Foreword
Hi gals . . . and any guys who might be snooping in. It’s me again, Davina, better known as Dave and oft compared appearance-wise to Velma from the old Scooby Do cartoons. Could be worse, I guess; I could be oft compared to Shaggy.
For new readers I would immediately explain this is number fourteen in a series which follows on from New Beginnings (a five part offering from my young friend Mikki) and Two Sides to Every Story (a four part submission from my slightly older friend Kat).
That’s right; it’s taken long-winded old me as good as twice as long to catch up with those two, even if we add it all together. I did however kick off my version yonks before they did.
My version was always going to be a life story, you see. I’d acquired heaps of experience long before that pair of sexy mares came into the picture, and I’ve come out with all sorts of intimate details along the way.
And well that’s it, really. I’m right out of excuses.
At this stage I’d stress that I intend this latest ripping yarn to be readable in its own right. I’ll be happy if everyone reads the back stories, naturally, but at the same time, I don’t want to make anybody feel obliged. That’s why I am writing this intro . . . sorry, “foreword” . . . to save folk the bother.
For the avoidance of doubt, I would have you know I am a gold star lesbian with zero intention of ever straying off the true path. And, when I called Mikki and Kat “friends”, I meant that our history has been born out of a rather complex all-girl love triangle.
Sounds nice and kinky, doesn’t it: a lip-licking, thigh-tickling all-girl love triangle.
Not that I haven’t dallied with others than those two. As I just implied, I’ve had countless lovers of all ages, colours and sizes, but every one of them refreshingly female. Men never have got a look in and never will.
Please don’t mistake me for a man-hater . . . that I most certainly am not. Most of my workmates have male attributes and I count a lot of them as being friends. I simply cannot imagine ever having real-life sex with any of them, though. Or any other guy on earth, come to that.
Okay, I suppose if I was cast away on a desert island, just me and one guy, my convictions might not be so cast iron but, with that eventuality highly unlikely, I never lie awake fretting about it.
Wrecked ships and desert islands! The Lakes aside, the most remote place I ever venture to is Dad’s timeshare on Lanzarote. If I got cast away there the local Policía would find me long before any germs of temptation set in.
Correct; I would be recovered from my broken-down pedalo in no time at all, and I wouldn’t have any sort of guy on board to start with.
Not me; I’d have a beautiful Spanish babe with me, or a German, Swedish, French or Dutch babe.
It would be someone female and fun, anyway.
Let’s go back to catching up . . .
Last time I contributed I told of Kat’s departure to go travelling (travelling being to her a drug as strong as heroin and worse). That was her third abandonment in not very long, prompting me to introduce a “three strikes and out policy”. Indeed I very firmly told her never to come back.
Then, after half an abandoned year of playing the field with lovers of yore, I met Mikki and fell in lust if not a strange version of true love.
How sexy was Mikki! And, initially at first, how straight. My “romances” usually stay virginal for an hour or so but no more between the initial meeting up and bedtime; Mikki, who sent out mixed signals from the very outset, stayed virginal for the best part of a fortnight.
Please somebody; call The Guinness Book of Records. Two hours to two weeks, with my interest only ever increasing!
And why shouldn’t it have. What was she like when she finally came across?
Like whirlwinds, earthquakes and impacting asteroids, that’s the best summary I can come up with.
That’s right; the girl took to same-sex like Tiger Woods famously took to golf at the age of two.
And please don’t imagine I’m complaining. Oh no, I’m not complaining in the least. Our weekend up in the Lake District was a lifetime high, and always will be. After that delight I dropped all my other lovers (and I had quite a few back then in that rather wide field of mine), to focus on Mikki and Mikki alone.
Then, when everything was going so, so swimmingly, Kat rang from Sydney.
*****
Don’t get me wrong. I am sure Kat called in all innocence. She had been a cybercrime victim you see. Her bank account had been emptied to the tune of over fifteen thousand pounds. She called to ask if I would watch out for her replacement bank clutter. You know what I mean: a new cash card, paying-in book, cheque book and so on, all being sent to her “home” address of Main Road, East Morton.
That was my home address, of course. The one we’d most recently cohabited in.
Yes, like three times!
She also asked if I still had her work clothes in my closet, in case some miracle happened and she ulus sınırsız escort did make it back to England and found some sort of existence . . . other than one as a bag lady.
