blowjob.

PROLOGUE. BELGRAVIA – 1968.



Rebecca Seehofer felt distinctly nervous. The flat in London’s chic Belgravia was cloyingly warm, totally at odds with the now rare fog that billowed spectrally in the cold January air. The night-time mist imbued a sense of claustrophobia and worse still, a feeling of isolation. They were in the heart of the capital yet they may as well have been on a pacific atoll. We’ll perhaps a desolate island in the Outer Hebrides would have been a more apt comparison.



Becca sat demurely on the beige couch next to her fellow secretary, Sally. Both girls balanced cut glass ashtrays on their clenched thighs and smoked. Sally noticed the way that Becca nervously toyed with the cigarette ash. They knew each other reasonably well, both being secretaries for departmental heads at the ministry but this was the first time they had worked together. The two Japanese businessmen had left them alone, one to visit the bathroom, the other to prepare drinks in the kitchen.



“So you are going to do it then?” whispered Sally louder than she had intended, an effect of the alcohol she had consumed in the expensive French restaurant. She had no idea of what she had been drinking; imbibing only what the sommelier had suggested to the senior businessman. All she knew was that it was intoxicating and delightfully expensive. Becca glanced at her friend.



Sally was the sort of girl that was transformed by make-up. At work she appeared as a young twenty four year old, rather plain with an oval face that was on the cusp of being podgy, as was the rest of her body. Yet sat beside Becca was an all together different animal, a prime example of the predatory female of the species. Becca conceded she looked very pretty, her heavy make-up offering the impression of a Hollywood starlet, the ruby red lipstick lacked subtly and projected only one message- availability. The cocktail dress refined Sally’s profile and her huge bust was haltered and shackled within the garment manufacturing twin peaks that either intimidated or enthralled. Becca guessed that the Japanese senior partner inclined towards the latter.



Sally took Becca’s silence as affirmation and smiled gently at the blonde who was one year her junior.



“Good for you, it makes it better for both of us,” again whispered Sally in her broad Yorkshire accent. “Why don’t you go to the toilet when he comes out and take your tights and knickers off. It sends out the right message. Oh, and your bra whilst you’re at it. That should get your bloke going.”



“Where do I put them?” Becca’s modulated accent was pitched higher than normal due to her anxiety.



“In your bloody handbag!” snapped Sally. Becca questioningly looked at her small silver clutch bag.



“Christ!” gushed Sally, “you’re not wearing you mother’s undies are you?” Becca blushed, as she was prone to do.



“Of course not, but the bag is very small…”



“Oh, just leave them in the bathroom and get them in the morning.”



Becca blanched at Sally’s words- ‘in the morning’. She had been on many dates on behalf of the department but this was the first time she had agreed to spend the night with anyone. Her concerned musings were broken by the reappearance of the man who had visited the toilet. He was Becca’s date for the evening and the junior of the two men. He may have been junior but Becca guessed him to be well into his forties. He was, at about five feet five, the same height as Becca without her heels. He was slimly built except for a paunch. Becca had deliberately abstained from taking any note of his facial features; she preferred the experience to remain as anonymous as possible.



After drinks, the senior partner whispered into Sally’s ear and she giggled coyly. He led her towards one of the bedrooms and Becca caught Sally’s wink aimed exclusively for her benefit. If it was supposed to reassure the novice then sadly it had the opposite effect. Becca was left alone on the couch, the other man sat in one of the seats opposite her.



Reassuringly for Becca, the businessman who she simply knew as Ken appeared equally as nervous as she did. The senior man, it appeared, was more experienced in more ways than one.



“Would you like to relax for a while?” suggested Ken. His English, or perhaps more precisely American, was faultless but heavily accented. Becca smiled, hoping it didn’t emerge as a grimace.



“I’d like that,” replied Becca decorously. Ken smiled his appreciation, stood up, and began to walk to the second bedroom. Becca extinguished her cigarette and followed.



The bedroom was the smaller of the two. Although pleasantly furnished, she was instantly struck by its austerity and lack of homeliness. The room had nothing to suggest occupation. Ken hovered by the double bed, which was covered by a plump red eiderdown quilt. He removed his grey suit jacket and placed it over the solitary armchair by the teak writing bureau. Becca hovered, clutching her handbag to her stomach as she waited with uncertainty. She was unsure of what she was supposed to do, the advice given to her by Sally forgotten as she was assailed by shame and the gravity of the situation. She empathised with the singer who forgot the lyrics to a song or a dancer who forgot the choreographed moves.



Becca was no stranger to sex. The reason she had been offered her job was because she was a highly sexed young woman. However, the sex had always been with partners of her choosing. She had never had sex with a man as part of a business association. Ken perceived Becca’s hesitancy.



“Are you okay, Becca?” asked Ken. Were his words in sympathy or was he concerned that his promise of carnal indulgence was slipping away?



“Yes,” replied Becca without conviction, still not moving.



“Well?” asked Ken.



Unlike Sally, Becca had dressed far more casually for the evening. She wore a cream blouse with a trendy rounded collar and a deep blue skirt that fell to her knees. She had been wearing tights, but along with her cotton panties and bra were discretely hidden in the bathroom.



Becca turned her attention to the window. The curtains were open and the fog eddied before the window like a canvas screen. The effort required to raise her hands to her top blouse button felt akin to the courage demanded when she had first committed herself to diving into the swimming pool. Becca allowed her clutch bag to drop clumsily to the floor.



Her fingers and thumb fumbled awkwardly with the top button before securing its release. Her fingers trembled as she reached the third button where the blouse climbed over the contours of her breasts, which fretfully heaved beneath the fabric. Her focus remained upon the window as she worked her way down. The blouse remained close offering Ken only a tantalising glimpse of creamy pale flesh beneath and a suggestion of her breasts where the garment swelled and billowed temptingly.



Becca hugged the two halves of the blouse tightly to her flat belly and immersed her mind upon the eddying mist beyond the window, hoping to lose herself in the blanketing veil. Ken waited for a few seconds before hastily removing his trousers and underpants, hoping his disrobing would cajole Becca into similar action. Once naked, Ken frustratedly realised that Becca showed little inclination of stirring herself from the protective trance and began talking animatedly in Japanese.



The oriental tongue jerked Becca back to the present and, almost in surprise, stared at the gesticulating man. He was pointing with a jabbing motion towards her skirt, clearly intimating that she should remove it. With the voluble tirade showing little sign of relenting, Becca chewed her bottom lip in consternation as hugged the material of the unbuttoned blouse ever tighter around her midriff.



The confused sounds of the berating man suddenly morphed into the dialect of Sally’s northern accent in Becca’s bewildered mind.



“You said you’d do it! No one forced you! You stupid mare, you can’t back out now, you’ve come too far! You’ll make me look a right twonk! Just get the fuck on with it you prissy like tart!”



Becca stared at the comical figure of Ken. His shirttails were flapping as he made his incoherent protestations. His hairy balls were displayed intermittently through the contorting material. Perhaps it was his grey socks looking isolated and ridiculous at the end of his pale hairless legs that most amused her. It was the most un-erotic sight she had ever beheld.



With Sally’s imagined words still ringing in her head, Becca took a deep breath and quickly unzipped her skirt, letting it slump dispassionately to the floor. In one flowing movement, she wrenched the cream top apart and cast it unsympathetically upon the foot of the bed. She stood naked before him, unadorned save for the necklace of artificial pearls around her neck. She allowed her gaze to return to Ken’s face, observing how his eyes were fixated upon her breasts. It was that very instant that Becca encountered the empowerment that had thus far eluded her. The consequences of her presence and subsequent actions suddenly became an irrelevance.



Becca allowed her head to drop. She took in the sight that engrossed Ken. Becca possessed comparatively broad shoulders from her swimming training and her plump breasts jutted independently proud of her chest with a familiar haughty aloofness. The pink areolae sat high on the mounds giving them an impish aspect that invited attention.



Ken finally smiled approvingly and Becca’s doubts were cast aside as Sally’s words of advice and instruction came home to her. ‘Take control’ was the overriding message and thus Becca strode the few paces towards Ken and dropped submissively to her knees before him.



Becca parted the tail of his white shirt to reveal his genitalia. His cock was now erect and danced before Becca’s enquiring inspection. His helmet stood plump and engorged, topping a thick but short shaft that abutted his torso amid a thick mat of unruly curly pubes. Becca grasped the root of his cock and halted its twitching dissention as she eyed the precum that already wept from the vertical slit. She bobbed her head forward and licked the sweet and sticky nectar from the bulb eliciting a gasp from her suitor.



Ken’s cock was suddenly within the moist softness of her mouth as Becca easily took the four and bit inches of meat into her mouth and absorbed it until her chin rubbed against his hairy ball sack and her lips were tickled by his wiry pubes. Becca began to work upon his cock, sucking and nibbling the length of his shaft compelling Ken to grip her head as he was rent by the teasing ecstasy of the young English woman’s nurturing.



“No, no, no, mustn’t come,” shouted Ken as he felt the onset of orgasm. “Must fuck!” he shouted insistently.



Becca stood up, her cheeks flushed with her oral labours and smiled shyly at Ken. She pounced upon the bed and immediately knelt on all fours as suggested by Sally. Ken may have had his own ideas of how he planned to fuck the young woman but Becca knew that few men could resist the allure of taking a woman doggie style. Sally had suggested this was the best way of avoiding making intimate contact, which was to say, to avoid kissing.



She assumed a traditional submissive posture; her head almost touching the quilt and her back arched allowing her to thrust her gorgeous arse up enticingly. She knew from his side on view that her breasts would hand udder-like, full and tempting. Ken shuffled behind her and she felt the bed bounce as he knelt behind. She twisted, allowing her right hand to move down between her legs where she parted her labia offering Ken a view of her pink softness amid the honey blonde thatch of her dense pubic hair. Ken was delighted with the proffered honey pot and eagerly nudged his cock towards her proffered cunt. Becca guided his knob towards her hole and was pleased that she was sufficiently moist to allow a painless ingress. She purposely clenched her vaginal muscles to increase the resistance against the head of his penis as it probed into her depths.



Again, following her script, Becca gasped as Ken plunged his short shaft as far as he could. Becca considered her gasp was perhaps too loud and theatrical but Ken seemed gratified and proceeded to hump her vigorously, encouraging Becca to become ever more vocal.



“Oh my God, that’s so good,” she panted, as if struggling for breath. “Oh, please, don’t stop!” Ken watched his cock ploughing into the tight pussy and allowed his focus to shift to the tantalising prospect of her puckered asshole, so wantonly flaunted. He fantasised about sticking his cock in her forbidden hole and shifted his left hand from gripping her gyrating hip to place it so that his thumb rested in the cleft of her ass, adjacent to her taunting anus. Becca sensed his intent. “Oh God, please, I’m going to come!” Becca began to wail and pant as if assailed by the approach of an intense orgasm.



It was too much for poor Ken. His cock exploded inside Becca’s velvety cunt. The quantity of his discharge was speculative at best but there was no doubting the intensity of his climax. Becca would have preferred him not to have spunked inside her but she preferred that to the intentional probing of her butt. Becca wailed in mutual accord with Ken’s guttural climatic outburst and sank her head into the quilt to signify the cessation of endeavour.



Becca sat on the toilet peeing as she heard a sharp tap on the bathroom door and Sally’s loud whisper.



“Can I come in?” asked Sally.



“Quickly!” whispered Becca, loud enough for Sally to hear. Sally insistently burst into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Like Becca, she was naked but neither girl had a problem with their nudity following their exploits with the Japanese men.



“How did it go?” asked Sally with genuine concern.



“Just peeing his offering away now,” smiled Becca as she squeezed out the last dribbles of urine.



“You didn’t take very long,” offered Sally.



“No, I did like you said; it was all over in five minutes.”



“Where is he now?”



“Dozing, too much excitement and booze.”



“Mine too. Don’t be too long though. They can get annoyed if they find you gone. He’ll probably want a lazy one during the night. Just do as I said. Hurry up I’m bursting!”



Becca finished wiping and vacated the seat for her friend. Sally sat heavily upon the bowl and leant forward to pee, her unfettered breasts wobbling indiscriminately and Becca could at once see their desirability despite being so unlike her comparatively small pair. Becca dabbed a piece of tissue to her pussy where the last remnants of Ken’s spunk still creamed from her vagina.



“You let him come inside you then?” asked Sally when in full flow. “My bloke came all over these.” Sally supported her huge right boob on her left palm and offered it for Becca’s scrutiny. Becca finally identified the residue of the milky semen coagulating upon her friend’s teat and laughed. “You seem very relaxed; I thought I heard a raised voice?”



“He was just excited, and who can blame him!” replied Becca immodestly, declining to mention the moment that she wavered and baulked at the idea of fucking the stranger. She had to admit, she did feel elated. Sally appraised the pretty blonde as she wiped her pussy and smiled with relief. She could now gratefully abandon the rehearsed script she had prepared for her boss, Mary Weaver, should Becca have failed to make the grade.



Sally was once again correct. Ken did want to grope and finally fuck Becca at some unknown hour during the night. Again, Becca let him come inside her as he fucked her whilst Becca spooned in his lap. They both fell asleep with Ken’s cock slowly deflating inside her and with his cum leaking over her thigh onto the bed sheet. When Becca finally awoke at just after six o’clock the following morning, Ken was nowhere to be seen. On the bedside unit stood a small rectangular jewellery box. Becca eagerly looked inside. It was a gold bracelet. She smiled like a spoilt child at Christmas and had already quite forgotten what she had to do to earn costly trinket.



CHAPTER 1. MOUNT PLEASANT – 2012.



The noon sun rode high in the clear azure late June sky radiating it’s warmth against the thick stonewalls of Mount Pleasant cottage. The scent of the roses wafted ethereally around the elderly woman as she clutched her pruning shears with poised intent whilst studying the rambling bush, which climbed haphazardly up the weathered sandstone wall.



She hated deadheading flowers; it felt somehow callous to terminate the life of the swelling seed head simply because it had performed its duty and ceased to be of aesthetic value unlike its surrounding siblings. She knew very well that by deadheading the spent flowers it would stimulate further buds to develop and prolong the visual and perfumed delights of the plant for weeks to come but the process still evoked a feeling of betrayal.



She went to grasp a stem, her secateurs primed to deliver the coup de grace. She dropped the tool and issued a sharp cry as an unseen thorn pierced her finger and she instinctively raised her left hand for inspection. Blood oozed from the puncture wound and she drew the injured finger to her mouth enabling her to suck it clean. Her blood tasted sweet and pleasantly stimulating.



“Granny Rebecca, are you okay?” enquired a voice behind her. Rebecca turned to face the voice and peered over the top of her spectacles perched on the tip of her small nose. She removed her glasses and let them fall, knowing their drop would be arrested by the gold chain secured to both arms, her ‘menopausal chain’ as she derisively christened it.



