Thursday Night Delight

Foreword

This story features Heather Hunter and continues her most recent girl-on-girl "romance" (although not very directly and not without diversions along the way). It also includes some straight sex, an activity Hev hasn't ever been able to quit for good.

If you are anti "straight" please feel free to skip Chapter Two and enjoy the rest of the yarn.

*****

Chapter One

(Autumn 2016)

Heather had been restless ever since she'd set up Friday's scheduled threesome. Good grief, her and two of the sexiest babes on the planet; what wasn't there to be excited about?

And it wasn't as if she was going without in the first place. How could she have grown this restless?

The two hottest kitty-kitty's in the universe, ready to be right there on the tip of her tongue . . .

Bring it on!

Okay, she hadn't been so restless until Sunday evening, when Sammy Jo said her farewells after two days of almost endless, somewhat energetic action. That's when, alone with time to be reflective, she had started to wonder.

By then she'd entered into an agreement with the delicious Sammy Jo (or SJ, as she secretly called her). SJ got full rights to Heather's bed from Friday evening through until whenever they "rang time" on the sabbath. In-between weekends they were both free to do whatever with whoever they wanted.

And why not; Sammy Jo was at least as yummy as any lover in recorded history.

Except younger as she was, SJ was no pushover. That particularly lovely lady had a mind of her own, as well as a stacked body that cried out for urgent womanly attention. In her heart of hearts Heather realized she had become entranced. And, deeper down still, she realized that was why she'd involved Mare.

Mary Rose was Heather's best-ever friend and always would be. They had first met at an awfully posh all-girls school in Cheshire and had been lovers and enthusiastic rivals from day one.

That's right; they'd instantly fancied each other and competed together ever since Mare had uttered the never to be forgotten words: "You're lots more interesting than all the other newbies. Don't shilly-shally about with them. Stick with me. I know everything there is to know about this place. I'll show you the ropes."

And she had too. Hadn't she just.

Even more secretly, Heather sometimes thought of Mare as Violet Elizabeth . . . not that she had ever "thweamed and thweamed until she was thick". Screaming wasn't in Mare's make up. Apart from an odd yell or six in the heights of ultimate passion, anyway.

The only real mystery was how Mare had failed to take Hev's virginity. They had kissed and caressed lavishly but a different schoolmate had jumped in ahead of her. Yes, Jacqui had got her tongue where it most mattered smack on the finishing line, out of the blue so to speak, leaving poor old Mare forever condemned to a faded black and white photograph confirming her to be in second place.

(Brasher and Chataway-like in the background, forever remembered but not starring.)

Not that Mare had audibly lamented.

And not that she'd had so much of a wait to catch up. A day or so later and she'd more than balanced the books. She was still balancing the books even now, while Jacqui was long gone.

In fact, apart from Heather's CEO, Victoria, Mare had shagged her more than anyone else, ever, ever.

That's right; exclude Mare and Vic and all the rest hardly added up to nix.

Admittedly, there had been an awful lot of others but, Ingrid aside, they were fleeting and as insubstantial as could be.

Well, Ingrid had travelled around the world with her and they'd shagged almost every night on virtually every continent bar Antarctica (simply because they had never ventured there). And although SJ was comparatively a newbie, no way was she insubstantial.

The girl was sex on legs, end of.

Stereotyped as her posh school had made her, Heather had always preferred having sex with girls, to the extent of openly admitting it.

"I'm well on the lezzie side of bi," she'd proclaim proudly when opportunity arose. Not that it did often, of course. These days she was rapidly rising through the ranks of West Yorkshire Bank, aware of the option of keeping her big gob shut.

She was during board meetings and so on anyway; during other certain "ladylike" activities her wide-open gob was welcomed often as not . . . no, make that it was welcomed every time without fail.

She was wise to alternative options, too. "Don't screw the crew," Vic regularly advised, as if the saying stopped her from frequenting Heather's bed at least once every week.

Yes, Victoria's advice was selective, to say the least.

As is my own, Heather thought with a snigger. Goose for the gander or what!

We're as bad as each other . . . or as good as each other . . . and glad to stay that way.

None of all that mental meandering solved the problem. The problem was that Heather desperately needed sex and Vic was away in Stockholm (of all places). Mare was down in the Smoke, not due to show her so-sexy ass until Friday evening, and SJ . . .

