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Seducer or Seducee

Category: Lesbian Sex
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I was Acting Head Copy Chief in a big ad agency. Acting, because I was not a full time employee, but a freelancer, as they call self-employed contractors in the ad business. Things were booming and the agency was stretched. With the typical lack of loyalty and ‘sell yourself to the highest bidder’ attitude of that crazy business, job jumping was rife and good employees were on a merry-go-round of moving from agency to agency. Hence the agency’s need for an ‘Acting Head Copy Chief.’

In my late thirties at the time I wasn’t sure, but was beginning to believe that I was more than the bisexual that had enabled me lead an interesting sex life with both genders in my twenties and thirties. More and more recently, however, I was attracted to women. I still had the occasional ‘lapse’ usually after too much drink or weed and found myself waking up in a strange bed with a hairy, snoring and farting man, but these were becoming less frequent. Luckily, I was replacing them with more often waking up in my own bed with a soft, smooth, sweet-smelling woman in my arms.

Having been large busted since puberty I had become accustomed to the pros and cons of big tits. Yes, they attracted attention and at times really were like the honey pot that the bees of men flew around, but that’s about the total of the pros. The cons are many and varied. Let me, though firstly explain what I mean by large busted. Firstly, it means that my G cup jugs each weigh around four pounds, well as far as I can determine by putting them one at a time on a weighing machine. It means I had to drop out of most sports. That is not just because when I run it hurts, but also because the view of them bouncing around is wild and attracts far too much attention. Another real downer is that men seem to equate the size of a girl’s tits to her availability and horniness, but, alas women don’t. So generally, the disadvantages outweigh the advantages and, but for one other pro I would have a reduction. The other pro? If they are big enough as mine are you can suck your own nipples and that’s a fantastic facility for a single woman with a high sex drive that in the main she has to satisfy herself!

I usually worked from home. My flat on the top two floors of a four storey Victorian town house in Islington, just a mile or so north of the City of London was both my home and work place. It was certainly big enough and the great views over to Highgate and Hampstead in one direction and the City and Docklands in the other were highly conducive to the creative mind. The sort of word orientated mind needed to produce elegant plagiarism, which was the ‘grift to the mill’, for most copywriters and especially to me.

The flat was spacious and I had furnished and decorated it faithfully to the late Victorian times when it was built. I loved it and loved being there. Sometimes, I wouldn’t leave my home for days and I had often remained there for over a week at a time. Being single and a freelancer my time was my own. I often think the most valuable commodity a person can have is control over their time and I had that. I could pretty much do what I liked when I liked.

Although the flat looked very Victorian I had all the latest hi tech gizmos. Fifty inch plasma TVs, laptops, iPad, iPods, iPhone and Blackberry, laser printer and scanner. I worked odd hours. My most creative time was late evening, that is if I hadn’t drunk too much wine or puffed too much weed. So frequently, I would be emailing copy to my ad agency clients in the early hours of the morning between two and three. I rarely woke up before ten and often was still in bed at noon.

When on one of my ‘stay in’ recluses I would sometime not get dressed for days. For some totally unexplainable reason my best work was done in the nude or just wearing panties so the chair wouldn’t be marked. Whether making myself feel rather horny by my nudity made my creative, as well as other juices flow or not I am not sure, but I certainly did some of my best work in the nude.

I hadn’t wanted to take the job. I don’t like the pressure of managing others and I don’t like going to work. Working I don’t mind. Hard work I relish, but I hate the corporate bullshit of companies, especially ad agencies. That, and it made me lose control over my own time and, of course having to get dressed, was why I was freelance. Oh yes, I also didn’t like the macho, totally non PC way of agency life anymore. Whilst by no means a feminist, I do feel females are entitled not to be continually sexually or verbally harassed in the work place, but that is a concept that has not reached the ad business. That seems to be especially the case where thirty something, single women with big tits, long black hair with a few grey streaks and glasses ‘who must be gagging for it’, are concerned.

Mike, the MD and I went back a very long way. We went back so far that it was to a time when I still thought I was straight, although a little worried and curious. He was an account manager five or so years older than me and married. I was the junior copywriting dogsbody on a number of his accounts and had a variety of duties that after a few months included sucking his cock and letting him fuck my tits from time to time. We got on well.

“Look Tina, we’re in deep shit,” Mike said.

“So tell me something new,” I replied into my mobile as I sat in my apartment naked apart from a pair of pale blue, lacy shorts.

He went on to tell me about the agency’s staffing problems, the projects he had in process, the backlog of copy to be written and the new business pitches he had lined up.

“So why call me? You know I’ll take all the work you want to give,” I asked idly stroking my right breast with my fingertips.

As part of redefining myself as my forties approached and my sexuality was still at best ill defined, I had found chat rooms and from that, exchanging mails with people I met on there. Obviously, the content of both was rather, shall we say ‘intimate and personal?’ No, let’s call a spade a spade, it was fucking horny, well most was, some was just pathetically pornographic and I quickly got away from that.

“You should write stories,” one of the guys said in a chat room one day.

I had previously exchanged a few mails with him describing some of my sexual experiences. I found that interesting, quite sexually stimulating and strangely cathartic.

“I couldn’t do that,” I had said to him.

“Why?” He had persisted.

“If they were published someone who knows might see them.”

“Not if you published them on Literotica,” he suggested.

I looked it up, liked it, read some fantastic erotica and was on my way.

“I need help in the agency,” Mike was saying.

I was only half listening for I was proof reading a piece I had just written for Lit. As I chatted to Mike, I was stroking myself and thinking of how I would masturbate when I finished on the phone. I even considered nit waiting to finish, I knew Mike would understand.

“Really?” I murmured probably sounding absent-minded as I read my lengthy description of my full, heavy, at the time, 36 G breasts which I was fondling as I read about them.

“Tina are you listening to me? I’m in deep shit and I need your help,” Mike said, dragging me away from my sexual meanderings. I closed the story on my laptop and let go of my breasts, although they were still tingling and I had that lovely warmth of arousal all through my body.

In the end I agreed. I would do three months, pretty much full time. I would spend the mornings in the agency, the early afternoons with clients, but would generally leave to be home by four when I would then continue working from home. We agreed a great package, including a Porsche 911, my dream car.


I was two months into the contract. It was working well. I had sorted out many of the problems, had called on a number of old contacts to overcome the copy backlog and do the pitches and had recruited a few key creative and production staff including four copywriters, one of whom was a senior writer, earmarked as my replacement.

