by Limey Lady
‘I haven't even got a sister, so don't call the cops.'
They chuckled together and touched each other, softly, sweetly, as lovers do.
‘You said "used to",' Vic prompted.
‘What?'
‘You "used to" love Heather. Have you stopped?'
‘No, not really, but it has become an almost brotherly thing. Albeit for all the best reasons though, eh? Seeing as I could never compete.'
‘I'm not with you.'
‘Don't play games.'
‘No, honestly Graham, I'm not with you.'
‘You and her . . . the L word . . . bonded with superglue.'
Vic's heart fluttered and she felt to be blushing. Her jaw flapped before she could get more words out. 'Don't be ridiculous.'
‘Hasn't she ever told you?' Graham was genuinely astonished. 'Haven't you told her? I thought you two didn't have secrets. Not that that's secret. It couldn't be plainer.'
‘You're imagining things,' Vic said uncomfortably. 'And everyone's got secrets . . .'
*****
Secrets . . . hmmm . . .
*****
Alan Carmichael had got to the hotel first. He'd been to London Bridge while Vic had been off visiting an advertising agency in Baker Street. Through no fault of hers Vic's meeting had overrun but, more to the point, it had gone well. She had been brimming with good news and was a little disappointed to find her favourite director distracting himself with red wine . . . vats of the stuff; vats and vats.
It turned out Alan had that afternoon received confirmation his divorce had become final. The news had seemed to have shaken him, even if it was far from unexpected and probably for the best.
‘Man management course for you this evening, Victoria,' he’d said in greeting.
Alan looked fresh but still more or less in control. ‘By showering you with sympathy?’ she replied with a broad grin, sitting beside him like his best boozing buddy.
‘Good God no, by showing initiative and not letting me get drunk on my lonesome.’
Vic laughed at that. Over the six months since their first LB visit she genuinely had become a boozing buddy of Alan's. They had only overnighted twice but she'd regularly joined him in the new Wetherspoons down Bingley Main Street . . . as he put it, “mixing discreetly with typical WYB customers”. She knew that Alan could drink like a fish. The idea of him getting properly drunk was funny.
He had quite a serious go at it that evening, though. By nine thirty he was starting to slur and, mindful of the Bank's reputation, she extracted him from the bar and led him to his room.
‘A nightcap,’ he said, wobbling along the corridor.
Vic had hold of his arm to keep him upright. 'Not a good idea,' she replied.
‘Why not,’ he countered. ‘It's not as though I'm going to molest you, is it? You're my friend.'
Friend, Vic thought. If only I was!
‘It's the alcohol I'm afraid of,' she said out loud. 'You have a meeting at ten tomorrow morning. I'm not letting you turn up worse for wear.'
‘No danger of that,' said Alan. 'I'm Teflon-coated, I am.'
He then proceeded to drop his key card and almost fell over trying to pick it up. Chuckling, a wee bit giddy herself even though she'd been a much more responsible drinker, Vic propped him against the wall while she recovered the card. Needless to say, Alan couldn't get it to work.
Vic took it from his hand, opened the door and ushered him in.
‘A nightcap,' he said again.
‘No way,' Vic closed the door behind them. 'I'll make us both a coffee and then you can sleep it off.'
‘Bossy,’ he said, sounding like a schoolboy.
By the time she'd made hot drinks Alan was flat on his back on the king-sized, not quite asleep, but close.
‘I'll take my coffee with me,’ she said. ‘Leave you to put yourself to bed.’
Alan grunted something without shifting an inch. He was still in his suit and showed no intention of getting undressed. Vic hesitated. Tomorrow's meeting was not the sort for rumpled suits. Alan's needed to come off and be properly hung, if not pressed in the en suite equipment. He obviously wasn't going to do it, so . . .
Removing his jacket was relatively easy and his shoes presented no problem. But his trousers were a different proposition, not least because he kept rolling away from her.
‘Alan,’ she scolded, rolling him back, ‘stop messing about and lift your bum off the mattress.’
‘I can't.’
‘Oh yes you can. Now, if . . .’
She broke off as she spotted the reason he kept rolling away.
Ye gods!
Her immediate inclination was to run but a tiny voice warned her that running would ruin everything.
‘So you've got an erection,’ she resumed, deceptively mildly, ‘as if I haven't seen one of those before! Come on, Alan, stop fighting me. Let's get your pants off.’
*****
Vic hadn't really planned to have sex with Alan Carmichael. In fact at the time she was officially (and yet again) distancing herself from men. As a point of order, Karen had finally come across only the previous weekend . . . quite gloriously. But the combination of Alan's erection and her giddy impulsiveness was far too much to resist.
Naked together, forgetting all about distancing herself, she gripped his waist and pulled him into her again and again, relishing every second, ultimately having one of her infamous, gushing climaxes.
