by Geoff Wolak
The copper faced me. ‘Why don’t you put your shirt on, eh, before my wife throws herself at you.’
Lesley handed me my shirt. ‘Spoilsport,’ she told the copper, getting a pointed finger.
Buttoned up, I was being stared at, and I eased my jacket back on, finally lifting my beer. ‘You wanted to see me fight?’ I asked her.
‘Wanted to see you kill those arseholes, yeah. Too many men like that around Cheltenham, young farmers. More like young thugs. They touch-up girls and oggle them, always rude’
I nudged the guys to drink up, and we dragged the ladies to the nearest Indian, avoiding fighting and getting arrested, although I was sure that if I had fought those men that Kate would have wanted to know the duration, and how I felt afterwards – followed by a urine sample. Given the beer, the sample would have been a bit watered down.
After the curry, Lesley linked arms with me, her mate the other side, and I politely told the guys to fuck off. Smurf had pulled, but the others were moaning as I walked off.
A ten minute walk, and I wondered about the second girl, and did she live around here someplace as well. Lesley lived in a nice apartment, two bedroom, and explained that her roommate was away as the three of us sat in the kitchen to make tea.
Tea made, Lesley said ‘sod it’ and opened a bottle of white wine, and poured one for her and her friend, and judging how they clinked glasses and looked into each other’s eyes I figured I should probably be leaving, feeling a little dejected.
Lesley turned to me. ‘We’re girls that like other girls, but ... we like a third wheel now and then. You think you’re fit enough to satisfy us both?’
‘My tongue is fit enough, yes,’ I said with a coy smile. ‘I lick pussy better than any fucking hairy-arsed lesbian!’
‘Hah, prove it,’ they said, Lesley out of her dress faster than I figured the laws of physics would allow, her boobs young and firm – defying gravity as they pointed out and not down.
‘Your shower big enough for three?’ I asked, distracted by the second girl pouring wine on Lesley’s boobs and licking it off whilst making eye contact with me.
‘Walk-in power shower,’ I was told, and was led off by the hand.
My clothes neatly laid out on the sofa, theirs in a mess on the floor, they led me through the master bedroom to the en-suite as I studied the two small tattoos on the friends arse cheeks, the girl having a firm body and a nice tan.
‘Posh place,’ I noted.
‘Daddy has money,’ Lesley told me. ‘Architect.’
It was indeed a power shower, the water in my face as I washed the two of them as they washed me - wine glasses still in hands, their drinks getting watered down minute by minute without the girls noticing.
Out the shower and partly dried off, wine placed down - Lesley frowning at a glass that was now fuller than at the start, I threw the second girl onto the bed and shoved a finger in as I eased down, left hand used to part her pussy lips, tongue energetically hitting her clitoris, no pubic hair to worry about.
I could feel, not see, Lesley sucking my dick. ‘Triangle,’ I told her, her hips soon on the bed and in position, her pussy attacked with fervour by the girl giggly friend, or girlfriend I considered – a little jealous of her and wondering why.
After five minutes my lady was breathing harder and tensing her muscles, time for two fingers and some vigorous action, and there was little chance of me being finished by Lesley because when I was concentrating elsewhere I never came quickly, that I knew from experience.
Her friend came loudly, so I eased up and grabbed Lesley, moving her around so that I could stand at the side of the bed and fuck her. Dick inside with a moan, I pulled her mate closer, pushing her head towards Lesley’s clitoris.
‘You ring the bell, I knock the door,’ I told her.
Judging by the noises Lesley was making she was enjoying it, her friend very keen to lick, and I wondered if they would go with the next step. Hell, they were lesbians, I told myself. And drunk! Wet cock out, I shoved it into the friend’s mouth, and she moaned rather than complained. A few thrusts, and I was back into Lesley, the clit again tackled with fervour.
‘Happy days,’ I muttered.
Lesley, it turned out, was a screamer, and that did it for me, I was getting closer. I felt her pussy tighten in waves, and now I would risk the final part, only having successfully done this just the once before, with Swedish girls.