I was running a weekend workshop for the copy team. I had set it up at a lovely country hotel, not far from Windsor, just outside London. The arrangement was to meet for dinner on the Friday evening and discuss the loose agenda I had prepared. The overall objective of the workshop was to improve both the quality, but as importantly the speed with which we turned copy projects round, at present it was too slow and cumbersome.

On the Saturday morning we would discuss the overall problem as a group, have a brainstorm and develop loads of potential ways to improve, irrespective at that stage or their practicality. We would then break into four smaller groups of three and investigate the suggestions and come up the best three workable ideas from each group. Later, maybe the next day, these would be presented to the main group and fully discussed with a view to developing one from each group into a workable system the next morning.

The back end of the Saturday afternoon was to be one-to-one counselling and coaching sessions pairing the more senior with the more junior team members; this was recommended by the training facilitator I had invited. He paired us by the most experienced with the least experienced and so on. I was thus paired with the second least experienced writer, Emma.

She was twenty two or so and had just left Bristol University with a solid 2:1 in English and Psychology, a perfect combination for a copywriter in the ad industry. She was on the company’s graduate trainee scheme and would spend a time in different departments eventually finding a permanent home with a job in a department that was most suitable for her. She had spent a few months in accounts, which was where all the grads started, and had been in copy for just a few weeks.

I knew that she was very popular throughout the agency, particularly with the creatives, but also she seemed to making quite an impression on the suits in account management. But then, when you looked at her golden blonde hair, her blue eyes, her pretty face, her youthfully rounded figure and slender, tanned legs, it wasn’t hard to see why, and I realised a little ashamed of myself, I did look at them quite a lot. When you added in her bubbly personality, her smiling, chatty, friendly demeanour, her willingness to help and her apparently strong work ethic, the reason for her popularity and why most of the department heads, me included, were already making overtures to capture her for their group was pretty obvious.

The afternoon had gone well and we were onto the last session, the one-to-ones. Emma and I found a quiet spot in an empty room off the bar. We talked about her career aspirations and why she had chosen to come into advertising and then she had shown me her copy portfolio. Her writing, though inevitably a little naïve, was sharp and punchy and showed a lot of promise, which I told her.

“Oh really Tina,” she said leaning forward and grabbing my wrist, “You really mean that?”

“Yes absolutely Emma, you have a good style,” I replied turning and looking at her. As she was leaning forward, the long sleeved, blue and white hooped, low cut top had gaped a bit and my eyes confirmed what I had thought earlier that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

“I do appreciate that, for really that is what I want to do,” she went on slowly and seemingly, well to my mind at least, reluctantly letting go of my wrist, but not straightening up. That made me gulp for her, what looked like perfect, little tits were almost completely on view down the front of her top.

“What write copy?”

“Yes, just like you do.”

“You enjoy writing then?” I asked.

“Yes I love it?”

“Do you write for pleasure then?”

“Yes some short stories, essays, some script work, that of course never gets published; all the usual sort of stuff.”

We laughed at that and she asked.

“And you Tina, what do you write for fun?”

I could hardly tell her that I exchanged e-mails with men I met in chat rooms and that I wrote erotic stories, both of which served as my masturbation fodder or that I published them on Literotica so I said.

“Oh this and that usual stuff.”

She had bent one leg and slid one foot under her bottom on the settee with the other foot on the ground. Her slender legs were very tanned and I could see lots of both for she was wearing one of those micro, hipster denim skirts. She was also wearing dark blue panties, I noticed, gulping again.

I went through some work stuff with her, before we started chatting more generally about our lives, more girly stuff really.

Looking back later, I was surprised at how easily the conversation had flowed and how much I had opened up to her, something I rarely do and had never done before to a girl some fifteen years plus my junior.

I told her about my early days in advertising as a copywriter in the late eighties when I was about her age. As we chatted about that I even went as far as saying.

“Now don’t you do this and keep it to yourself, but I committed the cardinal ad industry sin of fucking the client.”

“Really?” She smiled, “How exciting, did it cause problems?”

“No not really, because I almost married him.” I refrained from telling her that the client I fucked was a woman.

We both laughed at that.

“So you’re the footloose and fancy free bachelor girl are you?” She asked.

“Well I wouldn’t go that far.”

Smiling she said. “Well how far would you go?” before pausing and adding. “To win business?”

As she said that she leaned forward to look at a paper on the coffee table. I was leaning back on the settee and watched as her top slid up her back. The waist of the hipster skirt was well down on her hips so I got another view of the blue lace around her waist, which confirmed that she was wearing a thong. As she leaned forward so her hip moved a little and pressed against the outside of my jean covered knee.

“Are you in a relationship Emma?” I asked to her back.

“No, I’ve had a few, but kids my age bore me and older blokes tend to get too intense or they’re married.”

“Yeah I know what you mean,” I replied, quite liking the feel of her hip against my leg, but realising I shouldn’t leave it there, so I moved a little.

“You reckon you’ll ever marry?” She asked suddenly as she leaned backwards until her shoulders were against the back of the sofa, with her body stretched out and her legs under the table. This time her shoulder came in contact with my arm and her breasts and nipples were clearly outlined by the thin material.

“I don’t know, but at present I have no desire to get mixed up with any men.”

“Why not?” She asked as she turned her face and looked at me.

“Well I just don’t want the emotional attachment and dependence.”

“Just the sex?” She smiled.

“Well I’m not so sure on that either really.”

“What, no sex?”

I laughed, “Actually not much no, but to be truthful Emma, I find that difficult without some form of emotional involvement.”

“And that you don’t want so you have a classic Catch twenty two don’t you?” She asked seeming to press her arm more firmly against mine.

“Yes I suppose I do.”

“And I know precisely what you mean and how you feel Tina, I am a little like that myself.”


“Yes, I sometimes go weeks even a couple of months without.”

I laughed. “You need to be careful, young lady, that can be bad for you?”

“Well you don’t seem to do too badly on it do you, and you go ages don’t you?”

“Well yes that’s true I do, if you mean what I think you do?”

She looked right into my eyes with an assurance that belied both her age and her organisational position in relation to me as she coolly said.

“I meant going ages without having a man Tina, without having sex.”

I felt things were getting a little too intimate, too open and too frank. I knew that I shouldn’t be doing what I was doing, thinking what I was thinking and hoping for what I was hoping.

Would you like a drink or something?” I asked.

“I’d kill for a beer.”

“Good idea any type?”

“Becks preferably, but anything will do,” Emma replied looking into my eyes and smiling.

