard it broke all of the measuring instruments.

Not that I approve of weapons of any description. Left to me I'd dis-invent knives and guns, never mind thermonuclear nightmares.

Even so, Kat came mightily indeed.

Let's just say I was glad there weren't any instruments attached to my bed that evening. And let's also just say the lady in question was by no means spent.

'Yes, yes, yes,' she urged. 'Don't stop! Whatever you do, don't stop!!'

As if I'd remotely dreamed of stopping!!

On I pressed, on and on, my tongue flicking hither and thither, moving as urgently at her renewed words of encouragement.

'Don't stop!' she cried unnecessarily. 'Whatever you do, don't stop!!'

Ten minutes later she came again, and even more spectacularly.

My only complaint was that I couldn't hope to swallow it all down. She genuinely came in gallons and gallons. There was simply too much to cope with. So I did my utmost to guzzle what I could, letting the rest flood over my chin and chest and breasts.

There really were gallons of it; hot, severely exciting and copious as heck.

It was akin being drenched in pheromones . . . pheromones only measurable in the squillions and zillions.

Nice, nice, nice!

'Hev,' Kat gasped, her lower body moving more urgently still, almost frantically, 'oh my God, Hev, yes, yes, yes!'

Flooded yet again, I stuck to my task.

So did Kat, wriggling and writhing, squealing and squirming. And I can't begin to explain exactly how much pleasuring her pleasured me. I like to make a fellow female cum; I always have and I always will. In a way I like to do that more than I like to cum myself.

Well, on second thoughts, maybe it's borderline. . .

Right then, at that moment, my senses in overdrive, a shapely ass bouncing on bedsprings under me, a totally hairless fanny pressing tight to my face, hot aromatic juices trickling over me, and on me, every last which way . . .

What was there not to like?

'More, more, more,' Kat begged.

Right, as if she needed to beg!

Chapter Two

Later, lots later, we took a timeout. That is to say I took a timeout and Kat looked at me as if I was losing my marbles.

'Omigod,' she said, crossing herself even though she had no truck with any sort of religion, not of any description, location or orientation, 'are you suddenly feeling your age?'

Ouch! I was only five years older than her. And I was by no means ancient.

Seeing her impish grin reassured me somewhat. The little tease was teasing me. Teasing was a major part of sex, no? So why not play along?

'No,' I replied, 'I'm suddenly feeling thirsty. You can get us wine if you want; it's cold pinot for me. You know where it is.'

Kat laughed shortly and sharply.

'Yes Mistress,' she said. 'Anything your heart desires, Mistress.'

I frowned as she got off the bed and headed for the door, her bare ass twisting and twerking.

'Make mine a large one,' I called after her.

Kat gave me the finger and left without another word.

While she was gone I wondered why she didn't accept how good she looked. In fact I wondered if she even realized. It was as if she had a blind spot when looking at herself. Once, when making a comparison with me, she had said she was like a colourless rag, waving in the wind. And she had done likewise comparing herself with others as well, most notably Victoria.

Fair one, that. Looks-wise Victoria was only matched by her "mamma", and Mamma was a simply divine cross between Sophia Loren and Gina Lollobrigida. Look 'em up online and go figure.

But Mamma aside, focusing on mere mortals, Kat didn't half scrub up well.

Crazy thing was, when asked to describe herself Kat (quite accurately) always says she looks like Kim Kardashian, invariably adding that she's "younger" and "taller".

She is invariably right as well. Although maybe not a dead ringer for Fancy Nancy, she certainly has all of the points of direct comparison. In other words she is younger, taller than and just as good-looking as one of the world's most desirable women.

And she thought that I eclipsed her!

Erratic logic or what!!

Kat returned from the kitchen looking better than ever. Well she would, wouldn't she? She wasn't just naked but was now bearing brimming wine glasses the size of goldfish bowls.

'Pinot for two,' I said in greeting, 'great minds think alike.'

She sat on the bed beside me and very deliberately spilt icy vino onto my right breast. Then, not giving me my drink, she leant in and licked most of the spill off of me.

And, coincidentally, she did a far better job of it than I'd done trying to lap up her lady juice.

'Lovely,' she said, finally passing me my glass, 'a superb vintage.'

I swigged a large mouthful, grinning as the coldness hit me, first savagely chilling the contents of my head and then warming the rest of me through and through.

That chilling was like having a spike drilled down into my brain.

The warming was heavenly.

Combined, the feeling was almost orgasmic.

Trust me; I do not say that lightly.

'A timeout before midnight,' Kat went on. 'Call the Guinness Book of Records.'

I shrugged. 'Call whoever you like,' I said, 'the night is still young. We have records to set, none of them regarding timeouts.'

