~BBW, Dining, Intrigue, Imagery - Sir Fred's ace chubbette has to save the company - and her own job
Chapter 1
8.15a.m., and Tracey Harrison placed the plate of fruit pie on the breakfast bar, poured herself another mug of creamy coffee and sat herself down. It was her final moment of peace before the day started properly. Digging into the sweet cherry and apple pie, she filled her spoon and took a mouthful. It was delicious.
Rapidly Tracey followed up with another spoonful. Her mum had always taught her breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and Tracey readily agreed. It was beyond the big blonde babe’s comprehension to leave the house and begin the day without a full tummy. Indeed, Tracey didn’t really like doing anything without a full tummy.
“Ummmm…”
That morning she had a steady start, so instead of her usual rushed bowl of cornflakes, coffee and toast she was indulging her sweet tooth. Her husband had for once agreed to drop their children off at school and Tracey didn’t need to be in work until 9am. Living only five miles from the office, she had a short commute.
Shifting her weight slightly she got comfortable and tucked into breakfast. The waistband of her skirt dug into her plump middle and served as a constant reminder to the middle-aged hottie of her weight. Tracey’s weight gain had been gradual and steady over the years. Aged thirty seven with two kids, a comfy home life and a sedentary office job, she’d grown from slender and toned in her early twenties to curvy and soft in her thirties. Whilst not fitting the description “fat” she certainly qualified as plump.
At one level Tracey tried to lose weight, but it was a half hearted effort; she was far too content and happy in her day-to-day existence to worry too much.
With the final bite of fruit pie devoured, Tracey stood up from the stool, placed the plate and mug in the dishwasher and paused to inspect herself in the mirror. Heavily made up, with a truly “tantastic” fake tan and a trendy blonde bob cut, Tracey looked every bit the corporate hottie. Sporting widened hips, a hefty bubble butt and a coating of flab all over, she also looked every bit the corporate chubby. But Tracey chose not to notice that.
“I look soooooo hot and all the guys are gonna be checking me out at work…”
Three minutes passed as Tracey inspected her reflection. It was the third time that morning she’d gazed at herself and the first time she resisted the urge to apply yet more make-up or re-style her hair. Everything was just about right. Twirling on her heels, she grabbed her coat, took hold of her laptop case and grabbed a cookie for the road. Then she headed for the door.
10,000 feet above Tuxford, Professor Bernard Squire settled his Cessna light aircraft into auto pilot and headed north at a steady cruise. Peering out of the window all he could see was cloud below. Indeed, all across central and northern England hung a thick, pea soup light fog. Squire had been advised against taking off, but as an experienced pilot he’d ignored that. He seriously doubted anything too taxing was likely to occur on a short flight up to Doncaster. Nothing a skilled aviator such as he couldn’t handle.
Satisfied all was in order, the sixty-year-old Cambridge professor reached for his laptop and pressed the power button. With an uneventful flight planned, a little surfing would pass the time. Keying in his password he waited for the laptop to load up.
Watching the screen, he contemplated the day ahead. Other than indulging his passion for flying, he wasn’t looking forward to the day ahead. He was meeting some jumped-up millionaire about wind turbines. All around rural England giant wind turbines were popping up, and Squire was a national expert in the associated wind patterns. As a result his work was widely sought after and Squire commanded a high price. All of which was irrelevant to him. One thing in life Bernard Squire didn’t need was money; he had plenty of that.
“Blasted Sir Fred Richards…”
Despite his objections, Squire had been persuaded to make the trip north. It turned out Sir Fred’s company made donations to Trinity College, so Squire had been strong armed by the dean into making the trip. Without that he would never have contemplated the journey.
Finally his laptop connected to the internet and he keyed in www.curvage.com. Moments later the website popped up and Squire clicked on the link into Social Networking. Soon he’d clicked on the link ‘Cute Blonde Packs it On’ and was ogling at a cute American college girl who’d packed on the freshman fifteen.
In a flash Squire became Bigbuttlover58 as he typed:
‘Substantial gain – I like!”
Then it was onto the next forum entry. This time a fat brunette getting even fatter. Once again Bigbuttlover58 posted his comment.
Further north, Sir Fred Richards sat in his corner office. Behind him was a view of the Lakeside Business Park and its assorted office blocks, football stadium, retail outlets and the huge man-made lake. It was modern Doncaster at its finest. But Sir Fred wasn’t interested in that. His focus was on the blonde woman seated across from him,
“So what time does this dashed professor arrive at the airport?”
