Heather's Busy Week Pt. 04

'Okay. I give up. We'll be wearing it off, anyway.'

The understanding was more than mutual. Had been for some time, in all honesty.

'Okay,' said Eleanor, 'have you decided exactly where we'll be wearing it off?'

'Have you really booked a hotel? If you haven't we can go to my place.'

'I have booked a hotel. In fact I'm supposed to be checking in . . .' Eleanor checked her watch. 'Half an hour ago.'

'We'd better make it our next stop, then.'

'You wait in the bar while I'm at reception.' The older woman smiled. 'Then I'll sneak you up while nobody's looking. That should add to the excitement, shouldn't it?'

CHAPTER EIGHT

(Sunday, 21st April 2002)

Heather stood at the hotel bar, sipping her G&T, not feeling too underdressed in hoodie and jeans. Well, not really, really underdressed. Most of the other drinkers were wearing relatively smart clothes, granted, but there were a few more casual souls, so she didn't stand out too badly. Hopefully, if anyone noticed her, they'd think she was a passing rock star, en route for the Manchester Arena, not a sneaky, unregistered guest, en route for sex.

That's right . . . a rock star who just happens to go to the local uni. Maybe it is the home of death metal after all.

And why was Eleanor taking so long? Surely she wasn't being interrogated about that strange student-type in the lounge!

At last Heather's mobile buzzed. The text was short, consisting of a three digit number and a capital E. She finished her drink and left, trying not to slink or sashay, wanting to be as utterly anonymous as possible.

No teeny-weeny red dress tonight, thank the Lord!

Her luck was in. There was nobody on either side of the reception desk and the lobby was as good as deserted. Grateful for that, she headed for the lifts, finding one sitting there waiting for her. She took it to the fourth floor and got out, nervously looking out for CCTV cameras. She couldn't see any but did spot a staircase, visible through the wired glass in a nearby fire door. She went down a flight and found herself in a long corridor with doors on either side; the numbers there all started with 3 and she still couldn't see any cameras.

I know what they'll say if they catch me, she thought. That I'm a working girl, touting for a bit of business!

She hastened along, watching the numbers rising. 301, 303, 305 . . . And there it finally was: 315. She knocked three times, soft little raps as agreed in advance, and the door opened at once.

If Heather had expected a naked welcome she would have been disappointed. Eleanor had taken off her jacket but was otherwise fully clad. She was smiling warmly, though. 'Was that exciting enough for you?' she wondered, closing the door. Heather grabbed her the second she turned back in her direction. Kissing fiercely, eating her mouth, pulling their bodies tightly together. Eleanor responded in kind. Age didn't seem to be a consideration for her, either. Not in any negative way, that was. When it came to passion the lady was not lacking.

Eventually it dawned on Heather that kissing was not enough. Uncharacteristically, she took a backward step. 'I want to show you my boobs,' she said, answering Eleanor's quizzical stare.

Heather removed the hoodie and only then realized how loose her top was. Usually she went for tight-fitting and no bra . . . and who cared if her nipples stood out like thimbles? The only complaints she'd ever had were from the likes of DC Stuffypants: rigidly straight females with no sense of humour. Unusually, this top was far from tight. She must have been bouncing all over the place without noticing. Still, no point in crying over spilt . . .

Heather, she warned herself. That is so not funny!

Crossing her arms, she took hold of the bottom of the T-shirt and took it off in one graceful, well-practiced movement.

'Beautiful,' Eleanor murmured. 'May I?'

'Please do. I thought you'd never ask.'

Eleanor took a boob in each hand. 'So firm,' she said. 'I'm going to look positively droopy.'

It had crossed Heather's mind that she might encounter droopiness. She'd seen some sights in ladies' changing rooms over the years. The thought didn't put her off. She was determined not to show anything apart from lust and admiration. More to the point, there was a direct line between her boobs and her fanny. Mrs H's fondling was stirring her coals.

'Nibble them if you like,' she invited.

Eleanor was excellent at that, even if she didn't stick to nibbles. Pushing Heather's right boob upwards, she ran her tongue in a quite large circle outside the areola. Then, squeezing while she licked, she traced a much smaller circle on the areola itself, keeping as far away from the centre as possible. There was just enough room left for her to trace one final, inner circle. And then she took Heather's engorged, achingly erect nipple gently between her teeth.

Heather climaxed immediately.

And she climaxed again when Eleanor repeated the process with her left boob.

Enough,' she said, conscious of significant wetness on the inside of her thighs. 'You need to get naked.'