She daintily sipped from her glass and eyed me curiously. Conscious that she had been less than her usual self that night, that she'd been a bit reserved, I asked if everything was okay.

Kat tittered girlishly. 'Priorities, priorities,' she said. 'Shag me first and then ask if I'm all right.'

She had a point but I wasn't about to admit it, not least because she'd (as per always) used an infinitely cruder word for "shag".

'You seem a little quiet,' I said tactfully. 'And you hardly touched your curry. If something's wrong please tell me.'

It was Kat's turn to shrug. I watched her beautiful breasts bounce as she did so. And my intake of breath was truly wondrous.

(In case I haven't mentioned it before, Kat's breasts are just AWESOME. I'm sure there might be someone, somewhere with a better pair but don't ask me how to find her. A billion photographers are no doubt on the mystery woman's trail and haven't found her yet. Trust me; if they had found her I would know. And so would the rest of the universe.)

'Don't worry,' Kat said now, avoiding my eye, 'I haven't got cold feet over Saturday.'

Thank God for small mercies!

Maintaining my calm composure, sipping dry white rather than slurping it, I assured my latest best lover that she had no issues with her feet. And that was gospel. It was only mid-March, still winter in the good old UK, but Hunters Farm's revamped heating system was state-of-the-art. Cold feet were not a possibility. Not in or on my bed. No way.

'What about Lizzie?' Kat asked. 'What can I expect?'

I frowned again at that. Usually I only ever tell all to Vic and Mary Rose. They expect nothing less from me. But telling all to anyone else seemed to be verging on betrayal.

There again, best intentions aside, I'd told Kat all sorts already. And the last thing I wanted to do was put her off.

'Lizzie's as mouthy and as flighty as you guessed,' I said carefully. 'But deep down she's innocent too.'

Kat finished her wine, deposited her glass on my bedside table and grinned at me. 'Innocent,' she said, 'tell me more.'

'I told you more than I should already.'

'No Heather, you sold her to me like she was hot cakes. Now I'm hearing a touch of reserve.'

'Not from me,' I countered firmly. 'You won't have a hotter cake than her.'

'Right, so she's weekended with you but she's innocent. Tell that to the marines.'

'Okay, so maybe she's only relatively innocent. Compared to some I could name.'

'Be more specific.'

'She'll spank but doesn't seem to want spanking,' I said, exceptionally treacherously. 'And I don't think she does anal.'

'No great loss,' said Kat, 'but you don't sound too certain.'

'I offered and she took no notice.' I shrugged again, hoping my boobs bounced as nicely as Kat's.

As if!

'Don't worry, I'll be gentle with her,' said Kat. 'And I'll see where we go.'

'Sounds like a plan,' I agreed. Then, suspecting I'd been a tad tentative, I added with much more conviction, 'Yes, it sounds like a plan.'

Kat glanced at my slyly. 'Do you want to know about Dave?'

I did, actually. The group of four of us had by chance experimented in all double combinations but two. Dave and I, Lizzie and Kat would complete the set of combinations. Saturday afternoon/night was due to correct the oversight. And I for one couldn't wait.

Dave was different to other girls. Dave had invaded my dreams, waking or otherwise. Dave was beyond merely different, Dave was drop-dead gorgeous . . .

Damn right I couldn't wait.

'Go on then,' I said as calmly as I could, 'twist my arm.'

'Put it this way,' Kat chuckled, 'anything you've done with me will be okay by her.'

That narrowed down my options not much at all.

'Fair enough,' said I, draining my glass. 'Now, where were we?'

Kat took my empty and plonked it on my bedside table, next to hers.

'I think I was about to sit on your face,' she said. 'Then we're going on opposite ends of that blue toy of yours: the two foot one that works for both of us.'

Put like that how could I argue?

'Agreed and doubled in spades,' said I, 'please proceed . . .'

Chapter Three

Normally I'd skip over a Thursday, except Thursdays in my part of the word are still held in high esteem. Once upon a time Thursdays were paydays, you see. According to older people at WYB a very beautiful woman used to go from department to department, handing out brown envelopes all stuffed with cash.

Except then as now beauty was very much in the eye of the beholder. Seen on a Friday night in the Kings that woman might not have caught a second glance. Seen on a Thursday morning, with her tray of little brown envelopes, she made Helen of Troy look like Medusa.

That was, by the way, the opinion of my older female colleagues. God only knows what the older guys said about her.

And that's all before my time, of course. I just like to listen to folk talk. Within West Yorkshire Bank I am considered to be "listening". I like that reputation and I'm proud of it. There again, I might just be a typical gossip.

Us Yorkshire farm lasses and that . . .

