Never Say Never Again

Foreword

This story continues yet another series of Heather Hunter's adventures, the most recent offerings of which being "Thursday Night Delight" and "A Friday Three to End All". This episode should, however, be readable as it is, so please don't feel obliged to backtrack.

(Not that you aren't welcomed to backtrack, of course. If that's your inclination, go for it!)

Chapter One

(Autumn 2016)

Mary Rose chuckled inwardly as she looked up at the enormous overhead mirror. She'd known Hev for more than twenty years and weekends at hers were always eventful, and not just for the décor and lavish hospitality.

Eventful! This latest visit to the wilds of West Yorkshire had been the most interesting yet. Officially it had been billed as a one-off, Friday night threesome involving the two old school chums and Hev's latest hottie . . . a simply delicious babe who went by the name of Sammy Jo.

Less officially here they were, all three of them well into Sunday morning, on their backs on Hev's far from modestly sized bed, playfully jilling each other. Yes, three of them side by side, Hev predictably there in the middle, her right hand busy on Mary Rose's pussy, her left hand busy on Sammy Jo's.

By some strange witchcraft, a planned ten hours on a Friday had turned into more than forty.

It had for two of the gleeful participants, anyway.

(And, co-incidentally, lucky Sammy Jo! Hev was ambidextrous but "secretly" favoured her left side in all activities, be they on a sports field or in a bedroom. Long privy to that secret Mary Rose could tell the difference blindfolded. Yes, using her right hand Hev was brilliant; using her left she was beyond sublime.

Evidence? Hev had blindfolded Mary Rose many, many times, often challenging her to explain what she was doing and exactly how. These days the answer was always correct and Hev no longer asked.)

Back to Sunday morning's quite leisurely action.

Teamwork was very much involved in the sweetest way. Hev's lovers, restricted to one hand apiece, were quibbling in a high-spirited way, quibbling over the most wonderful pussy on the planet, eager to alternate internal and external access.

Oh yes, yes please. Deeply inside a while before barging equally hungry fingers out of the way, eager to go on the outside, each of them confident her comrade in arms (or, rather, her comrade in digits) could supplement her better than best.

Yes, yes, yes!

For all the many tableaus historically depicted in that overhead mirror, this had to be the best.

What a pity Mary Rose had a train to catch. Then again, cheating, she'd snatched a couple of one-to-ones with Hev over the duration. No doubt Sammy Jo would snatch a longer one herself, later today, while their London-based visitor was wishing three hours of her life away, swigging so-so BR tea and hoping that the wrong kind of leaves hadn't fallen on the track.

Make that BR, Arriva or whatever they called themselves this week.

Suddenly a thought occurred. And to Mary Rose to think was to act.

'By the way,' she said, still diligently, manually quibbling and still being systematically jilled, 'I think I promised your pet taxi driver a three the next time I venture north of Watford Gap.'

'I don't have a clue what you're on about,' Hev replied, her ministrations never varying. 'I don't have a pet taxi driver. Don't know what you mean.'

'I mean the guy you've had several times. The one you gave a blow job on my last trip up here.'

'That's a scandalous accusation, and totally unfounded.'

'It was your behaviour that's scandalous, not mine. And I saw you, so it's very founded indeed.'

'You saw me?'

'Yeah. You gave me your key card and told me to go inside, open some pinot while goodnight kisses were exchanged. Naturally, I hung around a little out of sight and watched, so I saw everything that happened, blow by blow.'

Hev sniggered at that, continuing to jill like a good 'un. 'Okay, it's a fair cop. But how many times do I have to tell you. It was a "below" job, not a "blow" job.'

'Typical you. Caught in the act and you try to trip me up over my command of English.' Mary Rose's chuckle was audible this time. Then she remembered Sammy Jo, who'd been silent all along.

'Hey, SJ,' she said, 'I'm not trying to exclude you.'

'SJ?' Sammy Jo echoed.

'It's Hev's name for you. And it means you are up there with the elite. In Hev's crazy logic only those people that really matter get a nickname.'

'Thanks for telling me. I think.'

'Listen, you can be in on the night too, if you like. If Hev's taxi buddy can cope with three avaricious females, that is. Can he, Hev?'

'He could manage us twice each at least. Then he'd need to rest before going again. But I'm sure we could find a way or two to entertain ourselves in the meantime. What about it, SJ? Are you game? I am if you are.'