Rebecca recognised the confident figure of her granddaughter, Sybil, striding up the lichen daubed stone path, the vibrant green moss defining the staggered grid of worn stone pavers at the feet of the eighteen year old, oddly, from Rebecca’s aged perspective, clad in furry Ugg boots.



“Are you okay, Gran?” repeated Sybil as she approached Rebecca and placed a concerned hand on her grandmother’s shoulder.



“Of course I’m bloody well alright, it’s just that damned rose bush attacking me again,” declared Rebecca as she shrugged off the concerned hand and immediately regretted her hasty rebuff.



Sybil was tall, like her mother, and appeared to loom over Rebecca as the grandmother appraised the youngsters face. Without the benefit of her glasses, Rebecca simply perceived the youngster’s soft fragrant tones, which prompted an irrational, albeit fleeting, envy and, dare she say, dislike for her granddaughter. Facially she took after her indolent father, dark glossy hair and Latin features that were prone to exude sulkiness, especially when she pouted her full lips. The antipathy soon past but Rebecca knew she had lost her joie de vie and would remain obtuse throughout the duration of the youngster’s visit.



“Shall I put the kettle on, Gran?” enquired Sybil, her experience telling her not to dwell on the formalities of her greeting but to immediately adopt the illusion of familiarity, as if she had been at the cottage for hours.Sybil did not wait for the answer but entered the kitchen via the two-piece stable door. The kitchen faced west and remained comparatively cool at this time of day, the thick walls of the old cottage insulating it from the escalating heat of the late morning.



The kitchen was large and expensively equipped. Sybil loved the Aga range and abundance of copper pans. As a child, she never questioned the comparative opulence of Granny Rebecca’s cottage or the lack of a granddad. Only as she grew older, well in the last year or so as she prepared to go uni, had she questioned her grandmother’s wealth, or more precisely, its source.



Her mother had failed to rejoin her enquiries, feigning disinterest, but the lack of answers had only stimulated her curiosity. Was there a rich ancestor with a sordid past who had passed his money down the family line? In addition, perhaps more aptly in light of her future uni expenses, would any of the money come her way?

Sybil rebuked herself for such selfish thoughts as she placed the kettle atop the Aga hot plate, she was not selfish by nature and she consoled herself that the desire for wealth and security was hardly uncommon. She had always enjoyed a close relationship with her grandmother, despite her mother’s blatant irritation.



“It’s much quicker to use the electric kettle, Sybil,” chided Rebecca as she joined her granddaughter and washed her bleeding finger under the cold tap. She absently swiped away a fly prompting Sybil to wonder why her gran never used the fly screen across the stable door.



“I know, but this is much classier!” enthused Sybil. Rebecca smiled inwardly as she noted her daughter’s snobbish influence on her granddaughter. Perhaps that was inevitable after Rebecca had spoilt and worshiped her only daughter.



“Why don’t you and Mummy speak anymore,” Sybil’s question was as blunt as it was unexpected. Rebecca appeared to ignore the question and walked through to the lounge, bathed in sunlight and perceptibly warmer than the kitchen. She donned her glasses, stared long into the mirror, and appraised her image, reflecting that the brash sunlight brazenly exploited her ageing face. At sixty-seven, she supposed she could have looked a lot worse.



She wore her hair shorter than she had for much of her youth and had it carefully coloured, masking the grey hairs that had once been honey blonde. She liked to think that she still possessed the pretty small features that men had once found so alluring, ignoring the tight flesh that was ever losing its elasticity and adjusted her silk scarf that hid her slender yet contemptuous, in her opinion, neck. She despised her scrawny neck for it was the one visible facet of her body that truly betrayed her age, an apparent curse of the blonde.



Her eyes moistened as she studied the face of the once youthful Rebecca Seehofer and cursed her mortality, death did not frighten her but she resented the denigrating effects of time. It was at such moments that she reached for the packet of cigarettes and frustratedly applied the lighter to the stick and inhaled deeply. God, how she missed openly smoking, she was told by the doctor that even the occasional cigarette was damaging. Fuck the doctor, growing old was bad enough without some sanctimonious twenty-something lecturing her. Anyway, it was too late for second chances. He was rather good looking though, and she could no doubt teach him a thing or two that he had never dreamt of, or perhaps he had…?



“Gran, you okay?” Sybil knew that her grandmother was not, the cigarette an indicator of her troubled mind.



“You know, Sybil, I was quite pretty once,” stated Rebecca modestly.



“You still are beautiful, Gran,” replied Sybil genuinely.



“Do know there is an oxymoron somewhere in that statement, ‘beautiful’ and ‘Gran’ don’t go.”



“But you are, Gran.”



“Sybil, I was never beautiful, pretty yes, but not beautiful. Mrs Weaver said it was part of my charm, for beauty is a weapon for intimidation, not seduction.” Sybil was taken aback by Rebecca’s forthright words, she had spoken so openly and Sybil latched limpet-like onto her grandmother’s frankness.



“Who is Mrs Weaver?” asked Sybil, leaning typically in her laid back manner against the doorframe.



“She was my boss,” informed Rebecca as she inhaled, delighting in the aromatic fragrance of her cigarette. Sybil was about to comment on the cigarette’s injurious properties but checked her words, considering they might deter Rebecca from candid conversation.



“I didn’t know you ever worked,” stated Sybil. Only the teenage high rising intonation of her voice, which still irked Rebecca’s sensibilities when she remembered a particular Australian, implied a question. Rebecca cast a scornful look.



“Of course I bloody worked, where do you think the money came from?”



“What did you do?” asked Sybil, genuinely intrigued.



“Have you been talking to your mother about me?” counter-questioned Rebecca.



“No!” answered the youngster honestly, “she rarely mentions you.”



Rebecca scoffed derisively. “Yes, I can imagine, never objected to the pony or the pretty dresses though did she?”



“She calls you ‘the Prozzi’ when she’s pissed, which is becoming more often…,” Sybil almost whispered, alleviating the accusatory nature of the confession. Rebecca emitted a rare warm laugh, which startled Sybil with its abruptness.



“I’m afraid it’s something she picked up from me,” conceded Rebecca.



“What prostitution?” exclaimed Sybil, her face betraying her distaste. Rebecca’s laughter subsided.



“No, the fondness for a drink. That’s why my liver is pickled. If you really want to know, I was a civil servant.”



“Really? What did you do?” Rebecca strolled over to her seat by the window and rubbed her arthritic hip as she walked.



“You’re going to study journalism, aren’t you,” stated Rebecca as she sat down in the comfortably worn seat. “If you are really interested,” she continued, “bring a recorder and pad the next time you visit and I’ll tell you all. There might even be a book in it for you.” Sybil was intrigued by her grandmother’s rueful distant smile.



“Are you sure, Gran?” asked Sybil. Rebecca’s face softened and the years seem to slip from her features as she smiled.



“You know, I would love you to have stay for the weekend. There is something I recognise in you that I never saw in your mother.”



“And what’s that, Gran?” asked an intrigued Sybil.



“An enquiring mind and a sense of adventure. Oh, and intelligence. You got that from your grandmother.” Sybil smiled appreciatively at the comment. She was actually looking forward to the weekend at Mount Pleasant.



CHAPTER 2. SYBIL’S INTERVIEW – 2012.



Sybil arranged her digital recorder on the dining room table at Mount Pleasant cottage and repositioned her notepad and pens. For some inexplicable reason she felt unduly nervous and experienced an onerous sense of responsibility concerning what was potentially her grandmother’s memoirs.



Accordingly, she dressed as she deemed appropriate in her navy blue suit and white blouse that her mother had purchased for her uni interview. It was an oppressively hot evening in early July, even the thick walls of the cottage had failed to subdue the stifling heat of the day, and she desperately wanted to remove her jacket but did not want to spoil the illusionary representation of the budding young reporter.



Sybil had arrived at Mount Pleasant in the early afternoon. Now at six thirty, the pleasantries were complete and Rebecca had gone upstairs to change prior to what was increasingly becoming the formal interview. Sybil was reminded of the Frost/Nixon 1977 interviews they had studied and recalled scenes from the film. All that was missing were the TV cameras.



Rebecca made her big entrance and walked slowly into the room clutching a tumbler full of whisky and a bottle. She had changed into her kimono-style silk dressing gown, which Sybil grudgingly conceded was possibly the coolest garment that her grandmother could have chosen save for being in the buff. Sybil struggled to find the words to express her grandmother’s expression. She looked unusually calm; the often-fierce accusatory frown was absent, imbuing her face with a youthful vibrancy that belied her years. The word came to her- she looked serene.



“All set?” asked Rebecca as she seated herself gracefully on the chair opposite Sybil. The youngster nodded earnestly and moved her hand to the recorder to press the record button but was thwarted by Rebecca’s cool hand, which rested gently on her own.



“A question, Sybil darling,” said Rebecca, intently studying Sybil’s grave expression. Sybil was chewing her pouting bottom lip and Rebecca smiled approvingly at the familiar family trait. “Are you a virgin?”



Sybil flinched at the question and sat upright in the straight back chair, breaking contact with the older woman.



“What sort of question is that?” asked Sybil indignantly. Her neck flushed red and the blush rose to encompass her high boned cheeks. For the first time Rebecca noticed her granddaughter had applied make-up and could not help but recall the times when Sybil had visited as a child and played with Rebecca’s make-up, the finished product resembling Coco the clown rather than Coco Chanel. Yet Rebecca grudgingly admitted that her granddaughter now wore the cosmetics well and appeared the young woman she endeavoured to be as opposed to some girl play-acting.



“I’m sorry, I take it you’re not, and you’re too intelligent and inquisitive to be chaste. It’s okay, I won’t tell your mother, not that she’ll listen to me, anyway”



“I’ve a boyfriend. Philip,” said Sybil quickly, the name of the boy offered as a late addendum to increase the credibility of her assertion. Rebecca nodded sagaciously.



“So you are aware of the opposite sex?” continued Rebecca’s line of questioning.



“Of course I am!” Sybil was aware of the rise in pitch of her voice as she answered yet was more concerned with where this line of questioning was going.



“It’s okay, darling, if I thought you weren’t ready for this you wouldn’t be here.” Rebecca took a large swig of the smooth single malt before saying, “shall we begin?”



CHAPTER 3. THE CHRISTMAS PARTY – 1968.



Becca was, in the words of her friend Sally, ‘pissed right up’. Similarly, she was ‘pissed right off’ for she desperately wanted to fuck Daniel Caruthers. The drunker she became the more intent she became on seducing the man, to the extent that her desire ceased to be sexual but simply one of attaining the unobtainable.



She knew Daniel to be the solid family man, expensive trophy wife and two kids he doted on. However, that made his seduction even more exquisite. They had sat through countless debriefs as she recounted her exploits with her marks, to which her assignations were mordantly referred, on occasions now too numerous to recall (actually, when sober, she knew the tally very well- sixteen) and all she wanted now was for the luscious Daniel to literally debrief her.



This was not the official Christmas party, that would be the annual dinner/dance, where they dressed in their finery, at the three course meal and politely danced the waltz and foxtrot with cultured stoicism. No, this was the Christmas Friday afternoon party for departmental staff at the department for Cultural, Artistic and Technological studies, an opportunity for the staff to party. The notion of ‘team building’ had yet to be considered a mainstream concept in most work places in 1968 but the ministry appreciated the reciprocated benefits gleaned from an enthusiastic workforce grateful for the free work time piss-up.



Simon Parker, the geek from accounts, had brought along his Dansette record player and his collection of singles and requisitioned a canteen table to set up his impromptu studio in front of the closed shutters of the canteen-serving hatch. A set of speakers had been jury rigged to the record player producing a distorted though agreeably loud output of sound. He delighted in performing his impromptu DJ role, passionately enunciating each track of his improvised play-list. He may have been very good, but without a microphone, his avid ramblings were lost on his captive audience. By mid afternoon, he drunkenly swooned to each record as if he was aboard a pirate radio ship in a winter North Sea storm.



Cigarette smoke cast a grey fog across the room as Becca’s eyes achieved a vodka-induced independence; they flitted randomly around the room, unable to remain fixed upon any single point without inducing a wave of motion sickness. Becca’s practised drunken brain told her to keep up the visual meanderings and persevere with her almost stationary, heavy-footed dancing. She transferred her weight from plastic boot to plastic boot whilst sensually gyrating her hips inappropriately to the soon to be number one hit ‘ObLaDi, ObLaDa’ by Marmalade.



The staff, to the casual eye, mingled randomly like an example of Brownian motion, yet habitually kept to their caste groups. Becca never ceased to be amazed by the abstract memories from school and university that invaded her intelligent though alcohol befuddled mind- ‘Brownian Motion’ for fuck sake! The lowest of the low were the girls from the typing pool who swarmed with predatory intent across the ad hoc dance floor in search of men, the latter alarmingly outnumbered. Mrs Delaney, head of the typing pool, stood alone at the side of the room by the artificial silver Christmas tree keeping a motherly eye over her girls.



The normally staid work wear code had been relaxed for the day and the typists all chose to wear miniskirts. Never had the ministry canteen seen such a wanton display of nylon clad calf and thigh, not altogether as exciting as the image may suggest, for few of the girls possessed the necessary assets to pull off the look with any style. As secretaries, Becca and Sally were considered a higher caste than the girls from the typing pool and kept an icy, though to an outsider, almost imperceptible distance from the ‘untouchables’.



The staff from accounts gathered together for mutual protection, corralled by the notice board, where Becca finally spotted her quarry, Daniel Caruthers, standing next to the beautiful Mary Weaver. Mary accompanied her boss, Major Tom Dewsbury, the personnel manager. Major Tom, as he was affectionately referred to by all, had spent two days in the freezing water of the English channel awaiting evacuation from Dunkirk in 1940 and thereafter suffered from an embarrassing stammer which everyone chose, by good grace and sympathy, to ignore. There were as yet no female heads of department; however, everyone knew to a man who ran the Personnel Department and that was Mary Weaver.



Becca jiggled across to the table that had been setup as a bar, hoping to catch the eye of Daniel. She wore a new powder blue shift dress with white nylons and calf length glossy black plastic boots. With her long blonde hair expensively style to add volume and fashioned to curl around her face and cheeks, she thought she looked like Nancy Sinatra.



Any hope of Daniel spotting her was ruined when the boys from accounts suddenly joined in with the chorus of Scaffold’s ‘Lilly the Pink’, inviting drunken smiles all-round. Becca glanced at Daniel as she offered her glass to Smith from Estimating for a refill of vodka and orange. He pronounced his name ‘Smithe’ and what he actually ‘estimated’ was anyone’s guess. Mary Weaver lightly touched Daniel’s arm, the touch was brief but for Becca the touch was blatantly explicit, she may as well have pulled down his trousers and grabbed his cock.



