Super Sammy Jo

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Getting Hev into bed was lots easier than getting her out of the Suburban Bar. Not that she really put up much of a fight which, given the size and athletic shape of her, was probably just as well.

I later learned she has martial arts qualifications to rival Jade Jones’, so scrap that “probably!”

(Jade’s won almost as many fighting world-class medals as Usain Bolt has for sprinting, by the way.)

Bunking off the booze early was not, however, top of Hev’s agenda.

‘We’ve only just got here,’ she protested. ‘We’ve got all weekend . . . And it’s my round.’

I grudgingly played along . . . briefly . . . and, perhaps half an hour later, just after nine Friday evening, before most weekend revellers had even set off out, Bingley Taxis delivered us to her palatial home. It was a lavishly renovated farmhouse complete with enormous pond, scary guard geese and goodness only knows what else.

By then I wasn’t looking and the venue was hardly new. By then my interests were purely carnal. The geese had become friends . . . well, almost, sufficiently to ignore them, anyway. By then my interests were as purely carnal as could be.

So too, praise the lord, were Hev’s.

Giving the cabbie a twenty and telling him to keep the change we went to bed. That’s right, we went directly to bed. We did not pass GO and we did not collect £200.

(And not $200 for board game traditionalists . . . or even fifty pence for anyone else).

Amazingly, Hev remembered that she had promised it was my turn to be “the girl in charge”. She had promised me that before of course, more than once, but had previously suffered selective amnesia as soon as whichever front door closed behind us, be it at hers or at my infinitely more modest abode.

Not that location made a lot of difference.

What a tigress she could be behind a slab of locked wood. Or out on a cobbled street, come to that. I rarely knew exactly what to expect . . . apart from being delightfully taken unawares.

Tales of the Unexpected or what!

As if I ever objected. Anything that was good enough for her was more than good enough for me.

Anything was; absolutely anything at all.

And good old Bingley still has more than its fair share of cobbled back streets; I’d been in an awful lot of them, usually in Hev’s tender clutches, but not then. No, then we were in agricultural Micklethwaite and Hev had other, much better ideas.

‘Come on,’ she said seductively . . . instead of instantly ravaging me. ‘I’ll get us vats of vino later. For now just take me upstairs and show me how shagging really should be done.’

Who was I to argue?

Normally going upstairs involved several breaks for urgent, energetic sex and we left a significant trail of discarded clothing behind us, one even Inspector Clouseau couldn’t fail to have followed. That time we almost ran up the steps.

‘Strip for me,’ I commanded breathlessly, unsure if I was gasping from exertion or anticipation.

Fixing her startling emerald eyes on my (not so) innocent baby blues, she slowly obliged.

How exciting was that! Wildly ripping garments off of each other was great fun, obviously. Going slow and steady was even more exciting.

Correct; in charge or not, I matched her item for item, sexual tension expanding at a rate of knots as we went.

It was, coincidentally, early autumn and surprisingly warm (trust me; autumn in West Yorkshire can be sub-tropical or fit only for polar bears, and hard-boiled polar bears at that); that particular Friday it was distinctly balmy.

As it happened Hev had more items to discard than me. She had gone to the Suburban straight from WYB you see, while I’d packed in at five thirty and gone home for a soak in the bath. Oh, the benefits of being way down in the pecking order! Hev worked all hours God sent and usually dined at the local curry house. I clock-watched and effed off as soon as the big hand hit half five.

Then again, I earned thirty grand a year. That was probably Hev’s monthly spend on vindaloo, Shiraz and pinot.

Not to mention another ten grand or so on pints of Landlord and Pedigree.

How the other half live, eh?

Anyway, back to the increasingly arousing action.

Still magnetically holding my gaze, Hev removed her mannish suit top. I was carrying my leather biker jacket and casually tossed it aside.

‘More,’ I commanded, battling eye-to-eye gravity, striving not to leer at my lover’s well-filled blouse.

Grinning like a Cheshire cat she unbuttoned and exposed herself, twirling the white top over her head a few times before letting go. It flew off I know not where.

And gravity won its battle. My eyes shot downwards, as always transfixed by the sight of those superb tits. How to describe them? They are large but not too large, medium-sized nips surrounded by simply enormous areolae and all completely, totally self-supporting. No doubt about it; the girl had never had a single bra in any of her many wardrobes eryaman escort and sets of drawers.