Pulling out of Lesley after she came off the boil, I lifted and re-positioned her so that her head was next to her mate, and they kissed by accident, which was perfect. I shoved my cock between the two of them, Lesley sucking it without complaint, and I came in her mouth, three gentle thrusts before I pulled out and moved my cock to her mate, who did not refuse it, but instead moaned as she sucked.
‘Perfect,’ I told them, and sighed. ‘Now, round two.’
I started on the mate first, a long shag at a good speed, making her scream, straight onto Lesley without so much as washing my wet end, my fitness here being key. With Lesley screaming loudly I had to wonder about her neighbours, and if the girls were both on the pill. Still, it was her problem, not mine – both the neighbours and the pill.
I rolled off, little chance of me coming again, and put my head on the pillows. Breathing heavily, I said, ‘Shower.’
‘Later,’ Lesley mumbled, and pulled the sheets over us, and I soon had two heads on my chest, the girls holding hands under the sheets. And soon out of it as I stared up at the posh cornice work around the ceiling.
Alcohol gave me energy, so I was condemned to stare at the ceiling for hours, but took to touching them up, and a bomb would not have woken them.
I woke at 5am, desperate for a pee, and so peeled my two limpets away without waking them and clambered softly over Lesley without waking her. I peed in the sink, water quietly running, so as not to wake them, and washed my dick.
Dressed, I had a good look at their naked bodies, covered them over finally, left a note and slipped out, unsure of how they would react when sober, and I had made that mistake a few times before; happy drunk girls sometimes became hung-over monsters.
How lesbians would react to a man in their midst when sober was still a new area for me. I had only found myself in that situation once before, and it had been a disaster – not to be repeated.
On the Monday I did not see Lesley till late in the day, and she offered me a coy smile.
‘How much do you remember?’ I asked.
She checked over her shoulder. ‘I remember some good sex, yes.’
‘Your girlfriend?’
‘She’s not my girlfriend, just a friend-friend.’
‘What a complicated life you lesbians lead. I upset people one at a time.’ I risked, ‘Next weekend?’
‘Ah, can’t, my girlfriend is back.’
‘Big and butch?’
‘No, I’m the dominant one.’
‘You were a bit ... forthright in the bar with the guys looking for trouble’.
‘Hate wankers like that.’
‘Well, being a lesbian and all, you double hate them.’
‘I don’t hate men, not you anyway.’
‘If you have an itch that needs scratching ... you know where I am.’
And we left it at that. Smurf was boasting about his girl after I told him I just came back here and slept alone, and Smudger was wondering about his lack of ability with the ladies.
That week I was on a different regime, and on the Monday I had run with breaks for four hours, a benchmark set. On the Tuesday I was injected without being told what it was, and I repeated the run with breaks, each day a new concoction in my arm.
I had spoken to the “Guinea Pigs”, as everyone called them, the new recruits without a placement in the Army yet, and they had started on long fast walks, breaks, running in ten minute slots, building capacity during the day, regular breaks of around an hour.
On the Friday I passed out after being sick, my anus opening up, and
when I came to Smurf was giving Kate some shit about trying to kill me. It turned out that I had been given those particular performance enhancing drugs that were banned for athletes, the reason being to get a handle on the exact effect they had on the human body – a report to the Athletics Association.
On the Wednesday I had felt great and knocked out a serious number of miles, yet it was the drug that was not yet banned I had been given. I asked where I could get some, getting a pointed finger from Dr Kate.
The following week the Army arrived, green uniforms, and I was to strictly control my diet and eat just combat rations. My face dropped; I knew what was coming.
The first day was not too bad apart from bland food that often tasted like someone had sprinkled sand in it, but by the end of the second day I was already fed up with powdered Apricot Flakes that tasted like corned beef, and powdered Chicken Curry that tasted like stale bread and sawdust.
