by Limey Lady
‘He didn’t shoot anybody. And he got his market day drink after all; over the kitchen table, with those two policemen “sorting details”. After they’d drunk Mum’s tea he got the whisky out and explained the country way of life. By the second bottle they were thee-ing and thy-ing like Old Jack.’
‘What about the damage in the village?’
‘It wasn’t too bad. Dad repaired that lawn and the village green personally, and both of the benches, of course. Then he replanted the flowerbeds for the woman from the cottage and sorted her baskets; made a few gifts of eggs, milk and cheese. Everyone agreed it had just been an exciting day; nothing to fall out about.’
‘There wasn’t any damage to cars? Or people?’
‘No, fortunately there wasn’t. The original reports were somewhat overstated.’
‘What about that wall?’
‘The farm lads rebuilt it. Three days it took. Although Dad stood over them, mithering at them all the while, so it must have felt more like a month.’
Vic’s smiled moved up a few megawatts. ‘Okay, sixty-four thousand dollar question. What about you?’
‘Me? I got confirmation of what I already knew. I was better than any man. And I preserved the status quo. Eleven and three-quarter-year-olds are very conservative, you know.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant what did your dad think about you rescuing Brutus?’
‘I didn’t rescue him. As I said, there never were going to be any gunships.’
‘There would have been if he’d gored you to death.’
‘Well he didn’t.’
‘But only because of your bravery. Didn’t you tell your dad about that?’
‘No way; I just said I went and brought Brutus back, like Mum told me to.’
‘Did he thank you?’
‘He said he’d always known I wouldn’t let him down.’ Heather wiped away another tear, wondering what was happening to her tonight. ‘That was thanks enough for me.’
‘And that was it?’
‘Well, he did mildly tell me off for leaving Daniel up in that tree. But he wasn’t really serious.’
‘I think you and your dad are very much alike. Is that fair comment?’
‘Very possibly, yes.’
‘Have I just insulted you?’
’No, we are alike.’
‘You admire him more than anything, don’t you?’
‘Mum comes a very close second but yes, I do. He’s a shining beacon of ability amidst all that male incompetence I mentioned.’
‘What about Brutus? Did he become your best buddy?’
‘Hardly,’ Heather chuckled, ‘but I did cut down on running across his field. It wasn’t quite the same when I knew he was capable of crashing through the wall after me.’
Vic did some more of that rapt staring. ‘I think you’re my hero,’ she said finally, ‘never mind me being your white knight.’
‘Does that mean I get to shag you again?’
‘Not until you prove you’re not really cruel to cats.’
‘No more guilt, please,’ Heather feigned a sigh,’ I’ll go feed the flipping cat.’
Chapter Nine
Heather pulled on her old red rugger shirt before going to feed Graham’s cat. When Vic asked, she’d said she had “captured” the shirt after a particularly fine day out, but hadn’t gone into the details.
Such as how she’d worn it, mud and all, while riding its original owner in a victory celebration behind the grandstand (well, being strictly truthful, he’d worn it first, while riding her and then she’d worn it while riding him).
She hadn’t mentioned what had happened next, either: how its original owner had carried her into the changing room and thrown her into the bath, giggling and eager to join the rest of the players and half a dozen female fans.
Binging? Not half!
It was hard to believe she’d behaved like that. A sane, mature adult would have screamed and got the heck out of there. Not her. Not when the bath was full of erect willies and the orgy was already in full swing. No, high on beer and a miraculous semi-final win, she’d simply grabbed the nearest willy and got on with it.
What did I tell Joanna? She chuckled. That I never do men more than three at once?
Hmmm, it came down to the strict definition of “at once”, didn’t it . . . try telling that to all the university gossipmongers though!
Even now, more than three years later, Heather thought it wasn’t fair that she had been credited with the whole episode . . . or, more specifically, credited with shagging the whole team. She had, after all, been last into the water. There again, those other girls had had the sense to get naked indoors. When the action fizzled out they were able hunt down their things and get dressed, transforming themselves back into sugar and spice and all things nice.
Undergraduate Hunter hadn’t been so lucky. Some kind soul went and found her clothes for her but a cat (probably a ginger bloody tom!) had peed all over them, ruining everything apart from her Nikes.
Seeing no alternative, she’d persuaded one of the players to wring out the rugger shirt. Then, making use of the changing room hair-drier, he’d dried it on her while she stood in front of him, slowly rotating through three hundred and sixty degrees. That, as a tactic, was only a qualified success. It was fair to say that, when she went into the bar in her new outfit, heads had turned.