Afterwards she was as drained as he was. Normally, for her, an orgasm triggered the need for several more. Maybe it was the boozy excitement but, for once, she felt utterly spent. Without even thinking about the etiquette (should one retreat to one's own room after fucking the deputy CEO?) she fell asleep. Like instantly, without realizing it was going to happen.
It was still the dead of night when she woke. None of the early morning hotel sounds could yet be heard; even the chefs hadn’t rolled in yet. Vic turned onto her side and studied the back of Alan's head in the semi-darkness. He was lying still, breathing heavily, not quite snoring, occasionally twitching as if he was dreaming. She felt a surge of affection, followed by a new wave of lust. Alan wasn’t powerful in the physical sense but, in the banking world, he was at the very top of the tree. The more she considered him the more exciting he got.
Reaching for his cock was a natural reaction . . . although not quite as natural a reaction as his natural reaction.
Vic had smiled as her hand moved on the deputy CEO's hard-on. Even half-plastered, Alan had been a satisfying lover. All those leadership qualities! Motivation . . . teamwork . . . drive . . .
Oh ye gods, drive . . .
Alan slumbered on. And his dream was definitely not a nightmare. No, it was more of the sexy variety than a nightmare. At that moment in time Vic should have been repulsed by everything male; except she wasn't. In fact she never was, not even in times of abstinence. Completely content, she worked away at him. Then, deciding he was unlikely to wake, she steadily, stealthily moved into position.
He sighed when she took him into her mouth.
Vic shivered deep down inside. She hadn't intended to do this ever again, but . . .
Well but nothing; this was enjoyable. He tasted of fanny and cum . . . salty, slimy and nice.
The thrill of it was overwhelming. Vic wondered if he was dreaming of her. She hoped so but didn't really care. All she wanted was to please her body by pleasuring his. And she wasn't disappointed. After maybe twenty minutes he was wiggling and bucking. She kept going right up to the nanosecond when he splashed against her tonsils. That was her excuse to climax herself.
And she did so very violently.
‘Oh Victoria,' he murmured, sounding drowsy but completely sober. 'That was . . . was . . .'
‘Nice?' she prompted.
‘Very,' he replied, gently pushing her over, onto her back.
Vic was cynical enough to think typical man. Put in a position of supposed vulnerability, he went and made a bee-line for e
qual measures, sharing out the guilt as much as the sinning. Not that she stopped him chewing her clit. He was a very good chewer and she could take lots of that. Lots and lots and . . .
Fuck it. She grabbed him by the ears and pulled him eyeball to eyeball, feeling his cock marking a trail up her thigh.
‘We shouldn't be doing this,' he observed. 'What would Karen say?'
‘Screw Karen,' Vic laughed. 'No, here’s a better idea . . . screw me instead.'
So he did.
*****
The usual hotel clatter had woken them: showers showering; toilets flushing; dozens of doors slamming. And the lifts were doing overtime. Alan seemed a little reserved so Vic clambered on top, smiling down at him, into his face. Her legs were longer than his and for once she was glad. It felt good to be superior.
Well, maybe not superior . . .
‘Not at all worse for wear,' she said playfully, 'even if your coffee has gone cold.'
‘Last night shouldn't have happened,' he replied.
‘Why not,’ she demanded. ‘It isn't as if your wife can object anymore, is it?'
Alan's nose scrunched up at that, so Vic kissed it.
‘Hey,' she said. 'It's me with everything to lose. Karen, membership of LGBT . . .'
‘You’re in LGBT!'
‘Okay, so that's a fib. I never dared join.'
Alan chuckled, unwinding . . . slightly, anyway. 'You passed the management test, incidentally, albeit with unorthodox methods.'
‘I had to be unorthodox to keep you out of the mini-bar.'
‘Ah yes, sorry about that.'
‘Don't be sorry. I’m usually the one who regrets everything the morning after. Today I'm feeling fine.'
‘I'm full of regrets,' said Alan. 'Apart from being utterly unprofessional, I feel as if I've molested my own teenage daughter.'
That hit a nerve. Vic was delighted to be called "teenage" but appalled to be classed as a "daughter". Her dad looked like Sid James after a rough night; no way could she ever have fucked him, dearly loved or not.
‘Alan,' she said, back in scolding mode, 'that is ridiculous. We needed each other. It couldn't have any been further away from molestation.'
‘I still shouldn't have done it.'
‘Well I'm glad you did, so there.'
Alan considered a moment. 'Will Karen be really angry?'
Vic took her turn to consider. Karen struggled with anger, and justifiably so, according to her. She had been betrayed by her husband; and then betrayed by her best friend (who was now living in sin with said ex-husband in Newcastle). And of course she’d been betrayed by dozens of friends who’d all kept mum about the blatantly obvious affair. Vic had been the only person she said she could trust. It had been Vic sitting across the kitchen table all those months, listening to Karen’s woes; Vic who dragged her out for drinks and a curry. Vic who finally turned her . . .
Well, perhaps not “turned”. Karen had admitted one previous lapse. Back in her college days she had got pulled at a drunken party. According to Karen that had been a night of firsts, including being shagged senseless by a "bull dyke" and subjected to strings of multiple orgasms.
