by Limey Lady
‘So we're off the hook again?’
‘We are for the time being. There’ll be a final reckoning before your two years are up. But now we’re going to know exactly how and when it's coming, aren't we?’
*****
Matching four very busy social diaries had taken a lot of doing, taking them beyond the month-end target, but a slot had finally been agreed. And tonight was the night. It was as far as the opening night of a whole wife-swapping dirty weekend was concerned, anyway.
More than slightly nervous, Vic was preparing for Graham. In fact she’d been in front of Heather’s largest bedroom mirror for an hour. She didn't usually use makeup but she wanted to look good for this.
If ever a lanky lass like me can look good, that is.
Pausing, brush in hand, she regarded herself critically. Okay, she knew she had an inadequate self-image, but what on earth did all those men see in her? Even in flat-soled shoes and with her head shaved bald, she'd always be over six feet tall. That stemmed from her legs; they might be shapely but they were simply too long. So was her body. And as for her neck . . .
Fucking me must be like fucking a giraffe!
Vic sighed heavily. She'd give anything to be shorter . . . anything apart from drastically shaving off her hair. Although there were few bits of hers she liked, her naturally spiky hair was definitely staying. Pity she hadn’t had time to have it streaked; not in the usual thin strands of blonde though, something more outré than blonde.
Purple maybe, to go with all the muck she was plastering on. She laughed at her reflection. What was she was painting herself up like?
Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be a whore!
She was going to be quite a pretty one, mind. Take lankiness out of the equation and she wasn't that bad. Face-wise, that was. She had lovely brown eyes which emphasised her Italian-ness . . . or her half-Italian-ness. And her eyes were only improved by large glasses she didn’t really need. Add a cute nose, a generous mouth . . .
Wipe it off, she thought. Graham likes what he's always seen, not some garish creation. Turn up like this and you'll scare him to death.
Trouble was, tonight she was acting a part. And she was a lousy actor; she needed a mask.
Sighing again, she resumed her critical inspection.
Her legs, body and neck were all too long.
Shoulders . . . her shoulders were way too narrow. They made her (way too big) tits look enormous.
Why oh why couldn't she be like Mamma? Mamma was in her fifties but still turned heads everywhere she went. And Mamma got better with age. She still looked like a youthful Gina Lollobrigida. Every man on the planet lusted after Mamma, no matter how outrageously she behaved.
There again, Mamma didn't have the skeleton of a fucking giraffe.
To cheer herself up Vic stood and looked at her ass in the mirror. Even she had to admit she had a nice ass, and it wasn't because it was bound to look tidy, positioned as it was between her never-ending thighs and too-long torso. No, even though any ass would have looked small in such a location, her ass was good.
Make that provocative.
Her stomach was like a washboard too. It was probably her only body part that matched any part of Heather's. And why she'd let Heather talk her into this . . .
Vic dumped herself back on her seat and resumed plastering. She had to stop flapping. Flapping wasn't in her nature. She was a decision maker, at her best under pressure . . .
And it was only a man, for God's sake. What was there to flap about that?
*****
Vic had enormous mental strength and could beat almost anyone on a non-physical basis, especially men.
If given a level playing field, of course.
Before she started at WYB she'd heard that seventy per cent of the employees there were female. As many of the Bank's policies targeted women, that had seemed reasonable enough. But then there were lies, damned lies and headline statistics.
On closer inspection she’d discovered that the vast majority of the females were employed in poorly graded roles. By the time she looked at the most junior managers the percentage had dropped to fifty. At junior director level it was much less than ten. And, sadly, at Board level it was a big fat zero.
From her very first day Vic had set out to defy the odds, but not as a latter-day suffragette. Oh no, her intention had been to get on that Board for her own ends, not to rock the world. She'd be proud to set an example, naturally, but she would be doing the work for herself, not everybody else. She could do her bit for the feminists after the battle had been won, not during a million preliminary skirmishes.
Rising through the ranks had, ironically, got easier as she progressed. It helped that she improved her skills all the time, but the competition seemed to simply fade away. There again, the higher she went, the fewer women she had to compete against . . .
Not that it had been all plain sailing. She'd almost struck rocks quite early when, completely on spec, she presented a product proposal to her then line-manager, Robbie. He’d been impressed and passed it upwards with his positive recommendation, only to have it rejected out of hand.
Robbie was one of the better middle-managers. With his help and backing, Vic appealed and heard nothing for a week. Then she was called into a meeting room and awkwardly told she should let it rest.
‘For your career,' Robbie had said.
‘Oh,' she'd replied. 'I've hit the ceiling, have I?'
‘No, no,’ he replied, ‘not exactly.'
