Snap 1

It was a wicked East Sussex night, the rain was coming down in sheets and the wind was howling. But I looked at the television programmes and they were rubbish – I wasn't interested in some old black and white movie, or how to buy a villa in Tuscany (dream on!) or a quiz programme about sports. So I decided to put on a shiny black plastic mac on over my dress, pulled on knee-high leather boots and made a dash for our local pub. It was one of the best decisions I've ever made.

I'm 32-years-old, single – well, divorced actually, but I'm "available" as it were – and I have a figure that could be considered "generous" if it weren't for the fact that I'm about four inches short of six feet. Which is just as well, because otherwise my 38-inch breasts would look decidedly like overkill. As it is, they look magnificent. Well, that's my opinion and I suppose you'd have to say I'm biased, but I've now got a girl friend who's of the same opinion, so maybe my bias is accurate.

Anyway, to get back to that miserable April evening – what do they say, April showers? This was more like an April monsoon, if there's such a thing as a monsoon in April.

I made the 200-yard dash to the pub – named, rather strangely The Belligerent Badger – and entered the fuggy snugness of the saloon bar. There was only a handful of people there, which was just as well, because I'm painfully shy. About the only person I talk to in the "Badger" is the landlord, Major Phibbs, who was in the Royal Army Service Corps about 500 years ago – and I have my doubts about the "major", but that's none of my business.

He greeted me, his moustache bristling, the regimental tie superbly knotted at his throat. "Terri, my dear, how nice to see you," he beamed, as I shook my hair in a vain attempt to remove the rain which had soaked it, turning it into a mass of curls – it always gets curly like that in the rain!

"The usual?" asked the major, raising a glass to the gin dispenser. "Personally I blame all that A-bomb testing," he smiled, employing a hugely old-fashioned 1950s joke, as he passed me my gin and tonic.

I muttered something inane, and suddenly felt something firm, yet pliant, brushing against the gleaming wetness of my arm in the plastic mac. And then I heard a voice which sent tremors running from the nape of my neck down to my buttocks, and from my nipples to my pussy, a voice which screamed "Sex"!

And yet it was only one word: "Snap!"

I turned and looked into the dark brown eyes of a woman about my height, perhaps a bit taller, her dark brown hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. But she was wearing a mac, I almost said "just like mine" but the only connection between the two were the colour, black.

Hers was made of a gleaming leather with big lapels, big buttons, belt drawn tightly around her middle and at the top a decolletage which revealed a glimpse of breast globes at least as large as mine, if not larger.

"I, I, er, um, I beg your pardon?" I muttered, not able to take my eyes from her hard but extremely attractive face.

And then

that

voice sent shivers and tremors running through my body once more: "I said 'Snap' – we must have bought our mackintoshes from the same shop. 'Snap' – you know, the card game, you call out before your opponent, you pick up the cards?"

"Oh, yes, I see, oh, of course," I said, my eyes darting to her lower body, past her lush hips and down to her booted feet.

Again, like the raincoat, the only thing her boots and mine had in common was the fact they were both black. Hers looked like you wouldn't get change out of several hundred quid!

"I could say 'snap' as well about our boots," I said, in a quiet voice as the woman next to me handed her glass to the major and said in that super-sexy drawl "Same again, my dear landlord".

The major mixed her a gin and tonic. "Snap," I said, as he passed her glass over.

"Sorry, but I win with the first 'snap'," she said. "The boots and the gin and tonic don't count. Now, come and sit down with me by the fire and tell me what a lovely young woman like you is doing all by herself in a pub on a night such as this."

I walked, as if on air, to the table she indicated, part of me eager to strike up a conversation with her, part eager to drown my drink and dash home because I knew I was trembling with excitement at her presence. She had, oh what's the word? A hauteur about her, a haughtiness which not only screamed money, but also style.

And her "come and sit down with me" had me obeying like a naughty schoolgirl being dressed down by the headmistress. I walked behind her, looking at the glorious folds of the long leather mac swishing against her lush buttocks. If the truth be told, I was already in love!

Seated at the table, I took a nervous sip on my g&t and tried to look confident in the face of her awe-inspiring beauty.

Then she spoke again and her voice was a little lower, and even sexier. "You must think I'm awfully rude," she said, but all I could think was that she was so beautiful.