Sammy Jo seesawed her free hand, miming indecision in the mirror. 'I'm off men just now.'

'So was I until Wednesday,' Hev said. Then closed her eyes in despair. 'Oops, I shouldn't have shared a snippet like that.'

Sammy Jo only laughed. 'You and Henry are all over the WYB Grapevine,' she said convincingly. 'You have been ever since Wednesday evening in the Sub.'

'Rats,' went Hev, her hands still working as skilfully as ever.

'I take it Henry's not a Henrietta,' Mary Rose put in mischievously.

'No, he isn't,' Sammy Jo obliged. 'He's moved on from WYB these days, but he used to be the bank's super stud, reportedly hung like a horse.'

'Does he know how to use it?'

'Don't ask me, ask Heather. She's just had a whole night with him.'

'I'm not asking her, she always lies.'

Now Hev did miss an odd stroke or two. 'I never lie,' she protested.

(Well, she mistimed one or two strokes, but then she was straight back to her inimitable best.)

'No,' Mary Rose conceded, 'but "Exaggeration" is your middle name, after all. What's a girl supposed to believe?'

'Okay, okay; I had a man and I'll have my pet taxi driver in a four as well. Honour satisfied?'

'How big is he again?'

'Who? Henry or Ali?'

'Don't hedge. Describe both of their essential parts. We're keen to know, aren't we, SJ?'

'You seemingly more than me,' Sammy Jo muttered.

'Tell us,' Mary Rose insisted. 'Don't leave us in suspenders.'

'Suspenders! As if!'

'Come on Hev, reveal all. You know you want to.'

Hev's reflected head shook but she shifted direction as far as diversions were concerned. 'My hands are otherwise engaged,' she said, 'so I can't demonstrate practically.'

'In that case you'd better approximate. And cut out the overstatements for once in your life.'

'Henry's maybe eight inches and curved. Ali's more like nine, and straight as a die.'

'I noticed his bulge in the taxi,' Mary Rose crowed. 'That's exactly what I'd have forecast.'

'Did you below him?'

'No, I did not. I fobbed him off with promises and I need your input to come across.'

'I already said I'll come across.'

'Swear you will on the life of the Manor School cat.'

That was the most solemn oath of their alma mater, if less than strictly serious. Break an oath sworn on the cat's life and you'd be a pariah for ever and ever.

'I swear I will,' said Hev, 'on the life of whatever moggy they have back at The Manor these days.'

'Good girl. I'll arrange it for the start of November, then.'

'Whenever suits me,' said Hev. 'Might as well make it sooner rather than later. What about you, SJ? Are you in or out?'

'Unfortunate choice of words,' Mary Rose guffawed.

Sammy Jo used her free hand to . . . somehow . . . shrug. 'If you two are in then so am I,' she said. 'I suppose.'

Chapter Two

Meanwhile, perhaps two miles away, Janet was also jilling in quite a vigorous way. Sadly, she was all alone, without a choice of "alien" hands to assist. Not that she really wanted any assistance. She had been buried in self-abuse ever since Friday morning.

That's right; outside of working hours she'd been at herself virtually non-stop.

Yes, she didn't want the assistance of alien hands. Her wish list nowadays consisted of just one lady.

Right, now and forever, world without end.

Janet had been a professional personal assistant for almost a decade. She specialised in organisation, be it paperwork, ushering off to meetings (hastily arranged and otherwise), and all those million and one tasks that directors couldn't get their heads around. On one occasion she had even lent her boss a pair of fresh panties.

Well, a girl couldn't be too prepared, could she?

Come to think about it, she'd never got that item of lingerie back. Not that she'd wanted it back.

No, that boss had been an old battle-axe. Last thing she'd wanted was a sniff of her fanny.

Unlike her latest new boss . . .

Make that very much unlike her latest new boss.

Janet had been at West Yorkshire Bank for a couple of months. Tomorrow would be the start of her twelfth week. And her raven-haired boss was without a doubt the best-looking woman in all of the known universe.

Absolutely everyone would die for a sniff of Heather Hunter's knickers, male or female.

Personally, Janet was one hundred percent dyke. Well, she always described herself to be like that and discounted a handful of teenage girl/boy encounters. Way she saw it, peer pressure had made her experiment and none of the experiments had paid off.

Thank God she'd restricted herself. Thank God boy/girl penetration had never happened.

