Phoebe Burnett was the Press Relations Officer of the local MP’s party.  She called me, one of the political team at the Western Clarion, on a Saturday afternoon.  We didn’t publish a Sunday paper so I guessed she wanted something in the Monday edition.

“Hi, Wanda, I wondered if you’d like to come over, I think I may have something to interest you.  There’s an open bottle of wine calling you too.”

I called an Uber and grabbed my bag with the tools of my trade.  In ten minutes she was opening the door to her large, Georgian terraced house to let me in.  She kissed my cheek.  A good relationship with the press is essential for a PRO, naturally, and we had a very good relationship.  That is to say, we fucked now and then without any desire to turn it into a deeper relationship and when she wanted me to, I’d get a story in print for her, if I could.  She never took liberties and didn’t feed me crap.  If Phoebe said something, it was always accurate, if not always the whole story.

Good to her word, a very acceptable bottle of Malbec was open and breathing in her sitting room.

“Business first?”  That meant she was horny, so I nodded, yes.  “Right, well, it’s about Sir Robert Mulhall.”

Sir Robert Mulhall (Captain, Royal Navy retired) was the sitting MP.  He was fiery in his defence of the military, hot on law and order, family values, and immigration.  He was a pugnacious man and popular with a lot of the right-leaning electorate, passionately loathed by most of those from the centre to the left.

“What about him?”

“A little local trouble.  I got a call from the Chief Whip.  The good, upright Captain has been caught with his flies wide open.  A video has been ‘found’ of him being buggered by a rent boy.”

I interrupted.  “Underage?”

“No.  It’s bad enough without that.  The film shows the two of them snorting coke and buggering each other.  He pays the boy with coke, for God’s sake.”

“Is he going to be prosecuted?”

“No idea.  I don’t know if the police even know about it yet.”

“So why are you telling me?”

“Because the shit is going to hit the fan pretty soon and I want you to know the whole story.  The Whip has said Mulhall is set to resign so there will be a bye-election.

“Do you want me to break the story?”

“Can you do it without dropping me in it?”  I gave her the ‘what do you think?’ look.  “Yes, ok, sorry, of course you can.”

“Who made the tape?”

“The rent boy.  He was going to blackmail him.  The only thing to his credit is that Mulhall went straight to the Chief Whip, confessed and begged on his knees to be protected.  The Whip told him to fuck off and that he’d made his bed so he could bloody well lie in it.  But to keep his trap shut.”

“So, who ‘found’ the film?”

“It was sent to the Whip’s office.  That’s what kicked it all off.  He’d sent it to Mulhall, who tried to ignore it.”

“Wow.  Who else knows?”

“The PM, all the Whips and the Speaker.”

“Excellent so it could leak from anywhere?”

“You know something, Wanda?”  I asked, what?  “Politics would be so fucking dull but for moments like this, don’t you think?”

Laughing, we went upstairs.  This was a familiar pattern.  Business over, she’d take me up to her bedroom and without bothering to undress, we’d fuck.  She had narrow tastes.  She liked to watch me masturbate as she strapped on and continue while she stroked her ‘cock’ and her clit, usually giving me a verbal account of what she was going to do.  This particular afternoon I’d had the foresight not to bother wearing knickers which seemed to please her.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I raised the hem of my dress and spread my legs before beginning a gentle stroking and fingering which, with the added arousal of watching her unbutton her own dress from waist to ankle and tighten the expensive-looking harness so the dick poked through the red fabric, quickly got me lubricious enough to accommodate her when the time came.  She stood close to me, lifting one foot onto the bed so I could see her cunt in the cleft of the leather between her legs.

“Get yourself good and wet, Wanda.  Show me your finger.  Oh, excellent.  Do you want this?”  She stroked the pretty, pale blue dildo.  “Of course you do.  Kneel on the bed, let me see you properly.  I’m going to fuck you hard today, that’s what you want, isn't it?”

It wouldn’t, quite frankly, have mattered if I’d said I’d rather have had a bacon sandwich; we both knew where this was heading and I for one was not going to complain.

With my arse high on the bed, Phoebe stood behind me and slowly entered me.  She always savoured every moment and her commentary started again.  “Oh God, I love how you open for me.  Are your nipples hard, like mine are?”

It’s not easy to speak with your face pressed down onto the bed so she just assumed I was having as much fun as she was and ploughed on.  Happily, she was right, they were as hard as hers.

“Fuck, that’s good.  You’re so tight.  Like a virgin.”