Memories from then-on were patchy, even if some of the individual events were unforgettable, starting with her trio of travelling companions greeting her as an all-conquering hero. They’d seen her launch an assault on the winning-try-scorer; in their eyes possession of his shirt meant that Heather had won that confrontation . . . which, arguably, she had.
Her travelling companions had also heard that she’d been in the bath and took that to mean she had escalated her assault to include the rest of the First XV. And, although she swore blind others had been there sharing the load, she struggled to point any of them out.
Miraculously, every other girl in the clubhouse had morphed into Doris Day.
Faced with a lack of evidence, her companions had insisted on plying her with drink. Faced with an argument she couldn’t seem to win, Heather had stopped protesting and started drinking . . . again.
They were against the clock, she could remember that much. And the game had been played at a proper rugby ground somewhere west of St Austell (thank God it had been an away game!). Apart from those two facts . . . well, it had all got a little hazy.
By the time Heather arrived in the bar there was only an hour before the coach was due to take them home. She had, however, had several pints before kick-off and another two or three at half time so, plied with more, she’d quickly caught up.
And then overtook.
Blokes kept coming up to her, rugby players from both teams, judging by the procession of broken noses and cauliflower ears. She could easily identify the Cornish ones because they all called her “My Lovely”. The others had more northern accents, ranging from Birmingham to Aberdeen. Flatteringly, quite a few of those northerners wanted to congratulate her for being a sport in the bath. Even more flatteringly, every man in the room wanted to know what she was wearing under the creased, damp and still grubby shirt.
Conscious that, in spite of their hero-worshipping, her friends weren’t exactly sexual revolutionaries, Heather met early enquiries with: Who knows? But the beer kept going down and before too long she heard her mouth answer: Search me . . . prompting her latest inquisitor to do just that.
Heather wasn’t sure if it was his unhesitating reaction or the shocked look on the other three’s faces; whatever, something made her stand there laughing while he pulled her close and had a good grope of her bare-cheeked bum.
And after that it was open season on bum-groping. More than half-sozzled, quite happy to play along, she stood there with blokes practically queuing up to have a hug and a feel.
One of her last clear recollections was of hearing someone shout, ‘The coac
h leaves in ten minutes,’ and looking round to find her friends had all paired off. She’d gone for a final beer, paying with a fiver that stank of cat pee and she then turned to find she was blocked in by one of the Doris Day look-alikes. That particular Doris (who’d been reading Behavioural Science or something equally horrific) was worried that her non-travelling boyfriend might find out what she’d been doing amongst the soap suds.
‘Four different men,’ she’d kept saying. ‘I’ve hardly been with four different men in my entire life, never mind one after the other.’
Heather hadn’t kept tally but supposed her own score must have been at least seven . . . if she hadn’t forgotten a few and you didn’t count below jobs . . . plus the shirt’s owner, of course.
Someone suddenly shouted, ‘Coach leaving now!’ She presumed that must have made her down her last pint in one. She couldn’t fathom what it was that inspired her to pull off the shirt, though. Or whatever made her run around the barroom, waving it over her head.
Well, she’d been assured often enough afterwards that that was what she’d done . . . before standing in the doorway in only her trainers, giving a series of bows.
If it hadn’t been for Gary she might have been standing there still. It had been Gary who’d helped her dry the shirt. And by all reports, it had been Gary who’d carried her out of the rugby club, put the shirt back on her in the car park then led her onto the coach.
And it was definitely Gary beside her when she woke, mostly sobered, somewhere near Bristol. As she tried to remember what she’d been up to, she became aware of couples copulating; lots and lots of couples. From the sound of it everybody had ultimately decided to celebrate with sex, whether they had dived into the bath or not.
Heather later discovered that plenty of place-swapping had gone on, with players masquerading as supporters and vice versa. There were many after-the-fact debates about who’d actually been with whom, but consensus had it that even the most retiring girl got shagged on one coach or other.
Indeed that had been the day when Edith finally got her man.
Gary tried to maintain the show of being considerate, but not for long . . . not in a proper gentlemanly way, anyhow. After a bit of shuteye Heather was revived and far from retiring. She had soon had his zip down and, encouraged by what she found, rolled onto her side and hitched up the shirt.