Still masturbating, keeping the pace nice and slow, Janet cast her mind back to last Thursday. That'd been her thirtieth birthday, not that she'd let on to anyone. Far as she was concerned birthdays had no real relevance; birthdays were just meaningless numbers.

Ms Heather had realized, however, no doubt prompted by not having filed Janet's CV as yet (another two months and maybe she'd get round to it). Forceful for once, ditching her people person persona, she had insisted Janet had to be wined and dined, all at her own expense, and not least because of the absence of any obvious cards and presents.

She'd also insisted on the relatively expensive, quite exclusive Brown Cow, having somehow fixed up a candlelit table, proving she could self-organise tasks involving food and alcohol.

Like what a surprise!

She'd been good company too. Witty, endlessly amusing and looking better by the second.

Then, out of the blue, she'd insisted on a night of sex, with Janet calling the shots.

Too true she had. A little word-of-mouth foreplay about orientation and out she'd come with it. No trace of double entendres or anything, as good as offering her so-sexy self on a plate.

"It's your birthday," she'd more or less said. "I'm your present. Have me any way you fancy."

Well, who could have resisted an offer like that? Not Janet, for sure. Fortified by wine and faced with the body of a goddess, she'd played along . . .

Letting Ms Heather settle the tab as though she, Janet, was the kept woman, smugly aware that she had just been granted unlimited access to her wildest dreams . . .

And Jesus please us, Ms Heather hadn't been joking. She'd very willingly allowed herself to be bound and blindfolded before being screwed and screwed and screwed.

How amazing was that! Ms Heather had black belts in every martial art you could shake a stick at. No person in his or her right mind would ever take her on. Legend had it she'd made a citizen's arrest on an armed, sixteen-stone would-be shop robber, severely damaging him in the process.

And all without one jet-black hair out of place.

Janet had fancied Ms Heather on sight. No-brainer or what? But "professional" was her byword. She had been determined to keep an appropriate distance from day one.

But then, on maybe day sixty-five, half a vat of pinot and . . .

And well, so what! Sex with Ms Heather was out of this world.

More, more, more, Janet urged herself, please give me more, more, more.

*****

Slowly floating down from her latest (and a new record mightiest) orgasm, Janet replayed Thursday in a little more depth. She hadn't used every last one of Ms Heather's toys on her, but she had used at least one of every last variety of toy. And the range of options had been beyond belief. That lovely young lady covered every conceivable eventuality.

In every imaginable range of colours and contours!

(And naturally she'd only used a small selection of Ms Heather's collection. They have still been at it even now if she'd used every individual item with the thoroughness it so richly deserved.)

Better still, for the first time in living memory, Janet had kept going the whole night through. Making the memory even finer, it really had been her doing all the doing the whole night through.

Ms Heather was so moreish!

But all good things come to an end. Thursday/Friday ended with a pre-set alarm call at ten to six.

"It's my ten-minute warning," Ms Heather announced, still bound but no longer blindfolded. "You can finish me off in ten minutes, can't you?"

Janet could and did. Then, sharing a surprisingly well-behaved shower, they dressed and shared cups of coffee in an utterly exquisite kitchen. And then Janet had mentioned the dreaded Grapevine.

"I took you out as a treat on a landmark birthday," said Ms Heather. "Cementing our relationship in the workplace and all that. Anyone who suggests more is spreading rumours, not reporting facts."

"So, we're keeping last night to ourselves?"

"It's for the best."

"Okay," said Janet. "Secret it is. Secret but regret-free."

Agreeing they were in a regret-free zone, her boss added, "We'd better play it carefully unless you want your reputation trashing. But we'll have an encore for sure. I need to tie you up, you see."

Now, looking back, Janet wished she'd insisted on an encore like yesterday and the day before. But she'd known Ms Heather's diary better than the girl did herself. In other words, she had been aware her boss's old school chum was arriving Friday evening and would be there still at this very moment.

Presumably tied to the bed and receiving some sexual treat or other.

The lucky cow!

Somehow Janet's hand had found its way back between her legs. And it wasn't being remiss in any way. Oh no, it seemed to be intent on breaking that very recently set record for mightiness.

Unable to stop herself, she let it do as it willed, imagining it was Ms Heather's hand, not her own.

Bugger my reputation, she thought as she slowly, steadily built yet again. And bugger caution. I just have to screw her at least once more . . . and she has to screw me.

At last!

But how?

How, and how soon can I fix it up?