Eleanor reached for the top button of her blouse.

'No. Let me.'

Heather could feel eyes on her as she deftly unbuttoned and removed Mrs H's blouse. Her own eyes were busy too. Using Alex's terminology, his mother had a fair pair on her. Unless she was very much mistaken, she was also wearing a bra from Victoria's Secret. Fingers adroit as ever, she released the hook and unleashed the hounds. Not that there was anything remotely doggy about Eleanor's boobs. They weren't droopy and there wasn't a wrinkle anywhere to be seen. A heck of a lot of twenty-one-year-olds would be proud of a rack like that. Carrie, if she weathered like Mother in that area alone, was going to be a very lucky girl.

Eleanor's boobs just had to be kissed. And licked and nibbled. Heather returned the favour as thoroughly as she could. Then, unsure if she'd caused orgasms but certain she'd given lots of pleasure, she stepped back again. 'Skirt,' she said. 'Off it comes.'

Mother smiled but her eyes became challenging. 'I think it's jeans before skirt.'

'Don't bicker at a moment like this. I really need to see your skirt come off.'

The skirt was dark grey and came down to Eleanor's knees. It was typical, modest office wear and Heather was astonished to see what lay underneath.

Good grief,' she murmured, 'are you sponsored by Victoria's Secret?'

Black was obviously Eleanor's lingerie colour of choice. She looked good in it too. Stockings, suspender belt and knickers. Heather almost regretted removing the matching bra. Not that she loitered about dwelling on regrets. Before she could help herself she was on her knees, nose buried in gratifyingly damp panties.

'Oh yes,' Eleanor sighed.

Heather expertly ran her nose up and down the thin material. She quickly located Eleanor's hood and followed it south, dabbing her tongue against the pearl half-buried beneath.

'Oh my God, yes!'

Encouraged . . . as if she needed encouragement . . . Heather swapped dabs for full-hearted licks. The moist panties didn't bother her in the least. Quite the contrary; she liked the taste and didn't need to worry about sensitivity. She had the freedom to go for it big-time, and go for it she did. Gripping a panty-clad buttock in each hand, she licked and licked and licked.

'Oh my God, oh my God, oh for fuck's sake, yes!' Eleanor cried.

Heather felt a sudden warmth on her chin. Then on her neck and chest. Eleanor had flooded her knickers. She'd definitely cum this time, no question about it.

'I think I'm going to faint.'

Unsure whether Mrs H was joking or not, Heather leapt to her feet and provided an escort to the bed. Or rather, beds. Two singles had already been pushed together.

'Sit,' she instructed.

Eleanor obediently sat.

'Left leg.'

Eleanor raised her left leg. Heather took off the presented, sensible, office wear shoe.

'Right leg . . . thank you. Now, lift your bum.'

In common with most practical women of the world . . . ignoring the example set by glamorous models . . . Eleanor wore her knickers over her suspenders. Perhaps, unlike those glamorous models, she needed to pee every now and then. Or perhaps she found it more convenient for sex. Either way, Heather had them off her in a flash.

'Wow!' she said.

The older woman was clean-shaven apart from a triangle of very short hair. Isosceles, upside down, Heather judged. Very, very nice. An arrowhead pointing the way to Heaven.

'You can keep everything else on a while,' she said, being generous. Well, being generous to herself.

'What about you?' Eleanor said meaningfully.

'Jeans off, you mean?' Heather sat beside her on the bed and unlaced her trainers. 'Prepare for the whiff.'

As she was well aware, there was no whiff from her shoes or socks. There never was. Now for her jeans. They had rivets and brass buttons without a zip in sight. No particular reason; that was the way she liked denims to be. Holding Eleanor's gaze, she stood and unbuttoned slowly.

'This time there really will be a whiff,' she warned. 'I'm drenched down here.'

'Mmmm,' went Eleanor, 'smells nice.'

With an effort Heather wriggled out of her jeans. Then, anticipation getting to her as it always did, she turned through 180 degrees, letting Eleanor see her microscopic thong doing its best to hide up the crack of her ass.

'What's the next up from drenched? Saturated, isn't it?'

'Look at me.' Eleanor gestured between her legs. 'I'm leaking as well.'

Heather had to agree that was the case. The evidence was . . . well, only too evident. Smiling, she made the slightest advance, keen to mop up, but Eleanor stayed her. 'Thong off and on your back. That is an order!'

Obeying Eleanor's order was no misfortune. Heather considered herself an expert in oral sex and knew a kindred spirit when she met one. And tonight she had met a master of the art. No, she'd met a mistress of the art.