By sheer chance one of the biggest bigwigs had been doing one of his rare walkabouts. He chose that very second to stick his head round the door, an instant before Vic began spitting feathers.
‘Sorry,' Alan Carmichael said. 'I didn't realize it was a disciplinary.'
Flushing, Robbie clumsily explained it was far from that and, demonstrating his acumen, Alan quickly grasped the situation. He barked out a few questions then demanded to see some numbers. Ten dizzying minutes later he was scowling at the quaking line-manager.
‘Why have you blocked this?'
‘I haven't. I recommended it.'
‘So Walton's blocked it.'
‘Well . . .'
Ignoring him, the director wrote “approved” on the front page of Vic's proposal and signed underneath with his familiar squiggle.
‘It'll need to do the rounds, but it'll end up on my desk. At least it bloody-well better do, or heads will roll. Robbie . . . Please can you ask Mr Walton to go and wait in my office. And close the door behind you. I would like a quiet word with Victoria.'
At that time Alan Carmichael had been second-in-command of the whole Bank. Vic was very familiar with his signature but had hardly ever seen him, never mind been alone with him in a meeting room. He was, however, only human. More to the point, he'd started smiling.
‘Walton's out of Jurassic Park,' he began. 'I apologize if his behaviour seems sexist . . . or ageist. Or any other sort of -ist, come to that.'
‘I hope . . .' Vic cleared her throat. 'I hope you haven't approved my proposal because . . .'
‘I've approved it because it's quite clearly brilliant. And because it will, without any doubt, profit the shareholders. Have you anything else like this?'
Vic had managed not to grin. Her first proposal had been the best quick-hit she could think of. It was, however, by no means the best she could do.
‘It's not exactly my day job,’ she said modestly, ‘but I have dozens of ideas.'
‘You have dozens?' Alan blinked. ‘You’re quite new here, aren’t you?’
‘I’m approaching two years.’
‘And you’ve dozens of ideas?’
‘Yes. I’ve only drafted fifteen proposals though. I wanted to see how that one went down.’
‘Only drafted fifteen, eh? Could you let me see them?’
Vic had felt her eyes go round behind her glasses. ‘Do you mean without going through Robbie and Mr Walton?’ she asked, her voice surprisingly steady.
&nbs
p; ‘Email me, copying everyone else in.’
‘Mr Carmichael, they will be there before you get back to your office.’
Alan could laugh as well as smile. 'Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now then, how are we going to get you away from Walton? He's obviously cramping your style.'
‘He hasn’t ever said anything discriminatory,’ Vic pointed out, more or less truthfully, ‘not to my face, anyway. And Robbie's great. He's very supportive.'
‘Don't worry. I know the score. And I'm not sending anyone off to Siberia. I was thinking more along the lines of creating a new position . . .’
*****
Vic forced a smile (well, bared her teeth), checking her lipstick in the mirror. It was nearly time to be on her way and she was more nervous than ever. There was a world of difference between mental acts and physical acts. There was when it came to men, anyway . . . particularly after her most recent abstinence.
Seven years!
Well, virtually seven years . . .
Vic did have history with men. In her university days she'd even had extensive history with men. Back then she hadn't bothered so much with girls. In fact back then she'd been convinced that her experiences at an all-girls school had been just that: experiences. Things had changed as she got older, though.
She'd tried self-analysis and it didn't work. By nature she was a leader, always wanting to be in control. It followed that she should be reluctant to submit to a more dominant lover. At least it did in theory. In practice she enjoyed submitting but then hated herself afterwards. Leastways she did with most of the men she’d slept with.
Big problem!
Vic had never had many close friends but she’d taken lots of lovers in a sex-life punctuated with some quite lengthy stretches of abstinence. Although "abstinence" didn't necessarily mean “total abstinence”, did it? She was a bit of a drifter when it came to sex; men for a while; then women. Then men again . . .
The odd adventure in-between . . .
That first, speculative new product proposal had been a roaring success; so had the dozens of follow-ons. Consequently, Vic had got to know Alan as well as anyone. He never went out of his way to favour an individual but had still become her unofficial champion and, in her eyes, a role model. In many ways she had followed his lead. WYB always came first for Alan; ahead of his spouse, ahead of his family . . .
One time, perhaps six months after her initial triumph, he'd taken her down to London Bridge. LB (as it was known within the Bank) was an office maintained for its address rather than anything else.
‘The City likes to see it on letterheads,' he'd said on the train. 'It's an obvious duplication of costs, but the prestige more or less justifies that.'
As a day out it had been very much meeting the troops. They’d seen everything twice by three o'clock and were checking in to their Knightsbridge hotel by half past four, meeting up again in the bar by five.
