The Most Wonderful Time of the Year: Guess who's handing out the presents! (Angie's Adventures Book 9)

by Limey Lady

  The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

  By LimeyLady

  Copyright Mark C Woolridge (writing as LimeyLady), 2017

  Distributed by Smashwords

  All characters and events in this publication,

  other than those clearly in the public domain,

  are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One - Christmas preparations

  Chapter Two - Joe

  Chapter Three - Christmas Day

  Chapter Four - Molly and Fiona

  Chapter Five - Meet me by moonlight

  Chapter Six - A spiteful bitch

  Other Books by LimeyLady

  Author’s Note: This story contains a limited amount of male/female sex, which occurs as part of the main character’s “learning curve”. I have tried to keep this to a minimum without actually skimping. If anyone wants to avoid reading about sex with a man, start with Chapter One but avoid Chapter Two. From Chapter Three it’s back to girl-on-girl.

  And, with Angie being Angie, that means more than just one girl . . .

  Chapter One

  (Christmas Eve 1997)

  Angie checked herself in the mirror before following Fiona out of the ladies’. She had lipstick smudges around her mouth; otherwise her makeup was okay (because she never wore any). Using a tissue to wipe away the evidence, she reckoned she’d pass any inspection she was likely to get.

  Or were her cheeks a little flushed from all that unexpected exertion?

  She grinned as she splashed cold water over her shaven head. Fiona always looked immaculate. She had tripped off, pretty as a picture in her short and colourful girly skirt. Hopefully her live-in girlfriend would not notice the missing lippy and wonder what she’d been up to.

  With hope always springing eternal, no?

  Thoroughly dried, Angie attempted a smile. Her reflection grimaced in response. She had never been great shakes at smiling. Still, she was tall, broad-shouldered and built like a man; a smile on her face wouldn’t ever seem sincere.

  Not even if she really was sincere . . . for a change.

  God only knew why women found her attractive. In her opinion she was, at best, plain, although she’d often been told she had beautiful bone structure. Maybe everyone else could see something she couldn’t.

  And maybe she’d better check her knickers before she went back behind the bar. Brief as it had been, that unexpected little skirmish had ended very well indeed.

  *****

  ‘At last,’ said Joe in greeting, ‘I was expecting a much older woman.’

  Working a week with Joe, seeing him virtually every waking moment, Angie was by then used to his particular brand of sarcasm. Not caring that he was her boss she simply stuck her tongue out at him and got on with serving some customers. Joe, meanwhile, got on with chatting to his lecturer friend.

  Angie scowled as she pulled pints. Professor Parkinson was about forty, elegant and beautiful beyond belief. She was only supposed to be seen there in the Union Bar a couple of times a year, but tonight was her third visit since Monday.

  Like three days in a row.

  The cradle-snatching bitch was after Joe; Angie was sure she was.

  Looking elsewhere she saw that her dart-playing friend, Eileen, had gone. On the positive side, Eileen had agreed to come across after Christmas. On the negative side, she would be away for another five days and Angie hadn’t had a fuck in nearly two weeks.

  Turning another virgin was nothing to sniff at, but five whole days!

  And nearly two weeks without!!

  Okay, so she’d just skirmished to an orgasm, but that hadn’t lasted more than two or three minutes. It was marathons she preferred, not sprints. She was used to at least two or three hours a night, not two or three minutes a fortnight.

  Thinking about skirmishing, Angie shifted her attention to Lesbians’ Corner. Fiona was there, sitting with Molly at “their” table, along with a couple of guys from LGBT. Not that there was any seduction or hint of wife-swapping in the air. The two guys were hand-in-hand and Fiona was up close, talking very earnestly to her girlfriend.

  Hmmm. Before tripping off Fiona had said she wanted more. Was this part of her cunning plan? Was she busy spinning Molly some yarn that would conveniently get her out of the way?

  Angie rather hoped she was. Skirmishing with Fiona had only whetted her appetite. She was horny as hell in the afterglow. And Madhu had “borrowed” her strapless strap-on, “forgetting” to return it before going home for Christmas. So she had a strapless-less month before her. Unless Fiona’s mysterious plan paid dividends, she’d be reduced to a common or garden dildo and her own left hand.

  As if Fiona’s plan could possibly pay dividends. She and Molly were inseparable. Practically joined at the hip, they did everything together, as if they were one. Fiona showing up alone in the restroom had been a major achievement. Escaping for an hour or more would be a miracle worthy of God Himself.

  Serving drinks on auto-pilot, Angie watched Joe and Professor Parkinson. Joe kept on serving as he chatted, so Angie couldn’t say that he wasn’t pulling his weight. She couldn’t immediately explain why she was jealous, either. Folk had assumed she was a lesbian for years. She’d assumed they were all correct, as well. And, once she’d tried it for real, she’d become convinced.