Good grief, Eleanor's fantastic at this! Nice, nice, nice!

Heather lay there and took it for ages, thriving in the self-indulgence, wallowing in it, cumming and cumming again. Then, deciding she'd had more than her fair share, she tossed Mrs H off her and into an appropriate position. And ate her and ate her and ate her. Relishing ever last second, relishing the taste and the feel and, above all, the reactions she provoked. Constantly varying her attentions and sometimes trying to mirror Eleanor's classy technique. Much later, when she might have been expected to take a break, she changed tactics and eased a finger inside a very well-lubricated fanny. Satisfied as far as access went, she eased out. And then, palm upwards, she pushed three fingers in at once.

'Yes, yes, yes!' Eleanor endorsed.

Slowly at first, Heather began to move, watching her hand as it slid in and out, with her pinkie curled as if she was a polite lady sipping tea.

'Oh my God, yes!' Eleanor moaned.

Heather speeded up a bit and Eleanor's moans became groans.

'I'm going to cum,' she announced.

'Feel free,' said, Heather. 'But don't expect me to stop.'

*****

Some considerable time passed before Heather allowed a timeout.

'I'm not done yet,' the older woman assured her. 'And don't think I'm slacking. I'm doing the business on you next.'

'Okay by me. I'll gladly take everything that comes my way.' Heather patted Eleanor's trim tummy. 'And I'm not doubting your stamina. You obviously keep yourself in shape.'

'I go to the gym every day. And I play golf at least four times a week.' She chuckled softly. 'I probably shouldn't have mentioned golf. You'll be thinking I'm a fuddy-duddy.'

'I play golf myself. Just not very often anymore. It takes up so much time.'

'That's why I took ten years out.' Eleanor was silent for a moment. 'Guy died when the twins were seven,' she resumed. 'I know I cut off my life story as a teenage lesbian, but that didn't last. I suppose I realized that I'm bisexual.'

'Most people are, to some degree,' said Heather. 'It's been scientifically proven.'

'Has it?' Eleanor chuckled again. 'Anyway, I went on a few dates at university . . . some with guys, some with girls . . . and then I met the real Guy and got hit by the Thunderbolt. He was doing Civil Engineering and he'd just been on a site visit. He looked like a fireman on steroids: hard hat, high visibility jacket, rigger boots . . . you name it. He even had fashionable designer stubble. I was in the bar with a couple of girls from my course, having an early beer. I almost died when he came over to talk to one of them. I was jealous as hell but didn't waste time on trivial pettiness. Instead I butted in to the conversation at every opportunity. And, miracle of miracles, he noticed me!'

Eleanor chuckled again. 'We slept together the day we met. And the next day. And the next. In no time at all we were living together. We got engaged within a month and married a week to the day after graduation. At first it seemed as if our lives were charmed. I walked straight into a job in a firm of architects and was an instant success. Guy landed a plum job, building stores for an expanding retailer. He was away from home a lot, but never for more than one or two nights at a time. And the money he was on! When the twins came along it was easy for me to take a career break. They didn't call it that back then, of course. A woman's place was still in the home. Girls could work . . . it made the Christmas parties more fun . . . but as soon as they had kids it was farewell. They never came back.

'Then cancer took Guy.'

'I'm really sorry,' said Heather, only too aware of the uselessness of her words.

'Guy was only young. He had some insurance through his job, but not much.' Eleanor didn't look likely to chuckle now. 'I did the sums and they didn't add up. In desperation, the day after Guy's funeral, I rang my ex-boss and asked for my old job back. He surprised me by saying I could start on Monday, if that wasn't too soon. Encouraged but still expecting the brush-off, I told him I'd have to work from home, on my not-quite state-of-the-art Apple Mac. He said he'd call back in an hour or two and I thought I'd never hear from him again.'

Eleanor's smile was lopsided. 'Twenty minutes later I got a return call. How soon could I get in to the office to discuss the finer details? Would I be able to attend occasional meetings, given ample advance warning? And forget the Apple Mac; IBM had a new business package linked to something called the "Information Superhighway". They would fix me up with everything I needed, free of charge. I tentatively mentioned salaries. He gave me a number that brought tears to my eyes, plus "bonuses to be agreed". I don't mind admitting it, I cried after that phone call. Ten minutes earlier I'd been expecting the worst. Suddenly I was going to keep the house. Carry and Alex could keep going to their lovely village school. Guy might have gone, but his family would survive.'