I returned with two beers in the bottles and sat alongside her on the settee. She was still pretty much stretched out although her legs were bent at the knee and her bare feet, she had removed her shoes, were on the ground. Her skirt had risen just about as far up those beautifully tanned legs as it could and her top had also been stretched upwards leaving a three or four inch band of bare flesh round her waist.

She turned to look at me, our eyes met.

“So where were we?” I asked.

She stared right into my eyes and without smiling said quietly.

“Yes Tina, where exactly were we? Something to do with not having men very often I think.”

Before we could follow that avenue the training facilitator came and advised it was time to stop and get ready for dinner.


Seeing my bloated nipples in the dressing table mirror as I stood there in just my jeans as I got ready to shower and change for dinner, my mind went back to when I was waiting to go to university. It went back to when I was experimenting sexually, when I was examining my sexuality, when I was finding myself, when I was originally ‘engineering’ my life-style and sexuality.

I found myself recalling the feel of a breast in my hand, a female breast. I was remembering the sensations that raced through me as I cupped one, as I stroked, caressed, squeezed and rubbed it. The feelings that gave me, the emotions I experienced as I did that to a breast that was not mine, to a breast that was another woman’s, yes the feelings I got as I started to make love to another female.


The dinner was fun. We were all there dressed just slightly more smartly than for the training, well the females were. At least the guys seemed to have changed their tee shirts! Most of us were wearing jeans, what else? Emma, though, was still wearing the ridiculously short skirt, but had put on one of those sparkly tops, with very thin spaghetti straps. I was wearing my tight jeans, which were slightly, but not overtly hipster, but which clung to my bum and pubic mound like a second skin. They were tucked into black, knee-length boots, very fashionable, I was assured by Marie Claire. I had slipped on a threequarter sleeved, white cotton, scooped neck tee which I was wearing outside the jeans. Over it I had a short cardigan with three buttons, which were done up. Nice package, I had thought, as I looked in the mirror just before leaving my room to go down to the bar. As always, though, my breasts were the dominating feature of my appearance and madly I found myself wondering whether Emma liked big or small ones. This was unusual for me as I rarely looked at woman as potential conquests, that just wasn’t me, I didn’t do things like that!

As usual with a bunch of advertising creatives, all the arrangements quickly went to pot. We stayed in the bar far too long, drank too much and didn’t sit down to eat until nearly nine thirty. God knows what the other diners thought as we drank loads of wine, got louder and louder and continually changed places as about half the team in twos or threes went out for a smoke, well I think it was just that, but who knows?

At one time Emma was sitting next to me. The men had sloped off to the bar and there was just her, me and three other girls still at the table. We chatted, but to be truthful I was a little pissed and I could not recall just what we talked about. I do remember, though, saying something about it now being all girls together and one of the others at the end of the table said.

“Bloody good job too, who want’s that macho bunch?” Given that rumour had it that she was near to being the ‘office bike’ that was a little rich I thought. I smiled at Emma, who raised her eyebrows as we turned to face each other our knees touching under the table.

Looking right into my eye as she said.

“Remind me boss, where were we exactly?”

We both laughed and, as everyone was leaving, got up, gave each other a peck on the cheeks and went to bed, rather regrettably alone, I thought as I opened the door to my empty room.


I was on my back, naked. The bed clothes were pulled back. There was a miniature from the mini bar on the bedside table; why, I don’t even drink Scotch! My mind was again recalling the feel of a woman’s breast in my hand. But not just recalling it, for now I was also actually feeling it. Not another woman’s though, not really, but in my mind it was someone else’s. Was it Susie’s, the first girl I had sex with, or was it Sharon’s the girl I had a threesome with, or was it Emma’s? I wasn’t sure whose breast took prominence in my mind as I squeezed and moulded my own ample mounds of flesh.

The finger and thumb on one of my hands found the hardened nipple on one of my breasts; they pinched it. That sent such shock memories of other woman in times gone by through me that I grunted and moaned, yes at the same time, I also jerked and shuddered for good measure.

Oh the early memories of feeling another woman’s nipples, the rubberyness, the elasticity, the way it grows in your fingers or, more stunningly, in your mouth. And shit, what feelings that was giving me as I recall the sensations on my tongue and lips as they met and began to love Susie’s large, round, very dark areola or as they sucked Sharon’s nipple between my teeth and gently chewed it. What would Emma’s be like I found myself wondering as I took a sip of the Scotch, almost burning my throat as it slid down? Small, pink with nice buds, I smiled as I pulled both of mine away from my breasts, making each nipple go to nearly twice its normal length. Mmmmm.

The next day we worked in larger groups and I saw little of Emma, perhaps that was a good thing. We wrapped up around five and all headed home, some to see their families, others their boy or girl friends, most to go out on the town and me to sweat over a pile of e-mails and other stuff that had piled up.

As usual I was facing an evening and night alone. I don’t mind that.Well during the day and evening that is but the loneliness of being by myself all night becomes tiresome. Days are fine, I like the solitude, but as the evening drags on and bedtime alone approaches I get restless and edgy.

Often I drink too much or smoke more weed than I should. I sometimes, come on don’t kid yourself with sometimes, try nearly always, go into chat or messenger, find a ‘friend’ or meet someone new and get into conversation. Occasionally that leads to me masturbating either, as we send messages to each other or, when I log off from him or her or a him pretending to be a her. It doesn’t really matter, they are all just jerk off fodder. Now and then, I will meet a couple of ‘special’ guys and will have phone sex with them, I enjoy that, but as both of them are married, it doesn’t happen on weekends.

I undressed and put on my dressing gown, ostensibly because I was getting ready for bed, despite it being only eight o’clock. Deep down, though, as I logged on and found a US chat site I knew there was a more basic reason for being nearly naked!

I flicked around several sites and one caught my eye, it also caught my imagination and sent a surge of high octane lust through me. It was a bi ladies site.

I messed around from room to room for a while, as usual, becoming more and more pissed off with all the bots and the lack of what seemed to be real people. I was contacted by a few men stating their typical crap and making the usual sort of enquiries:

“I’m bored.”

“I’m feeling very horny?”

“What are you up to,” or even worse, “Wassup?”

“What are you wearing,” and again even more crass, “What colour panties are you wearing?”

And so on and so on. Without having even loosened my gown, let alone put my hand inside on my bare tits, I was about to log off when a message came up on my screen.

“Hello, are you a real person, I am.”

It was from NYAnnie.

“Yes I am real, very real,” I replied.

We did the usual age, sex and location stuff with me quickly establishing that she was indeed real, was clearly more literate than most and probably was female and not some old bloke pretending to be a girl.