Vic genuinely liked Karen. She did however think she sometimes protested too much. The alleged bull dyke was described as "blonde, petite and very pretty". Apparently she had spent most of their one-night liaison with her head buried between Karen's legs, which wasn't much to complain about, was it?
As for whingeing about strings of multiple orgasms . . . hello!
Vic had got the full story in dribs and drabs, dragged out over several weeks. Her conclusion was that Karen had been very curious and had gone willingly enough. She was only griping because the other girl had seen the episode as a fling. Calling her an "opportunist virginity thief" really was over the top.
Still, that was Karen all over. She was the world's most dramatic drama queen. Would she be angry if she found out about Alan? You bet your cotton socks she would.
‘Karen will go utterly bonkers if she finds out,' Vic admitted. 'But she won't ever find out from me.' She kissed Alan's nose again. 'That leaves me totally at your mercy, I suppose.'
He surprised her by reaching up, taking a breast in each hand, gently squeezing. The reaction hit her directly in the groin.
‘It rather looks as if we're at each other's mercy,' he said.
‘In that case I'll have you this time. It must be my turn.'
‘You don't have to.'
‘Yes I do. This might be my last ever chance to have a man.'
‘Okay,' he said as she once more took hold of his hard-on, steering it.
Something in his tone made Vic falter a second. 'I'm not after anything from you,' she assured him. 'In fact I'm worried I might get sent to Siberia . . . or, even worse, Manchester.'
They eyed each other, that tiny voice whispering in Vic's ear: Are you honestly saying you didn't grab the opportunity faster than he just grabbed your tits?
Shut up, she thought crossly.
No, really Victoria, I'm interested. Are you sincerely asking me to believe you'll ever be able to look at each other again without thinking about his hard cock sliding into your pussy?
Shut up!
‘Siberia isn't a problem,' Alan said finally. 'And your career is unstoppable anyway. Keep it under your hat, but there's a re-grading happening next month. You'll be pleased with where you end up.'
Vic glowed inside. 'Thank you.'
‘Don't thank me. It's already decided, and purely on merit.'
‘Thank you,' Vic said again.
Yippee, the tiny voice said cynically. But it doesn't hurt to have a little insurance, does it?
*****
Vic wasn't so sure about "insurance", but the tiny voice had been right about Alan Carmichael. From then-on, every time she saw him she got a mental image of his rigid cock sliding in and out of her sopping wet fanny . . . and of having him for breakfast instead of bacon and eggs. Of riding him furiously, thinking he was never going to cum. Declining when he wanted to swap places, determined to finish the job, at last getting the by-then familiar wiggle. Accelerating, arching her back so could bite her tits. Wildly convulsing as he emptied himself into her . . .
Vic didn't particularly mind being plagued by such vivid images; she’d just like to know what images she conjured up inside Alan’s head.
Outwardly he carried on as always. They’d rarely overnighted together after that first occasion (only, strangely enough, when other colleagues were present) but his invites to Wetherspoons became more and more frequent. So too did Vic's promotions.
Was Alan secretly paying her off? She couldn't put a hand on her heart and swear it either way. She didn't think that he was influencing her progress, but then she didn't know every last thing that went on in the Boardroom. He definitely wasn't hampering her; that was for sure. Pure merit was far and away the best assumption for her, for ego's sake if nothing else.
Anyway, what would he have to pay her off for? They were adults who'd had one night doing adult things together. And as she’d said, she'd been the one with a relationship at stake, not him.
Although that didn’t explain why he’d seemed so damned guilty.
Perhaps, even at that late stage of the game, he'd thought he could still save his marriage. Perhaps he'd seen Vic as a possible witness for the prosecution.
That is correct, My Lord. I don't have physical evidence, but I can confirm he has a unique wiggle. You require more details? Okay, he normally thrusts in and out along the same line, and quite forcefully. Then, two seconds before he finishes, he wiggles in a completely different plane. That's right, My Lord, it was identical on all four occasions. He did it once in my mouth and three times in my vagina. It's with his hips. He goes sort of left, right, left, right, squirt. Left, right, squirt, squirt. It's very distinctive. I'm sure Mrs Carmichael will know what I mean.
As if she'd ever testify against him! Alan was her friend. He'd said so in the corridor, after promi
sing not to molest her, just before she’d decided to molest him. Okay, he'd been drunk, but Victoria Hanson allowed very few people to befriend her. Ratting on one of the few wasn't an option.
She only wished she knew how to convey all this. Alan, I've seen you with your guard down . . . so what?
For long enough she hadn’t been able to talk to him about it; that tiny voice wouldn't let her. In fact that tiny voice cared nothing for what had been an act of friendship and compassion. Oh no, that tiny voice was sticking by her two-faced guns, convinced the sex had been calculated, aimed at forging an unbreakable, everlasting commitment weighted in Victoria's favour and to hell with the risks.