"Oh no," I stammered, unbelting my mac and allowing it to fall open and reveal the little black dress I was wearing. Her eyes fixed on my breasts and I felt as if a laser was boring into them.

Then she coughed, as if to say "I'm sorry, I was staring" and continued: "No, this is so rude. Allow me to introduce myself," she said. "I'm Barbara Kleinhold, but please call me Barbara."

I looked at her transfixed. Then it all fell into place. "Barbara Kleinhold?" I spluttered, "Barbara Kleinhold? Not

the

Barbara Kleinhold, Lady Barbara, head of Kleinhold Holdings?"

She grinned, glanced around the bar – but the other four patrons were all engaged in some dreary conversation about whether Wembley Stadium would ever be completed in their lifetime, or something equally banal.

"Well, yes, actually," she said. "I'm afraid my fame seems to have preceded me."

"Preceded you?" I grinned, starting to feel more relaxed with this wonder woman of property development. "Your face peers out at us from every financial page of every paper in the country," I spluttered. "What is it they call you? The Distaff Donald Trump, isn't it?"

"Please," she smiled, placing a superbly-manicured hand on my knee, and squeezing it just momentarily. "Don't mention my name in the same breath as that appalling little man. My dahlink, his hair? How can you take a man with hair like that seriously, I ask you?"

I took a far too large swig on my gin and found it was drained! "Allow me," said Lady Barbara, standing, taking my glass and advancing on Major Phibbs again.

When she returned, I already had my next question prepared. "Lady Barbara," I began, but she cut me off.

"It's Barbara, please my dear – and I already know you're Terry – is that with a 'Y' or an 'I'?"

"It's with an 'I'," I replied, and she gave me a smile which warmed my entire body on this wretched April night.

"Good, I prefer it with an 'I', so much more feminine," she said.

"Barbara," I said, although I had to take a deep breath before referring to such a world-famous businesswoman in such familiar terms. "You ask what a woman like me was doing in a pub on a night like this, but what on earth is a multi-millionaire" – and then she interrupted me again.

"Multi-billionaire," she said, "although unlike the desperate Donald I don't make a song and dance when authors under-estimate my wealth. Sorry, Terri, do go on."

I plunged on. "Well, what on earth is someone like you doing in a pub like The Belligerent Badger on a night like this? I mean, we're out in the wilds of Sussex, halfway between Chapel Cross and Three Cups Corner. What brings you here?"

Lady Barbara sipped on her fresh gin and smiled at me – she could have told me she'd got off the bus at the wrong stop and I'd have believed her!

"Well, to start with I've never heard of anywhere so weirdly named as Three Cups Corner, but that's not answering your question, is it, dahlink? Well, I was on my way to Battle, where I had a meeting organised with a reclusive self-made millionaire who wants to sell me some property he owns in Manhattan, of all places.

"Like an idiot I've given Johnson, my chauffeur the night off for a family birthday party, so I decided to drive myself, and I'd just gone through Chapel Cross, is it, when I got a call on my mobile to say the millionaire had done something unconscionable."

"Gone back on the deal?" I asked, thrilled to even be discussing a business project involving a chunk of Manhattan real estate.

"No, dahlink," said Lady Barabra, sipping again on her gin, "much worse. He died."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, trying to look suitably crestfallen.

"Not half as sorry as I am, my dear," said Lady Barbara. "So I thought fuck it – pardon my French - then I saw the lights of The Belligerent Badger through all the sodding rain and thought, what the hell, I'll call in and have a g&t and wonder about getting back home."

Just then a low ding-a-ling ring on her cellphone went off and Lady Barbara said "Excuse me" and pulled it from one of her coat's deep pockets.

"Lady B," she said, snappily, and after a few moments I saw her looking sharply at me.

"No, Constance," she said, "I have no intention to driving all the way back in this foul weather. I've just bumped into an old friend and I plan on staying the night at her place. And since the Manhattan project is as good as dead and buried, I'm switching this infernal machine off. I'll head on to London tomorrow, see you in the office around midday. Bye."

Lady Barbara looked me directly in the eye and in an earnest voice said: "Constance is my personal assistant and if I don't switch this thing off, she'll call me with news from around my world empire every hour, on the hour."

Then she stood. "Now, I've invited myself home to your place. I see no wedding ring on your hand – are you single?"

I gulped and nodded my head. "Of course I'm single," I heard my voice almost squeaking, as I too stood up.