Becca ignored the attentions of Smith as he attempted to return her filled glass. She had only eyes for Daniel and Mrs Weaver. She watched intently, oblivious to the sounds of the discordant accompaniment to Cliff Richard as he belted out ‘Congratulations’, seemingly at the request of the typing pool to celebrate a certain Jackie’s belated birthday.



Mary Weaver took advantage of the singing to slip unnoticed out through the door into the canteen kitchen followed by a clearly less poised Daniel, who cast a furtive glance over his shoulder as he opened the door. Becca waited for an agonised minute. Her rational mind told her to ignore the disappearance and return to Sally, but her drunken libidinous self told her to follow the object of her desires.



“Do you want this or not?” asked Smith impatiently. Becca blew Smith and exaggerated kiss that induced a tingling of delight in his scrotum and a flight of fancy in his mind. Perhaps she’d be up for a snog and fumble later he dreamed without conviction. Everyone knew Becca Seehofer was off limits, no one knew quite why.



She snatched the glass from his hand and downed the drink in one. The generous quadruple measure of vodka with a splash of orange seared her throat as she swallowed and waited impatiently for Smith to turn his besotted attention to another thirsty partygoer before surreptitiously making her way for the kitchen door. The music instantly became muffled as she carefully closed the heavy fire door behind her, it was as if someone had placed their hands over her ears and she was conscious of the tinnitus-like ringing in her ears induced by alcohol and imperfectly amplified music.



She waited and focused her mind on aural perception and discerned a whispering and what sounded like gasps coming from the storeroom to her left at the far end of the kitchen. The storeroom door stood agape, the occupiers failing to close it in their apparent haste. Becca stole stealthily around the kitchen to her right, crouching to take cover behind the stainless steel workbenches. The kitchen still reeked of boiled cabbage, despite not having been used that day, as if the malodorous vegetable had permeated deep within the white walls of the kitchen.



Becca worked her way around the worktops until she drew level with the open door of the storeroom. Here she was afforded a clear view along the narrow length of the white tiled room. Down the right hand wall ran wide shelves stocked with provisions. For some reason, she was aware of two large white sacks of milled flour at the far end of the store. Perhaps the bags drew her attention as they offered a fittingly blank canvass to emphasise the gorgeous shapely calves of Mary Weaver, encased in black nylon and supported by her black patent leather two-inch heels.



She leant against the right hand shelves offering Becca her left profile and was engaged in a passionate clinch with Daniel Caruthers. Becca’s stomach flipped as she drank in the image presented before her, far more intoxicating than the quadruple vodka she had just consumed.



The occupants of the store seemed to be engaged in a passionate frisson, they were kissing, they were devouring each other. Mary’s brown cashmere sweater had been rolled up and bunched untidily (so un-Mary-like) beneath her chin exposing her pristine white Playtex 18 hour bra. Becca recognised underwear as an ornithologist recognised tits. Daniel’s hands groped at Mary’s breasts through the material of the undergarment, squeezing until Mary’s stifled groans curbed his eagerness before lust reasserted itself and surmounted his self-restraint.



Becca watched with increasing enthralment as Daniel’s passion exhibited itself so wantonly. He attempted to unfasten Mary’s bra but frustrated by his inability to do so, wrenched the garment up over her large breasts to join the redundant sweater. Mary’s opulent breasts fell free and momentarily swayed; Becca was granted the full profile of the heavy left breast as it bounced before being gathered up in Daniel’s right palm.



Still their mouths remained locked as Daniel continued to caress Mary’s boob flesh. Her hands descended with a similar despairing need towards his belt where, working blind, she urgently tugged at the belt and his trouser buttons to reach the object of her desire. She only lessened the pace of her endeavours when she grasped and embraced his engorged cock.



Becca unconsciously raised herself from behind the industrial kitchen unit in a bid to improve her view of Daniels penis. She bit her bottom lip in frustration as she was thwarted by his woollen pinstriped suit jacket, which effectively screened his groin.



Without encouragement, Mary jumped and positioned her bottom skilfully upon the lower shelf, dragging Daniel with her as she retained a covetous grip on his cock. With assumed coordinated practice, they manoeuvred Mary’s taupe coloured skirt revealing the white girdle and suspenders attached to the tops of her black nylon stockings. Oddly, Becca’s gaze was drawn to the creamy white flesh at the top of Mary’s left stocking, appearing so scrumptious as it apparently oozed from the black nylon like tooth paste from the tube. As Mary spread her legs, Daniel shuffled and fumbled with her underwear as his hidden cock craved ingress to her wet pussy.

As Daniel finally plunged his probing cock home Mary gasped and shot her head to her left. Becca ducked, her reactions slowed by alcohol. She swore angrily at herself, hoping that Mary Weaver was too far gone with carnal passion to spot the voyeur hiding ineptly behind the worktop. She heard Mary’s groans of pleasure. No, they weren’t groans conceded Becca; they were sighs, which terminated with a guttural gasp at the termination of each injection into her cunt.



Becca dared to peek, and watched the object of her current desires fucking Mary Weaver. Becca found the whole spectacle of the fully clothed man and topless woman fucking so vigorously in the kitchen storeroom perhaps the most erotic thing she had ever seen.



Mary’s left boob jiggled, compressed against Daniel’s chest and she imagined the exquisite torture of the woollen jacket against her nipples. She gauged Daniels stroke and found herself roughly calculating the length of his cock as she had done in the line of duty when shagging a particularly boring and inept fucker. She was drunkenly disappointed that it was no longer than six inches. Despite what men might say, size did fucking matter, or matter in the case of fucking.



Becca suddenly felt a wave of nausea sweep over her, the last quadruple vodka the culprit. Mary’s cries grew louder and she was harmonised by Daniel’s groans of lust as he approached his inevitable orgasm. Becca desperately looked around for somewhere where she could be sick. Before she could move, she was overwhelmed, fell to her knees and wretched pitifully, gratefully ridding her system of the alcohol, and subsequently collapsed to the floor.



The next thing Becca was aware of was being cradled in the arms of Mary Weaver and was vaguely attuned to the fact that she was still in the kitchen. She had hoped she was safely in bed and had been dreaming. Mary smiled benevolently at Becca as she might to a wayward child.



“Oh dear, Miss Seehofer, what am I to do with you?” said Mary in an affected despairing tone. Becca frowned. She felt wretched and was aware of a pounding headache. Mary took a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and dabbed Becca’s mouth, clearing away the dried spittle.



“Your insatiable curiosity will get the better of you one of these days, that or the booze. I worry sometimes that we work you too hard. You are my best girl and I suppose it’s the time of year to let your hair down. I trust you enjoyed the show?” Becca did not, could not answer, her mouth was dry and her throat burned with stomach acid.



“I trust I can rely on your discretion?” added Mary. “And before you ask, no, Mr Caruthers did not see you; he walked around the other side of the unit. However, I certainly saw you earlier and I must say that it added a little something to the otherwise sordid little episode. Daniel was most insistent that we make love, couldn’t wait until later, not very circumspect and very unlike him. It must be Christmas.” Mary smiled and Becca thought she looked beautiful; perhaps it was the post coital glow.



“Anyway, I’m most grateful to you, now we can leave the kitchen together and use your drunken excesses as my excuse for being here, no sneaking out the back door. How do you feel?”



“Awful,” Becca finally managed to utter.



“What are you now, twenty three?” asked Mary. Becca nodded.



“I remember when you came for that first interview, a lovely little thing,” said Mary wistfully, sounding far older than her thirty-one years. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. We don’t want to ruin that pretty dress, Daniel would be most disappointed.”



CHAPTER 4. REVELATIONS – 2012.



The silence within the room, combined with the stifling heat of the July day, was overwhelming. Sybil had at some point during Rebecca’s story, removed her jacket yet was still discomforted by the perspiration pricking her skin beneath her fitted white blouse.



She had taken great care over her choice of clothing for her ‘assignment’ with her grandmother and yet the selection of her underwear had been made not so much in haste but deemed as inconsequential. The bra she wore was not one of the two she had most recently purchased from M&S; it was a bra that her mother had ordered for her over twelve months ago. Although her boobs had not grown appreciably in the year (she had proudly graduated to a C cup by the time she was sitting her GCSE’s), there was patently an equipment malfunction somewhere.



The cups felt too tight and instead of offering unobtrusive support, she was assailed by the sense of restrictive confinement. Her breasts heaved uncomfortably against the cups and the underwire support bit into her chest as she exhaled. She tried not to pay attention to her nipples, which had swelled alarmingly against the damp synthetic fabric. She hoped her blouse was loose enough to disguise their stiffness. It wasn’t.



“So what happened, did you go back with Mrs Weaver?” asked Sybil, finding difficulty in articulating her words. Had her mother related the story then she would have fled screaming into the garden, but the gap of one generation and the time frame of a different world seemed to imbue the quirky story with a sense of otherworldliness.



“Of course I did. And later that evening having sobered up and taken a few aspirin I returned to her apartment with her where Daniel later joined us,” replied Rebecca, her look challenging her granddaughter to pose the next question.



“And did you, um, did you…?” stammered Sybil, her neck and cheeks reddening by merit of the genetic family trait. Rebecca remained silent but her eyes encouraged the girl to continue. “Did you make love to Daniel?”



Rebecca smiled and looked out through the window as if it offered a view back to 1968. “No, we never made love…” answered Rebecca who failed to notice the hint of disappointment on Sybil’s face, not that Sybil was consciously aware of exhibiting such an emotion. “No, I never made love to him. I fucked his brains out.”



Sybil laughed nervously. She exhibited the rapid adaptational skills of youth by acclimatising quickly to the unfamiliar and bizarre so that she wasn’t the slightest bit grossed out by her grandmother’s sexual story. Actually, she grudgingly admired her story telling skills though could have done without the vomiting episode. Assuming the story was true, part of her wanted to say, “good for you, old girl!” whilst part of her could also imagine her own mother’s shocked expression and onset of the Victorian ‘vapours’ as she fainted on the chintz sofa.



“What about Mrs Weaver?” asked Sybil.



“We took it in turns with Daniel. He was actually quite a letdown. I don’t know if I explained how beautiful she really was. It was lovely watching her make love to Daniel, far better than indulging.”



“Make love or fuck,” enquired Sybil, emboldened by her grandmother’s frankness.



“They made love. They really cared for each other deeply, despite both being happily married to separate partners. I didn’t love Daniel, but Mary most certainly did.”



“Are they, are they still alive?” asked Sybil. Becca frowned, the questions youngsters ask. To be fair, it was a fair question but Rebecca did not like to be reminded that death’s embrace was becoming statistically more likely with every passing day.



“Sybil, to become a writer or a seductress, one must develop the story, not rush to the climax.”



“Is that what you were, Gran, a ‘seductress’? Was Mum right about you?”



Rebecca noted the sound of disapproval and disappointment in her granddaughter’s voice. Indeed, Sybil’s excitement over Rebecca’s story had faded to be replaced by a questioning doubt of her gran’s motives and indeed her true occupation.



“No, I was most certainly not a prostitute!” answered Rebecca indignantly, “one did not go to Cambridge in the sixties to follow a life of whoredom. To become a homosexual spy, perhaps.”



“You were a spy?” asked Sybil, familiar with the concept of modern day glamorous Spooks.



“No, I was a secretary.”



“But…?



“If we are to continue with my biography, might I suggest we take a time out? You could go upstairs and remove that ridiculous ill fitting brassier? It looks like you’ve got two puppies trying to get out from under your blouse!”



Sybil was grateful for the solitude, an opportunity to escape from her gran’s presence. The last hour had been incredibly intense. Sybil had come well armed for the interview yet conceded she had little idea of the potential content of her grandmother’s recollections.



She stood in the smallest guest bedroom at Mount Pleasant cottage. It was the room she had always stayed in over the years, essentially her second bedroom. It was adorned with various familiar knickknacks she had assembled over the years, bestowing the room a comforting, if somewhat juvenile, familiarity in which she was able to relax.



Standing by the side of the single bed, she began to unbutton her blouse. She hastily removed the shirt, reached behind her to unfasten the offending bra, slipped out of the straps, and cast the garment reproachfully upon her overnight bag. She quickly retrieved her blouse and slid into the damp, short-sleeved apparel.



She turned as she gathered the material to re-secure the buttons and caught sight of her reflection in the long mirror that fronted the door of the solitary stand-alone wardrobe. She froze as she surveyed her image. The reflection that greeted her was unexpected.



She lived in jeans, her father often teasing her that it was a shame her legs were so disfigured that she had to keep them hidden all the time. Yet here she was in heels, which she never wore and truthfully found uncomfortable, and the flickering image of Mary Weaver’s nylon clad thighs filled her mind. Sybil had worn tights possibly a handful of times and certainly never stockings. She wondered how her legs would appear similarly clothed and nodded approving at her own calf. Okay, perhaps the pale skin was not exactly shapely but she considered it agreeably slim with sufficient profile, admittedly accentuated by the shoe, to appear pleasing on the eye.



The narrow navy skirt fell to her knees, defining her thighs and hips admirably, her hips wide enough to define her slender waist yet not to appear invasive. She clutched the two halves of the blouse across her body yet instead of fastening the buttons she found herself slowly drawing the two pieces of fabric apart. At first, she revealed only her belly. She grimaced at the slight paunch above the waistband of the skirt and tightly pulled in her belly, pleased with the result as it curved beneath her rib cage. As she surveyed the deep depression of her naval, she regretted not going with Trudy Simpson to have her belly button pierced. Her mother would have screamed blue murder but hey, it would look bloody marvellous.



Sybil glanced nervously at the door and bit her bottom lip, another trait of Rebecca had she known it, and nervously pulled her blouse back to reveal her breasts to the mirror. She felt the butterflies dancing in her stomach as she exposed her boobs to the reflective voyeur, which suddenly assumed an organic identity, as if the flaunting of her breasts were for the mirror’s brooding gratification.



Sybil knew she had great tits. Okay, it wasn’t something to brag about, the gods gave you what they did, one had little say in the matter, but even so, the response they invoked in boys and girls was unjustifiably pleasurable. She had worked hard to attain her grades and gain a place at uni yet amongst her peers she was aware that her fine pair of boobs elicited as much respect and caustic jealousy as her intellect. No, at her age, they definitely exacted more.



She thrust out her chest towards the mirror. Her narrow back accentuating the swelling orbs of her unfettered breasts. She knew her breasts possessed the slight upward thrust as those of her mother’s but not that the genetic trait had been passed down by her grandmother. To the appreciative spectator, the small pink areolae pointed jauntily towards the ceiling in the corner of the room.



Rebecca was perceptive in her assessment of Sybil, for she was no virgin. Maybe, thought Sybil, her grandmother would have been shocked at how young she had been when she lost it. In September, she would be nineteen and aside from the exciting prospect of new horizons, her irresistible fantasy concerned meeting boys in the tantalising appealing environment known as ‘not at home’- emancipation!