Well, SJ had been whining about Mare queue-jumping. Meaning that Mare had denied her a weekend or two along the way by turning up unexpectedly. As a practical, problem-solving person, Heather had said that in future Mare could join in with the two regulars else sling her hook, unexpected visit or not.

She'd also flagged up the possibility of a one-off, very much expected visit, more in hope than in any sort of anticipation.

And, to her great satisfaction SJ had bitten her hand off in response. She was, like every other person on earth, not immune to Mare's freckled, auburn-haired charms.

Or maybe it was her dimples and those incredible eyes.

Hence the forthcoming Friday . . .

Yet still problems persisted. Crazy as it seemed, Heather was reluctant to contact SJ for an ad lib roll in the hay. Weekend agreement or not, they'd recently shagged more than ever. But now, so close to that highly desirable threesome, it didn't feel right.

Maybe she was hoping SJ's anticipation was growing as exponentially as her own.

Maybe she wanted SJ to be as utterly frantic for a go at Mary Rose.

Or maybe she wanted a frantic go at the eager pair of them, one after the other or both at once.

All three of them actively at it together . . .

Oh yes, hold that picture!

Whatever the reason, she was uncommonly reluctant, which wasn't common for her at all.

Laughing to herself, she checked the time on her PC. 19:47; already two hours after "closing" and still ticking away, as time tends to. What to do? Home for self-abuse and possibly dialogue with one of her on-line girlfriends?

Or out on the pull.

Now her laughter was louder. Bingley isn't exactly full of lesbian bars; it's home to lots of bars but all of them straighter than straight. Copping off there a girly-girl needed to pre-arrange.

But hey, she was Lucky Heather, wasn't she?

Bugger it, she decided. Bugger more unpaid overtime and bugger indecision. I'll walk down the road to the Potting Shed and see if it's all it's cracked up to be.

Back then the Potting Shed had been open about a year and (amazingly) Heather hadn't yet tried it out, even though it was en route to her favourite curry house in the known universe. She had heard a lot of good things however, mostly from male workmates marvelling at the well-dressed female talent.

"Where do they all come from?" one had said only the other day. "They're not from WYB; they can't all be local estate agents. Are they professional ladies who lunch, or what?"

Logging off, Heather resolved to find out where at least one of this mass of female talent came from. It was almost a duty, no? And, with her knowledge of the intimate workings of the world, she was aware that female talent could be quite adventurous.

Failing that she'd eff off to the Shama for chicken liver starters, a nice keema vindaloo and a few vats of ice-cold pinot.

Then she'd go home and ring Mandy for phone sex. She had never met the woman and wasn't totally sure she even was a woman (what a strong, sexy voice she had!) but phone sex with her was always excellent. Hev's only issue was that she was regularly unavailable, which wasn't really any mystery.

Not with an imagination like hers.

Stephen King should have such an imagination.

No, cancel that: Jackie Collins should have had such an imagination.

Well, Jackie Collins had had, obviously. Heather wasn't seriously dissing her.

Whoever would!

*****

The walk down Bingley Main Street took perhaps five minutes. Heather went inside and couldn't fail to be impressed by the décor. That is the décor was done out to resemble a . . . well, a potting shed. But it was done with taste. Finding everything just as described in advance, she went to the bar and, after a pause for consideration, opted for a large pinot.

Not a big change there, was there?

Only then did she cast her eye over her fellow drinking clientele. No great mass of female talent, she realised ruefully. They must have all been in for lunch and swanned off ages ago, along with WYB's legion of early evening boozers.

Not that she worried about being seen or anything. She was often seen out and about with partners of either sex. Well, mostly with female partners and, of late, mostly with SJ.

Don't screw the crew she thought with a dismissive chuckle.

Bugger me, who else is there to screw . . . apart from remotely accessed Mandy.

Still, there was always the Shama . . .

Then she saw him.

*****

As readers may have noticed, Heather had set out without men in mind in any way at all. But this one was known to her and had been on her radar for quite a while. Henry had worked at WYB back in the day, in Finance and, perhaps four years ago, they'd had a close encounter at the Christmas party.

No, they'd had an exceptionally close encounter. If Vic hadn't so rudely put her oar in Hev would have screwed one (or yet another one) of the crew for certain.

And she had regretted the near miss ever since.