Vic had already known that Alan was married but living apart from his wife. Over drinks, a meal then more drinks he told her divorce was nigh. 'Can't argue with anything,' he'd said. 'She's got me banged to rights.'
Vic had responded with a few select personal details. Without mentioning a married male workmate she had been seeing (in a very much on and off way), she’d confessed things were getting serious with her neighbour in Headingley . . . her very female neighbour.
Alan had looked less surprised than he did whenever he saw a new product proposal.
‘Husband's left, eh?'
‘Not because of me,' she'd said hastily. 'I'm just helping with the wreckage.'
‘Is this for public consumption?'
‘I'm not hiding anything. But I'm not advertising anything either, not least because I'm confused. I've probably had more boyfriends than girlfriends.'
‘Has anyone said anything at work?’
‘No. Nobody knows for sure. I’ve had a few strange glances, but I’m used to that.’
He’d smiled back at her: ‘Strange glances?’
‘I’m the Ice Queen. Because I’m single everyone seems to think it’s strange that I don’t sleep around. Openly and with all the available men, I mean.’
‘Keep 'em guessing,' Alan had advised. 'Knowledge might be power, but uncertainty's more powerful still.'
Uncertainty . . . hmmm; perhaps he’d had a point. Given the slightest encouragement, Vic would have slept with Alan that night; might even have made the opening move. He had been the perfect gentleman though, then and ever since. Well, with a couple of memorable exceptions, ever since . . .
Vic's longest-running boyfriend had lasted a term and a half at university. Her neighbour, Karen, had lasted exactly a year as an out-and-out lover before she headed for the hills. Both relationships had been based on being faithful and both had been disasters. All the others had been one-night-stands or fits of passion which burnt off in weeks, if not a handful of days.
Then she'd met Heather.
*****
It was fair to say Heather was unique. To start with she was dead level with Mamma as leading contender for the world’s most beautiful woman, possibly a shade ahead, courtesy of her youth. She was tall without being remotely lanky and had a simply astounding, perfectly tanned body. She also fucked with abandon, acting like the Tasmanian Devil, except with much less restraint.
Wow, didn’t she just!
They’d got together within hours of first setting eyes on each other in a monthly meeting. In fact they had met up after work for the express purpose of fucking. Vic had automatically assumed she’d take the lead in that after-hours activity (new girlfriends always assumed that was how she liked it). She had never expected to be thrown on the bed and raped.
Well, not raped . . . it had been wonderful and she'd loved every second of it.
Finally stopping for a breather, Heather had admitted she “sometimes got carried away”. She also did her best to claim she wasn't always so aggressive and would ease off as much as required.
Yeah, right!
Heather was an irresistible force of nature. Being fucked by her was still wonderful even now, after hundreds of repeat performances. Vic had every reason to believe it always would be. Submitting to her wicked ways was as good as unavoidable, and she'd never once hated herself afterwards.
And Heather didn't want faithful any more than she did; they both wanted fun and flings.
Yes we do; we both do.
The mathematician in Vic started to calculate. At first they’d been sleeping together for minimally five nights a week. Nowadays it had levelled off at once or twice. Call it two and a half times a week over four years; five hundred nights, then. And how many times a night? Was it five or ten? What counted as once anyway . . . an orgasm?
Ye gods girl, go down that track and you’re talking tens of thousands!
Although their relationship seemed to have lasted forever it was still fresh and still, incredibly, ever-improving. Best of all, Heather was strong. Not just mentally, but physically as well. Karen had become almost pathetically demanding; Heather couldn't have been more different. As a child she had been the farm lass who could run faster and farther than all the boys, climb the highest trees . . .
Recapture escaped bulls . . .
Later she'd reached inter-university standard at hockey and karate . . .
Disarmed knife-wielding muggers . . .
God only knew what else she'd got up to.
Despite all this, she wasn't a tomboy, not exactly. While she didn’t particularly flaunt it to the world, her body screamed WOMAN whatever she wore. She was tough but didn’t go looking for fights and, while she was fiercely competitive, she was also a genuinely nice person to be with. As for her favourite hobby, having sex, she could never get enough.
Alan Carmichael hadn't ever asked outright, but he obviously suspected. Hell, all of WYB suspected something was going on between the Ice Queen and Snow White. After all, although they never admitted anything, they often arrived at the office together of a m
orning, sometimes hand in hand.
But uncertainty was power . . . no?
This time Vic’s smile was less of a grimace. Confidence flooded back through her. God knew why she doubted herself. Or why she was nervous about the prospect of being naked for the first time with a new man. The Ice Queen clashed horns with men all day, every day and always won her battles. And she very regularly slept with Snow White; there wasn’t anything a mere man could do to her that Snow White had not already done to her hundreds of times over.