Perhaps Granny Rebecca would be shocked at the number of different boys she had slept with, especially in the last six months when she stayed weekends at her best friend’s house. Collette’s parent’s spent most weekends at their holiday home in Cornwell, leaving the eighteen-year-old Collette home with her two brothers. Several weeks ago, Sybil finally succeeded in seducing Collette’s twenty two year old brother after weeks of planning. Now she had her sights on Collette’s nineteen-year-old brother, Patrick.



She imagined the mirror was in fact Patrick and it was to his shocked and lustful eyes that she flaunted her tits. She squeezed her already plump nipples, coaxing them a further few millimetres so they stood, to her mind, disgustingly erect and tantalising. She longed for Patrick to take her teats in his mouth, to suck and bite until she shrieked with joy at the persuasive torture.



She again glanced enquiringly at the open bedroom door; she knew nothing elicited the suspicious curiosity of her mother as much as her closed bedroom door and the habit was hard to shake off. To masturbate knowing that her mother might catch her at any moment had become a wonderful thrill. Her hands wandered down towards her skirt and attentively probed the tight waistband. Did she have time? God, she really wanted to bring herself off, to alleviate the burning dampness in her pussy.



“Sod it!” she whispered to herself. She unbuttoned her skirt, tugged down the rear zipper, and in one hasty movement drew down the skirt and white panties to her ankles. Quickly stepping out of her remaining clothes, Sybil stood naked save for her gaping blouse and ‘fuck-me-heels’ (which she now vowed to practice wearing) before the imaginary eyes of Patrick.



She thrust her hips to the left with her legs together bent at the knee. Arching her back to the right, coyly tilting her head to the left, supporting her head with her right hand against her right cheek. She performed her sexiest pout, practised many times before her own mirror. Her attention was drawn to the recently trimmed dark velvety pubic hair vibrantly stark against the almost translucent flesh of her obscenely plump mound. She lustfully concluded her snipping had been insufficient; she wanted her pussy to be hairless and magnificent.



Her labia, hidden from view were hairless by her mother’s concession on the grounds of hygiene (what an embarrassing conversation that was. Never had she heard so many euphemisms used in the course of one conversation and when it had concluded Sybil was unclear of her mother’s intimation until the ‘ladies hygiene pack’ magically appeared on her bed one day). Her pubes would definitely have to go.



Sybil positioned herself on the edge of the bed and slowly nudged her bottom so that she was still facing the wardrobe mirror. Her arse cheeks sank into the welcoming caress of the white cotton duvet cover and she carefully appraised her reflected image. She was some three feet away from the reflective surface and leant back, supporting her weight on her outstretched arms behind her. Almost imperceptibly, she began to separate her clenched thighs. With her white blouse loose but hanging deliciously over her breasts she allowed her eyes to be drawn to the mirrored image of her pussy as it slowly revealed itself.



She imagined the standing figure of Patrick as his eyes feasted upon her most intimate part, the dark maroon of her two petals that symmetrically framed the groove of her pink lips. As she slowly spread her thighs, the petals trembled and gently divorced. The moist folds of her labia overcame the cloying grip of her secretions and parted sufficiently to reveal the enticing pinkness that heralded the promise of the pleasures beyond.



“Do you like my little pussy, Pat?” she whispered to the spectral spectator. With her weight supported only by her left arm, Patrick watched her right hand move without hesitation to her pussy. Her fingers lightly brushed the outer folds of her labia before rising to stroke her shrouded clit.



“You can play with your cock if you like, Pat. Would you like that?” Sybil imagined the youthful and inexperienced Patrick struggling to free his stiff cock whilst he feasted on the image of the girl masturbating before him.



“We can come together; you can come over my pussy.” Her whispers morphed into a silent dialogue as she began to work on her clitoris. She allowed her body to fall back onto the bed, permitting her to plunge two fingers from her left hand into the depths of her cunt. All pretence of showing off to the mirror was forgotten as she focused upon climaxing as quickly and as pleasurably as she could.



“Sybil, your coffee is getting cold,” announced the composed voice of Rebecca from downstairs. “Sybil?”



Sybil bit her lip to stifle the cry as her orgasm exploded. Her shoulders bucked, syncopated with the blissful contractions in her pussy as she clenched her thighs together in a climatic crescendo of sexual relief from the accumulated torment of her grandmother’s erotic confessions.



“Are you okay, Sybil,” came her grandmother’s more earnest enquires. Sybil gave a huge sigh and reached for the box of tissues by her bedside.



“I’m fine, Gran. Be down in a minute!” shouted Sybil in reply as she dabbed her pussy with the tissues. She gleefully laughed then shrugged her shoulders at the mirror as if in apology for what Patrick was about to forego.



“There’s always next time,” said Sybil mischievously as she stood up and kissed the mirror before crouching down to retrieve her panties and skirt.



CHAPTER 5. FRIDAY EVENING – 2012.



At seven o’clock Rebecca and Sybil ate in the kitchen, still the coolest room in the house yet cloyingly warm all the same. Becca produced a bottle of wine, which they shared during the meal. They ate discussing matters of trivial interest, to the extent that Sybil almost forgot the nature of the first interview. A reflective silence ensued as they loaded the dishwasher. Sybil had changed into a pair of jeans and green tee shirt and remained braless for she had the impression, rightly or wrongly, that Rebecca had actually encouraged her to dispense with it. She was unused to going ‘unfettered’; it was frowned upon by her mother for inducing premature sagging. To be fair to her mother, many of her girlfriends slept in bras, something she deemed above and beyond the call of duty.



She had to confess, there was something liberating about ‘going braless’, not in a sexual context, more by way of simple corporeal liberty. She guess that’s why naturists did what they did, perhaps naturism was the final evolutionary state of her hypothesis?



Sybil also felt a delectable sense of emboldenment, perhaps an aggregation of many facets that had occurred this day, but whatever the cause, it was true and palpable.



“Granny, do you mind if I smoke?” Rebecca maintained her apparent resolve upon removing the stubborn amalgam of chilli concarne ingredients, intractably melded to the bottom of the casserole dish, which was beyond even the capabilities of the dishwasher, despite the claims of the proprietary brand of detergent.



“I’ll smoke outside if it upsets you?” added Sybil in a conciliatory tone, interpreting Rebecca’s silence as a silent rebuke of displeasure. “I’m sorry, Gran…”



“Go and fetch the ashtray from the front room, and my cigarettes,” instructed Rebecca. Sybil walked slowly towards the lounge, her body language flaunting the censure she felt she had foolishly earned. “And Sybil?”

“Yes, Gran?” Sybil stopped in her tracks, preparing to be admonished for her impropriety.



“Please stop calling me ‘Gran’ or ‘Granny’. I know I bloody well am, and if it makes you feel happier, call me Gran when anyone else is here. But for God sake, when we are alone call me Becca.”



“Yes, Gran, sorry… Becca,” laughed Sybil in relief.



Sybil returned with the items and sheepishly withdrew the blue pack of ten Mayfair cigarettes from her jeans pocket along with a cheap disposable lighter. Becca watched with a sense of mild amusement as Sybil lit the cigarette and instantly blew a stream of smoke, which curled insidiously around in the heavy atmosphere of the kitchen. The smoke patently stung the young woman’s eyes, clearly unused to the dynamics of smoking indoors. Further unfamiliarity betrayed itself as Sybil flicked the cigarette tentatively at the ceramic ashtray, unused to using the object, a result belonging to a generation of smokers who smoked only outdoors.



“Are you ready for the next instalment?” asked Becca, her keenest apparent to Sybil who was swooning with the head rush of only her second cigarette of the day.



“Sure Gra…, Becca. Only…,” Sybil paused.



“Only what?” Becca’s words seemed hollow, cowled by her own cigarette smoke that loitered around her larynx.



“Could we follow a chronological path? I realise you wanted to start with something that grabbed my attention…” Sybil broke eye contact at the memory of the sexual shenanigans and darted her eyes to the ashtray. “Could we not start at the beginning, according to the song it’s a very good place to commence?”



Becca smiled approving at Sybil’s suggestion. God, Sybil so reminded her of herself at that age. How similar they were they would discover over the next few days.



CHAPTER 6. THE INTERVIEW – 1967.



The clicking metal tips of the heels resonated alarmingly around the marble foyer as Becca walked towards the reception desk, introducing an involuntary hesitancy into her gait, which she attempted to counter only to compound the awkwardness of her bearing. It felt as if all the eyes in the foyer would be drawn to her apparently gauche bearing as they scrutinised the child walking in her mother’s heels.



The desk was clear and Becca stood before the receptionist, placing her black leather attaché case on top of the laminate desktop before smoothing the sides of her coarse green plaid skirt with her clammy hands as she waited to gain the receptionist’s attention.



“Good morning, may I help you?” enquired the receptionist peering disdainfully over the top of her large rimmed oval reading glasses.



“Yes, my name is Rebecca Seehofer, I’m here for an interview with Mr Caruthers,” replied Becca a little louder than she had intended as she pronounced her rehearsed words.



The receptionist glanced down enquiringly at her notes before her and spoke without raising her eyes to Becca. “Suite seven on the fifth floor, you may go up.” Becca was effectively dismissed.



For the first time Becca appraised her surroundings. The foyer was large and imposing, no doubt as the Victorian architect had intended. Not only was the stone-carved interior impressive, but also for the likes of the soon to be twenty-two year old Becca, grossly intimidating, a happy consequence of design for the nineteenth century autocrats.



The small cage lift, somehow accommodated in the old building, juddered Becca without surety to the fifth floor and she found herself in a narrow corridor, the worn red mottled carpet issuing a diffuse musty odour implying age and prevalence. She thought it smelt of old men. A sign pointed the way to the department of Internal Affairs and Becca now trod silently, directed by the sign down the empty corridor, which ended abruptly with a ninety-degree turn to her right.



Immediately she was greeted by a small lobby large enough to accommodate four wooden fabric coated chairs and an imposing oak door, virtually twice her own height. An A4 sheet of paper was clumsily taped to the cream painted plaster wall informing her that she had arrived at the candidate waiting room.



In ominous silence, Becca perched diffidently on the edge of the chair nearest the door. She glanced nervously at her watch, a twenty-first birthday present to herself, and noted the second hand creeping towards the eleventh hour of the day. Self-consciously, she toyed with the top button of her plain blue blouse, debating whether she should undo it or leave it buttoned. She wore what she considered to be a rather demure outfit. A green plaid woollen suit whose skirt fell just below the knees of her black stockinged legs and a jacket buttoned high above her breasts offering a minimal glimpse of the blouse. A necklace of fake pearls adorned her slim neck, which he hoped offered the impression of maturity and style. Was her look too staid, would undoing the top button appear unseemly before the interview panel?



As her fingers hovered with uncertainty, the oak door slowly opened and Becca instinctively rose to her feet in preparation for whatever lay ahead. A man wearing a dark blue pin striped suit emerged through the door. Perhaps in his mid thirties, he wore his dark hair side parted to the left, his face tanned by a recent holiday and darkened by further still by the stubborn dark bristles of his facial hair despite the close wet shave that morning. He smiled warmly as he offered his hand in welcome.



“Miss Seehofer, my name is Caruthers, please follow me.”



Becca had expected an older man; the name seemed to deny anyone a youthful vigour. Becca reassuring clutched at her attaché case as she followed the man through the door; she smelt his pleasant aftershave as he paused to close the door behind her and pointed to a chair on the nearside of a huge rectangular boardroom table.



On the far side of the table, she smiled softly at the enquiring faces of the man and two women already seated. Becca’s butterflies took flight in her stomach, she had not expected to be interviewed by four people and immediately the visualised image of the interview she had created as she lay nervously in bed the previous evening was torn asunder. The seated man evoked the aura of the alpha male. In his fifties, his face was lined with years of patronage in the civil service. His grey hair had thinned to a point of baldness and his heavy brown-rimmed glasses gave his face an owl-like appearance.



The two women could not have been more dissimilar. The older woman could justly have been classified as a contemporary of the alpha male and if there was a role for the alpha female, she would certainly fit the bill. Sitting to the man’s right, Becca was reminded of her headmistress at school; such was her tweed suit and stocky, dependable appearance. Her heavy chin and jowls gave her a fierce mien and her half moon glasses offered the impression of intellectual disinterest.



The younger woman, sat to the older woman’s right, was simply stunning in the eyes of the impressionable Becca. In her late twenties at a guess, she had shiny long brown hair centre parted to fall past her shoulders. Her long face was immaculately made-up, flaunting her high cheek boned face to its maximum advantage. Her deep brown eyes smiled welcomingly at the interviewee.



Becca stood by her chair until Daniel Caruthers positioned himself beside the older man and asked Becca to take a seat. The four interviewers stared intently at the papers in front of them as Becca placed her case on her lap and nervously clasped the arms of the Queen Anne chair. She instantly regretted having applied for this position in the department of Cultural, Artistic and Technological studies. She had just graduated and this was only her second interview, she lamented her casual approach to her preparation, assuming with the naive confidence ingrained upon her by three years at Cambridge that she could blag her way through the interview.



It was the older man who spoke and for the first time Becca allowed her frightened eyes to break away from scrutinising their respective faces and her eyes caught the wooden nameplates in front of the interviewers. She read his name- Major Tom Dewsbury.



“Your, re-re-résumé reads impressively as regards to your academic qualifications. Te-te-tell me, why do you think you are suitable for the position of re-re-research assistant?” Major Tom spoke in a soft fatherly voice, his affability enhanced by the stutter.



Becca inwardly cringed; she assumed there would have been a little more preamble before she had to sell herself. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Major Tom tilted his head to one side and opened his mouth as if to encourage her words.



“I, I…” Becca’s eyes darted between the four. She feared her involuntary stammer would be misinterpreted as insolence and felt the dreaded warm glow as her neck flushed, gratefully obscured for the most part by her buttoned blouse, and her pale cheeks burn a fiery red.



The beautiful woman smiled sympathetically, the older woman sternly peered over the top of her glasses whilst the younger man screwed up his eyes in consternation at Becca’s silence.



“I believe I will offer an enthusiastic and committed approach to my work,” the words babbled like the waters of the spring thaw from the mouth of Becca. “I am conscientious and punctual and have a good eye for detail as my résumé points out,” she continued her bullet points, quoting verbatim from the manual of interview replies.



Major Tom peered absently at the ceiling above Becca’s head. “Um,” was his soul comment. The older woman spoke, taking Becca by surprise and she glanced at the nameplate displaying the name ‘Mrs Phelps’.



“Could you give the panel an example of your recent research work?” Mrs Phelps question bore a demanding quality.



“I researched intensively into the social and economic consequences for East Germany following the building of the wall,” replied Becca.