No need, you see; simples, no?

The rest of her wasn’t half bad either: quite broad shoulders for a girl, noticeably visible biceps and a V of a torso that went all the way down to a narrow waist and sexily curvy hips. And the six-pack she so proudly displayed!

Take it from me: Charles Atlas would have killed for a six-pack like hers.

(Younger readers should take that as “a Chippendale would’ve killed for a six-pack like hers.” By that I include myself; I only know of Dynamic Tension because my dad still has an early version Bullworker which he inherited from his own dad.

Needless to say, the big man himself endorsed the product and I’d seen the faded old sales blurb . . .)

Note to me: How much would that be worth on one of those BBC antiques shows nowadays? And is it not true that still having the original packaging and blurb doubles the selling price? Hmmm . . .)

‘Come on girl,’ Hev prompted like the Queen of Hearts, ‘off with your crop top.’

I obeyed like a good little girl and, very aware of the garments imbalance, unhooked my (needed one heck of a lot) bra.

‘Here I am,’ I cried, bouncing my unrestrained boobies for her.

For an instant I thought Hev was going to dive at me and go into crazy mode. By an unexpected act of God she did not. Instead she unfastened her stylish-yet-sensible work skirt and it was my turn to grin.

Often as not the divinity wore the full mannish suit but, once in a long while, she swapped trousers for a skirt.

And she’d known she’d be “seeing” me that Friday night.

That’s right; she’d dressed especially for me.

Never mind the ins and outs, though . . . the legs on her! I already knew she was incredibly strong and had gladly been gripped by her so-sexy pins in the heights of passion, usually with me in the gratefully submissive position.

Yes, pinned to the mattress like a mounted butterfly, held so very firmly in place.

Not that I was about to complain, distractedly or otherwise.

‘Come on, come on,’ she urged, ‘get those jeans off before I lose my beyond admirable self-control.’

As if!

I swiftly kicked off my denims and, deciding I might as well be in for a penny as a pound, stamped out of my white ankle socks.

(I know, I know: little, innocent, virginal me!)

Hev responded by peeling off her black nylons and a sexier sight I have never seen. Then, as I made to remove my panties, she waved a chastening finger.

‘Me first,’ she said; ‘me before you, then on with the shagging.’


And jeepers creepers, what am I like! Going off like a runaway train or a house on fire without even bothering to introduce myself.


Okay, so I’m Sammy Jo. You might have heard from me before but not in a goodly while because I’m basically unreliable. Looking back I can see that I’ve been playing catch-up all along. My first effort of a yarn told of events in 2008, during the heart of Global Meltdown, when interest rates were going up through the roof and when, as a despairing bank employee, I just wanted to go out, get laid and forget about simply everything else in my increasingly worthless life.

That lucky Friday evening, proving once and for all that God is a woman, I hooked up with Hev rather than some nameless, immediately forgettable guy. Not that we introduced ourselves. No, it was early doors but the DJ had the sound up full tilt, so instead we went to my place and namelessly fucked the night away.

At this point perhaps I should explain I’ve always been bisexual. My first lover was female and even if I did share the spoils more or less evenly for a stretch, I’ve long since cut men out entirely.

That useless twat I so stupidly married put me off men forever, thank everybody’s god.

And also thank everybody’s god, we never had kids. That made divorcing the bastard easy as pie.

Good old Henry VIII, eh? He should be an icon to women the world over.

Or, thinking of axes and multiple beheadings, maybe not.

Let’s get back to me and Hev.

My second literary effort told of events in 2016. By then I hadn’t seen the black-maned beauty in over seven years and had as good as forgotten about her.


I’d masturbated over my memories of her regularly. As far as girls went she was simply the best.

As far as men went . . . Well, don’t even bother.

Cue a miracle. My original employers had been B the bank which had resisted temptation and was still going strong, still based nearby in the same small town.

Leastways I stayed at B&B until the relatively low/high salaries became impossible to ignore.

And I swear I didn’t know Hev was a big wheel in that organization. I might vaguely have recalled her mentioning “WYB” early in our initial encounter, but at the time I’d been more interested in sincan escort her tits.

As well as getting into her knickers, of course . . . Or, even better, getting her into mine.

Anyway, after two weeks in my new environment, genuinely unaware she worked there, I bumped into the lady herself in the office canteen, out of the blue. Our greetings exchange was only brief but it still impressed my co-workers/fellow diners.