“In an hour,” said Tracey.
Glancing out of the window Sir Fred frowned. It was a misty, foggy morning. Not ideal for flying.
“I’m surprised he’s out in this weather.”
“I checked with the airport, and he’s on his way.”
“Let’s hope the fool doesn’t crash.”
“U-huh.”
Resting back in his giant leather chair, Sir Fred sighed; he had a lot staked on his wind turbine project. He had a commitment from the bank and grants from various environmental agencies, but he needed an academic. If he could get Professor Squire to endorse the project the bank and the government would transfer millions into his account to go ahead. Without the endorsement they wouldn’t. In an economy with precious few opportunities, Sir Fred had a lot staked on this deal.
“So you’re collecting the blasted man from the airport?”
Tracey nodded.
“Splendid,” said Sir Fred. “It’s absolutely crucial our nutty professor endorses this project. Without this man’s bally signature all the government funding stops.”
Raising a perfectly pencilled eyebrow Tracey asked:
“So why don’t we just pay him to sign the report?”
“Tried that. I offered the confounded man £100,000 just to sign and he said no.”
Tracey frowned as much as she could after her monthly botox treatment. She couldn’t relate to that. If Sir Fred offered her £100,000 to sign a piece of paper, she’d have bitten his hand off. Before he could count past ten she’d have signed it and headed out to the mall at the count of ten.
“I don’t get that,” mused the uber-materialistic blonde.
“He’s a strange man, Professor Squire. Some of these academics are like that; strange fellows. They have morals… I suppose even principles, which I understand if we’re talking about human rights or what not. But really, who give a damn about wind turbines?”
“I dunno.”
For a moment there was silence in the office. Neither could understand how a man had academic principles over signing a report. But then neither had spent the past twenty years at Cambridge University. Eventually Tracey broke the silence.
“I’ll set off now in case he’s early.”
“Good idea. Don’t want him waiting around.”
Rising from her chair, Tracey flashed her boss a crystal white smile, tugged at the hem of her skirt and headed for the door. Sir Fred was happy to watch; indeed he could watch his blonde business Barbie wiggle around the office all day. He’d had a soft spot for Tracey Harrison since she joined his firm as an office junior fifteen years back. Now in her mid-thirties, Tracey had risen through the ranks and recently taken the nebulous job title of Creative Director.
In reality, Sir Fred had created the role to save her bacon in the round of redundancies he’d instigated back in November. He couldn’t justify her salary in HR, but couldn’t bring himself to make her redundant. So now his favourite office blonde worked alongside him as he sought to buck the market trend and bring in new business. Not only did it keep her in the fold, but Sir Fred liked working with her. Tracey provided both eye candy and an unwavering loyalty to his cause. What she lacked in intelligence she more than made up for in manipulative ability.
“I’m relying on you Tracey,” said Sir Fred as she reached the door.
“I won’t let you down, Sir Fred, sir,” replied Tracey with a mock salute.
With that she was gone, and Sir Fred turned back to his computer screen. Looking at the company bank balance he saw once again how much he needed the wind turbine deal.
“If I don’t land this there’s going to be more cu- backs here…I might even have to sell the villa in Spain…”
Some twenty minutes later, Tracey drove her black Range Rover Sport along the access road to Robin Hood Airport. An oversized terminal building stood surrounded by a half empty car park. On the tarmac a single British Airways 737 stood surrounded by a vast open space. To the left of the main terminal was a smaller building that housed private arrivals. A cluster of light aircraft surrounded it. Overall the airport was a powerful testimony to the wastefulness of government funded projects.
Popping a chocolate M&M between her pink glossy lips, Tracey steered towards the entrance. From past experience she knew she had a security point to pass and then could sit and wait for the mad professor.
Buzzing the window down, she smiled and looked up at the security guy. He was a fat, bald guy seated up in the small red brick booth.
“I’m here to pick up Bernard Squire.”
Bored, the security guy glanced down at the arrivals list. He had a Bernard Squire scheduled to arrive. Then he looked down into Range Rover. The blonde was the best thing he’d seen all morning. Lots of make-up, platinum blonde hair-do and breasts that could only have been created by a surgeon. She was just the sort of tart who usually picked up rich guys arriving in private planes.
“Yeah go on through.”
“Thanks…ummm…can I just sit and wait in the car?”
“Yeah.”