In different circumstances I’d have laughed, there wasn’t too much virginal about me, not least my cunt which, whilst not over-exercised, had had her fair share of experience.

Then she got into her stride, found her rhythm, and good to her word, gave me a good, hard seeing to.  As always, my orgasm seemed to trigger hers, and whilst we seldom coincided, she was never long after so I had to take the pounding after my climax until she reached hers.  Tough job, but someone has to do it.

We lay, side by side on the bed and, having recovered, she said, “Will you publish the story?”

“I haven’t worked out how to keep you out of it yet.  Your MP, your constituency, and the Clarion is your regional paper.  People would have to be fucking thick not to make the connection.”

“Well, as it happens, I have a plan to cover that.  It so happens that in recent months I have developed a certain intimacy with Nadine Sheraton.”  She was one of the junior whips and a vocal lesbian.  “She is going to ‘leak’ the story to two nationals.  They will cover it for certain, but they won't have as much as you have got.  Your edge will be the knowledge of the film and the payments in coke.”

So, I thought, not a scoop but it’ll make it look like I’ve done better than the nationals which will please my editor.

“But the real scoop, which will be all yours, will be the selection of Mulhall’s replacement.  I have a plan and you are at the heart of that plan if you want to be?”

“Do you ever doubt that?”

"On your knees, Wanda.  Phoebe wants a bit more.”

Soundly fucked, I got an Uber back home and wrote up the story so far, and filed it for the editor’s attention on Sunday, in time for the Monday edition.

“Is this true?”  Margaret Connell was an old-style editor.  She sat at her desk that Sunday morning with a large cup of hot, black coffee and looked every minute of her fifty-eight years of hard-working and living.  She’d covered wars in most of the shitty countries of the world, drunk with the hardest reporters and climbed the greasy pole of journalism not, perhaps, to its zenith but certainly as far up it as she had decided she wanted to go.  Her sole concession to what she called ‘the modern environment,’ was that she only smoked in the office when nobody could see.

“I spoke to the Whip’s office and was told, basically, to fuck off.”

“But they didn’t deny it?”

I shook my head.  “I tried to get hold of Mulhall’s private office but all I got was, ‘there’s nobody here,’ so I guess they’re forming the circle of covered wagons.  I called a mate on the Times and she asked, ‘where did you get that?’”

“What did you tell her?”

“Another national had dropped me a hint while looking for local background on Mulhall.”

“You’re learning.  ‘Bout fucking time.  Have you got Mulhall’s private number?”  I had.  “Have you called it?”

“The saintly Lady M told me, before I asked her anything, that it was all bullshit and I could go and fuck myself.”

“Okay, re-write it.  Make it more rumour than allegation, don’t name him - a local MP, denials by family and no comment from Downing Street.  Make it sound like we’re doubtful about the existence of the film but that if it exists, it’s a game changer.”  That was not far from what I had written but editors like to leave their mark.

“Are you sure you’ll get the stuff on the selection process?”

“Yep.”

“Phoebe hasn’t changed.”  I must have failed to hide my shock.  She laughed.  “Thought so.  Well done you.”

Mulhall’s political career bled out slowly and painfully over the next few days, as if he had slipped into a warm bath and slit his wrists.  Outraged denial turned to claims of having made a mistake or two and then to a sudden resignation accompanied by vows to fight for his reputation.  Good luck with that.

It didn’t take long for the selection process to become the story.  Phoebe briefed all the press that showed any interest that there were three candidates under consideration.  She only named them, as promised, to me.  They were all local, all worthy in their own way, and all amenable to my doing a feature about them in the Clarion, which had some significant influence among the local electorate.

Edward Dando was a local farmer and producer of cider and cider brandy, proud member of the local hunt, a district councillor, and outspoken against the evil empire that was the EU. He’d been a mate of Mulhall’s and was desperate to dissociate himself from him.

Charlotte Simpkins ran a huge firm of economic analysts in the City of London.  She was beautiful, always dressed to kill and married to a banker.  She was superficially charming but with the cold eye of a crocodile and a ruthless streak a mile wide.

Amrita Sangritlal worked as an orthopaedic surgeon at the local hospital, and was big in local politics.

Phoebe had briefed me privately and in her usual and unique manner which of course, involved me spending a lot of time bent over for her.  The price a newshound pays for her calling!