“Have you done any work with regard to emerging technologies; you know hi-tech solutions to rising oil prices? Have you studied economics or accounts?” asked the man named Caruthers.



“No, certainly not!” replied Becca indignantly, “I’m no bloody bean counter!” Becca flushed again at her feisty inapt reply. It was not the image she had set out to portray but often her natural character devilishly revealed itself.



“I thought not, pity…” replied Daniel Caruthers as his pen made a distinctive ‘x’ mark on his illegible, from Becca’s perspective, notes.



Further questions were rained upon Becca Seehofer to which she generally answered in a negative fashion and with each answer she became more relaxed and resigned, as she realised there wasn’t a cats chance in hell of her being considered for the position. Had Becca not been fending off the questions with carefully considered answers then she may have been aware that it was predominantly the two men who asked all the questions whilst the younger woman had not spoken at all.



“Thank you, Miss Seehofer, would you kindly take a seat outside whilst we have a quiet word with each other,” announced Major Tom. Becca stood slowly to her feet, relieved that the ordeal was over and strode quickly to the oak door. She wasn’t unduly surprised at the brevity of her wait in the lobby as Daniel reappeared after less than five minutes. She followed him quickly back into the interview room, eager to get her obvious rejection out of the way and escape the unbearable atmosphere of the building. She was surprised to see that Major Tom and Mrs Phelps had left the room.



“Mrs Weaver would like to have a word with you alone, if that’s okay?” announced Daniel as he immediately turned and headed towards the wood panelled wall off to Becca’s left. Her eyes narrowed with puzzlement until Daniel opened a concealed door in the panelling and vanished the way of the older two interviewers, leaving a mystified Becca alone with Mrs Weaver.



“Please, take a seat, Rebecca,” the younger woman spoke for the first time; her voice was soft and cultured, complimenting her looks. “My name is Mary Weaver, I’d be grateful if you called me Mary, I really don’t feel like a ‘Mrs Weaver’.” A stunning smile of white enamelled teeth lit Mary’s features and Becca could not help herself as she reciprocated the smile as she retook her seat.



As Becca settled herself in the chair Mary elegantly rose from behind the broad table and walked neatly around to lean against the table away to Becca’s left revealing her full figure for the first time.



Mary stood five feet ten inches if one included the two inches afforded by her heeled shoes. She revealed her stunning lilac dress that Becca had failed to pick up upon during her interrogation, as she liked to think of it. It was expensively cut to accentuate her lithe yet full figure, the dress hugging her firm thighs, caressing the swell of her hips and tautness of her stomach before blossoming to emphasise her large bust. Despite being fully clothed Becca could not help but notice that the dress was designed to flatter what lay beneath it. Becca had no doubt that the pearl beads around Mary’s neck were genuine.



Becca felt decidedly frumpily dressed, and as if to exemplify her feeling, the jacket began to itch around her wrists, where the soft lining yielded to the coarse fabric. Mary posed before Becca, seemingly for Becca’s benefit, as if inviting a compliment.



“You are very pretty,” said Mary suddenly. Becca raised her eyebrows in surprise at the personal comment following the entirely impersonal interview.



“Thank you,” muttered an embarrassed Becca.



“No, I mean it, you really are,” continued Mary. Becca found herself blushing again, unable to control her body’s reflex. Mary smiled at Becca’s modesty.



“Do you like sex?” asked Mary. Again, Becca was stunned. Mary nodded her head, coaxing Becca to reply.



“Of course,” muttered Becca self-consciously looking to the floor. Mary laughed warmly and crossed her arms.



“Actually I don’t think you realise how pretty you are,” continued Mary.



“Not as pretty as you,” replied Becca, it was a defensive as well as a modest, though honest reply.



“I’m not pretty, Becca, I’m beautiful and that, I have to tell you, is an entirely different thing.” There was no hint of ego in Mary’s reply; it was delivered as a factual observation.



“I’m beautiful and intelligent which is a very intimidating combination for many men. They may want me but only the most confident and assured of men would have the courage to attempt to seduce me. Now you on the other hand have undoubted intelligence but your beauty lacks the terror of mine. You have the air of availability; you do not exude the air of unattainabilty.”



Becca furrowed her brow at Mary’s comment. She thought she was being complimented but the content of the speech went beyond Becca’s immediate comprehension.



“Have I upset you?” asked Mary, “you look a little hurt.”



“No,” answered Becca without hesitation, “I’m just a little confused that’s all.”



“Well that is refreshingly honest of you, Rebecca.” Mary raised herself and sat on the edge of the table facing Becca, her legs swaying pendulum-like beneath the table as she folded her arms beneath her heavy breasts and sunk her head into her hunched shoulders. Her chin appeared to be resting on her up thrust breasts as she leant towards Becca.



“You visited a psychiatrist whilst you were studying, didn’t you,” stated Mary, her closed mouth smile intimating secret knowledge. Becca lent back in her chair.



“How do you know that?” demanded Becca with a sense of legitimate grievance that overcame her natural reserve concerning the odd direction that the interview had taken. Mary’s smile morphed into a laugh.



“Oh, come along, Rebecca, you don’t believe in all that patient confidentiality rubbish you hear quoted on TV and the movies, do you?”



“Well, actually, yes I do,” answered a resentful Becca.



“Good for you, girl!” laughed Mary. Abruptly the smile vanished. “You were treated for sexual cravings,” announced Mary. In 1966, there appeared to be few therapists who considered sex to be addictive, especially in woman. A young woman exhibiting strong sexual urges would be viewed merely as a perverted delinquent.



“No I was not!” defended Becca, she stammered over her words as she composed her reply after the instant rebuttal. “I was worried about my studies, that’s all!”



“Worried that your libidinous desires might spoil your work,” added Mary, “and what treatment did the doctor recommend?”



“Various things,” declared Becca, angry that her medical history was being so openly discussed yet still willing to take the questioning.



Mary smiled, filling Becca with a dread that this woman already knew the details of the hours Becca had voluntarily spent in therapy. “I wonder,” announced Mary theatrically, “for whose benefit those thorough sessions were for?”



“I beg your pardon?” asked Becca, again hastily drawn into making some sort of reply.



“I mean, were the sessions for your benefit or the analyst’s?” Becca screwed up her face, wondering if she had been asked a trick question. Mary watched Becca’s small nose furrow and noted the beguiling effect for future reference.



Becca had booked sessions with a psychiatrist whilst studying at Cambridge, concerned about her repressed incessant lascivious desires for fear of damaging her reputation, health and academic studies. The balding man in his fifties rationalised that her lustful nature was fuelled by her parent’s untimely passing; that she simply yearned for love. Later he extemporised by suggesting her carnal frailty was in reality her way of punishing her parents for cruelly abandoning her. Despite his unremitting efforts, he failed to correct her aberrations and submitted to her irresistible charisma by fucking her hard one dog day afternoon on his consulting couch. Becca still recalled the beads of sweat that pervaded his balding scalp as he enthusiastically but ineptly ‘ploughed her furrow’- his term not hers. From that day, she accepted her inclinations and embraced them as part of her complex psyche.



“Do you believe in female emancipation, Rebecca?” asked Mary. Becca tore her eyes away from the hypnotic swinging of Mary’s long nylon clad legs and switched her point of focus to Mary’s flawless brow.



“Of course I do.”



“And do you believe that women compete on a level playing field with men?”



“I think that it’s possible to make a career if one is prepared to work hard,” replied Becca. She inwardly cringed at the use of the cliché but felt relieved that the question had not been as personal as the previous.



“Poppy cock!” Becca flinched at Mary’s abrupt ejaculation. Mary continued. “Women may like to delude themselves that they can fairly compete with men but the painful reality is that the deck is firmly stacked against them. I’ll not insult your intelligence by labouring the point, for any woman, despite her public denials, knows that it is still a man’s world, run by men for the their mutual advancement.”



“But we have had woman MP’s,” Becca hastily sought the name of a female politician, “Barbara Castle.”



“A bloody lefty token gesture! I think you answered your own question,” grimaced Mary. “But men have one infallible weakness; can you guess what it is?”



Becca may have been suffused with nervous tension as the strange second interview progressed but her capacity for rational thought had not been stymied. She could intuitively sense by Mary’s line of questioning where this was heading.



“I think so,” announced Becca.



“Well?” encouraged Mary. Becca bit her bottom lip, reluctant to say what she thought. Mary’s stunning eyes fixed upon Becca, the intensity of the gaze designed to draw the hesitant words from Becca’s lips.



“Sex,” stated Becca. Mary smiled and nodded approvingly as she took up the conversation.

“Indeed so, Miss Seehofer. Really smart men know this; they know their heads are ruled by their bollocks. But you know what? It never ceases to amaze, the number of men who are willingly undone by a pretty face. They can’t help themselves; sex to the powerful man is like a light bulb to a moth.”



“Why are you telling me this, Mrs Weaver?” Becca suddenly found the tensions of the morning slip from her shoulders. Mary’s latest pronouncement seemed so far removed from the intimidating interrogation of the interview that she found herself temporarily removed from reality. It felt as if she was in her favourite bar with her girlfriends, discussing the current gossip.



Mary Weaver jumped unexpectedly from her perch on the edge of the table and landed gracefully on the balls of her feet, the years of ballet training used for fine dramatic effect. She walked briskly around the boardroom table, resumed her interview seat, and hastily scanned her notes.



“I’m afraid to say that we will not be offering you the position, Miss Seehofer. Unfortunately, you have yet to develop the special attributes that we are looking for to fulfil the role.” Becca’s mouth opened and she annoyingly realised her face had taken on a crestfallen demeanour. She knew the moment she had left the room that she would not be offered the position but the subsequent, strangely intimate discussion with Mary Weaver had somehow deflected Becca and lowered her protective guard so that the rebuttal, when it came, was painful as it was swift. Mary spoke again before Becca could offer her platitudes of resignation.



“However, we recognise that you do possess certain attributes that may be pertinent to another role we are looking to fill.” Becca’s disappointment was instantly replaced by curiosity. Mary finally looked up from her notes having dispensed with the formal diatribe of the interview.



“I will ring you later this week to arrange for a second interview in a venue that will be far more suitable for the role I have in mind.” Mary looked enquiringly at Becca.



“What is the roll you have in mind?” asked Becca.



“I think I’ll let you muse upon that until the next interview, I would rather you came open minded and let our little chat work upon your mind and see what comes out of the melting pot.”



CHAPTER 7. THE SECOND INTERVIEW – 1967.



Becca sat in Mary Weavers office on the second floor, home to the department of Cultural, Artistic and Technological studies. Mary was assistant to Major Tom, the war traumatised head of Personnel. Becca was not to know that as offices went in the department it was small, yet to her inexperienced eye it seemed vast, fitted with polished mahogany furniture. Mary sat behind her desk and leant forward to depress the intercom button.



“Sally, would you please hold my calls until further notice, I’m conducting an interview,” requested Mary.



“Okay, Mrs Weaver,” replied the Sally’s voice through the speaker, neither Mary nor Becca able to observe the grin on Sally’s plump face.



Becca dressed smart/casual as instructed for this second interview, wearing her pink ankle length slacks with blue canvas deck shoes and her horizontal striped French sailor’s top. Her role model for today was Brigitte Bardot.



“You’ve lost weight, Rebecca,” stated Mary as she offered Becca a cigarette. Becca thought it prudent to refuse. Mary took a cigarette; Becca thought that Mary even smoked with polished class. “I’ve seen photos of you when you were swimming; you swam for your country, did you not?”



“Yes, Mrs Weaver,” answered Becca, declining to call her Mary, far too personal.



“You appeared bigger then, more hippy and booby,” added Mary.



“Yes, I probably was, I lived well at Cambridge, since then I’ve had to, well, I’ve had to economise,” stated Becca.



“You’ve got to eat girl,” chided Mary. Becca preferred to spend what little spare cash she had left after her exorbitant London rent on cigarettes and booze.



Mary studied Becca whilst she smoked; Becca felt her own eyes nervously flicking around the room to avoid making eye contact. Finally, to break the loathsome silence Becca spoke up.



“Why have you asked me back, Mrs Weaver?” Mary offered her inscrutable smile that Becca would come to know so well as she slid open a drawer and withdrew a glossy magazine, which she apparently opened on a random page and foist before Becca.



Becca sat forward to study the magazine and was aghast at what she saw. It was a pornographic magazine, German, and certainly not a street legal publication in the UK. One cursory glance was enough for Becca and she disdainfully shoved the magazine back towards Mary.



“What do think, Rebecca?” enquired Mary, eyeing Becca quizzically behind a veil of blue smoke.



“It’s horrible, disgusting!” insisted Becca.



“Really? You’ll be surprised at how the thing has done the rounds. It’s been around all the departments, until someone deemed it prudent to confiscate it. Many men seemed to find it rather stimulating. I hate to think how many times the poor thing has visited the bathroom.” Becca cringed as she took in Mary’s inference.



“That’s disgusting,” blurted Becca.



“It is men, my darling, it’s bloody men,” smiled Mary cynically. “They would baulk if their girlfriends and wives were to pose as that German Fräulein, yet they are happy to relieve themselves courtesy of the magazine’s contents. It is the hypocrisy of men. It this double standard that we exploit for the benefit of her Majesty’s government, to further the interests of British trade.”



“I’m not sure I follow, Mrs Weaver?” confessed Becca.



“My section uses the feminine guile to further the government’s interests.”



“How?” asked Becca



“By satisfying that base need that rules a man’s head.”



“You mean sleep with them?” asked Becca, not truly believing what she was hearing.



“If that’s what it takes. Not all men feel happy going all the way, they like the wining, dining, and titillation. Do you know it is calculated that the departed contributed five billion to the exchequer by direct intervention, more if you count indirects.”



“You mean you blackmail them?” asked Becca scathingly



“God no, you can’t blackmail the Americans and our allies. No, we do them a favour.”



“A favour?”



“Yes,” said Mary, extinguishing her cigarette meticulously, “‘you scratch my back…’. You’ll be amazed how many deals, hanging in the balance, have been swayed by offering the procurement delegation a good time.”



“So you are offering a job to sleep with men?” asked a bewildered Becca.



“And women,” grinned Mary. “No, Becca, you don’t have to sleep with anyone, but I think you would be an asset to the team. There is a secretarial vacancy with Mr Denford. You are a first class linguist. Do you type?”



“Badly,” stated Becca, not really caring how she replied, for she knew the job was not for her.



“Shorthand?” asked Mary.



“No.”



“Ah well, you can soon pick that up. So what do you think?”



“Are you serious, Mrs Weaver?” Mary leant back in her chair, her lip tightly sealed, her fingers tips pressed together before her face.



“The salary is…” Mary handed Becca a typed sheet of paper from the desk.



“Jesus…,” breathed Becca, startled at the stated remuneration package. “What are ‘plus extras’?”