Ahead, the barrier rose and Tracey drove on. Stopping next to a parked Mercedes Estate, she placed the 4x4 into drive and waited. It was cold outside, so she kept the engine and the heat running. Glancing around, she struggled to find something interesting to watch. Nothing was happening.
So Tracey grabbed another M&M and then focused on her reflection in the rear view mirror. Soon she’d fished out her make-up compact and was perfecting her already perfect look.
“I have to look my best for Professor what’s his name…”
Across from her, the security guard watched her paste yet more make-up on. He was fascinated by the middle-aged bimbo. Plump, curvy and dressed to the nines, she was a pleasant distraction from the usual view of runways and the odd plane. Glancing around to make sure nobody else was around, he unzipped his trousers. Unknown to the self absorbed blonde in the Range Rover she was going to serve as a release to a bored man’s tensions.
Meanwhile above the clouds, Squire had turned off his laptop and was in consultation with the airport control tower. With the fog thick, the tower were anxious as the light aircraft approached.
“Advise once again you divert to Humberside,” said the controller.
“Negative,” barked Squire. “Fuel’s low and I’m making the landing.”
Looking down, he smiled at the fuel level; no problems there.
“Then you’re cleared to land,” sighed the controller.
“Tally ho!”
So Squire began a rapid descent. He lived to fly, and if some flat-footed controller thought the conditions were bad, he’d never lived. Making a landing at some under-used regional airport with a little fog was hardly a challenge worthy of note.
Such proved to be the case. Squire managed a smooth instrument landing and taxied towards the arrivals gate. Following directions, he headed towards the private section and taxied to a stop next to a twin engine Beechcraft. Turning the power down, he noted the Range Rover parked to the side; he assumed that was his ride.
Opening the door, he stepped down onto the tarmac and contemplated the day ahead. He had no intention of endorsing the scheme of some sleazy Northern businessman. This would be a short trip in which indulged his passion for flying whilst charging an exorbitant day rate. Last thing he planned on doing was engaging in some ongoing relationship with a man with Sir Fred Richards’ reputation. Clearly the entire wind turbine scheme was just another attempt to scam money out of government coffers.
That was until he cast eyes on the blonde stepping down from the Range Rover.
“Oh my…!”
Squire’s heart missed a beat as he focused on her. In his line of work he was used to the overly made-up dolly birds rich men like Sir Fred Richards had running around after them. Indeed they bored him: airheads with boob jobs. This blonde fitted into that description – until one considered her size. Squeezed into a skirt suit, this dolly bird sported an over ripe, hourglass figure that had wiggled straight out of his fantasies.
“Hi I’m Tracey,” chirped the blonde in a soft South Yorkshire accent. “Are you professor Squire?”
At first he struggled to respond. His eyes had rested on her cleavage and the way it was almost popping the buttons and exploding clean out into space. Clearly the blonde was used to her breasts being the focus of male attention, so she continued oblivious.
“If you jump in I’m give you a lift to the office.”
“It’ll be a pleasure to jump in.”
Twirling on her heels, Tracey winked, smiled and headed for the car. It was a motion that almost literally gave Squire a heart attack. If the dolly bird’s front had been stunning her behind was devastating. She had a big, juicy bubble butt that jutted out what seemed like a mile into its own postcode. Two big, soft scoops of ice cream bulged out and just begged for a squeeze.
“Good of you to meet me,” he managed to stammer.
“Sir Fred wanted to give you the personal touch so he sent me,” chirped Tracey.
“Does he send you to collect everyone?”
With another wink Tracey said,
“Only the ones he wants to impress.”
Squire smiled at that. This blonde was going to shamelessly kiss his ass all day. Normally that frustrated Squire, but with a body like she had he could enjoy that. Hauling himself up into the Range Rover, he settled down and smiled across at his chauffeur.
“I am one of the leading experts in this field, so I understand why he wants to impress me.”
Turning the ignition key, slipping the gear level into drive, Tracey headed over to the security gate.
“Sir Fred said you’re a professor at Cambridge. You must have an amazing IQ?”
Puffing his chest slightly Squire responded.
“Its 165.”
“Wow!” gasped Tracey. “That’s awesome!”
“When one considers that the national average’s 100 it is rather impressive.”
“Yeah really impressive,” lied Tracey.
Stopping at the gate, Tracey smiled up at the security guard. Fumbling with his zipper, the guard managed to compose himself sufficiently to press the button so the gate rose upwards. A bead of sweat running down his forehead, he watched her drive past.