“The good doctor’s going to be chosen.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because we, that is to say, you and I are going to make sure of it.  Dando is a nice bloke but oh, so yesterday.  Simpkins will try to seduce her way into the job but the matrons of the local party will find her intimidating in terms of intellect, looks and sheer hunger for the job.  Also, she wants high office and our lot here like a constituency MP who works for them, not for their own ambition.

“Sangritlal ticks so many boxes.  She’s gay, Asian, hugely knowledgeable about the health service, and looks pretty bloody good.”

“Have you?”

“No. Behave yourself.  She’s intently interested in local community, a staunch supporter of local education and, and here’s her ace, she doesn’t play the race or gay cards.”

Edward Dando was lovely  We started off taking a walk around his land, and my photographer got some great shots of him, his flat cap, tweed jacket and tie, and green wellies a testament to his rural credentials.  An old-school farmer and charmer, unashamedly pro-hunting, rural values and eager to call out the government over abandoning the countryside in favour of what he called ‘greedy city fat cats.’   When I asked him if that included Charlotte Simpkins, he’d smiled and said he was sure she was a very fine candidate.  So, obviously it did then.

Simpkins was a lot as I had expected.  I was invited up to her penthouse flat in London but, trying to keep the initiative, I said I’d prefer to see her in her home in the constituency.  This I managed to do, but it had to be at a weekend because she was so, so busy at the moment.  Right.

It was 11 am on a Saturday.  When I arrived her husband, Ronald Ramsden, let me in.  “Charlotte believes that a woman who takes her husband’s surname is perpetuating an outdated view of marriage.”  Try that, I thought, on the local matrons.  He explained that Charlotte was on the phone but wouldn’t be long.  He led me through to a large, farmhouse kitchen that had, once upon a time, actually been a farmhouse kitchen.  Now it was a city-dwellers Disney representation of one.  A huge range, ivory coloured and without a stain on it, dominated the old fireplace.  A scrubbed pine table to seat about ten people stretched across the room and had clearly never seen the bottom of a hot pan, or a spilt glass of red.  Nothing in the room looked as if it had ever been used.  Copper pans hung from steel hooks, pristine and gleaming warmly.  Fresh flowers, not from their extensive garden but from the local florist, adorned dresser and table alike.

She arrived, eventually, and studiedly casually dressed and offered me coffee which she made from a huge Gaggia machine that would have looked big in a busy coffee shop. It was probably the only machine in that kitchen that was ever used.

We sat at that huge table and she made sure I could see her long legs, clad in the beautiful black trousers, her feet in tasseled loafers.  Her magnificent chest was contained within a black cashmere sweater with a V neck that revealed just enough cleavage.

She felt, she told me, passionate about the constituency and she was clever enough to have memorised some important local statistics.  But for me, however, her Achilles heel was her total opposition to blood sports that were incredibly popular among the rural community, her insistence that small, local schools were inefficient and wasteful of resources, and that second-home owners were a major contributor to the local economy.

I asked if she’d read any of the letters in the Clarion from local people on the subject of second homes and she told me that people misunderstood economics.  That’ll go down well!

Of all of them, Sangritlal was the hardest to get to meet.  She wasn’t avoiding me, she was just very busy because, in addition to her surgical work, she was in the process of setting up a charity to provide what in England are regarded as routine operations such as hip replacements, to people in poorer parts of her parents’ home country, India.

I finally got to meet her in her consulting room at the local hospital.  ‘Consulting room’ was a grand term for a windowless box with a desk, inevitable computer, an examination couch, books on a bookcase side by side with models of various joints of the body.  She sat, wearing scrubs, at her desk.  “I’ve just spent three hours in theatre, so apologies for the scrubs.”

I occupied the patient’s chair.  I almost gasped when she removed her mask, she was unutterably beautiful.  My second almost-gasp moment was when she took off her surgical cap and her hair, black, thick and glossy cascaded down past her shoulders, contrasting so powerfully with the pale blue of her scrubs.

“How will you find time for the job of an MP with everything else that you do?”

“I’ve agreed with the hospital that I can go part-time if I get elected.  I have to keep my licence so I have to do a fair bit, but no more than, say, a lawyer or accountant or general practitioner.  I love hard work, it’s bred into me, and I hope I can bring insight to the job that others just don’t have.”

She was humble, self-effacing, funny, and very, very convincing.  She had, she said, one test of almost anything in terms of policy or law.  “Is it fair?  That is the simplest and best question to ask about almost anything.  Is racism fair?  Of course it isn’t, any more than discrimination is or unequal pay.  Is it fair to tax rich people less than the poor?”