That had been all the invitation Gary needed. He’d slipped into her as smoothly as slipping that fabled hot knife into butter, sighed deeply in appreciation, and then he’d slowly and steadily bonked her for two hundred motorway miles. And it was, in all honesty, one of the best bonkings she’d ever had from a man. Corny or not, he had seemed to care about her orgasm as much as his own . . . or, rather, her dozens and dozens as much as his three.
Except maybe he wasn’t altogether caring. Ten minutes after getting of the coach she’d been told he was married. Gary hadn’t seemed to think that mattered but she’d been riddled with guilt for ages. Still was even now, if the truth be told . . .
*****
Anyway, the old red rugger shirt was still going strong, considering that it had had more cum stains on it than that slightly more famous little blue dress. Okay, it’d been washed far too many times and most of the colour had gone, along with the creases and grime, but it still felt good on Heather’s bare bum, even if the arms did almost trail on the ground.
It’s not very fetching but it’s still top après-sex ladies’ wear, she thought. Wonder if Vic will want to rip it off my back?
Heather suspected the answer would be probably not. It was early days yet, but she was as good as certain Vic wasn’t going to be the ripping-the-shirt-off-a-girl’s-back type. Not in their relationship. Not at heart . . . and in spite of her double-alpha reputation.
Not that that was going to be a problem. She might not know exactly how it was going to work out with Vic, but shagging her wasn’t ever going to be a chore. She really was yummy. Those lovely big boobs of hers! And those legs . . .
Forget three times around the neck, it was more like five!
Mmmm nice! I won’t be kicking her out of bed anytime soon!
The hallway outside Heather’s apartment door was deserted, as it nearly always was. Casting around, she wondered how the moggie got in and out of Graham’s place. Not through the main door, that was for sure; there wasn’t a cat-flap in sight.
The moggie was actually called “Charlie Brown”, not Tibbles or Ginger Tom. Heather didn’t see any sense in the name, but then she didn’t see much sense in having a moggie in the first place. There had been cats on Hunters Farm, of course, but they weren’t pets and didn’t exactly belong to anyone. The farm cats had lived in a barn; they’d found their own food and didn’t do much apart from sleeping, fighting and producing the odd litter of kittens.
As far as she was aware, all Charlie Brown ever did was loiter about the back of the chippy.
Heather let herself into Graham’s apartment. The dish was on the kitchen floor and had been licked clean. She emptied a fresh tin of Felix into it, refilled the water bowl then went for a bit of a prowl. This apartment was a mirror image of her own, so she knew which windows opened and which didn’t.
All of Graham’s were locked.
So how did the flipping thing come and go?
She had a quick check to make sure the cat hadn’t been locked inside all the while, finding nothing apart from a pile of magazines under Graham’s bed. That made her smile, even if it didn’t solve the cat puzzle. She’d stumbled on the mags a few days ago. They were general blend of Engineering Institute publications, Golf Monthly and explicit pornography.
And very explicit pornography at that!
Having time on her hands, she had plonked herself on the duvet and flicked through the porn, most of which featured men with big willies and women with misty eyes and enthusiastic expressions. There were lots of close-ups of shagging too, including snaps of men climaxing while the girls faked rapture . . . and that rapture just had to be faked; the guys all seemed to withdraw at the last moment, content to shoot almost anywhere except where God had intended.
One magazine seemed to be beckoning her again. Not an out-and-out bondage mag, but one which had “SEE OUR SIXTEEN PAGE SUMMER SPECIAL” emblazoned on the front. As well as featuring women fastened to beds with ropes, chains and the like, this included good quality pictures of pussies leaking juices and/or semen . . .
But Heather overcame the temptation and went back into the lounge. Frowning, she had another look at the glossies on the coffee table. They (obviously!) hadn’t changed from the other day, but were still bemusing. Well, they were to her anyhow. She considered it quite normal for a single guy to leave soft porn (Penthouse and Club International in Graham’s case) in full view, while hiding away the hard-core stuff. What she did find odd was the need to hide away Golf Monthly as well.
Not to mention the Engineering News.
Chapter Ten
Heather returned to her apartment, no wiser about Charlie Brown or men and magazines. Vic was in the kitchen, naked apart from her glasses, a small square of sandwich in one hand, a glass of wine in the other.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘The wanderer returns. Where’ve you been all this time? Looking at your friend’s porn? Or making out with his cat?’
‘He’s only got Penthouse,’ Heather fibbed, ‘and the cat’s nowhere to be seen, he must still be out on the tiles.’ She collected a glass of Pinot and checked the sandwiches. ‘Corned beef and iceberg?’