The Guinea Pigs had seen a 30% increase in the distances to cover and the times on the various stages, but none were struggling yet, and I chatted to all of them each evening.
The marathon team had arrived, and I had set them a programme on what I thought would work well, and be within their reach. They would start with three mile runs with breaks, six runs a day to start, plus gym work. Eighteen miles was beyond them at the moment, but not when broken down.
On the third day my performance was down a little, and on the Friday my performance was down 20%, not least because I had not taken a shit all week.
I kept going through the weekend, cursing my Army medics, and my performance bottomed out at 32% down after I started to shit small dark lumps each day – and my shits were always into a plastic bag.
On the Friday they thanked me, and I rudely asked for some compensation money for what they had done to my intestines. I went out that night with the lads for a medium-hot curry and a great deal of beer, and on the Sunday my anus opened up, British Army rations flushed from my system, no plastic bag this time. And I could have filled a carrier bag.
Monday would be a fresh start, and now even greater distances were desired, a benchmark test for heat stroke, which I knew could kill me. Kate was very reassuring, but still – it was a risk. The room air temperature was nudged up, and I was nudged onto the treadmill, to walk fast not run, and every hour a blood sample was taken, as well as pulse, blood pressure and CO output.
After six hours the measurements were taken every half hour, and I was badly in need of a drink having sweated out most of my body’s surplus water, getting a headache. I reported the symptoms, but kept going, Smurf worried for me.
After 8pm I was still at it and now hit a plateau, less headache but a dry mouth, samples taken every twenty minutes and noted. With the samples suggesting dangerous levels of toxin concentration had been reached I was halted for ten minutes, given a drink called hydro-something, and felt better after fifteen minutes.
Now the second part of the test would take place, and that would be how quickly my body got back to where it should have been. They took blood every fifteen minutes, and every fifteen minutes I got another drink of a certain size, told to walk slowly on the treadmill. I was, according to Kate, back to 100% after forty five minutes, the new benchmark, and I was allowed to sleep.
In the morning they broke the bad news, and would I repeat the test.
At 8pm they stopped me, a repeat of yesterday, and a different drink was offered. I got back on the treadmill, bloodied plastic drain still taped down on the back of my wrist, and they took samples every fifteen minutes till they told me to stop. This time I was back to 100% after one hour twenty minutes, so not as good as yesterday. And there was more bad news.
‘Just think of the money,’ Dr Kate rudely told me.
By 8pm Friday I had lost almost a stone in weight, which they suddenly figured might have mucked up the tests and that they should have kept my weight up.
‘Fucking eggheads,’ Smurf let out. Next week was his turn at it.
I had a week off, a week to get my weight back up, so I lounged around and ate well, a few curries enjoyed, and spent time with the beginners and the marathon team. The beginners were still walking fast some of the time, but in one hour slots. They were running in twenty minute slots, now eight slots a day, and all admitted to feeling the difference.
The marathon team were on four mile runs, so twenty four miles a day, but none were struggling with it, a few feet sore. How quickly they progressed was yet to be seen and measured, the whole point of this, to see how far we could push them. They ate well, they got vitamins and fruit, and they were to bed early every night, no alcohol allowed.
On the fourth week, the Guinea Pigs were onto six mile runs, but just four a day, some gym work. Apart from a few blisters they were holding up, just a bit bored.
The Marathon team was now on three eight mile runs a day but just about coping, a few knees and ankles twinging, their bodies not used to the pounding they were getting.
The following week I was asked to run as far as I could in twelve hours, drinks available, food, breaks to be taken. I started at 6am after a light breakfast and after some earnest stretching, and I stopped every two hours to rest my limbs, to stretch, take a pee and have a drink.
The first two slots I completed well enough, not pushing myself, but on the third slot my knee gave me some shit. I stopped early and rested it, ice applied, and an hour later I got back on the treadmill, already with thirty four miles completed.