“I hope she drops that guy off…”
Tracey’s Consuming Passions
by Samster
by Samster
Chapter 1
8.15a.m., and Tracey Harrison placed the plate of fruit pie on the breakfast bar, poured herself another mug of creamy coffee and sat herself down. It was her final moment of peace before the day started properly. Digging into the sweet cherry and apple pie, she filled her spoon and took a mouthful. It was delicious.
Rapidly Tracey followed up with another spoonful. Her mum had always taught her breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and Tracey readily agreed. It was beyond the big blonde babe’s comprehension to leave the house and begin the day without a full tummy. Indeed, Tracey didn’t really like doing anything without a full tummy.
“Ummmm…”
That morning she had a steady start, so instead of her usual rushed bowl of cornflakes, coffee and toast she was indulging her sweet tooth. Her husband had for once agreed to drop their children off at school and Tracey didn’t need to be in work until 9am. Living only five miles from the office, she had a short commute.
Shifting her weight slightly she got comfortable and tucked into breakfast. The waistband of her skirt dug into her plump middle and served as a constant reminder to the middle-aged hottie of her weight. Tracey’s weight gain had been gradual and steady over the years. Aged thirty seven with two kids, a comfy home life and a sedentary office job, she’d grown from slender and toned in her early twenties to curvy and soft in her thirties. Whilst not fitting the description “fat” she certainly qualified as plump.
At one level Tracey tried to lose weight, but it was a half hearted effort; she was far too content and happy in her day-to-day existence to worry too much.
With the final bite of fruit pie devoured, Tracey stood up from the stool, placed the plate and mug in the dishwasher and paused to inspect herself in the mirror. Heavily made up, with a truly “tantastic” fake tan and a trendy blonde bob cut, Tracey looked every bit the corporate hottie. Sporting widened hips, a hefty bubble butt and a coating of flab all over, she also looked every bit the corporate chubby. But Tracey chose not to notice that.
“I look soooooo hot and all the guys are gonna be checking me out at work…”
Three minutes passed as Tracey inspected her reflection. It was the third time that morning she’d gazed at herself and the first time she resisted the urge to apply yet more make-up or re-style her hair. Everything was just about right. Twirling on her heels, she grabbed her coat, took hold of her laptop case and grabbed a cookie for the road. Then she headed for the door.
10,000 feet above Tuxford, Professor Bernard Squire settled his Cessna light aircraft into auto pilot and headed north at a steady cruise. Peering out of the window all he could see was cloud below. Indeed, all across central and northern England hung a thick, pea soup light fog. Squire had been advised against taking off, but as an experienced pilot he’d ignored that. He seriously doubted anything too taxing was likely to occur on a short flight up to Doncaster. Nothing a skilled aviator such as he couldn’t handle.
Satisfied all was in order, the sixty-year-old Cambridge professor reached for his laptop and pressed the power button. With an uneventful flight planned, a little surfing would pass the time. Keying in his password he waited for the laptop to load up.
Watching the screen, he contemplated the day ahead. Other than indulging his passion for flying, he wasn’t looking forward to the day ahead. He was meeting some jumped-up millionaire about wind turbines. All around rural England giant wind turbines were popping up, and Squire was a national expert in the associated wind patterns. As a result his work was widely sought after and Squire commanded a high price. All of which was irrelevant to him. One thing in life Bernard Squire didn’t need was money; he had plenty of that.
“Blasted Sir Fred Richards…”
Despite his objections, Squire had been persuaded to make the trip north. It turned out Sir Fred’s company made donations to Trinity College, so Squire had been strong armed by the dean into making the trip. Without that he would never have contemplated the journey.
Finally his laptop connected to the internet and he keyed in www.curvage.com. Moments later the website popped up and Squire clicked on the link into Social Networking. Soon he’d clicked on the link ‘Cute Blonde Packs it On’ and was ogling at a cute American college girl who’d packed on the freshman fifteen.
In a flash Squire became Bigbuttlover58 as he typed:
‘Substantial gain – I like!”
Then it was onto the next forum entry. This time a fat brunette getting even fatter. Once again Bigbuttlover58 posted his comment.
Further north, Sir Fred Richards sat in his corner office. Behind him was a view of the Lakeside Business Park and its assorted office blocks, football stadium, retail outlets and the huge man-made lake. It was modern Doncaster at its finest. But Sir Fred wasn’t interested in that. His focus was on the blonde woman seated across from him,
“So what time does this dashed professor arrive at the airport?”