‘Omigod,’ one of them crooned, ‘how on earth are you so chummy with Snow White?’

“Snow White,” I echoed.

‘It’s sort of a misnomer,’ someone else added. ‘We all know she does, but nobody ever admits it.’

‘Tens of thousands of possibilities and not a whisper,’ a third put in, ‘maybe you’ll break the mould.’

Right; as though a sweet, virginal girl like me would spill the beans.

Undeterred by my ladylike reticence, conversation around the lunch table swiftly progressed.

That was when I discovered how high-up and important Hev was, and how well liked. My co-workers made her seem as revered as the Queen, or maybe even Lady Di.

Whatever else she was, she was well on her way to become CEO of WYB, most likely sooner rather than later.

More to the point she electronically tracked me down less than a minute after I went back to my desk and, in no time at all, we’d agreed to meet that evening in the Suburban Bar.

Seven or eight years and the attraction had only grown. Indeed it was growing exponentially, by the second . . . and apparently in both directions.

My mouth . . . or more accurately . . . my keyboard finger never hesitated in agreeing to meet. Clumsy as I can be, it pounced on the opportunity.

Not long after meeting up we were in Hev’s bed . . . or having sex on our leisurely, oft interrupted way upstairs to her bed.

And then, after my third story, covering the next couple of months, I dried up, vocally if not physically.

That’s right; for the best part of four years I dried up, leaving Hev dangling, by then a regular if not a completely faithful lover, without ever expounding on the where and how.

Four years! Here we are, summer 2020, in the midst of coronavirus, and I haven’t said a dicky bird in-between.

By the way, fucking coronavirus! Only good thing I can say is that it’s stopped a lot of moaning about freaking Brexit.

But scrap that; please accept my apologies for disappearing so abruptly and for so long. I’m back and ready to tell a tad more, perchance to even get up to the present day.

Well, maybe that’s a bit optimistic. I am unreliable, remember? And I’ve got tons to fill you all in on. I’ll do my best and let’s leave it at that, for now at least.

So back to Hev’s bedroom in autumn 2016; Hev stark-bollock naked and almost as hot for it as I was.


Okay, so I exaggerated when I said Hev was stark-bollock. You may well have noticed that I broke off with both of us heavy breathing in panties and no more, chests heaving, juices flowing. Pretty picture, isn’t it? But, before I get down to the sex, let me paint our portraits in a little more detail.

I’m a blue-eyed blonde who has always tanned well. I’m quite tall . . . five ten or more in heels . . . but Hev eclipses me. She’s well over five ten bare-foot and her permanent tan makes her seem exotic as well as fitter than a robber’s dog.

Rubbing it in (to coin a phrase), Hev’s tan really is all-over. Try as I might, I always have paler patches if not stand out “white bits”. That’s right; I holiday topless in the Med minimally three weeks a year and sunbed like a loony twice a week . . . bare-assed, naturally . . . and still I have paler patches.

Fuck knows how Hev does it, but she’s the same lovely colour over every last inch. And she’s like that all year round, arguably darker skinned than some of my most beautiful Asian workmates at WYB.

Think about it: the body from Heaven, flashing bright green eyes and a skin tone to die for.

Yum, yum!

She’d once told me about looking in a Perth shop window, mistaking her mahogany-skinned reflection for an Amazonian divinity.

‘Big-headed of me I know,’ she’d sniggered. ‘But I’d have gone for me in a flash. I nearly crashed my way in through the glass in my eagerness.’

By that I do not mean the Perth in gorgeous Scotland; I mean the one in wonderful Western Australia.

Heavy breathing in panties did it for me, however. I moved and kissed her, kissing upwards naturally, her tits marginally above mine but pressing down on me fetchingly all the same. Cue miracle number two; Hev carried on acknowledging me as the girl in charge and let my probing tongue into her mouth, meeting it with her own, fencing with me in the most intimate way imaginable.

What amazing sensations!

Still fencing enthusiastically I relished the feel of our bodies together. I relished that swirling, whirling sensation of true lovers kissing. By then I etlik escort was gripping Hev’s shoulders while she gripped the curvy cheeks of my bum (smug of me, I know, but I’ve got a nice bum; and I love having it gripped by a girl who knows what she’s doing).

She was gently, almost co-incidentally tugging me too, encouraging ever closer tit-to-tit contact, not to forget our groin-to-groin contact. My head was swimming and excitement was growing and growing.