(Oar? It had been more like a bucket of icy-cold water!)

But how sexy was he.

How hard against her tummy when they'd danced and lingeringly smooched.

Henry was maybe thirty compared to her "thirty-something" and built like a professional athlete. Any girl with even the vaguest curiosity could think of multiple uses for him.

Make that billions of uses for him.

Best of all, he wasn't a crew member anymore. And Vic was like hundreds of miles away, shagging a few Viking women, or men or whatever. Sod ancient conventions and sod those masses of (invisible right now) female talent, it was time to react, not to shrivel up like some scaredy-cat hermit.

Stuff her recent man-less six months. Didn't absence make the heart grow stronger?

Or was it somewhere lower down than her heart?

And what was that she'd just thought about balancing books?

Oh yes, bring it on!

'Hiya Henry,' she said, joining him at the bar, draining her glass in one. 'I owe you a drink and now it's time to repay. What's your poison?'

He was most of the way down a pint of beer but, quite observantly, said he would have whatever she was on. 'It'll be cheaper if we buy a bottle,' he added helpfully.

'We can always share the third glass.'

'I like sharing things,' Heather countered without hesitating. 'And I'm really looking forward to sharing one or two things with you.'

Henry gulped at that. It might have been Heather's broadest, becoming smile or it could've been the way she'd adjusted her mannish shirt.

That is correct; before approaching she'd undone three buttons and, bra-less as always, the view was by no means unattractive.

(She'd have gulped at the sight of her, and she knew that sight better than most, naturally.)

'I owe you more than just a drink,' she boldly continued. 'But first let's get the pleasantries out of the way. Where are you working nowadays?'

'I'm an FD in Leeds,' he said, naming a well-known merchant bank.

'Mega bucks,' Heather crooned, 'infinitely better paid than WYB.'

'Better paid but not equipped with such nice people,' he replied, grinning fetchingly.

'I hope you include me in that,' she said, pausing before adding, 'even if I did unforgivably back out on you-know-what the other Christmas, and pathetically at that.'

Henry clinked wine glasses with her. 'I know whose doing that was . . . so there's no blame attached.'

At that point, and not before time, Heather remembered her drinking partner was married. She should not even think about shagging a fellow female's man.

Honour amongst women and all that. As if many men had any honour in that sort of direction.

And as if Henry could be even remotely faithful. According to Henry's view of the world's philosophy, a woman stayed faithful to her man, but other girls were all fair game.

That matched Heather's outlook on life, truth be told. She just wasn't so pedantic about it, and chose when to ask dangerous, sex-act impeding questions.

Well, usually she did.

'How's Mrs Henry,' she asked now, slightly anxious and somewhat reluctant.

'She's long gone,' Henry replied. 'When I left WYB she met someone else and vanished overnight, if not forever. She came back for half the house. We only spoke through solicitors for two years. Now I am happy to report we don't have to communicate at all . . . thank God.'

Result!

'Single and available? said Heather, grinning even more broadly than he was.

Henry blinked. 'Look,' he began, 'What happened at that party . . .'

'Stopped long before its logical conclusion,' Heather cut in. 'And I'm in the mood to conclude. Please don't even think about letting me down at a time like this.'

'My car is across the road, in that mini car park.'

'So?'

'I'll be over the limit after drinking your wine.'

'I will be too, but I never drink and drive. That's why Bingley Taxies call me their best customer. Sup your vino and they'll be outside in two minutes.'

'And then?'

'What do you think?'

Henry supped his drink faster than the Ancient Mariner would have supped drinkable water, with all the boards shrinking around him.

As best Heather could tell, there wasn't a single albatross in sight. Not that she'd have shot one if it had turned up.

Not her.

Not Lucky Heather.

Why should she tempt fate? Why when fate was entirely in her own hands?

Chapter Two

Henry didn't really know what had happened to him. There he'd been, having a quiet pint, on his way for an even quieter night in alone . . .

And Hev had appeared out of simply nowhere. Alright, she was officially "Heather" or "Miss Hunter" or "Miss Heather" but, sexually, she was known as "Hev". He unforgettably knew that from that old party, when she'd been as up for it as he was.

Christ, he could feel his Hev-inspired erection even now.

Or maybe it was a new one, back bigger and better than ever.