We got on well. Sometimes you just click in chat and we did. We shared similar senses of irony and humour and were quickly exchanging smartarse remarks and observations which drew us, intellectually, at least, closer together.

After ten minutes or so we both admitted to being bi, after twenty minutes or so we described our bodies to each other, after another ten or so we exchanged photos and after a further few minutes, Annie asked.

“Would you like to chat on the phone?”

After fifteen or twenty minutes talking on the phone, we told each other what we wearing; Annie was wearing a bikini in preparation for a swim.

After a further ten minutes we said how aroused we were becoming and Annie said in her twangy American accent.

“Oh God Tina, I so want to fuck you.”

Lightheartedly, as it felt as though I had an live wire running from my clit to my tits, I said. “Well then Annie that is exactly what you should do isn’t it?”

As we told each other what we doing and as my fingers found my soaked slit between my wide opened legs I moaned.

“Oh Emma I am so near, make me cum, please make me cum.”

I don’t think Annie realised my gaff, but in any case she was cumming with me as I said the wrong name.

As we said our goodbyes and made probably, unrealistic vows to keep in touch, it struck me that I had not had any form of sex with another woman, in person, for several months. Why the bloody hell I was now getting myself so emotionally involved with women on the net, why I was continually thinking back to the girls I’d had sex with and why I felt so attracted to Emma then, I had no idea?


I saw Emma round the agency quite often over the next few weeks, but being incredibly busy, I had little to do with her. She finished her time in Copy and moved onto Production and Mike, at last, found a new copy chief, so I began to ease off and work mainly from home; he did though let me keep the Porsche until the end of its lease some nine months away. It’s a wonder what the occasional blow job can do, particularly with married blokes who don’t get that from their wives!

One of the accounts I worked on had been nominated for an award at one of the numerous self-congratulatory ceremonies that the incestuous ad industry has each year. Mike had taken two tables of ten at two thousand five hundred pound a table, he was hosting one table and my successor as Copy Chief the other.

I often got invited to these dos as a spare bit of eye candy and that was the case this time. “Some clients prefer old biddies,” as Mike explained adding. “And they all like big tits, so hang ’em T.”

I got dolled up in a low cut, floor length, ‘little black number.’ My right boob was covered in sparkly sequins that ran in a slash about two inches wide down over my tummy to my left ankle. The dress had slits to mid-thigh up both sides, so I wore tights, fishnet ones with strappy high heeled sandals. I had my hair half up with long tresses tumbling down my neck onto my bare shoulders. I felt very sexy and hoped I looked that way as well, despite my glasses.

I wrapped a new, white cashmere pashmena round my neck as I ducked into the car the agency had thoughtfully sent me for the half hour or so journey across London to the Grosvenor House Hotel. As we sat in the early evening traffic jams round the City I found myself thinking ‘Who the hell was I dressing for?”

Mike an old and a current flame? The client, a very tasty Marketing Director, various other people in the industry or, the graduate trainee, one of whom is traditionally invited to each of these awards? Yes Emma was on my table.

“Hey boss,” she said when I met her in the cloakroom “You look fabulous.”

“Thanks Emma,” you look wonderful yourself.

She was also wearing black, but then nearly all the women were. Her dress was made from a thin voile and fitted her like a glove above the waist, but was slightly flared beneath it. It had a tie on her right shoulder and was off her left one. The skirt was one of those very modern jobs with a sloping hem, the right side of it being some six inches higher than the left, which ended in a point to the side of her knee. Having just been on holiday, I recalled, her bare legs were beautifully tanned and on her feet, with the scarlet painted toenails, she was also wearing strappy pumps. She had her hair up, which made her look unusually grown up and sophisticated, a look I hadn’t seen before. She looked stunning.

We had little chance to talk during most of the evening, for the awards ceremony dragged on for ages and was followed by several totally meaningless speeches and then a cabaret. Our job was to schmooze the clients so we had to chat to and dance with them and let them ogle our tits and legs: all part of being in advertising, I suppose!

Near the end, though, after both of us had danced almost continuously for about two hours, the ratio must have been three men to one woman, we managed to have a brief chat in a small bar off the main room. It was quiet and fairly empty.

“God, I feel like being at a meat market,” she said flopping down on a chair with complete disregard, or so it seemed, for her skirt riding up her stretched out legs.

“Welcome to advertising Em,” I said looking at her. “Women are always just client fodder at these dos, get used to it babe, it ‘aint gonna change.”

“Fucking men,” she said slurring a little.

“Can be nice,” I smiled.

She laughed “Yes can be, but where were we exactly boss?” She said repeating our little in phrase that had no real meaning, but seemed to have enormous significance between us.

“Not sure where we were Em, but I know where we are and we need to get back on duty. Come on,” I said holding out my hand.

She took it and I pulled her up, still holding her hand. We stood looking at each other, we were very close, so close I could smell her perfume and see the tiny hairs on her arms and the intriguing freckles on her shoulders. Neither of us moved for a moment as we just stood there.

I knew that I should not be thinking the way I was. It just was not me, it wasn’t right, but I couldn’t help it.

I squeezed her hand and smiled. She smiled back and said very throatily.

“I think this is where we were wasn’t it?”

For one moment I thought of kissing her as her eyes seemed to be suggesting, but I didn’t.

“Yes Em, this is where we were, come on, back to tit and leg flashing,” I said starting to walk out of the bar ahead of her. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard a soft “Mmmmmm that might be nice Tina,” as we went our separate ways.

I’m ok for the schmoozing, I can cope with clients ogling my tits, I will even flash them a bit for them, hence the low cut evening dress. That’s all part of being a female executive in the ad business, well was, it’s changing now with PC. I draw the line, however, at sleeping with clients, even very important clients, even clients who win the prestigious ad of the year award, even those who have a suite at the Dorchester and even those who take me and a few others, regrettably not Emma, to Tramp after the Grosvenor. I say I draw the line at sleeping with them, what I mean is if they are men, I am not sure the line would be so definite if the client was a woman!

They had three Mercs waiting outside the hotel for the short trip to the night-club. In the club there was a reserved table, one of the booths in the quiet VIP bar on the first floor. There was masses of booze, Cristal, Scotch, Armagnac, Cognac, Hine, VSOP I noticed, and loads of other stuff. It was now after two so it all seemed a little excessive but the dozen or so of us, eight guys and four women, each ordered something, I had champagne.

Dancing was a nightmare, but I couldn’t refuse either my client, the Marketing Director, or his boss, the MD, both guys in their early fifties I guessed. The nightmare wasn’t just the crowded dance floor and the energetic antics of the many Russians and Arabs who were there. That I could put up with easily.