Up until that call I’d hardened my heart in her direction but hearing from her changed all that. She was the love of my life, differences aside. No way was I about to leave her stranded half the world away.
And were Aussie bag ladies any better off than Yorkshire bag ladies? Apart from being upside down I tended to doubt it. Okay, so they had much better weather, but in the circumstances did that matter?
No, did it fuck.
Contingencies were swiftly agreed to hasten Kat’s homecoming and I came up with an option she had missed. I also promised the use of my spare room until the bank refunded her, stressing she shouldn’t expect any “funny stuff” in the meantime.
Kat thanked me profusely and told me she loved me.
‘Me too you,’ I replied pathetically, using a term we’d swapped to and fro for ages.
Then, hanging up, I began to worry about Kat and Mikki. Mikki did know Kat’s name but precious little else about her. Kat didn’t even know Mikki existed.
And sometime soon we’d all be together, one way or another.
How on earth was that going to work?
Please read on and find out . . .
Chapter One
With that wonderful benefit of hindsight, writing four years after late spring 2016, I’m aware I screwed up in the way I handled the aftermath of Kat’s unexpected call. In fact I screwed up big-time. I should have collared Mikki straightaway and outlined all the circumstances. Without ever telling her Kat was “the love of my life”, I should’ve explained I was offering no more than a port in a storm; that Kat was a good friend and true, and I simply could not let her starve out on the streets.
Okay, that would be very drama queen, but not too far from the truth. That would also have got me off the hook a while, but did my IT techie brain compute that?
Sadly, it did not.
Sadly, I bottled having the discussion and, while Kat was holed up in Kingsford Smith Airport, awaiting a cancelation (or, as she put it, “a convenient heart attack”), I kept putting off the inevitable. I checked bases every day with Kat, modestly solvent again, courtesy of a credit card PIN reminder provided by little old me, taking the ongoing “no news is good news” slant and keeping my big mouth zipped.
As I said already, was that a big-time screw up or what?
So, blissfully ignorant, for the next ten days I slept with Mikki every night, always at her place. Kat and Philippa aside, I had never seen so much of one lover over so short a stretch of time.
And I’d never held my tongue so long, either.
Or maybe that’s a double entendre. Maybe I didn’t restrain my tongue in the slightest!
Not that I regret one moment of those ten days. I had fancied Mikki on sight and pursued her gently if relentlessly, ever encouraged by the gradual flow of (reluctant?) signals coming back my way.
Problem was I genuinely liked the girl. No way was I going take her virginity and run for the hills. Kat was coming back on a strictly compassionate basis, right? Far as I was concerned Mikki and I could carry on, business as usual. I was spending all my time at hers anyway, wasn’t I? Did it matter if Kat was camped out at mine in the meantime?
Did it heckers like. Kat borrowing my place for a week of so couldn’t possibly be an issue, not with me practically moved into Mikki’s and letting Kat be.
Or so I continually told myself as I acted like Cowardy Custard and said nix.
Leastways I did until the clock ran right down.
Think Olympic hundred metres, with Usain trashing the field (as per always), hurtling through the nine seconds mark as he starts to dip for the finishing line and yet another world record . . .
That’s how fast time was running out on me.
And so to Friday night with Kat due “home” imminently; I had invited Mikki to my place for the very first time. I had also lent Mikki my strapless device a while earlier, so she could experiment home alone.
Yes, you heard correctly; I hoped she’d “wear it about the house” to get in some practice before using it on me.
What a promising evening that promised to be. And what a promising evening it was in reality. Initially setting off oral and manually, Mikki pleasured me as thoroughly and as well as possible.
Omigod, I thought, enraptured, isn’t the girl getting good!
But I’m jumping the gun. Let’s set off with our slow-ish seduction . . .
*****
We had worked together at The Widget Company for a while, me in boring ole IT, Mikki in even more boring Credit Control. Hooking up after hours was not an issue: we’d been hooking up in the car park after “closing” every evening for seemingly ages. That night was different only in that my lovely, lovely mini, Maxine 2, drove us to East Morton instead of Bingley.
Depositing the sexy red babe (meaning Maxine ulus otele gelen escort 2, not Mikki!) on the pub parking area we went inside so I could pay my “daily parking rent” by buying us a couple of beers. Then, strolling only three doors to the left, we arrived at my dream cottage, somewhere not so very long after seven o’clock.