  Yes, she was a lezzie through and through. So why was she jealous of the Parkinson bitch?

  The answer to that was a no-brainer. She liked Joe and didn’t want to see him hurt. Parkinson had to be ten years older than him. She also had to be well-off and in need of a gigolo rather than somebody masquerading as a husband. Face it; a good-looking creature like her could have secured a genuine hubby decades ago if she’d really wanted to.

  No, the fucking bitch was after a stud . . . and a short-term one at that.

  Poor old Joe was ripe for the plucking.

  The juke box had been churning out all the Christmas faves. Abruptly the music changed and Chrissie Hynde was there. And yes, she’d got some lucky “babe”.

  Make that some very, very lucky “babe”.

  She probably had some brass in her pocket too. Next single up, hopefully . . .

  At that point in her mental grumblings Angie chuckled. She had no room to criticize anyone for having a fling with an older woman. Or for having a varied sex life, come to that. Her first female lover wasn’t very forthcoming about her age, but she’d been at least fifteen years older than she was. And she had given her a taste for variation, too.

  And it was a very wide and much appreciated taste at that.

  But never mind the history. Joe was one of the good guys, and he was being stalked by a predator; a predator who’d been in the bar with friends on Monday and conspicuously alone ever since.

  Meaning she’d come back twice, solitary and prowling.

  Fuck it, no; she really was stalking.

  As Angie watched, Professor Bitch got off her barstool and pecked Joe on the cheek before leaving. It was the third time in a row she’d done that: given him just one miserly peck as reward for two hours of rapt attention.

  What a horrible woman!

  ‘She’s teasing you,’ Angie observed, as soon as she got chance to have a quiet word.

  ‘Kettle and pot,’ Joe replied.

  Angie winced reflexively. On Monday, perhaps influenced by the bitch’s
first visit, she had kissed Joe. No, she’d waited until everyone had gone then nearly snogged his face off. Enjoying it and pressing her groin against his erection. But had she fucked him?

  Of course she hadn’t.

  He had asked . . . sort of . . . albeit tentatively, and she had reluctantly said no. And the silly bugger hadn’t had the sense to ask twice.

  Twice would have clinched the deal, wouldn’t it? What girl could ever say no twice to a guy she really liked?

  Basic orientation aside, she did like Joe. She liked him lots and lots.

  Lezzie as she was, she’d have fucked him if he’d asked twice.

  Frigging men! What did they know!!

  ‘Sorry,’ she said now.

  ‘Me too,’ said Joe. ‘It didn’t mean to come out like that. I’ve just been hearing about Pat’s divorce. It was even messier than mine.’

  ‘Pat?’ Angie echoed. ‘She’s Professor Pat Parkinson? It sounds like someone out of Wacky Races.’

  ‘There’s nothing wacky about her,’ Joe said defensively.

  ‘Has she any children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m not surprised with a figure like that.’ Angie sighed before continuing. ‘So you’re on a par then: two gay divorcées with no kids.’

  ‘I’m not gay and no way am I on a par with Pat.’

  ‘Listen, Joe, tell me to mind my own business, but . . .’

  ‘She’s out of my league,’ Joe cut in, totally misunderstanding. ‘Look but don’t touch; that’s how it is for me. Story of my life, isn’t it? You, Pat . . . every beautiful woman I’ve ever met.’

  *****

  Angie was mildly concerned when Molly caught her on her next break. Molly was almost as big as she was, with a similar-sized chest. And cheated-upon-on girlfriends could get quite heated; she knew that from bitter experience.

  In fact she knew that from Ruby, who was (thankfully) too small to take her on.

  Well, not in a fistfight, anyway. Verbally she could more than hold her own.

  As for spitting and snarling . . . Who’d have even half a chance against a force of nature like Ruby?

  ‘Fiona tells me you’re home alone for Christmas,’ Molly began.

  ‘I’m working here at lunchtime,’ Angie volunteered, grateful the restroom tryst hadn’t been spotted.

  She hoped!

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas dinner?’

  Angie thought a moment. Was this part of Fiona’s plan? And if so, what was her answer supposed to be?

  ‘I’m dining at Gandhi’s,’ she said eventually. ‘Then I’m off to Ye Olde John of Gaunt for a few beers.’

  ‘What, at their prices!’

  ‘Joe’s staying shut tomorrow evening. It’s a family sort of thing, so I’ll have to go elsewhere.’

  ‘Meaning Joe’s family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you’ll be going out on your own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ Molly said with conviction. ‘I cannot allow it. No, I will not allow it. You can come to ours and have dinner with us.’

  She took Angie’s hand across the bar as she spoke, gripping it tight; gripping it unsettlingly tight.