"Amazing," she said, finishing her gin, "a good-looking woman like you. What's the matter with all the men in Sussex. Gone queer on us?"

"I'm divorced," I heard myself speaking in a whisper.

"That's good," said Lady Barbara, "because I'm available. Now, my Bentley is in the car park. I'll drive you home. Do we have far to go?"

"Only about 200 yards," I told her, "but with you I'd go 200 million miles." I could hardly believe hearing what I was saying.

"That's the sweetest thing I've heard all day," said Lady Barbara, standing and smoothing down her hugely expensive leather coat. "Let's go."

We dashed to the big black Bentley and snuggled into the deep leather seats, then Lady Barbara let out a curse. "Bugger, no wine – you got any wine at your place, dahlink?"

"I've got Bristol Cream Sherry, or gin," I said, sounding somewhat lame.

"I'll run back into the pub and see what the major has for our refreshment," she said. "By the way, don't touch anything, this motor's all geared up to satellites and such shit. If anything goes off we'll have half the East Sussex Constabulary around the thing."

Minutes later she was back with a large plastic bag. I peeped at the two bottles inside. "Moet and Chandon," I said, highly impressed. "I didn't know the major ran to that."

Lady Barbara gave a low, fruity chuckle. "Major my arse, Terri," she said. "I doubt he even made corporal. And yes it's Moet, and it's crap, but it's slightly above mouthwash, although a long way below Krug, but for our first date it'll have to do."

"First date"! The very words sent bells ringing in my ears, then I realised the richest woman in the world was asking me directions to home. I gave directions, she parked in the drive, making my little Mini Cooper look like a Dinky toy in front of her Bentley, and we ran into the house.

Once inside, I snapped on as many lights as I could, threw more logs on the thankfully merrily blazing fire and Lady Barbara removed her leather coat and casually threw it in a heap on the hallway floor. Then I looked more closely at her. She was dressed in a blindingly white, low-cut blouse, her breasts heaving above the upper edge of the dress, tanned and full and firm.

On her hips clung a tight, black leather miniskirt, which must have cost almost as much as her leather boots. Then she bent over, unzipped the boots, deposited them on top of the leather jacket and took the plastic bag from my hands.

"Come on, let's chill these bastards while you fix me a gin and tell me what a woman like you is doing vegetating away in the wilds of Sussex," she said.

Over much bigger gins than the "major" makes – only now I was thinking of him as the Lance-corporal – I explained to Lady Barbara that my husband of two years left me for a younger woman.

She sneered. "Bloody imbecile, but great – paves the way for someone who'll appreciate you," she said. "And what do you do to make ends meet, my dahlink? You're obviously not something in the City, judging by this little cottage."

I lowered my face, suddenly ashamed of my humble home. Lady Barbara seized on it immediately.

"Fuck, my big mouth. Look Terri, ignore that awful crack. It's just that when you're used to beating down men who think they are God's gift to corporate negotiations, I tend to talk too bloody tough. Forgive me, it was totally uncalled for."

I looked at her and smiled. "Oh, that's all right, Barbara, but 10 bedroom mansions don't go with a legal secretary's wages."

She looked at me and smiled, then stood from her seat opposite mine by the fire, lowered her mouth and kissed me very, very softly on the cheek. I inhaled a wonderful perfume – what it was I'd no idea, but I knew it was very,

very

expensive.

"I'll lead the way to the kitchen, where I will raid the fridge and cook us something special to make up for my crass remarks," she said, holding her lovely hand out and helping me into the kitchen.

Later over a delicious omelette she had whisked up using tomatoes, spring onions, a can of salmon and all the eggs I had in the house, washed down by the two bottles of Moet, Lady Barbara told me the story of her life.

"Born Dusseldorf, 1962," she started. "Parents moved to England, educated me. I was very bright. University education. Bought a small shop in Brixton – don't laugh – soon had two shops, then 22, and I've not looked back since. That's enough about me, the rest you can get from the

Financial Times

or

Forbes Top 40

. Why did hubby leave?"

"Old story," I said, not wanting to go into too much detail. "Traded me in for a younger model. I don't miss him. His sexual appetite for, well, for a certain kind of sex, was beginning to disgust me."

She looked me straight in the eye. "More detail – only not too much," she said. It was kindly worded, but it was an order.

"He wanted to take me in the rear," I said. "And then he demanded fellatio." My voice drifted away and a silence hung in the air.