Spurning my offer of wine, instinctively aware of the layout of my territory without being forewarned in any way, Mikki immediately dragged me up the flight of old stone stairs and into my bedroom.
Then, after kissing me as thoroughly as I could remember being kissed, out of thin air she produced my strapless device.
‘Dunno how practiced I am,’ she said brightly, ‘but I’m up for it like crazy.’
So was I but I was, for once, cautious. We’d toyed with more traditional strap-ons before, taking turns to give and receive. That strapless affair had, however, only ever been used by me on her.
I’d used it with excellent results, of course. Not that I am blowing my own trumpet. I just got as much out of giving that way as Mikki obviously got out of receiving. And trust me; Mikki got an awful lot out of receiving!
As a born techie, ever prudent, ever practical, I went to my toy drawer and retrieved a harness.
‘This is compatible,’ said I. ‘Why don’t you let me put it onto you?’
‘Because you don’t trust me,’ she countered. ‘Because you think I’ll mess up.’
‘I only want us both to be happy. I don’t know how much you’ve practiced but you take it from me; that pony end feels just as good as the horse. It might even feel better.’ I laughed at my understatement. ‘I am up for a long, sexy session without any interruptions whatsoever, accidental or otherwise.’
Mikki stared at me, her eyes unfathomable.
‘Come on babe,’ I entreated, ‘give the girl what she wants. And don’t forget: we’re going out again at nine.’
Sighing mock-resignedly, Mikki stepped into the proffered harness. So I pounced. I had all the straps secure as could be and that miraculous device in place in a matter of seconds.
A Mercedes tyre-change team couldn’t have done their job any faster.
And suddenly Mikki’s eyes weren’t unfathomable. Suddenly they were as lust-crazed as mine.
(Excuse me for assuming; I couldn’t see my eyes at that moment so can only guess how madly lusty they were. But then again, all the rest of me . . . every last molecule of my being . . . was lust-crazed. Way I see it my eyes simply had to be following suit.)
Then Mikki fucked me, and not just the once.
It was supreme, utter bliss. If I’d had a single rational cell in my brain I’d have wondered how she kept making it better, even better and best. In the absence of all rationality, I stayed under her and took it.
And took it and took it and took it.
‘More, more, more,’ I cried, ‘harder, deeper and more, more, more!’
Praise be the Lord, Mikki obliged in spades.
Chapter Two
The nine o’clock diversion was for food. Tables in the Busfeild were notoriously hard to come by and I had struggled to get ours reserved. Mind you, the food was superb, well worth skipping another ninety minutes of sex. It was with perhaps another eight hours ahead of us, anyway, and with me due to take control of the strapless toy for as long as I could drag it out.
Not that sex between us was ever “dragged out”. Sex between us had set off as stupendous then only improved.
Fuck me, didn’t it just!
I won’t bother you with a blow-by-blow account of the rest of that Friday night. Let’s just say I helped myself to more than my fair share and didn’t feel apologetic at all.
And by that I mean I spent most of the night on the pony end, alternately giving Mikki horse from quite a range of angles and encouraging her to go on top, riding me, really letting her wildest impulses be in charge of proceedings.
How good was that!
Anyway, I’m skimping over the ins and outs, be they Freudian or nay.
So on with the story.
As it happened we were both rostered to work Saturday morning. Aided and abetted by Maxine 2, we soon coved the three miles to the Widget Company, which was conveniently on the East Morton side of Keighley. And then, because I personally expected zero calls, I put my work mobile onto divert and spent the morning in Credit Control, chatting to Mikki, occasionally interrupted by one of the handful of incoming branch phone calls regarding customer accounts.
That would have been one cool morning, if only Mikki’s calls had been better spaced. Way it was she got no calls at all or else three at once. When that happened I picked up the second call (or the third), and politely asked the caller to hold.
Hell, I felt like a super-sexy secretary in a short skirt that didn’t even begin to cover her ass.
Not that I don’t always “feel like” such a super-sexy secretary. Bring her on!
Anyway, I’m exaggerating yet again. I had it easy; while Mikki had maybe fifty decisions to make I got precisely two calls, one resolvable by phone, the second requiring me to retreat to my own office and PC. It took me maybe ten minutes to resolve that issue and I was back, armed with fresh plastic cups of coffee.