Being frustrated in their aims . . . thanks to Victoria fucking Hanson's intervention . . . he had slunk off home, stopping to masturbate in an alley along the way. Hateful to admit, obviously, but that's how it was. "Mrs Henry" wouldn't have appreciated it if he'd jerked off in his own bed and he might well have had awkward questions to answer.

Compared to suffering the inquisition from Hell, a brief alley diversion had been the order of the day.

Or, more accurately, the order of an early morning.

Afterwards he'd often wondered how it would have all worked. Hev was single and had a place of her own, so finding seclusion wouldn't have been too tricky.

No, the tricky bit would've come next morning when he turned up chez nous, bedraggled and stinking of alien pussy juice.

Mrs Henry would not have approved.

Shit, Mrs Henry would have gone off like a rocket.

And the divorce would have cost him everything as opposed to half of everything.

Still, that was then though, wasn't it? Now was now.

Now Hev very clearly intended to fuck and there was no reason not to, no Victoria waiting in the wings ready to cruelly tear them apart.

Not that he hated Victoria; if any girl on earth could match Hev for sexuality, Victoria was the one.

And weren't they rumoured to have something going? Omigod, the very idea of the two of them, hot at it together . . .

How many tens of squillions would that video sell for?

Victoria was away, however. Apparently in Oslo or Helsinki or somewhere. Even armed with a crystal ball she was unable to intervene.

No, Henry's worries weren't focused on Victoria.

He had stretched the truth when he'd claimed to be single. Since his divorce he'd had several women, all of them full-chested and, as in Dawn's case, some of them sex maniacs.

Not that any of those chests had been as becoming as Hev's was just now.

And not that the girl was any sort of shrinking violet . . .

Sitting in the back of the taxi with her, her hand familiarly rooting about his groin, Henry did his utmost not to scowl or show any other emotion. Dawn had become regular . . . very regular indeed. Over the last month or so she'd progressed from now and then to once a week . . . then twice or thrice.

Most thankfully he wasn't expected at hers tonight.

So, out of sight, out of mind, no?

Feeling Hev's fingers exploring his hard-on helped exclude emotional dilemmas. Listening to the taxi driver was perhaps less helpful. Ali looked to be of Pakistani parentage but spoke with an accent out of good old Keighley. He also seemed to know Hev exceptionally well.

(Forever unbeknown to Henry, the local taxi drivers were exceptionally protective of Hev. They went to extreme lengths to protect her image and were the soul of discretion in all respects. Nobody in her company "home for the night" was ever likely to be grassed. Their law of omerta would have pleased Marlon Brando, if not Don Corleone himself.

And several of those drivers had shared her bed once or twice. Ali had been honoured four times and considered himself the leader in any clubhouse the world over, ahead of even Tiger or Rory.)

'Watch out for the geese,' Hev said as the cabbie turned into a large farmyard, featuring a massive pond.

'As if I've ever run over any of them yet,' Ali countered, his tone forever friendly.

'Bashful would have your guts for garters if you did. And you know it.'

Ali chuckled and pulled up in front of a very impressive oak door. Hev gave him a banknote . . . one Henry didn't have time to recognize . . . then they were out of the cab and it was vanishing away into the distance.

'Bashful,' Hev called, 'Doc . . . get back in your nests. It's only me. And I don't need to be guarded just now.'

It was dark so Henry could only make out white shapes moving in the long grass or reeds. The geese, he guessed correctly. And frigging gigantic geese at that.

Lots of them.

Lots and lots!

Little wonder Hev lived out here alone in the middle of nowhere; her own squad of Nazi enforcers was ever-present, on full alert, ready, willing and able to repel all boarders.

'Let's get inside,' Hev said, less but not infinitely less commandingly, 'there are things we need to do.'

*****

Oh boy, didn't Hev have ideas about things to do. As soon as the slab of oak shut them away from the rest of humanity, she rammed Henry back against it. And, an inch or so shorter than he was, Hev was stronger.

Yes, a shade under six feet tall, shoulders like an Olympic swimmer, uggins of muscles yet still fitter than fit, with a body to die for.

WWE female superstars couldn't begin to complete . . . not even Trish or Mickie.

Maybe not even Lisa Marie V, the harshest, sexiest creature on the planet.

What a woman!

Although LMV wasn't entirely out on her own . . .

And as if Henry could ever seriously consider trying to fight Hev off.