At the sixty mile mark I needed a pee, many people popping in to see the chart, my arms aching more than my legs, my lower back about to become an issue. Kate used ice and some physiotherapy, which I figured would ruin the test, but this was benchmark stuff.
An hour later, and back on the treadmill, I felt better, and now pushed the pace without too much hurting, ten miles knocked out before I stopped for a rest, and I was approaching a seventy miles cumulative in ten mile sections, half an hour breaks.
I was warned to stop if my knees or lower back hurt, but so far they were OK, many people popping in to see how I was doing, the marathon team now free to pop in after their hard day, the Guinea Pigs enjoying a day off to rest their legs.
At 8pm I reached one hundred miles, a steady jog, and with the food and drink I was getting I was starting to wonder how far I could go. I certainly had not reached my limit. Things were hurting, but not enough to worry me, and I was not prepared to damage myself for this test anyhow.
An hour later, and was determined to break some kind of a record, now prepared to damage myself in the process, and I had gone beyond the stated twelve hours. People were staying late and glancing at my chart, and at 11pm Kate returned from a dinner date, her prick of a boyfriend in tow, charts glanced at.
But she was now in civvy dress, het hair down, and looking stunning, her shoulder length almost-blonde hair down, some make-up on. I had to look away and stop staring.
Nurse Lewis had been chatting to me, and seeing him she lost her smile and she made her excuses. I was tempted to get down off the treadmill and hit him.
At the 120 mile point I was hurting, but hiding it, wanting to go on, to see what I could do, and at 126 miles I felt fine, right before I passed out and landed in a heap.
I was out for twenty minutes, everyone worried, but came around eventually, a hell of a hangover, my legs refusing to move. The lads helped me into a hot shower, which helped, and they eased me onto my bed, a monitor set up, my pulse nudging a green line.
I woke at midday, stiff as hell, unable to move for ten minutes. When Nurse Lewis checked in on me she helped me up, and into the shower. Despite me asking, she would not strip off and join me. After the shower I could move, but like an old man, a few drinks of Hydrolite and a cup of tea helping.
Kate came in at 2pm, worried for me, but also showing me the chart. It showed a diminishing capacity over time, a variance in blood sugar levels and salt levels, and why I had collapsed; my body was not replacing the sugars fast enough and to
xins were building up progressively.
Still, I had run over a hundred miles, and the programme was alive with gossip about it. I had a few days off due, and so monitored and encouraged the Guinea Pigs and the marathon team. I had set them a 30% increase, and the first two stages had gone smoothly, but 30% of ten miles was a big step, and a barrier had been reached by a few, so a plateau was set for a week at least.
The marathon team was now running three slots of ten miles, some gym work, and would soon try a longer distance.
Two days later I was sat with a cup of tea, my feet bare and recovering, as each member of the marathon team was told to run as far as they could, the pace fixed but not slow, 8mph.
One lad dropped out at the two hour mark, sixteen miles almost – his recovering rate very closely monitored, but the next to drop out was at the twenty mile mark, then twenty two, the final guy at twenty seven miles but half dead, all of their recovery rates closely monitored. Kate was frustrated. The first guy to stop had recovered quickly, yet had hit a pain barrier early.
The final analysis showed a good recovery rate on them all, but that they all hit the pain barrier earlier than such a quick recovery might suggest. After all, if they were fit enough to recover quickly, they should have been able to keep going.
Psychological factors were now being talked about in hushed tones, and what motivated them to push through the pain barrier. They finally came to me, Kate sat in front of me, way too much cleavage being shown by accident. I had to focus on not looking.
I began, ‘I started to run because I was bored, and because I woke early. But ... I also saw running as something of an achievement on a daily basis, a pride in myself when my daily job was shit.
‘Later, I was angry, and I wanted to win to piss people off, so my motivation was strong in two stages, and I never saw the running as a chore, no one was making me do it.’
Kate noted, ‘We’re making these men do it, they don’t really understand why, so that may explain their brains telling them to stop.’ She nodded to herself. ‘The psychology of it is the one grey area.’