(The Widget Company coffee was, coincidentally, perfection, despite the crappy cups. Goodness only knows what it would have tasted like served in the coffee cup equivalent of finest bone china.)
Lunching on bar snacks in the Busfeild, lamentably restaurant table-less again) we went to mine and made out on my settee, supposedly watching Monsters University.
Not a bad film. I would observe, but not nearly as entrancing as Mikki’s wet pussy. And my pussy did not go entirely untended to either. To tell the truth and shame the devil, I was aware of the monster’s need to scare humans and gave not one toss. All I wanted was to tend to Mikki . . . and for her to tend to me, naturally.
Yet another confession: I’d seen Monsters University before and I watched it again a month or so ago. As films go it’s good, not “not bad”, but watching it with Mikki I paid no attention at all to the screen. As far as I can remember, she paid it no attention either.
We had better things to do; better things by far.
Later, much, much later I announced I was going to prepare a slap-up dinner: homemade mushroom soup followed by prime fillet, followed by profiteroles and/or ice cream to finish.
Mikki heard the word “profiteroles” and went down on me for at least an hour, delaying our feast by a proportionate margin.
Not that either of us grumbled in the slightest.
And not that those creamy, chocolaty treats weren’t to die for!
After that treat to eclipse all treats . . .
Well go figure. Abandoning my settee we went to bed and fucked as if it was going out of fashion.
Here’s where I confess my shortcoming. While I went into my bedroom and strapped up (again), I lost all track of Mikki, who’d gone for an innocent pee. Yes, yes, I know. We’d both had plenty of beer and wine and were peeing for England by then, eager to empty our bladders so the rest of the night wasn’t disrupted too often.
I know now that Mikki took opportunity to peek into my spare room, which I’d recently had made-over, in advance of Kat’s return. And I know now that Mikki assumed that the make-over had been done on her account.
Not that she anticipated separate sleeping arrangements. No, she presumed the “spare” was for the sake of appearances and that I was on the verge of asking her to move in.
Oops!
How astounding was she, in ignorance or not! Yet another night of mind-blowing sex was followed by a Sunday morning full of more of the same. If we slept forty winks between us I’d be amazed.
We only got up to share a shower at eleven thirty, barely half an hour before my (miraculously pre-reserved) Busfeild restaurant table.
Fortified by traditional Sunday lunch (unlimited helpings of various roast meats, roast potatoes and every vegetable imaginable) we retired to the Middle Bar to down a few civilized beers.
And then, aware the clock had run out on me, I told Mikki that Kat was due home next day.
Now remember, at that stage I had previously told Mikki next-to-nothing about my ex. I’d revealed her Christian name and said that she was a wizard at IT and precious little more. Anything else she might have known must have been gleaned from the Widget Company’s extensive grapevine.
Shit, I thought, why on earth did I leave it so late?
‘Kat’s coming home,’ Mikki echoed flatly.
‘Yes,’ said I, doing my utmost to make any sort of a deal out of a losing hand, ‘she should be landing in Manchester tomorrow; and I’ll be there to pick her up.’
I would be under-exaggerating to say Mikki reacted badly.
Think Eric Cantona kung fu kicking that Crystal Palace fan all those years ago. Mikki probably reacted even more extremely than Eric the Red. Well, she didn’t react quite so violently, but her level of intent was very similar.
I was a whore.
I’d been shamelessly using her.
I didn’t love her in the least.
Denying the second two accusations (I had reservations about the first, even though I had no regrets in that respect, because why shouldn’t a girl behave like a horny boy when she had the inclination?), I assured Mikki that Kat was platonic at the very best; in response Mikki as good as spat in my face.
‘You’ve been filling in while she’s been away,’ she snarled. ‘You wouldn’t have looked at me in other circumstances. I’ve been your stop-gap.’
Increasingly desperate, I told her about the clearing out of Kat’s bank account and admitted that I’d known about it for over a week, although the home-bound flight was only confirmed on Thursday.
Mikki persisted in swaying from dramatically upset to outrageously furious.
‘How’s she flying home without any money?’ she cried. ‘Why does she have to stay at your place?’
Quite reasonably (I believe) I told her Kat hadn’t anywhere to go; that her mother hadn’t spoken to her since she came out as a lesbian, ten years ago, back when she was first at uni.
‘This return is as a friend, not as a lover, I assured Mikki. ‘Kat is a friend very much without benefits,’ I stressed.