“Oh, that’s the best bits, Rebecca,” smiled Mary, knowing she now had Becca on the end of the line, though not necessarily landed. Some subtle rod work would be required for that, and she knew just the man with the rod for the job.



CHAPTER 8. A RED MOONRISE – 2012.



“So you never actually slept with men?” asked Sybil following Becca’s disclosure of the second interview. Becca sipped her whisky, the wine consumed but still leaving her with a thirst.



“At first, no. Mary Weaver was considerate, ‘softly, softly catchy monkey’ and all that.”



“At first, you say, so you did eventually?”



“The system was very fair,” answered Becca in considered tones. “The ‘extras’ were linked to performance. At first, I was content to be taken for meals and giggle at the appropriate moment. Then I would look at Sally.”



“You mean Mrs Weaver’s secretary, the one you first mentioned at the Christmas party?”



“Glad to hear you were listening,” praised Becca. “Yes the very same. You know she was not, being generous, the most intelligent girl. However, she was a great actress and had a huge pair of tits on a small body. She had a flat twice the size of mine and dressed like a queen. I asked her one day what she earned and was shocked at what I heard. She laughed when she saw my face and said something like ‘a girl like you could earn twice that in a year.’ I finally saw Mary Weaver and told her I wanted to upgrade my role in the department, as it was euphemistically described.”



“Let me get this right,” interjected Sybil, “by day you were secretary to this Denford bloke but took on extracurricular activities?”



“Succinctly put, darling,” confirmed Becca. “As I said, Mary was most sympathetic to her girls. My first mark, which involved crossing the threshold, was a Japanese gentleman. He had a thing about blondes, like most Orientals. He took me for dinner and I went back to his flat. He had a blowjob and a quick shag and that was it. A nice small cock and it was all over in a flash, he was rather too excited. A huge government export deal was signed shortly afterwards.”



Sybil blushed. Sometimes the frankness of her grandmother’s recent recollections were easy to listen to as she maintained, what she considered, a ‘journalistic detachment’, yet sometimes Becca managed to hit home and remind Sybil that it was her own flesh and blood talking.



Becca continued undeterred. “And things just escalated after that. The next guy I slept with was a Saudi. Handsome chap and very considerate. He kept asking me if I was okay. As usual, he was gone from the hotel room by the time I awoke. Often men are embarrassed by what they have done and can’t face you in the cold light of day. That was the only time I ever felt like a whore.”



“Why didn’t you at other times?” asked Sybil bluntly, wondering how Becca would respond to what was literally an accusation.



“Because it was all so legit, so normal- ‘all for queen and country’. I guess I could say anything and you probably wouldn’t believe it, your mother certainly never did when that fat mouthed Sally let slip in front of her one day. However, that, as they say, is another story. I’ll tell you the real reason why I felt okay with it.”



Becca stood up, walked into the kitchen to pick up her cigarettes, and proceeded out into the garden. Night had fallen and the evening air shimmered as the ground released the warmth of the day. The scented flowers finally lived up to their name, relishing the respite from the heat as they enriched the night air in a balm of scented bliss. An owl screeched somewhere out in the inky distance.



Sybil came in search of Becca and found her smoking and followed suit, both stood gazing at the red tinted moon as it broached the horizon low in the sky.



“Why, Gran?” asked Sybil, wanting to know the justification of Becca’s choice of life style. Becca thought of feigning ignorance, requesting clarification of Sybil’s question and correcting her for calling her gran. Yet she relented from such predictable obduracy and answered.



“It’s something I believe you would understand, unlike your mother. I can read the similarities. I noticed it in you when you were a young girl and was a little shocked, I have to say. I always accredited my leanings as a result of my parents’ deaths, not realising they existed before they died. I suppose the death of one’s parents is pretty traumatic, blurring much of my emotional memories prior to the event.”



“What feelings?” asked Sybil, worrying that she already knew where Becca was heading.



“I loved my job. I was bloody good at it. You know why? Because I loved sex. Oh, I don’t mean I enjoyed it. I did of course, but not always. I didn’t have to get off to enjoy it. It took me a long time to realise that I was actually no different to many of the marks I was dealing with. What they seldom appreciated was the power I held over them. A few of them got off when they thought they were abusing me, when actually it was the other way around. Their indulging in so-called excesses was actually my way of exploiting and manipulating them. The emotion they generated as they used me fed my insatiable need for fulfilment and in doing so gave me a feeling of incredible power, it was my liberation. The 1960′s was not quite as swinging as they would have you believe, in many ways women were enslaved by men as much as they had always been. Mary Weaver knew that. You know that as well, don’t you?”



Did anything Becca said make sense to Sybil? Perhaps, but the generational gap had conceivably made Sybil less consciously concerned regarding her sexual proclivity. She could see nothing particularly wrong with having sex when you wanted or needed it. Maybe her ravenous libido did not feel so odd in the new century? Some of her girlfriends shared a similar philosophy, though perhaps lacked her own predatory instincts. Some girls remained chaste; it was their choice, what they felt comfortable with. But what the hell, as long as you took precautions and it was consensual, so what? What, after all, was a normal and acceptable level of desire? Who was to say what was normal anymore? It felt like everyman for himself in the modern world. Becca patently came from a different world, which as she said, in reality was perhaps not quite a swinging as history had painted.



“So what was the most outrageous thing you did, Becca?” asked Sybil.



“Outrageous? Hard to say. But I remember the night I took four Americans.”



“Four!” ejaculated Sybil. “Jesus, woman, that must have been some night, how on earth did you cater for four men?”



Becca gave a throaty laugh. ‘Cater for’, what a pleasant euphemism. “It certainly was a night to remember, it was the evening I met your grandfather.”



It was almost as if someone had produced a cinematically enhanced effect, as the bushes in front of Sybil appeared to retreat into the distance by some rapid alteration in the optical depth of field. Her head seemed to implode as the great unmentionable was broached.



“But no one knows who my granddad was, Mum always said you didn’t know,” whispered Sybil.



“Don’t be ridiculous, girl. Of course I knew who the father of my only child was. I just chose not to tell your mother.”



“Why?” exclaimed Sybil, desperate to discover more about the elusive figure.



“Because he died before she was born. Because I thought I might meet someone else and did not want to confuse her.” To be fair, Sybil selfishly had little concern for her mother’s feelings; she needed to know who this awoken ghost was.



“He died before she was born,” reiterated Sybil. “How?”



“In Vietnam.”



“How?”



“How? How do you think, it was a bloody war.”



“Yea, but how exactly?” Sybil was neither hurt or deflected by Becca’s put down.”



“Officially I was never told, but a friend did make enquiries. He died in a punji trap.”



“What?”



“A pit was dug with sharpened bamboo spikes in the bottom called punji sticks. Apparently, he got careless.”



CHAPTER 9. BUNNY BALDWIN – 1970.



Fay ‘Bunny’ Baldwin brushed Becca’s hair with sweeping tender strokes, the synthetic bristles of the brush finding a satisfying degree of resistance as it groomed the rich glossy hair indicating to the professional stylist that Becca’s hair was in good health. It was Bunny who had decided that Becca should wear her hair down, pinned back to show her small ears, allowing it to cascade over her shoulders.



Bunny glanced in the dressing table mirror to check on Becca’s make-up. Her model had her eyes closed as she luxuriated in the simple pleasure of having her hair brushed. Bunny had similarly selected the style of make-up that Becca should wear for her evening with Lawson Hackett, finally settling on the classy but demure look of a girl who wanted to impress but who didn’t want to look overtly sexual or intimidating, as she knew the loathsome Hackett favoured. Bunny nodded with the contentment of having achieved her aspiration.



As she continued to sweep the brush through Becca’s accommodating hair she allowed her eyes to gaze lower down the reflected image before her. Her eyes drawn as ever to Becca’s breasts. Bunny insisted that Becca had her make-up applied topless, in her ideal world, every inch of her would be naked, but topless was the usual compromise. Bunny justified her desire professionally by her insistence that make-up may spoil Becca’s clothes but realised that Becca saw through the ruse and condescended to expose herself for her old school chum and flatmate’s indulgence.



Bunny, at thirty years of age, was only five years older than Becca but in reality, the few years represented a chasm of experience and expectation. Bunny had been head girl at the exclusive all-girls school when Rebecca Seehofer was the young impressionable and vulnerable new border whose parents’ had recently died and Bunny, head girl and captain of the hockey team, had been charged with Becca’s integration into the school.



Even then, Bunny was diligent in her appointed task and went about her induction duties with remarkable enthusiasm, as was noted in her school report by the headmistress. Becca was a frightened and naive new arrival, and submissively compliant to Bunny’s ministrations. How was Becca, recently arrived from Germany and traumatised by her parents’ premature death, to know that it was customary for a new girl to be ‘shown the ropes’ by the more experienced student? Bunny would tenderly protect Becca from predatory girls although the youngster was never inclined to reciprocate the adoration bestowed upon her. Becca nether the less became accustomed to the comforting hugs of the older girl.



Becca’s small breasts sat with a slight upward tilt on her chest, her nipples pointed with a precocious audacity, taunting her flat mate. Bunny considered how her own large breasts certainly did not ‘sit’ upon her own chest, rather they ‘hung’ or more aptly ‘clung’ with apparent desperation, trying to defy Newton’s laws, which she had never comprehended. Newton’s laws that is, not her slumped boobs. Bunny longed to run her tongue over Becca’s dark nipples and coax the small buds erect, she knew they would grow only a quarter of an inch or so but she relished the challenge of drawing them to their full engorged glory.



Although seemingly with her eyes firmly shut, Becca watched through her unblinking narrow eyelids at the reflected image of Bunny’s face, which was studiously intent upon her breasts. Part of her wanted bunny to caress her yielding boob flesh and squeeze her annoyingly sensitive nipples to send those intense messages of pleasure to her pussy and brain.



Becca had intentionally encouraged Bunny’s ‘favours’ (as Bunny often referred to them) and often felt guilty that she seldom returned the consideration for Bunny’s pleasure and relief. Bunny was homosexual whilst she was not. Becca had no idea of her own orientation, certainly hetro yet bi-sexual by accustomed practice if not leaning.



She and Bunny had gone their separate ways following school and whilst Becca had achieved outstanding success at Cambridge, Bunny had settled for a life of confused mediocrity until she discovered her exceptional talent for hair and beauty products so that she was now a highly respected stylist. Becca had ‘rescued’ Bunny (Bunny’s own word) from a particularly violent relationship with a budding film actress, who abused her control over the vulnerable Bunny.



The former head girl was certainly no shrinking violet but she was emotionally frail in sexual relationships, weak and easily exploited. Therefore, for the past eighteen months Bunny had lived with Becca and become her flatmate, confidante and mother hen. Bunny took her sexual gratification from pleasuring Becca, who saw the service as a small price to pay for the lavish amount of time and attention that Bunny gave in return.

Becca opened her eyes and offered a beaming smile of white teeth to the mirror for Bunny to intercept. Bunny gave Becca a look of maternal concern; she hated these dates that Becca had to attend, eliciting complex and negative emotions that she suppressed with tacit difficulty.



“We’d better get ready, poppet,” said Bunny, “I’ve laid out the grey dress, you know, the one you wore for Sergei.” Bunny knew every outfit that Becca possessed and each occasion on which they had been worn.



Becca reached for Bunny’s hand and gently squeezed and smiled generously, “Thanks, Bunny. I don’t know what I do without you.”



“You’d do just fine, poppet,” replied Bunny in a tone echoing with self-deprecation. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. I don’t like this Lawson Hackett.”



“You don’t know him,” commented Becca sharply.



“I don’t think I want to, Becca…”



CHAPTER 10. THE PENTHOUSE – 1970.



The door to the penthouse suite swung invitingly inwards and Becca Seehofer, clutching her overnight case, took a deep calming breath as she stepped over the threshold, barely glancing at the handsome young man who ushered her in, content that he bore all the hallmarks of the CIA.



Her four-inch heels sank into the deep pile of the beige carpet as she turned the corner from the lobby to enter the spacious suite. Three suited men were sitting around a circular table decked in a green cloth, the game of poker in temporary abeyance as the fourth player admitted Becca. The table strewn with chips intimated that the game was mid hand, an empty bourbon bottle stood redundantly on the table accompanied by ashtrays. Becca noted the foggy ambience of the room as the cigar and cigarette smoke blurred the air. The distinctive sound of Motown, the track unknown to Becca, played unobtrusively in the background.



“Hi, Rebecca, be a doll and fetch another bottle from the kitchen.” Becca recognised the east coast accent of Lawson Hackett who was sitting at the table but had declined to abandon his intense study of the cards in his hand. The two other men did deign to glance her way, no doubt curious about the new arrival. Had Lawson made them aware of her summons? Becca knew better than to worry over conjecture.



“Yes, Sir,” answered Becca, “is there anything else, Sir?”



“No that’s fine for now, honey,” answered Lawson. She noted the smiles that flickered across the faces of the two men gambling with Lawson as they heard her response and guessed they were pleased at her submissive response delivered in her practiced plummy English accent, so easily acquired after her years at private school and Cambridge. Becca collected the bottle of spirit, stood to Lawson’s right at the table, and noticed that the handsome younger man had resumed his seat.



“Forgive my rudeness, gentlemen, this here’s Rebecca,” announced Lawson to his guests around the table. Becca felt his hand on the back of her left stockinged thigh, just above her knee and cast him an enquiring glance.



Lawson Hackett was a good old American boy who had somehow become thirty-two whilst maintaining his college football attitude. He was well groomed with short dark blonde hair, as she remembered from her previous associations with him. His smooth tanned skin and the chiselled chin accented his strength and vitality.



Lawson slid his hand smoothly so that it slipped beneath the hem of her grey dress, his fingers expanding to embrace the stockinged flesh as his hand rose teasingly up her shapely leg. The tactile digits detected the change of fabric texture as they broached the top of the stocking and paused to luxuriate in the warmth of the exposed flesh above. His hand curved around to allow his fingers to encompass the soft skin of her inner thigh and his thumb pushed up to press lightly against the soft silky fabric of the French knickers as it loitered as if unsure of its next destination.



The three men around the table seemed unable to decide where their attention was best applied, in appraising the pretty face of the young woman, evaluating the contours of her body hidden by the dress or to watch Lawson’s hand as it explored the secret delights concealed by the flowing garment.



Becca flinched as Lawson’s thumb exerted a gentle pressure against her anus, the silk teasing her clenched sphincter whilst his fingers pressed against her vulva, wriggling to slide her kickers between the folds of her labia. The three men were drawn to her reaction as Lawson probed, all three smiled. Becca made an instant assessment regarding the nature of the men.



Of the three men, two could have been out of the same mould as Lawson. They both appeared tall in their seated posture and bore the same expressive elusiveness as Lawson. Being neither particularly handsome nor ugly, they were groomed to exude the aura of confident facileness of high foreheads and large mouths accommodating an over abundance of straight white teeth, marking them as being distinctly un-English. The man sitting next to Lawson on her right wore a distinctive moustache reminding her of the image of the Marlboro cowboy.