As I left she shook my hand.  “You’re gay too, I’ve been told.”  I said that was true.  “Please, don’t make it an issue in your piece.”

“You want it kept quiet?”

“No, absolutely not.  I’m not remotely concerned about it being public knowledge.  I just don’t want sexuality to be a matter of discussion.  Nobody ever says, ‘well, of course, she’s straight, you know,’ do they?  So why should they remark on me, or you, being gay?  Mention it by all means, but don’t make it something that defines me.”

Phoebe was right.  Not only did Sangritlal get selected, she got elected.  I got a pay rise and was made political editor.  Well done me.

A rather surprising event soon followed her election.  There was a huge controversy at the local hospital around bullying among surgical staff.  It seemed like a great opportunity to test the mettle of our new MP so I called her office for a quote.  Later that evening, she called me herself and invited me to her home the next day for supper.

She had a large modern flat with a balcony overlooking the canal.  It was a warm summer evening and we ate there in the waning sun.  She’d cooked a mild chicken dish.

“My mother taught me to make this when I was eight.  It’s still a favourite.”  It was delicious and I said so.

“There has always been misogyny and bullying in medicine and particularly in surgery and even more so in orthopaedics.  Most of my colleagues are male, soccer or rugby fanatics and choose the discipline because it gets a lot of work with sports enthusiasts.  Most of them hate treating geriatrics because there’s no glamour in it.  Mend a rugby football star’s knee and you get the work privately, lucratively, and with a virtual guarantee of more.

“But, the bullying is something else.  Being Asian, female, and gay, I got it all.  Nobody protected us from it.  Not just here in this city’s hospitals, but everywhere.  Once I was elected, I wrote to the trustees of the hospitals in my constituency, highlighted personal experience and reports I’ve received from others; some anonymous but some with the courage to be open about it.  I didn’t make that public because I love the service and wanted them to resolve matters quietly and effectively.  Now it’s in the public arena there will be a lot of noise and lip service but will there be progress?  Only time will tell.

“Your piece helped me to get elected and I’m grateful.  I know Phoebe had a hand in it too but she won't admit it and, I suspect, nor will you.  Just know that I know and I’m very appreciative.”

There is a pub just outside the larger of the two hospitals in the city, called the Tender Trap, ‘tender,’ being a none too subtle pun on nurse, and nurses and other medics made up a huge proportion of the pub’s clientele.  It was run by Jack Roberts, a former fairground prize fighter, although, aside from his frame, you’d never know.  His face bore none of the usual signs of the pugilist.  The back bar was, essentially, a gay bar and, since Jack was himself as queer as a flying goat, he spent most of his time in that part of the pub.  I’ll explain the significance of the Tender Trap a bit later.

The evening before, I’d been to see Amrita again.  I’d barely arrived when she showed me a sheaf of copies of old fashioned poisoned pen letters, letters or words cut from magazines or newspapers and stuck onto paper.  They were vile threats, utterly horrible; too horrible to repeat here.

“Have you been to the police?”

“Yes,” she smiled, “of course I have but we both know they won't solve it.”

“Have they got the letters?”

“Yes and they asked for the envelopes but I’d thrown them away, then this morning, I realised I hadn’t put the rubbish out so I still have them.”

“Who did you see?”  She named a DI called Martin Levin.  I knew him from when I was on the crime desk.  He was as subtle as a bulldozer and loathed foreigners, gays and the press with equal vehemence.  He was also incompetent.  I picked up my phone.

Christina Wellow was a Detective Chief Inspector, but not Levin’s DCI.  She was brilliant and we’d seen a few cases through together and she trusted me.  I told her about the letters and that Levin was dealing.  She laughed.  “Fancy giving a poisoned pen case to a man who can barely read!”

“The doctor has found the envelopes, well, some of them.”

“Bring them round and don’t touch them.”

“How long have we known each other?”

I said goodbye to Amrita, dropped the envelopes off at the police station and made my way to the Tender Trap.  I was still wearing my work clothes which, that day, were a pair of black, leather trousers which were as old as the hills but still fitted me and looked okay.  They were pretty tight and I wasn’t wearing anything under them.  My top was a grey silk blouse which, if I got excited, revealed my braless nipples.  It sometimes pays to advertise.  The blouse wasn’t tucked into my trousers.  Jack was behind the bar and gave me a warm welcome.  We chatted for a while and I saw Jack’s eyes move to look at someone on my left.  “Hi, Benny, what can I get you?”