But I was tough, me. Breaking off our delicious embrace I pushed her back a step.

‘You first,’ I reminded her; ‘you before me, then on with the fucking.’

Hev took off her knickers as though she’d had years of practice (which she undoubtedly had) and she then surprised me by sniffing the discarded garment and sighing appreciation before thrusting it in the general direction of my nose.

‘Right up with the gods,’ she said. ‘Tell me you don’t like it . . . If you dare.’

Truth was I did like the scent of her. And I liked the very evident wetness even more. Deeply inspired, I took off my own panties and mimicked her actions.

‘Utterly divine,’ she crooned after theatrically inhaling. ‘Now, are you going to shag me or what?’


Pushing Hev onto her back on a bed is a lifetime highlight nobody could possibly forget. Knowing her I am sure a load of guys have had the pleasure, but I also suspect so have an avalanche of gals.

After all, she always stresses she’s “well on the lezzie side of bi”.

Jeepers creepers and yippee for that! I guess my overall orientation has always been similar to hers and I am eternally grateful. The only difference then was that I’d given guys up and she still dabbled here, there and everywhere, as I knew only too well from a recent WYB “teambuilding” event we had been on.

Or, should I say, the resulting threesome we had both indulged in.

No; I didn’t dabble at all. I watched quite closely but dabbling was out of the equation.

Well, technically it was, at least . . . I had participated in a sort of team work with Hev as our only too-willing “victim”, but as for me and the guy . . .

Well, I might have brushed against him now and then, but I didn’t submit to him.

Leastways I’m as good as sure I didn’t, hazy memories or nay.

Never mind reminiscing though, I had the world’s most beautiful babe waiting for me, legs spread and fingers beckoning. She might not have dived on me but I most certainly dived on her.

And those tits of hers! I can’t tell you how long I diverted myself in licking, chewing, avidly sucking and perpetually stroking them.

Earlier I described her nips as “medium” and I lied. Relaxed they may have been bog standard but put a pair of hungry lips around them . . .

My God, how good it was to feel them swelling in my mouth, to feel them growing and growing under my hungry tongue . . . growing to the size of thimbles . . . and sexily quivering thimbles at that.

Finally, eventually and perhaps ultimately, I decided it was time to go down. Hev surprised . . . no she astonished . . . me by grabbing a hold under my armpits.

‘I don’t trust myself,’ she gasped. ‘And this is supposed to be your show. You’d better tie me up.’

That raised my eyebrows. We’d previously discussed all sorts of sexual activities; I knew she was into handcuffs and tying up. But as yet we’d never actually explored that avenue of possibilities.

‘You’re going to have to,’ Hev persisted. ‘Look in that set of drawers, third one down.’

I almost swooned at that, like a girl in a Victorian novel. There again I had already looked through that set of drawers and knew what novelties hid inside them, even if I wasn’t drawer-to-drawer perfect.

No, my knowledge was more all-encompassing.

Put it this way: Ann Summers parties are usually less well-stocked than the black-maned beauty’s set of drawers.

Oh, holy Jesus, isn’t she adventurous!

The variety of Hev’s sex toys, not to mention her only-too-obvious sex tastes, never ceased to amaze me. Heart in mouth, expecting to find manacles, chains and whips, I opened the third drawer.

It was jam-packed with silk scarves of every colour under the rainbow.

‘Express yourself,’ Hev urged, ‘and get a flipping move on. My demons are becoming restless.’

‘What am I supposed to do?’ I wondered, holding up two blood-red scarves.

‘Fasten me to this.’ Hev patted her brass bed-head. It was sturdy-looking with thick-ish poles on both ends and had much thinner vertical rails in-between.

Right then she resembled a mare in heat. Not that I’m calling her a mare, of course. No, “Mare” is the love of her life and she only has two legs, not four.

She is also, by the way, beyond merely attractive. I hadn’t as then been favoured but I hadn’t had a lot of opportunity. Whenever Mare was in town Hev guarded her like the fiercest Alsatian.

That’s right; seven years between our first and second sessions, now “weekending” together at every weekend . . . and still Hev dropped everything when her old school chum came a-calling.

Mind you, I wouldn’t have minded a go at the freckled redhead myself. I didn’t know exactly what they got up to together at the posh private school of theirs, but I was prepared to bet they’d had lots of fun.

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