Chapter Three

Heather got the email sometime Sunday afternoon. It arrived after she'd wined and dined her lovers in The Busfeild and seen Mare safely off in a taxi, headed for Bingley railway station, then via Leeds to London. That's right; it must have landed while she was busy with SJ, running through the Karma Sutra, as was their wont on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

Mandy was an on-line girlfriend, supposedly based in New York. They had been having phone sex for quite a while and Heather had only recently accepted the girl really was a girl. What a deep and sexy strong voice had she. Also, until recently, Mandy had declined to exchange selfies.

Well, serious selfies. She'd previously sent Pam Anderson, Trish Stratus and a most beguiling version of a youthful Debbie Harry.

But now she had come across for real, after presenting Heather with "other" evidence of her gender.

And what a selfie!

Taken at face value Mandy resembled Bianca Jagger aged twenty-five, except even better looking.

(Look up Bianca at twenty-five and let your imagination run riot.)

Even now, even doubting the veracity of Mandy's snapshot, Heather was hooked. Phone sex with her was better than best. When Mandy had proposed visiting West Yorkshire maybe as soon as the coming Tuesday, she'd instantly told her she was spending the duration at Hunters Farm.

Who cared what she might really look like when her bedtime whispers were so hot, and who cared how long "the duration" turned out to be? Far as Heather was concerned, she could stay until New Year, whatever she looked like.

Well, other commitments permitting, naturally.

So maybe a handful of days rather than two or three months would fit the bill.

Heather noticed the incoming mail when she went downstairs for more vino. Well, it was her duty as hostess, was it not? Five hours of head-to-head with SJ and refreshments were the order of the day. Not that SJ was decamping in the near future; midnight was ages away and they weren't planning on quitting even then.

Okay, perhaps the witching hour would cue more pinot or shiraz, but it certainly wouldn't cue lack of horizontal bedroom activity. Or vertical and upside-down bedroom activity, come to that.

Unable to resist, she double-clicked to discover Mandy would indeed be landing at Leeds/Bradford on Tuesday, courtesy of BA. She also advised she'd taxi into Bingley and find this pub she'd heard so much about. Then they could visit the "best curry house in the world", which she'd heard even more about.

And then they could put verbal interplay into physical, bodily contact.

Three days she was staying. That fit nicely with Heather's social diary (the one she hardly ever used).

Replying in kind, not bothering to hide her eagerness, she mailed back, reminding Mandy "this pub" was called "The Suburban Bar" and assuring her she would be there before seven o'clock. Being nuts and bolts she additionally confirmed that, after copious quantities of wine, they could later eat curry in "The Shama" before shagging the night away.

And ditto for the following two nights, of course.

"By day you can follow in your mother's footsteps," she added. "Haworth is busy all year round, and you can get there from Keighley on a good, old-fashioned steam train, just like The Railway Children. I'll think of other local delights for you too, long before you're at a loose end."

*****

Later, much later, during that (well after) midnight refreshment break, sipping super-sized glasses of red, Heather revealed her caring side.

Amazing but true. People person or nay, Heather tended to class lovers as being as randy as she was. In other words, she'd get a girl in bed and just wantonly shag and shag.

But not that Sunday night, early Monday morning.

(Not after eleven hours of head-to-head already.)

'You don't have to,' she began.

'I don't have to what?'

'Obey that Mary Rose witch. She's bullied me ever since I was thirteen. I'm not having her bully you as well.'

Half a glass of shiraz must have gone down the wrong way. SJ spluttered and laughed as if she'd just heard the funniest joke ever told.

'You bullied by anyone,' she finally managed. 'My arse. Clint Eastwood couldn't bully you. Crocodile Dundee would find that scary knife of his kicked away in the blink of an eye.' Then, her impression as good as could be, doing the Australian accent: "That's not a knife. That's a knife."

'Hey,' giggled Heather. 'I have the monopoly on Aussie accents round here.'

"Just kids having fun," SJ countered, sticking her tongue out to underline her lack of respect.

'Here I am, trying to be magnanimous.'

'Well revert to type, for Goodness's sake. I said I'd do it so I will. And I'll go first if you chicken.'

'I never chicken when it comes to sex.'

'What about Mary Rose?'

'She hasn't taken one backward step since the moment she was born.'

'She took a backward step at a time like that?'

'She's two days older than me, so I wasn't there to bear witness. But from all reports she arrived early, no doubt to get one over on me. I arrived bang on the dot. If she hadn't cheated, I'd be three weeks older than her.'