The fourth man was patently younger than the thirty-somethings who dominated the room, she guessed him to be in his early twenties, of a similar age to herself. His soft handsome features clearly lacked the confidence of the other three men, confirmed by his forced smile in response to Lawson’s ministrations. This was patently a new world of experience for him yet he would soon no doubt gratefully morph into a similar being as his companions. Lawson made no attempt to introduce his card partners. Becca thought the younger man looked pretty cute.



“Pour the drinks please, Rebecca,” suggested Lawson as he removed his hand from under her dress. She poured Lawson a generous measure into his tumbler before circling the table to the moustachioed man, the first of the duo of Lawson clones.



As she leant to pour, he offered a sharp smack to her left buttock. She had anticipated the blow for he had clearly indicated his intention by the shift of body position but she had not foreseen the vigour of its delivery. It was no playful slap but aggressive spank of barley-concealed spite.



She let out a cry of pain imbued with genuine shock and missed his glass as she poured so that the liquid gushed over the played cards on the table. Her ears we assailed by the raucous laughter of the four men as she felt the glowing heat generated by her pained buttock.



As the laughter subsided, Lawson spoke. “Earl, I know you like to be firm with the ladies but Rebecca here is an English lady. As I said, she’s almost royalty, so don’t you go treating her like some New York whore or I’ll throw you out, you hear, you dumb redneck?”



“Sorry Law, but she’s got such a sweet fanny!” The four men laughed again as if to gloss over Lawson’s lightly delivered but patently serious warning.



“Yea, she sure does. Show Earl what you’ve got, Rebecca,” ordered Lawson.



Becca leant towards the third man, sitting opposite Lawson at the circular table, and placed her hands on his shoulders for support as she bent forward to almost the horizontal, arching her back and thrusting her bottom towards the spanking moustachioed Earl.



Earl did not hesitate in accepting her offered butt, gripped the hem of her dress, and lifted the soft material over her bottom to allow it to bunch in the hollow of her spine around her waist. He was rewarded with the vision of Becca’s arse, the swelling contours of her buttocks framed by the high cut of white French Knickers. Becca knew how to flaunt her ass; she was under no illusions about its captivating appeal, honed by hours of swimming.



“Would Sir like me to pull my panties down so that he may gain a better look?” asked Becca demurely, maintaining her assumed subservient role.



“No please, the pleasure would be all mine,” mimicked Earl struggling to suppress his southern drawl. He grasped the top of her knickers and tugged them impatiently down to drape around her spread thighs, the stretched elastic of the waistband clinging with lurid alacrity to her bare pale flesh as the white silk billowed. Becca was pleased that her unveiling had occurred so quickly, perhaps it would not be such a long night after all.



The cloying atmosphere of the smoke infested room eddied tantalisingly around her exposed skin in a tangible embrace before she felt the calloused fingers of Earl paw her right buttock. His hand swept around the firm curve in a clockwise motion before he placed his thumb at the base of her spine. She was aware of the pressure of his thumb as it pressed against her coccyx before sliding down into the open valley prior to encountering the embrace of her clenched buttocks. The impatient thumb bludgeoned its way through her arse cheeks before reaching her concealed anus where it lightly pressed against her puckered hole. Earl, like Lawson, was evidently an ass-man. It never ceased to amaze her how many American men, when abroad, seemed to be fixated on anal sex. Perhaps that was unfair, she conceded, for the rule of thumb could be equally applied to men of all nationalities. The current rule of thumb sustained its gentle but insistent enquiries against her hole without violating its sanctity.



“Does Sir like my botty?” enquired Becca.



“I’m sure ‘Sir’ loves it, Rebecca, but I think he’s had long enough, Mike needs a drink,” said Lawson as master of ceremonies. It was Mike against whom Becca was leaning and she looked up enquiringly into his face. She was greeted by a salacious grin from the second Lawson clone. Mike could only imagine what his partner, Earl, had been up to but was none the less aroused despite the lack of visual affirmation.



Becca stood up, allowing the dress to fall from around her waist. She tottered around the table, her leg movement restricted by the French knickers, still clinging to her thighs. She was reminded of the tiny steps taken by a geisha as she served Japanese businessmen.



Mike remained silent as she served his drink and she paused, waiting for his attention. She was surprised by his actions. He simply reached up under the dress and slowly drew her knickers down to her ankles where she lightly stepped out of them. Mike examined the briefs, especially the material that had until recently covered her pussy. He nodded at Lawson. “Wet, the goddamn English girl’s already damp!”



“I told you, Mike,” said Lawson, “Rebecca is a very talented girl.”



Becca took her cue to move onto the youngster who was staring nervously at Lawson, patently looking for instruction.



“Ryan, you’d better help young Rebecca out of her dress,” suggested Lawson. Avoiding eye contact with Becca, Ryan nervously stood up. She knew he was tall, having seen him standing when he answered the door. At six three he towered over Becca as he shuffled quickly to stand behind her. His apparent haste might have been explained as she caught sight of his crotch and clearly noted the distended material that confined his expanding cock. She felt the tremors in his hand as he placed his left hand on her shoulder and grasped the zip fastener with his right. He tentatively tugged at the zipper until it sped with its own momentum down to the small of her back.



As her gown parted, Becca pulled the sleeved arms forward and Ryan gazed upon the creamy flesh of her shoulders and the white horizontal band of her bra fastener. Becca paused, drew her shoulders forward as if to emphasise the undergarment, and intimated that he should unfasten it. The trembling in his fingers intensified as he fumbled with the hooks and eyes before the underwear magically sprang apart like the parting of the red sea. Becca wasted no time on ceremony as she stepped out of the dress and bra to stand entirely naked save for her white stockings, suspender belt and grey patent heels. She took a discrete pleasure from the reactions of the three men she could observe.



Lawson nodded his approval mindfully recalling his previous encounter with her. Earl’s eyes flitted up and down her body scanning her delightful contours and the full bush of luxuriant curly blonde pubes that had been neatly trimmed to enhance the thick carpet of hair. Mike’s eyes were fixed upon her breasts, his glance to the ceiling confirming that he was drawing an imaginary line from her nipples to the far ceiling where they appeared to be pointing.



Becca twisted on the spot and faced Ryan. He was blushing and appeared to be staring intently at the wall behind her. She smiled sweetly at his innocence, embracing the thrill gained from his obvious nervousness as she stood decorously before him, like a succubus feeding off his apprehension.



It was such moments that emphasised her gift for seduction, her nerveless confidence at being naked in a room with four strangers, as yet unaware of the sexual course the evening would follow but confident that she would embrace whatever came her way with reciprocated skill and impious pleasure. Such was the complex nature of Rebecca Seehofer.



Her right hand moved surreptitiously towards the bulge in Ryan’s trousers. His gaze remained fixed on the distant wall as she kneaded the swollen flesh, her fingers differentiating between the swollen flesh of his shaft and the supple inflexibility of his balls. The three other men watched with anticipation as she rapidly undid the belt of the grey suit trousers and in one fluid movement push his trousers and shorts down to free his genitals from their cruel confinement.



She kept her smiling face firmly fixed on his and watched impatiently for him to look down at her. It was as her left hand cradled his lower left bollock held tightly to his body by the anxious contraction of his scrotum and her right palm supported his swollen but apparently bashful shaft that he deigned to look at her. Despite having admitted her into the penthouse, Ryan had scarcely paid much attention to Becca. He now noted how pretty she was. The ‘girl next door’ was an oft-used description but in her case, it was most apt.



Ryan was reminded of Susie, the girl who lived a few doors away from his parent’s house when he was a teenager. Often as he lay in bed with his constantly aching erect cock in his hand, he fantasised about watching her undress in her bedroom. It was usually as she removed her bikini briefs (it was highly unlikely that Susie wore bikini briefs but it was his fantasy) and for some inexplicable but compelling reason insisted on spreading her labia to reveal the pink tender folds of her virginal pussy that he would cum. He would exultantly ejaculate into his sock reserved as his surrogate vaginal cum depository.



Ryan closed his eyes as the beautiful English girl wanked his cock to full vigour. Her skilful hands assessed his cock as being straight and a slender five and a bit inches long. She thought it was a lovely cock and instantly dismissed the notion as being inappropriate. Experience taught her that the excited man was quickly going to blow his load. Becca knew full well that an inexperienced man such as Ryan would be overwhelmed by the socially intricate and contradictory complications of orgasming with a strange woman and in front of his colleagues. He would be rendered incapable of further participation for a good while, if not for the remainder of the evening. She realised Lawson was probably happy with such a scenario. After all, threes company and four is definitely a crowd.



“Does Sir like me stroking his beautiful big dick, I’d love you to put in my juicy hole,” said Becca in her best plummy accent. It was too much for Ryan as in wide-eyed alarm he ejaculated. Becca’s tummy was stung by the first blast of warm jism as Ryan’s cock convulsed in her hand. He groaned with a mixture of pleasure, relief but most of all from frustration at his premature spunking. Becca smiled in mock delight as the final burst of semen leaked limply from his cock into the palm of her hand, knowing that it was good manners and professional courtesy to look on approvingly as a man gave his all.



Ryan had no time to be grateful to Becca as he grabbed his trousers and wrenched them up awkwardly over his still stiff cock. He grimaced with pain as he somehow fastened his trousers around the impediment and dashed with mortification for the bathroom.



“He could have said thank you,” said Becca sulkily bringing smiles to the faces of Mike and Lawson, but not so Earl, who scowled in sympathy for his young partner at Becca’s witty repost. She realised that in pleasing Lawson she had upset the man named Earl.



“Why don’t you boys go and change,” suggested Lawson to the two remaining men, “whilst I attend to the needs of Rebecca.” They needed little encouragement; Becca read the moods of the two as they departed. Mike, still smiling, gave the impression of a man enthusiastic at the prospect of fucking the pretty English girl whilst Earl betrayed the air of a man who wished to dominate and subdue her impish impetuosity. She hoped Lawson’s control of the evening remained and suddenly appreciated the several large vodka and cokes that Bunny had insisted she drank before her appointment.



“Have you done double penetration before Rebecca?” asked Lawson with only a hint of concern, “Cos that’s what the boys are expecting. I would have warned you but they kind of chanced upon the evening when I mentioned I planned some company. Hope you don’t mind.” The last statement was poorly delivered; if he did have any concern for Becca then he hid his fears well. “I’ve got plenty of lube so you should be okay, I know you take in the ass,” said Lawson, gesturing that Becca should move over to the couch by the huge panoramic window.



Becca had only performed DP once and it was not an experience she remembered with any fondness. She was well used to having her bottom filled for it was not only men who were fascinated by anal sex. Bunny loved to use a butt plug on her whilst she fucked Becca with her favourite black vibrator, and so the concept of having her ass and pussy filled simultaneously was not unknown to her. However, the one occasion that she had indulged in DP had been farcical.



Her date involved two rich Saudi oilmen who desired to perform the feat upon her. Yet they little realised the coordination involved and so a scene fit for a bawdy comedy was played out as one of her holes was plugged but the attempt to engage the second always ended in disaster. Whatever carnal lust the two men had before attempting her seduction was lost in recrimination as each held the other responsible for the failure of the sexual act.



Becca laid flat on her belly on the armless couch and rested her chin on her folded arms. Her vision was drawn to the view on the Thames, which shimmered beneath the evening lights and she allowed her eyes to alight upon the solitary pleasure cruiser plying its trade. It felt as if she was floating outside in the cool evening air as all sense of the room vanished and she lost herself in her private musings as Lawson gently parted the cheeks of her ass to expose her anus. He smiled at the delicate sight of her small pink puckered hole and squeezed the tube so that a glob of transparent gel landed upon the wrinkled ring. She welcomed the cooling balm of the gel, which seemed fresh and cleansing, at odds with the cloying tobacco tainted atmosphere of the suite.



Lawson gently ran his finger clockwise around her clenched sphincter, depositing lube in the spoke-like creases of clenched muscle that radiated from the centre. He smiled as he heard Becca purr at the gently caressing of her ‘special hole’, as Bunny referred to it.



“You okay?” asked Lawson. Becca closed her eyes and uttered, “Uh huh.”



She felt another glug of lube settle on her pouting hole only this time the cooling effects were diminished. Lawson applied pressure to the centre of the wrinkled skin and she responded by relaxing her sphincter with practiced deliberation allowing his finger to plunge without difficulty into her ass. Despite the ease of the penetration she made a gasp of discomfort at the sudden intrusion for there still remained something illicit about anal penetration. Additionally, she was aware that such sound effects, whether genuine or not, were expected of her.

Lawson instantly prevented any further ingress as his first finger buried itself to the first knuckle. He withdrew his finger and Becca allowed her muscle to contract around it, reinforcing the concept of her tight ass.



“Okay, a bit more lube, honey,” said Lawson, for the first time introducing a note of tenderness into his voice. He glanced over his right shoulder to see his two friends watching him. They had stripped off but placed white bath towels around their waists. Only Mike’s towel exhibited any deflection to disclose his excitement at the scene before him.



Lawson worked a second finger into Becca’s ass. This time there was no need for pretence as she whimpered as the fingers stretched her ring and delved to be embraced by the tight smooth walls of her rectum. He parted his fingers opening a narrow channel allowing him to insert the nozzle of the lube tube directly into her ass. She again felt the cooling balm of the lube is it was injected, numbing the sensitive walls of her rectum. Such was the pleasure of the moment; she was determined later to ask Lawson what brand he was using and suggest its use to Bunny.



“Pass me the plug, Earl,” asked Lawson.



“You sure the bitch is ready for it?” replied Earl truculently.



“If you call her that again you can fuck off now!” rejoined Lawson. Earl petulantly collected the new toy from the unit at the side of the room and tore open the wrapper to remove the yellow synthetic butt plug. Lawson withdrew his fingers, took the proffered toy, and liberally coated it with gel. The conical point of the plug was only a quarter of an inch or so in diameter and five inches long but the girth expanded to a diameter of some four inches before tapering back to the base where the large circular base plate sat.



Becca had no idea of the size of the toy as she felt Lawson utilise it to probe her puckered hole. It slid easily in aided by the copious amounts of gel yet her eyes opened with alarm as the rapidly broadening length was slowly inserted. She thrust herself up on outstretched arms and dropped her head to her chest allowing her unfettered blonde hair to billow about her chest and boobs. She cried out and squeezed her eyelids tightly together as the intruder stretched her ring.



“Christ, what is it!” she demanded to know.



“It’s okay, Rebecca, only a bit to go before it narrows,” said Lawson reassuringly. She focused on relaxing her sphincter muscle as it stretched to accommodate the beast and with relief, she felt the pressure on her ring ease only to be superseded by the receptors in her anus as they franticly emitted signals indicating the arrival of a rapacious invader.