It was the pathetic way that the two mature and hugely successful businessmen turned into slobs that got me. No sooner was I on the floor with one, then his hands slid down my back and stroked my bum. It was just a few moments later that he wasn’t just stroking it, but actually squeezing each cheek. Over the next hour or so both of the guys did that, rubbed the sides of my boobs, pressed themselves very obviously right against my pubic mound, licked and kissed my neck and tried to squeeze my tits and kiss me on the lips. Around three, the client said.

“Hey Tina, we are all going to finish up at the company suite at the Dorchester for a few drinks. Like to come?”


“Well Jim and I and we thought maybe you and Sue would like to join us.”

I managed to find an excuse and escaped, just.

Overall, it was awful, but, I guess, all part of the job.

If only the glass ceiling didn’t exist and there were more females at the top then it would be so much easier!


“So how was your week?” I asked Emma one Friday a few weeks later when I was making a rare visit to the agency.

“Fucking awful,” she replied, flashing me one of those lovely smiles.

She had now moved into account planning, which combined, research, media and competitor analysis and lots of other, almost incomprehensible statistical analysis. It was a boring, but essential aspect of modern advertising, particularly with the range of new digital and internet media opportunities. It was mainly an inside job, although trips to clients for occasional planning meeting relieved the boredom for the mainly, very young people in the department, the head was only twenty six and he was tipped to get a main board seat soon.

I was using a spare manager’s office in the creative department for I find writing proper, as opposed to plagiarised, copy, which most of us do most of the time, very difficult to do in the hubbub of an open office. I hadn’t realised how late it was until she popped her head round the door. It was after eight and the place looked to be deserted.

She looked gorgeous. She had her corn, blonde hair in bunches and she was wearing small, wire rimmed spectacles, which were perched on the end of her pert nose.

“Come in,” I said, a surge of unwanted lust running through me as she slid through the door and popped herself down on the long, black leather sofa.

I gulped when I saw what she was wearing. Mike had mentioned that ‘the kids’ in Planning were becoming more and more outrageous in their get ups.

“We seem to have got a group of particularly tasty young birds in there all at the same time and they try to outdo each other. It’s like going into a fucking brothel.” He’d told me a while ago.

“Is there any other sort”? I quipped back.


“Oh never mind and in any case what do you know about brothels?”

She was wearing a kilt. Short, mid thigh and pleated with a slight flair it was predominantly red with some black and green patches, very Scottish. On top she had a simple white, cotton blouse, with buttons all the way up the front, with one more undone at the neck than there really should have been. The hem of the blouse was outside the waist of the skirt with the lower buttons undone, thus occasionally giving a nice flash of her bare waist and tummy The outline of her bra was very clear under the thin cotton of the blouse. Around her neck she was wearing one of those highly fashionable, very long multi-string necklaces with beads, little square and round pieces of what looked like glass and other bits and bobs attached to it. As she moved, some of the necklace slid inside the blouse and some stayed outside, often resting on one of her breasts and stretching the fabric tight across the small mounds. Her dangly earrings matched the necklace. Her legs were covered in white nylon. From the way the kilt reared up her legs as she sat opposite me on the low sofa, I quickly saw that they were tights and not stockings.

“Drink?” I had asked.

“Lovely. So that’s what you bigwigs do behind closed doors after hours is it?” She smiled as I poured two glasses of Chablis Premier Cru and walked across the office and handed it to her.

“Oh you’d be so surprised Emma what goes on.”

“Would I?” She replied seriously looking straight into my eyes.

“So why was it so fucking awful?” I asked in response to my earlier question about the weekend.

“Oh I broke up with my boy-friend, had a smack in my car and a massive row with my mum.”

“Oh dear, that sounds tough,” I said walking round the room behind the settee where she was sitting.

“You still live at home don’t you?” I asked.

“Yes with a fifteen grand student loan to repay I need to for a year or so, I only get a fucking pittance here until I finish training and, hopefully get a permanent post.”

“Yes they do that on purpose to test the grads sticking power, or so HR say.”

“It’s bloody terrible for my sex and social lives, living at home.”

“Yes it must be.”

“I have been in more bedsits and had more shags in the backs of cars in the last year than when I was at uni,” she laughed adding quickly. “Just joking boss.”

A vision of her half undressed on the back seat of a car swept into my mind. I looked over her shoulders from behind and down her slim body and legs. God she was attractive and so fucking sexy. My mind again went back to those times with Susie and Sharon when I was just starting out on the pathway to being a lipstick lesbian.

“Well I do have a spare bedroom in Islington” I said, jokingly adding. “Yours for a small fee any time.”

“I might take you up on that sometime, but then I’m now off men.”

We looked at each other and laughed as we said at the same.

“Where were we exactly.

I was still standing behind her and the settee on which she was seated with her white nylon covered legs stretched out before her. I rested my hand on the back of the sofa, just inches from her back.

“Well the offer still stands Emma, anytime you’ve been out on the town and don’t fancy the slog out to Essex.”

“Is going out on the town first an essential?” She asked looking over her shoulder at my arm resting on the sofa.

I don’t know what prompted me or what gave me the courage, but I slid my hand along the back of the settee as I replied, rather hoarsely.

“No Emma, you could use it any time that you don’t fancy the journey home.”

My hand reached her shoulder. I wanted to stroke it, but I couldn’t pluck up the guts to make that move, instead it slid behind her shoulder, she was leaning forward a little. I saw her look closely at my arm and I guessed she knew that my hand was behind her. Looking up at me, she leaned back so that she was pressed against my hand. It felt good, but I didn’t know whether it was an accident or whether she was showing out and giving me a sign and, presumably, she was thinking the same. Pulling a woman is fraught with far more challenges than a man!

“It is rather a tiresome trip to Chelmsford,” she said holding my gaze.

I smiled as my heart started beating faster. Was she wanting to stay tonight? Shit, it couldn’t be better. I said, softly, my voice hardly louder than the Bach concerto playing on the iPod.

“Especially on a late Friday night Emma,” as I wiggled my hand a little.

“Yes Tina, especially then,” she replied leaning back more firmly against my hand. “I really mean now, not then, I know how particular you copy types are with the use of your words.”

I laughed. “Then or now doesn’t matter. Let’s call it tonight?”

“Yes tonight, may I stay?”

“Yes of course.”

“But I need another favour as well,” she said looking into my eyes with a slight smile on her lovely lips.”