Listening to this Heather was welling up herself . . . and coming from a woman she'd only yesterday in absentia accused of neglect!

'So, that was it,' Eleanor continued. 'I pioneered working from home. Not that my boss was some sort of crusader. It turned out that I made my call at exactly the right time. My last job before leaving had been a superstore for a Scandinavian company, beating Ikea into the UK. And by superstore I mean super. Those Scandinavians didn't pull punches. As well as multi-storey carparks they wanted lots of smaller retail units, cafés and restaurants . . . every add-on you can think of. Doing a project for them was like designing a small town, not just a store. False modesty aside, I'd done well. Well enough for my boss to get the next two contracts, anyway. Sadly, my successor flopped. He barely scraped through with Store 2 and blobbed altogether with Store 3. Store 4 went to a rival and was, by all reports, a disaster; even worse than Store 3. Bids were in for Store 5 when I called. Apparently Store 5 was make-or-break as far as the UK market went. My boss told me all this after he'd signed me up again, naturally.'

'Naturally,' Heather agreed.

'He rang the Scandinavians straight after getting my call. Strictly speaking, he shouldn't have done that. As I said, bids were already in. He said he justified it by saying he had a significant enhancement at no extra cost, and they needed to be aware.'

'The enhancement being you?'

'Yes. According to my boss his contact . . . his very senior contact . . . said: "Put it in writing and the contract's yours." So he did, even before I went in to re-enlist.'

'I take it the project went okay.'

'It went like a dream. My boss and I made mega bonuses. And now we've finished Store 14, preparing to start Store 15. Store 4 is the only one we missed out on.' Eleanor's eyes clouded, which was a new one for Heather's list. 'I put a lot into my work,' she said. 'Probably too much. But in my nightmares the bailiffs were always at the door, throwing us out, our few unsellable possessions tied up in spotted handkerchiefs. I couldn't let that happen to the twins. Working was the only defence I had.'

Now Heather felt really, really guilty.

'I took them to school every day until they were ten,' Eleanor went on. 'And picked them up, of course. Any meetings I had to attend were scheduled well within school hours. That carried on after I finally let go and allowed them to walk to school and back without me. And there it suddenly was! Spare time! Not a lot of it, granted, but spare time nonetheless. I could have easily used it by working even longer hours but I didn't. Instead I joined a gym in the nearby town. By my reckoning the walk to school and back took twenty-five minutes, when I included getting ready, waiting at the gate, chatting to other mums and that sort of thing. Fifty minutes a day, then. In fifty minutes I could drive into town, do half an hour in the gym and buy milk at Sainsbury's on the way home. I've done that every day for the last eleven years.'

The clouds were gone. Eleanor was back in chuckling mode. 'For long enough I wondered why I bothered. I rarely saw the people I worked with, never mind new, unattached people. And even if I had, I'd have found it hard to go out on dates. I was perpetually worried about Carrie, who was in trouble more often than not. Not that I'm worrying about her right now,' she added hastily. 'Alex is doing all my worrying tonight.'

Heather was regularly resetting her opinions. 'I'm sure he'll do it well,' she said.

'I woke up one morning in a contrary mood,' Eleanor said. 'My bank account was stuffed and there I was, toiling away like an underpaid navvy. Sod work for a day. I was going to play golf. Overcoming a few teething problems . . . such as not being able to find my clubs . . . I went to the local course and paid three quid for a bucket of balls. Smashing them all over the practice ground felt good, so I paid green fees and had a round. Don't ask me what I shot. I certainly got value for money, if more is better than less. I went home thinking at least I'd got that out of my system. Then, the very next morning, I saw a sign at JJB, right opposite Sainsbury's main entrance:

CUT PRICE GOLF CLUBS - LADIES' AND GENTS' - ALL MOST GO!

'I went in and had a look. They weren't Pings, but they made my clubs seem like antiques. I'd bought a new set before I knew what I was doing. Ten minutes later I was paying three quid for another bucket of balls. And this time I didn't smash them all over the place, I drilled them straight at the targets.

'It may sound sad and lonely, but I enjoyed playing golf on my own. I had my routine off pat: gym, Sainsbury's, a bucket of balls then eighteen holes. The twins were finishing sixth form, money wasn't an issue, and time couldn't be permitted to be an issue, so why not? I didn't let the weather get in my way and, inside a year, I got my scores down from about a hundred a round to the mid-seventies. To put that into perspective, my best score before Guy died was eighty-six. Now it's seventy-two.'