“In an hour,” said Tracey.
Glancing out of the window Sir Fred frowned. It was a misty, foggy morning. Not ideal for flying.
“I’m surprised he’s out in this weather.”
“I checked with the airport, and he’s on his way.”
“Let’s hope the fool doesn’t crash.”
“U-huh.”
Resting back in his giant leather chair, Sir Fred sighed; he had a lot staked on his wind turbine project. He had a commitment from the bank and grants from various environmental agencies, but he needed an academic. If he could get Professor Squire to endorse the project the bank and the government would transfer millions into his account to go ahead. Without the endorsement they wouldn’t. In an economy with precious few opportunities, Sir Fred had a lot staked on this deal.
“So you’re collecting the blasted man from the airport?”
Tracey nodded.
“Splendid,” said Sir Fred. “It’s absolutely crucial our nutty professor endorses this project. Without this man’s bally signature all the government funding stops.”
Raising a perfectly pencilled eyebrow Tracey asked:
“So why don’t we just pay him to sign the report?”
“Tried that. I offered the confounded man £100,000 just to sign and he said no.”
Tracey frowned as much as she could after her monthly botox treatment. She couldn’t relate to that. If Sir Fred offered her £100,000 to sign a piece of paper, she’d have bitten his hand off. Before he could count past ten she’d have signed it and headed out to the mall at the count of ten.
“I don’t get that,” mused the uber-materialistic blonde.
“He’s a strange man, Professor Squire. Some of these academics are like that; strange fellows. They have morals… I suppose even principles, which I understand if we’re talking about human rights or what not. But really, who give a damn about wind turbines?”
“I dunno.”
For a moment there was silence in the office. Neither could understand how a man had academic principles over signing a report. But then neither had spent the past twenty years at Cambridge University. Eventually Tracey broke the silence.
“I’ll set off now in case he’s early.”
“Good idea. Don’t want him waiting around.”
Rising from her chair, Tracey flashed her boss a crystal white smile, tugged at the hem of her skirt and headed for the door. Sir Fred was happy to watch; indeed he could watch his blonde business Barbie wiggle around the office all day. He’d had a soft spot for Tracey Harrison since she joined his firm as an office junior fifteen years back. Now in her mid-thirties, Tracey had risen through the ranks and recently taken the nebulous job title of Creative Director.
In reality, Sir Fred had created the role to save her bacon in the round of redundancies he’d instigated back in November. He couldn’t justify her salary in HR, but couldn’t bring himself to make her redundant. So now his favourite office blonde worked alongside him as he sought to buck the market trend and bring in new business. Not only did it keep her in the fold, but Sir Fred liked working with her. Tracey provided both eye candy and an unwavering loyalty to his cause. What she lacked in intelligence she more than made up for in manipulative ability.
“I’m relying on you Tracey,” said Sir Fred as she reached the door.
“I won’t let you down, Sir Fred, sir,” replied Tracey with a mock salute.
With that she was gone, and Sir Fred turned back to his computer screen. Looking at the company bank balance he saw once again how much he needed the wind turbine deal.
“If I don’t land this there’s going to be more cu- backs here…I might even have to sell the villa in Spain…”
Some twenty minutes later, Tracey drove her black Range Rover Sport along the access road to Robin Hood Airport. An oversized terminal building stood surrounded by a half empty car park. On the tarmac a single British Airways 737 stood surrounded by a vast open space. To the left of the main terminal was a smaller building that housed private arrivals. A cluster of light aircraft surrounded it. Overall the airport was a powerful testimony to the wastefulness of government funded projects.
Popping a chocolate M&M between her pink glossy lips, Tracey steered towards the entrance. From past experience she knew she had a security point to pass and then could sit and wait for the mad professor.
Buzzing the window down, she smiled and looked up at the security guy. He was a fat, bald guy seated up in the small red brick booth.
“I’m here to pick up Bernard Squire.”
Bored, the security guy glanced down at the arrivals list. He had a Bernard Squire scheduled to arrive. Then he looked down into Range Rover. The blonde was the best thing he’d seen all morning. Lots of make-up, platinum blonde hair-do and breasts that could only have been created by a surgeon. She was just the sort of tart who usually picked up rich guys arriving in private planes.
“Yeah go on through.”
“Thanks…ummm…can I just sit and wait in the car?”
“Yeah.”