“May I borrow a pair of your panties, I haven’t packed a spare pair,” she laughed.

I joined in as I said, without thinking of the deeper ramifications. “Best excuse I’ve heard to get inside my knickers.”

She replied again seemingly without thinking. “I need an excuse?”

We both seemed to realise what we were implying at the same time. I blurted out.

“How long do you need to finish off?”

“Twenty minutes or so, you? Is that ok?”

“Yes that will be fine, I need about the same. Give me a buzz when you are leaving and I’ll catch your lift on the way down. I’ve got the car.”

“The Porsche?”



As we bowled along The Embankment which runs through London alongside the Thames, we chatted easily although my insides were in a turmoil. I just could not believe what I was hoping to do, it seemed outrageous, but so appealing. I was taking a young woman to my home to seduce her. It kept running through my head ‘I am taking Emma home to fuck her.’ What made it even worse, or better, or both or fuck knows what, was that in a Porsche you almost lay flat. You can imagine what that does to a short pleated skirt, with white tights on the long slim legs stretched out in front of the beautiful, young woman who I was hoping to fuck.

“Like Chinese Emma? I’m not much of a cook, I often order when I get to the Old Street so it’s ready to pick up when I get to Upper Street.”


“Look in that pocket there’s a menu there, choose what you want?”

I flipped on the hands free and ordered spare ribs, some chicken, prawn and beef, rice and bean sprouts.

“Yes Miss Neesen we have it ready in ten minutes.”

I parked in the car park that once was a front garden and we climbed the stairs. Unlocking the door I got that thrill I get every time anyone new sees the apartment. Emma was appropriately complimentary saying how much she like Victoriana.

We ate the Chinese on the small balcony off from the kitchen, which overlooks the back garden with views out to Highgate and Hampstead dock as opposed to the larger one from the lounge, which looks out to the City. We drank a bottle of reasonable Beaujolais and some San Pelegrino.

It started to get chilly so we went inside. I flicked on my home iPod which is nearly all classical music and we stood and looked out the floor to ceiling sliding windows to the tall, lit up buildings of the City and in the distance Docklands. I was slightly behind Emma and to her left, but very close. I could see all of her. Her hair in those delightful bunches, her slim neck, the white blouse, which was so carelessly buttoned up, or carefully unbuttoned. She had removed the dangly necklace for some reason and as she looked up and down the Thames she fiddled with one of her earrings. That caused the thin cotton to be stretched then relaxed over her boobs, it also made them jiggle deliciously. I was becoming intoxicated by her. I could see the swell of her small breasts and the darker patch of her nipples inside the blouse. Where it slightly parted near the buttonholes as she moved I could see the bare flesh of her boobs above her bra. It really was heady stuff for me. I could see the waistband of the kilt fitting so snugly round her, almost impossibly, narrow, I guessed twenty three or four inch, waist and the flair of her womanly hips inthe pleated skirt swelling out of her buttocks

“Wow that’s a great view isn’t it Tina?”

“Yes it was a big selling feature of the flat, when I bought it.”

“Yes it must have been, it’s a fantastic view,” she said quietly.

“You can actually see the Eye and Big Ben.”

“Really? I can’t,” she said leaning forward and looking to her right.

Without thinking, and I really mean that, I put my right arm round her and rested it on her right shoulder. Being slightly taller than her, when I leaned forward and pointed to our right with my left hand, my right breast pressed against her arm, just above her elbow.

“Look there,” I said pointing at the Eye, which was much further south than one imagines. There’s a big bend on the river past Blackfriars Bridge I explained.

“No I still can’t see it,” she said, very quietly.

I sort of pulled on her shoulder and said very throatily I think.

“Look to the right of the Gherkin, past that big dark blob and then to the right a bit.”

I could feel that the point of my nipple, which I knew had hardened was pressed against the back of her arm. She didn’t move away, but, if anything, or maybe I was imagining it, she pressed back.

“Can you see it Emma?” I asked, my fingers pressing slightly more firmly on her shoulder.

“Yes, but I wish I couldn’t.”

“Why is that?”

“Never mind,” she said letting her head falling back against myshoulder. I went to move away, but suddenly thought ‘Why?’

I knew the answer to that. That was that I should not be doing this, contemplating what was in my mind and wondering at her potential reaction.

I pressed more firmly with my hand and said softly, as I pointed further to her right, my left arm now stretched across her body almost touching her boobs.

“If you look there Em, you can see Big Ben.”

“Oh yes, so you can,” she muttered, not looking at Big Ben, but more at my arm.

I couldn’t stop myself. Now it simply was not possible. In one go, I squeezed her right shoulder with my right hand, pressed my right breast hard against her arm and let my left arm graze across her boobs.

Wonderfully, I heard a little moan slip from her mouth as she let her head fall further back against my shoulder.

She then said what I am sure is the most erotic phrase that has ever been said to me.

“Are you making a pass at me Ms Neesen?”

Although I was extremely surprised, I somehow managed to remain cool and remarkably in control.

“Does it feel to you as though I am Miss Carter?”

She seemed to snuggle her head deeper into the angle of my arm and shoulder so that the back of her head pressed against my other breast.

“Yes Ms Neesen it rather does feel like that.”

“Then Miss Carter,” I said softly as I pushed my boob against the back of her left arm and squeezed her right shoulder very affectionately, “I probably am making a pass at you.”

With that ‘on the table’ as it were, I pulled her so she turned , so that we were facing each other, my hands resting on her shoulders. We looked at each other. I could see what I thought was lust and want in her eyes as she looked at me.

“Kiss me Tina, please kiss me.”

‘Oh fuck,’ I thought, I really should not be getting involved, should not be letting my bi side out. I had vowed to keep it secret from the ad industry and my circle of friends. I should not be trying to seduce this young woman. But then I thought, ‘Am I seducing her? Or is it just what she wants? Is it just natural?

I didn’t reply to myself, for suddenly we were in each other’s arms and I was indeed kissing her, but I wasn’t sure just who was seducing whom, not really.

At that moment that it really didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, not really. But then when you are aroused and the sexual adrenalin is roaring through you, very often nothing does matter. Nothing other than you and your lover exists, just your body and theirs. And that was exactly as it was as I kissed Emma. No. It wasn’t me kissing Emma, I realised, we were kissing each other, deeply and passionately.

I broke the kiss and held her face in my hands as I looked into her eyes. I smiled.

“Emma, have you, er, you know, you have haven ‘t you?”

She beamed me a gorgeous smile.

“What Ms Neesen?”

“Done this before?” I replied running my hands up and down her arms and giving her a peck on her lips.