  What’s the answer to this? Angie wondered. Is there an answer to this?

  ‘Please say yes,’ Molly continued. I’d die if you spent the best part of Christmas Day on your own.

  Now Angie really was in a dilemma. Unsure how she was supposed to react (or if she was supposed to react) she hedged.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly impose.’

  ‘There’ll only be the three of us, so imposing isn’t an issue.’

  ‘I feel like it will be. Surely you two will want to be . . . Well, alone to kiss and hug; to sing a few carols and what have you.’

  ‘No we won’t,’ said Molly. Then, leaning in close and personal, ‘Say yes, Angie, otherwise I might start to wonder why you two spent so long in the restroom.’

  ‘We were talking . . .’

  ‘Like hell you were.’

  *****

  Back behind the bar Angie had a few drinks. That is to say, she took advantage of the drinks she had already been bought. No way would she take a drink without paying for it first.

  And no way would she risk another pint of Marston’s. It was closing in on nine o’clock and she’d been in the bar since morning. Racehorses had been known to piss less enthusiastically than her.

  And less copiously, too, come to that.

  Bénédictine was, in those parts, something of a speciality. Apparently the world’s biggest consumer of the liqueur was Burnley Miners’ Club, not a million miles away from Angie’s uni. A couple of hundred years ago, in Normandy, a load of (presumably) alcoholic monks had devised a secret herbal remedy. Then, during World War One, the Lancashire regiments had acquired the same taste.

  Béné ‘n’ hot, they called it, meaning Bénédictine with boiling hot water, meant to ward off trench-foot, cold, homesickness . . . and, no doubt, the sheer terror before going over the top.

  And to counter the after-war drudgery of life down the pit, naturally.

  Local mining was as good as done but Angie drank her Béné like one of the boys . . . without the hot and in doubles. After three she stealthily sidled up to Joe and pinched his ass. Accustomed to such behaviour by then, Joe kept pulling his latest pint of Marston’s.

  ‘Sorry for being a tease,’ Angie whispered. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Huh,’ went Joe.

  ‘I mean it,’ she went on. ‘Santa doesn’t tease.’

  Leaving him to ponder, Angie served more customers. Then, not long after ten, Fiona and Molly were at the bar, almost but not quite confronting her.

  ‘We’re off for an early night,’ Molly announced. ‘Tomorrow’s a big day.’

  ‘No,’ Fiona giggled, ‘tomorrow’s the Big Day.’

  Angie had long since given up trying to decline her Christmas invitation. ‘Should I bring anything?’ she asked.

  ‘Just your sexy ass,’ Fiona said, faster than fast.

  Molly rolled her eyes. ‘We have everything we’re ever likely to need,’ she said.

  ‘Not even beer or wine?’ Angie persisted, ‘or something for the meal?’

  ‘The meal’s all under control,’ Fiona replied. ‘I’ve got it covered.’

  That nearly made Molly’s eyes pop out of her head. ‘Don’t you worry about her getting anywhere near my kitchen,’ she told Angie. ‘That girl can burn the water making a cup of tea.’

  ‘So when do you want me?’ Angie wondered.

  ‘Right now,’ said Fiona, ‘here on the bar.’

  ‘What time will you be working until tomorrow?’ from Molly.

  ‘Joe says twelve until three,’ Angie replied. ‘Or if we’re still busy, four at the latest. Then it’s everybody out and come back on Boxing Day.’

  ‘We’ll be in around half past one, then,’ said Molly. ‘Now, give her a kiss and we’ll be off.’

  ‘No,’ Fiona sniggered, ‘ladies first.’

  Angie had already exchanged Christmas kisses with both of them. Her kiss with Molly had been long and warm . . . but not nearly as long and warm as this one. And the involvement of Molly’s tongue was new and exciting.

  She sucked on it avidly.

  The involvement of Fiona’s tongue wasn’t quite so new (at least not since that restroom incident) but it was just as welcome.

  ‘See you tomorrow lunch,’ Fiona said in parting. ‘I’ll make sure Molly gives you her special stuffing . . .’

  Chapter Two

  (Christmas Day 1997)

  Three more Bénés and it was closing time. And, aided by alcohol, Angie had made a decision. In truth she’d made a decision much earlier, when Professor Bitch was still on the prowl. In all innocence, Joe closed the doors on the last revellers and turned straight into her face.

  ‘Kissy, kissy,’ she said before devouring his mouth.

  Joe d
idn’t object but, as he hardened, he tried to shift his body away. Angie wouldn’t let him. Part of her wanted to fuck him there and then, on the floor of the bar.

  Oh yes; the Union was her favourite place on earth. Where better to fuck? What better qualification for a nympho’s CV?