Ahead, the barrier rose and Tracey drove on. Stopping next to a parked Mercedes Estate, she placed the 4x4 into drive and waited. It was cold outside, so she kept the engine and the heat running. Glancing around, she struggled to find something interesting to watch. Nothing was happening.
So Tracey grabbed another M&M and then focused on her reflection in the rear view mirror. Soon she’d fished out her make-up compact and was perfecting her already perfect look.
“I have to look my best for Professor what’s his name…”
Across from her, the security guard watched her paste yet more make-up on. He was fascinated by the middle-aged bimbo. Plump, curvy and dressed to the nines, she was a pleasant distraction from the usual view of runways and the odd plane. Glancing around to make sure nobody else was around, he unzipped his trousers. Unknown to the self absorbed blonde in the Range Rover she was going to serve as a release to a bored man’s tensions.
Meanwhile above the clouds, Squire had turned off his laptop and was in consultation with the airport control tower. With the fog thick, the tower were anxious as the light aircraft approached.
“Advise once again you divert to Humberside,” said the controller.
“Negative,” barked Squire. “Fuel’s low and I’m making the landing.”
Looking down, he smiled at the fuel level; no problems there.
“Then you’re cleared to land,” sighed the controller.
“Tally ho!”
So Squire began a rapid descent. He lived to fly, and if some flat-footed controller thought the conditions were bad, he’d never lived. Making a landing at some under-used regional airport with a little fog was hardly a challenge worthy of note.
Such proved to be the case. Squire managed a smooth instrument landing and taxied towards the arrivals gate. Following directions, he headed towards the private section and taxied to a stop next to a twin engine Beechcraft. Turning the power down, he noted the Range Rover parked to the side; he assumed that was his ride.
Opening the door, he stepped down onto the tarmac and contemplated the day ahead. He had no intention of endorsing the scheme of some sleazy Northern businessman. This would be a short trip in which indulged his passion for flying whilst charging an exorbitant day rate. Last thing he planned on doing was engaging in some ongoing relationship with a man with Sir Fred Richards’ reputation. Clearly the entire wind turbine scheme was just another attempt to scam money out of government coffers.
That was until he cast eyes on the blonde stepping down from the Range Rover.
“Oh my…!”
Squire’s heart missed a beat as he focused on her. In his line of work he was used to the overly made-up dolly birds rich men like Sir Fred Richards had running around after them. Indeed they bored him: airheads with boob jobs. This blonde fitted into that description – until one considered her size. Squeezed into a skirt suit, this dolly bird sported an over ripe, hourglass figure that had wiggled straight out of his fantasies.
“Hi I’m Tracey,” chirped the blonde in a soft South Yorkshire accent. “Are you professor Squire?”
At first he struggled to respond. His eyes had rested on her cleavage and the way it was almost popping the buttons and exploding clean out into space. Clearly the blonde was used to her breasts being the focus of male attention, so she continued oblivious.
“If you jump in I’m give you a lift to the office.”
“It’ll be a pleasure to jump in.”
Twirling on her heels, Tracey winked, smiled and headed for the car. It was a motion that almost literally gave Squire a heart attack. If the dolly bird’s front had been stunning her behind was devastating. She had a big, juicy bubble butt that jutted out what seemed like a mile into its own postcode. Two big, soft scoops of ice cream bulged out and just begged for a squeeze.
“Good of you to meet me,” he managed to stammer.
“Sir Fred wanted to give you the personal touch so he sent me,” chirped Tracey.
“Does he send you to collect everyone?”
With another wink Tracey said,
“Only the ones he wants to impress.”
Squire smiled at that. This blonde was going to shamelessly kiss his ass all day. Normally that frustrated Squire, but with a body like she had he could enjoy that. Hauling himself up into the Range Rover, he settled down and smiled across at his chauffeur.
“I am one of the leading experts in this field, so I understand why he wants to impress me.”
Turning the ignition key, slipping the gear level into drive, Tracey headed over to the security gate.
“Sir Fred said you’re a professor at Cambridge. You must have an amazing IQ?”
Puffing his chest slightly Squire responded.
“Its 165.”
“Wow!” gasped Tracey. “That’s awesome!”
“When one considers that the national average’s 100 it is rather impressive.”
“Yeah really impressive,” lied Tracey.
Stopping at the gate, Tracey smiled up at the security guard. Fumbling with his zipper, the guard managed to compose himself sufficiently to press the button so the gate rose upwards. A bead of sweat running down his forehead, he watched her drive past.
“I hope she drops that guy off…”