She looked very serious as she slowly reached up and cupped my breast.

“What you mean had sex with a woman?”

God that sounded so in yer face; so typical of the young, I thought.

“Yes, you have haven’t you?” I groaned as her fingers kneaded my breast.

“Does it feel as though I have, boss?”

I found myself pressing my hot, aching breast against her hand as I replied, slowly and softly.

“Yes I think it does.”

“Then, Ms Neesen, I probably have haven’t I?”

We kissed again. We touched each other again and then we undressed. Not each other, we didn’t claw at each other’s clothes or rip them off. Women together often don’t do that. Instead, facing each other, looking into each other’s eyes, Sammy undid her blouse and I pulled my white tee shirt and pink vee-necked sweater over my head. All the three garments were dropped onto the floor as we eagerly looked at the other’s covered breasts.

Emma was wearing a white, as good as transparent, bra, which was cut low across each of her boobs almost, but not quite, showing the edges of her areola. As she reached behind her to undo it, she pushed her chest out and I saw their full shape. Pert was the word that came to mind as the diaphanous material was stretched across the small mounds and pert stayed in my mind as she bared them for me. They were gorgeous and I worried a little as I removed my bra at what she would think of my fucking great mammories; not all people like big tits. I needn’t have been concerned though, for the look in her eyes, the little gasp and her saying, “Oh Tina,” gave me the reassurance I needed.

It can be so difficult for a woman when she is about to make love to another female. There is always that worry about comparing your body to hers; and that’s especially the case I was realising, when one woman is years older than the other, and fuck she was much younger than me, something I had never experienced before.

Almost as soon as I had released my overgrown tits from the restrictions of the Figleaves bra, we were in each other’s arms. We squirmed our mouths and writhed our bodies together. It was a glorious feeling, one that I had not experienced for so long and one that I had almost, but not quite forgotten; but then how can one forget the feel of another woman’s breasts against your own? Alright, mine rather engulfed hers, but her youthful firmness more than made up for that.

I suddenly realised that we were still standing by the floor to ceiling window and that we the light behind us. Alright it was a longshot, but passers by and neighbours might just be able to see us. I pulled her away into the centre of the room.

“The window, someone might see us,” I explained.

“Oh yes, of course” she muttered.

She really did look fantastic. Now just in her kilt and white tights, I could see her lovely little breasts, which I noticed were fully tanned. It hit me, that at her age, she has always been able to sunbathe topless, so has probably never had white marks. It also made me wonder if she even had any white bits anywhere? ‘But I will soon find out’ I thought, nearly giggling.

Away from potentially prying eyes we kissed again. After a while, when both Emma’s and my hands had visited the others back and bum, I broke away and murmured.

“Maybe madam would like to see her bedroom now?”

“Mmmmm, what a delicious thought Ms Neesen.”

“Come with me then,” I said taking her hand.

As I led her up the staircase to the master bedroom suite, I had some pangs of guilt and trepidation about ‘dipping my pen in company ink,’ but as we went up the stairs and I stared at her swaying bottom and bare back, my lust for sex with her overcame those feelings.

“Oh God Tina, this is fantastic,” she said as I led her into my bedroom, in which I had foregone Vicrotiana.

It was a nice room, but praising that as we made our way to the king sized bed hardly seemed appropriate, but then Emma was young and hardly out of student life. So I put that to one side as she gushed over the size of the room, the bank of mirrored floor to ceiling wardrobes down one side and the sliding doors, again floor to ceiling, on the other. The thick pile, white carpet, the vast bed and the outside balcony that was facing south so was a suntrap and was totally secluded enabling me, when I wished, to sun bathe in the nude.

“Would you like the bathroom, maybe a shower?” I asked. I knew I was showing off a bit by opening the door to the wet room complete with a two huge, shower heads, a large cubicle, and a sunken kidney shaped bath.

“Oh Tina,” she said grabbing me and kissing me as she pressed her lovely, slim body against mine. “It is truly beautiful, everything is, may I have a shower.”

Smiling, I thought to myself ‘My home has never seduced any one before.’

It was such a lovely, exciting, gratifying and thoroughly enjoyable sight to watch Emma, quickly undo the button and zip on the kilt, push it down and step out of it. Now dressed just in her white tights with the outline of a white thong under it she looked even more fantastic, if that’s possible.

“I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, boss,” she said laughing. “But I just adore lovely showers,” she went on as with no sign of self-consciousness at all she rolled her tights down her legs. As her young, slender, vital and so attractive body was revealed to my gaze, the ache inside me reached extraordinarily high proportions. ‘God how I want her’ I thought, knowing it was probably wrong and that I should not be trying to indulge my bi desires on such a young woman, particularly one who worked my old flame’s and sometimes current lover’s agency. But as she stood there slipping her thong off, I wondered, ‘Am I really seducing her?’

Naked she went to go into the wet room.

“Here let me show you how it all works,” I said going into the room first adding. “There are tons of different settings.”

Impishly and quite coquettishly, with her arms across her breasts and her hands covering her pubes, Emma said, softly.

“Well I assumed, Tina, that you would be in the shower with me showing me the controls.”

Smiling, I replied. “Is that what you would like Emma?”

“Yes very much,” she replied, moving her arms and hands and arms and revealing her entire body with all of its most womanly places to me. She was certainly a natural blonde.

As nice as it had been watching the young blonde undress, it was as daunting fot me to do the same. I am always like that when with a lover, male or female, for the first time. I suppose it’s the fear of them not liking my ‘fuller figure.’ The concern at them being put off by the sag of my F and at times, and this was one of them, G cup breasts. The worry that the slight excess on my hips and bum and the discernible swell of my tummy might put them off. All of those things combine as my last vestiges of clothing are removed and I am laid bare, as I have no place to hide, stretch my back, hold my breath in or turn away. So as all of that happened when I slipped my jeans down and wiggled out of the dark blue lacy thong, I was, almost, trembling with worry.

The adoring look in Emma’s eyes and her exclamation. “Oh Tina, you are so beautiful,” was precisely what I needed to overcome those doubts and feelings; I’m such a soft touch for flattery, especially where my body is concerned. I left my glasses on the cabinet just inside the door and fiddled with the controls on the panel.