Lady Barbara made no comment, no cliches like "I'm so sorry", or "You poor thing" but looked at me with those deep brown eyes as if to say "Forget him, he's history".

She then did something that will remain etched in my memory to my dying day. She casually unbuttoned her blouse to reveal her large, 40-inch breasts in a coffee coloured brassiere which thrust them into superb uplift. She threw her blouse to the floor. "What you need," she said, in a voice that brooked no argument, "is a good woman."

Lady Barbara stood and held out her hand. I took it – I wanted to, I wanted her, my body was screaming for her!

She took me through the sitting room, where the fire was still flickering its warm message throughout the small bungalow, and into my adjoining bedroom. I could hardly breath as this lovely, tall woman stepped behind me and unzipped my dress. It fell to my feet and I sensed her kick it away.

Then her hands, warm and soft, were on my back and unclipping my white, oh-so-demure bra. My breasts fell, not much, just a smidgin, into their natural cups and her hands cupped them, weighing them as it were. Her mouth brushed against my curly brown hair.

"Lovely, just the right weight – and oh, the quality," I heard her whisper. Then her hands went to work on my delicate little white panties, pushing them over my bum and down to the floor.

This left me standing naked by the bed, my nipples erect, my pussy pounding.

"Into bed and wait for me, dahlink," she said, quietly, but firmly.

I climbed between the sheets, leaving them pulled back to display my nudity. Lady Barbara felt behind her back and then the coffee colour bra was gone, thrown casually to the floor. Her breasts were bigger than mine, large suntanned globes with pointy nipples. I ached to place them in my mouth. Her leather miniskirt soon joined the bra on the floor, then she was stepping out of her matching coloured coffee panties.

My eyes were glued to her pussy. At her mons was a dark strip, but no hair. It was as if the dark strip signalled that there had been dark, black hair there before she shaved. Her pussy was hairless, but dark brown, almost as if she actually sunbathed with it smeared with suntan lotion.

Lady Barbara climbed up onto the bed, and placed her knees to each side of my head. I didn't know what to do, it was as if the sight of her sensational snatch had struck me dumb.

"Ever done this before, Terri?" she asked in a low voice.

"No," I whispered, "I don't know what to do."

I felt a hand trace across my curly hair. "Don't worry, you'll be fine," she said, comfortingly. "Just imagine it's your pussy, just do the things you'd like to do to your pussy to give yourself pleasure. I'll lead the way, you just follow. Don't worry, I'm going to be so gentle."

I blinked back tears of joy, this was so different sex with David, it was so

tender

.

Then she was speaking again. "Push your tongue out, let it lick somewhere, then I'll guide you. Stroke my buttock with your left hand if you understand."

I stroked her lush, firm bum. And then my tongue flicked against her vagina.

"Ah, lovely, that's lovely, Terri. Am I wet there?"

I stroked her buttock with my left hand, tasting the sweetness of her pussy.

"Now move further back – try to reach my anus, just a little love lick, nothing too deep, just on the lips. Do it now!"

I did, tasting the musky slit and feeling it give slightly under the pressure, then I slid back to her cunt. It was sopping wet now!

"Now move forward, run your tongue around my outer labia lips, just flick over them, then dive into the furrow, taste me, suck me gently. Do I taste nice?"

What a silly, silly, question! She tasted divine. To impress on her how delighted I was at being able to drink down her sweetly-nectared minge, I ran my hand feverishly across her lovely buttock cheek.

"Good," said my mistress – because that's what she was now – "now higher to my clit. Flick it, lick it, suck it, then kiss it. Tell me, is it hard, dahlink?"

I flicked, licked, sucked and kissed as per her instructions. Again my hand rubbed urgently across her buttock to demonstrate my "Yes!" response to her question.

Then Lady Barbara's body seemed to relax. "Great, that's the end of the Grand Tour, now just let yourself go, let your tongue and your lips roam and rove around me, and when I ask you to concentrate on my clit it means I'm close to my orgasm, then you can just lick me there till I come.

"Oh, by the way, when I come I get rather fruity – I let myself go and I shout out a lot of rather naughty things. Take no notice of them, it only means I love you and love what you're doing. Now, let's go!"

And my tongue and mouth started on its second voyage of oral adoration around Lady Barbara's sweetly-perfumed pussy, which was getting moister and damper and wetter by the moment as I laved away at her super-sexy folds.