‘Look after it for me love,’ she said in her driest voice, ‘it’s an expensive item you know! Come on Heather … chop, chop!’ Without a look...behind or around her she strode resolutely towards the hall entrance, Heather almost throwing her cloak at the attendant in order to keep up. Batgirl hadn’t known what to expect inside, and she was relieved to find the lighting low and the music loud. She should have known that the Students Union would have ‘atmosphere’ high up on the agenda. She paused to. Her hands unbutton your shirt, and you stop typing. No. Keep typing, she teasingly orders. She pulls your shirt off just enough to bare your shoulders to her touch. Starting gently, she kneads your tense muscles, sending shivers down your spine. The last thing you want to do is type the paper now, but she insists that you continue working. The more you type, the deeper the massage goes. It is starting to get increasingly difficult to focus, your fingers skip keys, typos run rampant. You type. More

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