Showering with a lover is always a delight and with Emma that was no exception. The water cascading down on both of us moulded our hair to our heads, necks and shoulders and made our skin glisten. As well as looking like drowned rats, we also looked so smooth and svelte and, as we touched each other, we learned that was not just how we looked, but also how our bodies felt. Emma’s was especially smooth, like silk, and soft, so wonderful to my touch. I had almost forgotten how smooth women are compared to me. But I had not forgottenthe feel of a woman’s body against mine. The sensations of having a female in my arms our bodies touching from our lips to our toes, our breasts and bellies squashed together our pubic mounds gently caressing the other, hit me very powerfully. It was wonderful.

But then the whole experience was.

Kissing in the shower, feeling the water pour all over me, stroking her body, soaping it and washing it, making her perfectly clean for the lovemaking that was soon to come. Caressing the magnificently rounded orbs of her bum, running my fingers and hands over her glorious curves, upwards and downwards, into little crevices and over larger swells. Touching her back, her shoulders, neck and face. Feeling her collar bones and chest and then, wonderfully, moaningly magnificently and groaningly gorgeously cupping her breasts. Her full, yet small and perfectly formed, youthfully pert tits. Those squashingly arousing little mounds of yielding flesh, capped so beguilingly by her two, small, coral pink areolas and nicely sized and erotically erect nipples that I just knew would fit so wonderfully between my teeth when I sucked them later, as we both now knew that I would.

As effectively as the cascading water removed our signs of perspiration, so it washed away my doubts and concerns. Emma’s eager acceptance of me and my advances, her avid responses and her readiness to reveal herself to me made this a mutual excursion into Sapphic delight. At that moment in that shower in my home we both gave ourselves up to the demands and needs of our bisexual tendencies. Yes at that time we became what our minds and bodies demanded of us, lesbians.

The, ‘I shouldn’t be doing this’ and ‘what the fuck will happen if it gets out work’ concerns were replaced by my strong need to make full and complete love to Emma. Of equal importance was my desire for her to make similarly complete love to me.

It’s so different to being with a guy. With him, one way or another, you are being taken, invaded, overcome and penetrated. With a her, it is so mutual. Maybe not for all women, for of course there are dykes around who want to dominate their conquest and consume them, just as a man does. But ‘lipsticks’ as Emma and I clearly were, are not like that. Sure, one may lead the other, the differing levels of confidence, experience and need requires that. However, essentially, it is the most marvellous, two-way, mutually coming together, in more ways than one, that man, in its widest sense, has created. And during that marvellous night in my bed, we tried to explore every aspect of that.

We kissed for so long as our bodies became attuned to the exploration of the other’s hands. We kissed for even longer as we became used to the other’s fingers pushing, pressing and sliding. We gasped with the excitement of our lover’s hands on our breasts, our nipples, our thighs and our vulvas. We opened ourselves up to our partner and gloried in the feelings of them entering our body and of us entering theirs. We both revelled in the feeling of Emma’s warm wetness as I slid two straightened fingers inside.

I made her cum just before she did the same to me.

I sucked those lovely little nipples into my mouth just before she sucked my fuller, more bloated, areola and nipples into hers.

My concern over seducing someone as young as her simply vanished for I wasn’t at all sure that I was seducing her and, in any case she was far from being a blushing violet as far as sex with another woman is concerned. She was into every aspect of what we were doing equally as much as I was and I loved that.

I made her cum again sucking on her tits and finger fucking her cunt, which she opened for me by spreading her legs and bending her knees.

“Yes Tina, I have been with women before,” she told me suddenly, obviously in response to my earlier question.

We rested, we drank some wine, we dried each other’s hair and we cleansed ourselves again. We went back downstairs clad in white robes and watched the lights of London through the tall windows as a Bach Violin Concerto oozed from the stereo.

We went back to bed.

“No I haven’t,” she said as I rested my head on her frustratingly, but attractively flat stomach, when I queried whether she had made oral love to a woman.

“I have only had sex with girls in clubs and cars, never in bed, but once in a beach in Ibiza” she told me as I eased her slender thighs apart and gazed at my lovers glistening vagina.

She tasted so sweet. She was wet and ready and she held her own breasts as I sucked and licked her clit and lips and probed my tongue and fingers inside her. I was surprised at how long we went on like this.

However, it was just moments later when her golden hair was rustling against my opened thighs and, regrettably not as, flat stomach, I too seemed to last for so long. She was such a natural, licking the length of my gaping slit, tonguing my clit and stroking her fingers all over my thighs, tummy and bottom.

We slept. Not for that long as it wasn’t late, only elevenish and we had the rest of the night and, presumably, tomorrow as well at our disposal.

And how well we used that time. Emma did stay all day on the Saturday and all night. We had a lovely girly time, and an amazingly sexual time, the combination creating for both of us a unique experience.

The girly time included brunch in Borough Market and buying food for our dinner, shopping in Knightsbridge and Chelsea, tea in Portobello Road and then a leisurely drive into Essex on the Sunday stopping for lunch in a delightful little pub in the country. Magic.

The sexual time included us making love several more times on the Saturday night. We made the other cum with our hands and fingers, tongues and mouth. Emma licked me to a gigantic orgasm as I sucked her to an equally strong explosion. Just before we eventually slept for the night we lay side by side, head to stomach enjoying the most amazing mutual climax. We finished our sexual activities with us tribbing our wet open cunts pressed firmly together

I had bought her some underwear in Harvey Nics and before we prepared dinner on the Saturday I said she should model it for me. Coming down the stairs in the ‘vamps uniform’ of all black bra, thong and seemed, fishnet hold-ups she looked awesome, especially because of the way that the colour of the sexy underwear was in such wonderful contrast to her golden blondeness.

“You look wonderful, Emma,” I breathed standing up to take her in my arms. As I cuddled her and after we kissed, I mumbled. “So wonderful, I think you should stay like that for dinner.”

Beaming me that beguiling smile, which was part a cheeky schoolgirl and part that of a seducer she replied. “Gladly, Ms NeesenWilliams, but of course that is on one condition.”

I guessed what she meant and smiling I said, “Shall I change now?”

She laughed. “We are getting to know each other well aren’t we?”

“Wow, I just love teddies,” she said when I came downstairs in the whit lacy, one piece garment. It was low at the front, showing most of my, unfettered boobs, and was cut acutely at the thighs showing the edge of my mound.

With most of a bottle of white wine drunk before the pasta and salad and the best part of a bottle of red consumed with it, we were nicely mellow during what was an amazingly erotic dinner.

“Shall we clear up now?” She asked, standing up.

“No let’s leave it,” I said as we both stood up. I held my hand out to her, she took it and I pulled her to me. Our bodies merged together. We kissed pressing our breasts and mounds together. Then I broke the kiss and whispered.

“Tell me Emma, where exactly were we?”

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