As the plate settled neatly against her buttocks, Becca panted hard as she attempted to acclimatise to the girth of the butt plug yet she was given little respite as Lawson placed his sticky fingers around her small breasts and coaxed her upright.



“You entertain the boys whilst I change,” he told her as he kissed her blushing cheek and departed for the bedroom.



Becca stood gingery and tottered on her heels, sweeping her long blonde locks back into some semblance of order as she tried to ignore the sensations emanating from deep within her arse. She had never felt so anally full and her reaction was one of discomfort yet she was similarly imbued with the spirit of enquiry as only a true practitioner of the sexual arts could appreciate.



She knew she was flushed; part of her allure for most men was the ease at wish she blushed. It was purely a bodily response that she had no control over and knew it excited her sexual partners.



Earl stepped up to her and pushed her forcibly down into a sitting position on the coach. Becca winced as she sat on the tail of the plug, driving it just that little bit deeper into her bemused ass. Earl dropped to his knees and presented his broad suntanned hairy chest to her. He too was well over six feet tall but far more muscular that Ryan, it was the sort of body that excited her, the softness of its adolescence long since abandoned. He rudely placed his broad hands on her thighs and levered them apart to reveal her pussy.



“Slide forward, girl, over the edge of the seat,” ordered Earl. Becca complied, her buttocks resting on the edge of the sofa as Earl forced her back by a shove on her left breast so that she sank against the backrest. He spread her thighs as wide as possible to expose her hairy cunt for inspection.



Above the yellow disk of the butt plug, her labia parted revealing the delicate puffy flesh of her inner lips, framed by the circle of golden pubes. His fingers squeezed and pulled back the shroud of the hood revealing the tiny translucent pearl-like clit, peeking out like the tiny glans of the miniature cock. Earl lowered himself, opened his broad mouth and wrapped his lips around her quim, his tongue rimming the cleft and seeking out the cave of her vaginal orifice.



Becca let out a cry of delight as Mike attacked her pussy. He appeared to be a brute of a man but there was no denying the dexterity of his tongue as it probed her slit and slithered teasingly around her clitoris. His teeth nibbled at her labia leaving her with the intense desire that he should eat her pussy forever more. His moustache tickled as the bristles rubbed around her sensitive genitalia. This was pleasure; this was why Becca Seehofer loved her job.



Mike appeared suddenly to her right, aware of a looming presence, she rotated her head in anticipation to discover the bulbous head of Mike’s turgid cock inches from her mouth. He knelt on the sofa at her side. His cock, sprouting from a dark curly bed of dense pubic hair, was grasped by its root, offering the thick seven inches of veined flesh to her mouth. His pendulous balls swayed beneath his hand in a sagging scrotal sack as he gently bucked his hips towards her narrow pink lips in encouragement.



Becca opened her small mouth, slipped her lips over the glans and wrapped her moist tongue around the smooth bulb, teasing the sensitive underside. Mike felt Becca’s flinches of delight transmitted through his cock as Earl continued to coax her cunt into paroxysms of pleasure.



Mike placed his hand on the back of Becca’s head, his fingers burrowing into the silky blonde locks. He drew her head greedily onto his cock, impatient to plunge as deeply as possible into the warm wetness of her mouth. Becca attempted to resist his eagerness by locking her lips around the invading shaft but was unable to prevent the tool nudging the back of her throat. She gagged reflexively but with acquired practiced controlled and suppressed the urge to wretch and took his length as it squeezed past the point of initial discomfort.



It took all her experience to stifle the feeling of choking as his helmet, vastly magnified and oversized in her mind’s eye as anything in one’s mouth appears, filled her throat. She widened her mouth instinctively as much as she could as her lips brushed his wiry pubic hairs, his cock totally impaled in her mouth and throat. Mike held Becca, her small nose brushing his belly, until her phlegmy choking indicated her desire to break the clinch. As Mike withdrew his shaft, he gasped as she sucked and slurped upon his sensitive glans and flinched half in pain and half in ecstasy when her tongue roughly probed his narrow slit.



Lawson Hackett smiled approvingly as he returned to the living area of the penthouse suite. He stood a safe distance from the performers so as not to interrupt them. He responded to the scene by rubbing his palm in small circular motions around the sensitive narrow helmet of his swollen yet dangling penis, which twitched to half-lob as he absorbed the antics before him.



Earl was eating Becca’s pussy whilst Mike was face-fucking Becca, cupping her right breast and squeezing her small dark nipple. Lawson loved Becca’s breasts; they possessed a virginal quality, sufficiently large to be erotically teasing but small enough not to intrude upon her toned athletic figure. The deep pink tinge of her small areolae stood out in stark contrast to the porcelain complexion of her boobs.



He was intrigued to see who was going to come first, Becca or Mike. To say who won or lost the race was an inappropriate term, he considered, but his debate was cut short as Mike pulled his cock free of her limpet-like adhesion. Lawson watched his friend point the tip of his red enflamed cock at Becca’s face, whose blue eyes were open in a bid to relocate her lost cock meat. Mike released his first spasmodic surge of spunk into her enquiring face.



The first deposit set down on her left blonde eyebrow and left a creamy whiplash accretion trailing across her left eyelid, which had blinked intuitively shut, before terminating across the bridge of her small elfin nose. Mike crisscrossed her face with three more profuse sediments of milky cum. Perhaps Mike’s offering of his seed was the catalyst Becca required as for the first time she vocalised her imminent orgasm.



“Shit yes, you bastard, eat me you piece of shit!”



Her words fuelled Earl’s endeavours as he bit and sucked upon her swollen clit. “You fucker…!” Becca’s words were cut short as she thrust her head back into the sofa and griped Earl’s head, thrusting it into her pussy as her orgasm ripped through her body and mind. Mike and Lawson stood spell bound as Becca screamed her climax into the room.



“I think she likes you now, Earl,” smiled Lawson as he patted his companion on the shoulder. Earl at last relented to offer a proud smile as he surfaced red faced, gasping for air. “Becca loves a man who can make her come,” added Lawson, casting adoring looks at Becca’s panting spunk strewn pretty face.



CHAPTER 11. DOUBLE BUBBLE – 1970.



The powerful naked frame of Lawson Hackett easily lifted Becca Seehofer from the sofa. She seemed temporarily dazed following her formidable orgasm, as too did Mike who retired to the adjacent armchair as he underwent the male come down following his own climax. However, Mike was an experienced performer who knew that in a few minutes his libido would recover and reignite unlike young Ryan.



Earl raised himself from the floor and moved to the seat vacated by Becca. His bare bottom soaked up the heat generated by the English girl and also detected the damp patch from her leaking pussy juices and excess lube from her butt plug. He imagined the shocked expression of the po-faced accountant, who handled their expenses, and wondered how the landlord might phrase the reason for the cleaning bill presented to the CIA. He tugged his towel free from his waist allowing his long curved cock to spring upright demanding attention as he visualised the stunned accountant as she read the words ‘for the removal of stains due to cunt and ass juice.’



Becca fell back to her habitual state of sexual aspiration following the high of her orgasm, encouraged by her nakedness in an exclusive London penthouse with three undressed strangers and a butt plug wedged up her ass. It certainly was one the most fantastic situations that Becca Seehofer had encountered. Lawson stooped and reached down between Becca’s legs.



“Actually, Rebecca, I think you’d be better on the floor for this, hands and knees please, honey,” requested Lawson.



Becca slowly assumed the position with her bottom elevated for ease of access. Lawson knelt beside her and grasped the rim of the butt plug. Becca was amazed at how snug the plug now felt embedded in her bowl yet conceded it should not have come as any surprise as she knew her anus and vagina could stretch with apparent infinite dexterity. The thought flashed through her inflamed mind of the grotesque beauty of being filled beyond capacity.



Lawson slowly withdrew the plug to the point of maximum deflection. He watched with spellbound intent as Becca’s pink elastic tissue stretched captivatingly before he reinserted the plug to begin slowly ass fucking her. She now moaned in delight as the rectum sensors fired messages to her brain, which she chose to interpret as pleasure. Lawson wiped a blob of sticky precum from the slit of his twitching cock onto Becca’s ass cheek as his excitement built. Finally, he withdrew the plug from Becca’s ass and the three men all lent in unison to inspect the gaping hole of Becca’s distended sphincter, revelling at the sight of the deep red chasm in her rent anus. Lawson quickly lifted Becca and lowered her on top of Earl who now reclined on the couch.



“It’s to go in your ass,” Lawson informed Becca, referring to Earl’s conceited cock and she nodded with a look of rapt intent, alert to the fact that this was the moment she had been looking forward to. Earl clutched his cock in readiness as Becca squatted over him; he was completely devoid of hair, the root of his cock abutted his pale skin, which extended to a tan line fashioned by a pair of brief swim trucks.



Becca’s lowered her right hand between her legs towards her asshole. She knew her sphincter was stretched and gaping. Her finger circled the expanded muscle which had begun slowly to close but which still felt wide enough to admit the proverbial double-decker bus. She felt deliciously debauched, aware of the image she presented to the three men; she knew they would be wanking over the memory of that picture for weeks to come, as too would she.



Earl’s thick curved cock slipped effortlessly in to her gaping asshole, his curved rod slipped deeper and more satisfyingly into bowel than the synthetic toy. The tactile beauty of his warm flesh encased in the clinging sheath of her rectum made her want to cry in delight and indeed tears did cloud her eyes, which the spectating Mike mistook to be tears of pain inducing his rod to stiffen once more.



Lawson eased Becca’s stockinged legs in front of her so that her shoed feet splayed beside Earl’s spread thighs. Becca began to push her ass against Earl, eager for him to plough as deep as his long scimitar would allow but Earl cupped his hands over her breasts and firmly squeezed the pliant flesh. “Hold on, honey,” growled the Marlboro man, “keep still until Lawson is ready.”



Lawson adopted a semi-squat as he guided his feral fuck tool towards Becca’s raised honey pot, the sight of Earl’s cock embedded in her ass presented a surreal image to the American who considered that his cock would soon be in intimate contact with his colleague, albeit separated by the supple walls of Becca’s vagina and rectum.



Becca lay immobile atop Earl, who was clutching her breasts with his coarse fingers with excessive force, rhythmically kneading the alluring fresh whilst coaxing her frustratingly small nipples with his finger and thumb as if coaxing her to lactate for him. She shared his vision, imagining that he was purposefully drawing fresh milk from her engorged breasts, the spurts of sweet liquor summoned by his skilful hands issuing from her teats like diluted semen from a spunking cock. She wished her nipples were larger, thick and long like tiny obscene cocks jutting from her pink areolae. Earl’s fingers stimulative efforts were working magic on her cunt, the muscles in her vaginal walls contracted in rhythmically spasms that imparted waves of caressing solace to Earl’s cock, twitching in response against the clenching walls of her rectum.



Becca watched as Lawson descend towards her, aware of his torso as he stretched his arm to support his weight against the rear of the sofa and felt the tentative prod as the tip of his inflated glans parted her labia and nuzzled intimately at the entrance to her vagina. As Lawson pushed his cock home, Becca found herself squeezed tightly into Earl’s lap. She felt tiny and delightfully vulnerable sandwiched between the two bulky Americans, her body submissively offered for their contortional lewd indulgence.



Lawson wedged his cock into Becca’s pouting pussy and immediately sensed the tubular stack of Earl’s cock tight beneath his own. It was the weirdest thing he had ever sexually experienced; the shaped of her vagina had been remodelled and offered a tantalising new experience.



Lawson had by far the largest cock of the group; Becca’s analytical mind recalled its appearance as it tentatively probed deeper into her. In excess of seven inches in length, his circumcised cock did not possess the plumpest glans she had encountered, that honour today lay with Mike. Yet the slim helmet agreeably heralded the way for the thick rutted shaft that followed which now exquisitely stretched the walls of her vagina. The deep sigh that accompanied her impalement was one of genuine satisfaction as her engorged pussy and ass became the centre of her universe.



Nothing else mattered; all of life’s varied gambits were purely designed to lead her to this state of human existence and desire. Inconsequential dogma and convention was shot to pieces, her brain craved no more than the fulfilment of its sexual absolution and immoderation.



“Oh Christ, that’s so good!” exploded Becca. Lawson smiled, in truth he was in an uncomfortable position but his lust over came the discomfort.



“Earl is the anchor in your butt, I’ll be the only one fucking, okay,” he informed Becca. She nodded through clenched teeth as Lawson slowly began to thrust into her. Her pervious state of fullness was superseded now by the kinetic fucking, the sensations diverse and amplified as action made her pussy come alive. Even Earl’s motionless cock responded to Lawson’s thrusts as it shimmied in sympathy to the contortions of Becca’s internal organs.



Lawson fucked Becca’s pussy for only a few demanding minutes before Mike spoke from the comfort of his armchair as he took a swig of Bourbon from his tumbler.



“Think you’d be better on your back, Law,” Mike suggested as he watched Lawson’s ass rise and fall in time with his thrusts.



“You okay to change positions, Rebecca?” asked Lawson.



Becca was shaken from her reverie as Lawson withdrew his cock and she was startled by the sudden sense of loss. Becca had temporarily lost the power of coherent speech and grunted her consent to his suggestion. Lawson offered his hand, helping Becca into a sitting position, where she gingerly raised her bottom, freeing her ass reluctantly from Earl’s cock. It felt as if she had lost a part of her own body; such was the disorientating sense of hopeless emptiness that assailed her fervid mind. Her sole desire was to re-impale her ass and pussy on the cocks she had adopted for her own.



Becca stumbled to her feet; her legs appeared to share the same discordant response to conscious purpose as her mind. Lawson sat next to Earl on the couch and beckoned Becca to join him with a tender smile she had never before witnessed. He held his large cock by the shaft inviting Becca to spear herself upon its appealing girth. She shook her head in an attempt to straighten her hair and brushed a finger across her cheek, suddenly aware of Mike’s dried spunk that adhered to her skin like dried paint after decorating. Her left eyelid felt heavy and she noticed how her eyelashes felt thick with dried cum as if she had applied too much mascara and left it on overnight.



Kneeling aside Lawson’s hips, Becca lowered her eager pussy on to his knob where it disappeared effortlessly into her sodden fuck hole, lancing deep into her stretched pussy. There followed a bout of unpretentious fucking as Becca gyrated her ass in time with Lawson’s lunges, she accompanied each deep penetration with a grunt of passion as she wallowed in the simple pleasure of penetration.



“Oh yes, Lawson, shag my dirty little pussy, you shit!” Lawson smiled at her use of ‘shag’ and quaint primness; it sounded so Goddamn British and so fucking horny.



Both Mike and Earl watched with admiration as two passionate exponents of fucking demonstrated their physical skill, as they might appreciate the skill of two athletes performing on the track.

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