I turned and although I’d been expecting a man, I saw a tall, obviously fit woman wearing a sleeveless shirt, that served to highlight her biceps and tits, and a pair of calf-length jeans with white trainers.  “Well, Jack, how about a large gin and tonic and whatever this lady’s after?”  She turned to me.  “I’m Bernice, but everyone calls me Benny.  Who might you be?”  She had short, black hair and very dark blue eyes, so dark I wondered if they were contacts.

“This,” said Jack, “is Wanda, regular if not frequent enough customer and ace reporter on the Clarion.”  People always mentioned my job early on, so that nobody was unaware that the press was in the bar and indiscretions should be avoided.

“Nice eyes,” said Benny.

“Thanks, although my ears are said to be my greatest asset, but then, you cant see them, can you?”

Benny smiled and reached with both hands to push my ash-blonde, shoulder-length hair back behind my ears.  “I can now.  They’re okay, but not, I’d say, extraordinary.  Unlike your arse.”

“Wanda,” said Jack, “means, I think, that she’s a good listener.”

A finger traced my lips.  “Good talker too?”

“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.  Play nice now, Benny.”

“Always, Jack, always.”  She turned to me again.  “Are you working or playing?”

“A little of both.  I’m investigating the bullying at the hospitals, hoped I might pick up something useful.”

“I’m useful.”

“I don’t doubt it.  You’re a medic?”

“Theatre nurse.  Come and meet my friends.”

We walked across to a large table at which sat, chatting and laughing, a group of about eight women.  “Make room, girls, and a chair for my new friend, Wanda.  She’s a newshound, so no loose tongues.  Meet my friends and colleagues, Wanda. Four dykes, two straight girls and a couple who haven’t made up their minds yet.”  That got a laugh.  “She’s working on the bullying.”

“And about time too,” said a dumpy girl with red hair and spots, to general agreement.  She went on, “The hospital bosses do fuck all, mainly because they are afraid of the consultants.”

I didn’t ask any questions but sat and listened and answered any questions they put to me.  Benny had placed her arm across my shoulders and I liked it.  No way was I going to mention Amrita but one of the older women, called apparently, Jolene, did.

“Sangritlal has really put the cat among the pigeons.  HR are running around like headless chickens trying to limit the damage.”

“Well, good for her.  She had a fucking awful time with that arsehole, Guy Foster.  She spoke to a few of us when she got elected.  I know at least two who told her what they knew about him.”  I kept quiet and listened.  Benny’s arm left my shoulder and slid down my back, nice.  Then she took my hand and squeezed it.  I looked at her.

“Can we trust you?”

“I’m press, Benny, of course you can’t”

She laughed.  “You wrote a piece about Sangritlal, didn’t you?”

“I wrote about all the candidates.”

“Yes, but the piece about her was, somehow, warmer.  You barely mentioned that she’s gay.”

“She asked me not to make a big thing about it.”

“She would.”

“You know her?”

“Not well.  I’ve worked her theatre a few times.  She’s brilliant, great with the staff, great with patients.  Hot, too.”  I nodded.  “You didn’t, did you?”

“I should be so lucky.”

“Right.”

“She’s had some threats, so she must be telling the truth.”

“Okay, girls.  Wanda’s taking me for a walk.  See you later.” She stood, still holding my hand, and led me out of the bar.  The others applauded.  “You good for a stroll?”

“Do you always take charge?”

“Pretty much.  Is that a problem?”  I shook my head.  She led me across the long park that runs beside the main road out of town and up to a small block of flats.  “Come in and have a drink.”

“Thank you”

Her flat was tidy, a couple of bedrooms and one huge lounge/kitchen/diner.  “What do you fancy?”   I got the impression that she wasn’t talking exclusively about drink.

“Do you have a glass of wine?”  I leant back against the leg dining table’s edge and watched as she poured from bottle she’d taken from the fridge.  She came close, invaded my space, placed the glasses either side of me on the table and kissed me.  A finger tried one tell-tale nipple.  “Cold?”

“Quite the opposite.”

She kissed me again and stroked my nipple, while one foot insinuated itself between mine.

“You look like the kind of girl who prefers a skirt to trousers?” she said.

“You look like the kind of girl who isn’t too bothered what I’m wearing.”

She smiled and undid a button on my blouse, then another, those dark blue eyes watching me intently.  When the blouse was undone, she pulled it open and studied me.  “No bra.  I thought not.  You have pretty little tits.”

“Thanks.”

She bent down and kissed my nipple.  I put my hands behind her head and stroked her nape.  As she played with my nipple, her hands were looking for the way into my trousers.