Apparently, back in the day, every third month at WYB there would be a performance bonus paid, sometimes as much as tripling the usual weekly pay, causing a knock-on sensation in all the local shops, pubs and restaurants.

And equally apparently, the local workforce being paid on Thursdays was a Bingley/Keighley sort of thing. In other towns workers had to do a full seven days before getting their meagre bundle of cash. In Keighley and Bingley the money was handed over roughly halfway through the week.

Maybe it was based on trust. Or maybe folk at our end of the Aire Valley stood up for themselves in a way others couldn't or wouldn't.

It's history now but legend has it that a Bingley nightclub known as Oakwood Hall was busier on a Thursday night than anywhere in Leeds, Manchester or Sheffield.

Yes, little old Bingley, outshooting the big shots.

As an aside, Oakwood Hall still exists, even if it isn't a nightclub anymore; it has reverted to being a hotel. We at WYB regularly book it for functions of all varieties. Long service, retirements, best-selling salesperson of the month/year/decade . . .

Trust me, you could not find a better venue for eating and drinking a night away.

And that's coming from a girl very well-experienced at eating and drinking her nights away.

The times I've staggered home from there, senses spinning and with the sun already high in the sky . . .

Where was I?

Oh yeah, I was not quite skipping over a Thursday.

So, after very cosily showering with Kat I went in to the office and worked through until eight in the evening, breaking only for forty minutes in the gym in-between eating a lunch of cheese and ham sarnies at my desk, swigging black coffee as I did so.

No, I have nothing against milk; my family farm was almost exclusively a dairy farm. In my youth I consumed every dairy product you can possibly imagine, endlessly and day after day. I just don't like the processed stuff WYB provide in those tiny cartons. To me they're worse than useless. So I heroically drink without.

Unless tea is forced upon me, that is.

Nobody in her right mind can drink tea without milk, be it mostly chemical, pasteurized or not.

And that's coming from a girl who used to know the producing cows by name; Daisy, Blossom and blah, blah, blah.

All right, so eight o'clock in the evening and I finally checked out of the office. Fancying a beer or three, I left my car in its dedicated slot, exactly where it spent most of its life and, devoutly intent on cold drinks and a hot curry, I headed off down Main Street.

Don't ask why but for some reason I bypassed whatever name the Midland happened to call itself that week, and the Bingley Tavern and then the Potting Shed, winding up at the Old White Horse.

Now that public house really is "old". Carefully preserved records show there has been a hostelry on the same site since 1379. Not that it's exactly the same building. The current one is a relatively youthful four hundred years and counting.

Mind-blowing, isn't it? Stagecoaches were breaking journeys there long before there was a USA. Beers were being sunk at the bar while Cook set sail for Australia. The place reeks of history.

When I arrived it reeked of good food, too. So much so that, for a moment, my resolve for a nice vindaloo across the road wavered.

In other words the air was stuffed with appetising aromas.

Before I could grab a menu I got distracted.

Here's a quick correction. In case I haven't properly described her previously, Nina is PA to West Yorkshire Bank's CEO, a certain Victoria Hanson. Consequently, with me being a senior director, I see Nina a lot; make that several times every working day.

Seeing her outside of work is a different matter.

As you may recall, I have always classed myself as being "well on the lezzie side of bi". Nina is well on the straight side, but only when it suits her.

She is, by the way, tallish, blonde and drop-dead lovely. I tend to go for pretty girls . . . although I always insist that, for me, "tending" is by no means an exclusive thing. Some of my girlfriends at uni were a great deal less than "pretty".

Ask me, "pretty" doesn't always equate to sexy, attractive or desirable.

Okay, generally "pretty" helps, but by no means always and forever.

Whatever the truth, Nina had long been fixed well and truly in my sights. But she'd also been a lot more than slightly confusing and sometimes extremely frustrating.

Bluntly, I had been having sex with Nina for getting on eight years. In bed she was as passionate as any girl I had ever had the honour to know. The problem is that ours was very much an on and off relationship.

Not that we ever fell out. I classed her as much a friend as a lover. No, falling out wasn't an issue; it was men that got in the way.

Flipping men!!

If I was to believe Nina she had only ever "varied" for me. She'd admit to admiring certain girls but always maintained she would never dare go with anyone else. Well, she conceded that she would go with Victoria like a shot, but Victoria didn't shag around at work, not ever.

With one notable exception, tee-hee!

Where was I? Oh yes, I was leading on to Nina and her procession of boyfriends.

I reckon that she has a short attention span when it comes to men. She moves them along with a military precision. I'd hazard a guess that they get at most three months a time. Maybe like basic training, with extra tough ambitions along the way and increasingly impossible targets.

Yes, a dozen weeks courting Nina demanded the staying power of a candidate for the SAS.