“On my left hip.”

That elicited a muffled, ‘thanks’ which made me smile and then she’d found it, worked it and her hand was burrowing down towards my neatly trimmed triangle.  She looked up.

‘No panties either.  You came out prepared.”

“These pants are a bit too tight for knickers.”

‘Come with me.”

My trousers undone but holding up, my blouse wide open, she led me to her bedroom which was large, light and tidy.  She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me onto her lap.

One hand on my left tit, the other on my back, she whispered, “Rules of engagement.  I’ll tell you everything I know, fact and rumour, but you don’t ever print my name.  You never bullshit me and you never hide anything from me. .”

“You’ve had trouble with the press before?”  She nodded.  “Well, you won’t with me but you can’t know that; not yet anyway.”

“Take your clothes off.”  I stood up and stripped off the open blouse and my shoes and trousers.  “Hmm, nice.”  She peeled off her top.  Her breasts were large, firm and shapely with dark, neat nipples that were obviously engorged.  “Say hi to the girls.”

I bent down and kissed them both, taking my time, teasing each nipple with light kisses, little flickering licks and a fingernail rake along their soft undersides.  I love that, so I always see how it works for another woman when the chance arises.  It seemed she liked it too.

With me still attached to her breasts, she stood, slowly and turned so it was my turn to sit on the edge of the bed.  Stepping back a few paces, she slipped her trainers off and undid the fly of her jeans.  She eased them down with her panties to reveal a very black landing strip in the shape of an arrow, the point aiming straight down to her bald labia.  She stood up straight and touched her finger to the point of the arrow.

“In case you need directions.”  She smiled.  “In your case, I don’t imagine it’s necessary.”

“Never hurts to be guided.”

She took my hand and placed it between her thighs and, using her own finger, forced one of mine inside her.  She was slippery.  Her finger was inside with mine.  One hand on my shoulder, she worked our fingers as deep as she could, pressing down onto them and her face closing in on mine until we were kissing and fingering.

“Was that guidance enough?”

“Oh no, nowhere near enough.  I’m not as young as I was, my memory’s failing.”

She placed her finger, the one that had been inside her, at my lips.  “You have a smart mouth.  I wonder if it’s as smart as mine.  Let’s see.”

Pushing my knees apart, she knelt and blew on my cunt.  If she was hoping to get me juiced up, she was too late.  As soon as her tongue spread my lips I heard a little, ‘yummmm’ from her and I probably echoed it.  Her tongue was busy, spreading my lips, opening me, circling my clit.  I raised my hand to my breast but she grabbed my wrist and pulled it away.

“Do what I tell you, nothing else.”  Her hands ran over the skin of my thighs, her tongue continuing to work my clit.  I set my hands beside me on the bed and let the magic of her tongue take me out of myself.  She stopped, stood up and pushed me back onto the bed.

Joining me on the bed, she kissed me, put her hand between my legs and started, slowly at first, to finger me.  One finger entered me, almost delicately just as her tongue entered my mouth.  “Taste yourself on me.”  I could.  Another finger entered me, she crossed them inside me and began to increase her pace.  All the while our mouths, lips and tongues were engaged in an increasingly vigorous, protracted kiss.  “You mustn’t orgasm without asking.”

Now I have no idea why, but that simple instruction sent me right over the edge.  I tried, I swear, to ask, but the words never got out; just a sigh-groan as I tumbled off the cliff.

When I’d recovered the power of speech she kissed me and said, “Hmm, we’ll have to work on that.”

By way of apology, I slithered down the bed and paid homage to her bald lips and warm, juicy pussy.  She seemed to accept my apology with good grace, if you get my drift.

According to Benny, the head of the orthopaedic department was the aforementioned ‘arsehole’, Foster.  He once told her, she said, that women made useless surgeons, too weak, too emotional and always ‘buggering off to have kids.’  He said he liked working with Benny because she was more like a man.  He also tried to get her into bed and, when she told him in no uncertain terms that wasn’t going to happen, he railed about dykes and frigid women.

“Did you ever complain?”

“Yes, I did.  I also reported that he’d made a mistake and was only saved from losing the patient by Sangritlal who clamped off a blood vessel he’d hacked through.  She was quick, said nothing, just did it.  He hated her after that.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone there knew what he’d done and what she’d done.  He tried, according to my mate who was his secretary, to get her fired.”

So, no hard evidence but a good case for a prime suspect and a fair bit of material for further research.