Sex in the CitySex in the City



Hello, it’s me again: everyone’s favourite cartoon-faced snub-nosed, sexy-specs wearer. Yes, you’ve all got it: Davina here, reporting for duty once more, ready to spill juicy secrets that for decency’s sake perhaps should be kept behind closed blinds.

No, make that “ready yet again”!

After another lengthy break I am back in the mood to tell more. I am also doing my best to make each set of confessions readable in its own right. As the briefest of brief recaps I’ll remind you that, last time out, I ended by seeing the love of my life off on her global travels, and that as far as I was concerned, it was our third and final parting.

Not that I intended going all celibate as a consequence. Not when I had other irons in the fire.

That’s enough of the foreplay. Let’s get back to 2015 and on with the action.

Chapter One

Kat’s words rang inside my head as I drove Maxine 2 away from the airport. Our latest spell of living as a couple hadn’t followed the course of the previous two. Rather than devoting our attentions solely to each other, we’d both strayed. Initially there had been the Wife-Swap Fridays, all neatly agreed in advance and acceptable. But there had also been numerous less formal dalliances.

In other words we’d both been unfaithful without previously asking permission. Unlike the wife-swaps those other dalliances had been spontaneous. And, to make matters worse, when we bickered about them afterwards, we’d fallen into a cycle of what I can only describe as revenge fucks, as if each of us was trying her best to be most outrageous.

Trust me; we had both been plenty outrageous. In fact our last two or three weeks together had been immensely damaging. What we’d once had had gone forever. I had been right to draw the final line.

Except the line wasn’t all that final, was it? I’d said that I wouldn’t live with Kat again but hadn’t closed the door on having sex with her, whenever she finally returned. In my perfect little world she could join my army of lovers; the ones I never fell out with and always welcomed back with open arms.

Hmmm, okay then, make that welcomed back with open legs.

What am I like?

Apart from a calculating, scheming hussy, I mean!

Kat was an exceptionally clever young woman. She was also a brilliant IT programmer, always able to land a short-term contract at the drop of a hat. Short-term contracts suited her and her travel addiction down to the ground. She would earn mega bucks, blow every last penny on globetrotting, then do it all again, secure in the knowledge she’d still be in demand.

Trouble with exceptionally clever women was that they could see right through the likes of me. And, of course, they knew my faults and failings better than I did myself.

Having Kat declare her undying love in Departures had taken me by surprise. It had also got to me. I’d been planning the big, tearful farewell for nearly a month. Now I wasn’t so sure what I wanted.

I knew that sooner or later Kat would turn up again, supremely tanned all over and brimming with lots of sweet promises. No, I didn’t know: I was dead certain. What I didn’t know was how I would react.

Especially not if she got that tattoo she’d mentioned (the one close to her kitty, a love heart inscribed with “me too you”, the words I had used way back, the very first time that she’d said she loved me).

Corny, I know, but insightful as well. Didn’t I just tell you she was clever?

With apologies to Blackadder, she was so cunning you could pin a tail on her and call her a weasel.

Not that there was anything remotely weasel-like about the girl. She was sex and beauty personified. That’s why I had doubts. I knew it really should be over, but I was by no means convinced.


Briefly, idly almost, I toyed with the idea of going in to work. That didn’t occupy me for very long. I had booked the day off but was still on call. If they needed me, I’d have been made aware by then. Indeed if some crisis happened in the next few hours, I would very soon be made aware.

The joys of being an IT techie, par excellence!

Deciding to forget Kat and work . . . banishing both from my skull . . . I considered the months ahead. I was going to revert to type and alternate between being an utter slut, a complete harlot and a more or less total whore, albeit behaving like the sort of slut/harlot/whore with a genuine gold star.

Guys could go whistle, as per always. I was going to target every female who crossed my path, lezzie, bi or not.

Could I have kicked off my comeback in finer style? Trust me, I could not. Even Frank Sinatra couldn’t have come back more spectacularly.

Leaving Maxine 2, my (relatively) new Mini on The Busfeild Arms’ car park, I went into the pub for one drink . . . out of sheer politeness, I assure you. I parked in approximately the same spot almost every day, paying “rent” by using my East Morton local as often as possible, meaning minimally seven times a week.

And there she was, perched on a stool at the bar, all blonde ağrı escort hair, super-enhanced tits and sex appeal.

I honestly do not know how Margot did it. She was my favourite older woman, very high-maintenance and a bit of a bitch. She was also drop-dead gorgeous and dynamite between the sheets . . . on top of the sheets . . . or just about anywhere, sheets or no sheets.

Most mysteriously, she always knew when I was suddenly single again. She obviously stalked me in a wired sort of a way, but how? Had she bugged my phone or hacked my laptop? Or did she simply use good, old-fashioned witchcraft?

Whatever it was, she was there in the pub, not quite two in the afternoon, four or five hours ahead of my usual arrival time, waiting for me.

‘Davy-girl,’ she cried in greeting. ‘I thought you’d never show!’

‘Margot-babe,’ I replied, grinning broadly, ‘it’s been far too long.’

Margot laughed at that and, not giving one toss for any of the other customers’ sensitivities, said, ‘It’s been way too long, but that’s not an issue anymore, is it? Not when we’re both here and now.’


I’d like to say we chatted in a civilized fashion, dined in the pub’s restaurant and then politely retired to my bed. Sadly, the restaurant was fully booked up until five-thirty so, not wanting to drink ourselves to ruined livers, we had a couple of quiet ones before walking round the bend to fuck the afternoon away on my settee.

(I’ll let you use your imagination on that episode, dear reader. Let’s just say it really had been too long and we were both exceedingly up for it. And that fucking with Margot was, as always, exquisite.)

Then, around seven in the evening, we chatted in a civilized fashion as we dined in the pub restaurant before downing a couple more beers in the middle bar.

And only then did we politely retire to my bed . . . but not to sleep.

I’ve mentioned Margot’s nails before, I believe, although maybe I referred to them as talons or claws. I adore having sex with that woman but her nails are something else. Margot nearly always wants to be on the receiving end, preferably with a strapless strap-on involved. And like every time without fail she produces raking claw marks on her lover’s back.

Well okay, so she does do guys as well as gals and I’ve never inspected her other lovers’ backs after they’ve had the pleasure, male or female. But I can say for certain that she has raked me every single time. I can also say for certain that, sooner or later, she has always declared herself to be a “naughty girl” and insisted I spanked her to “teach me a lesson I won’t forget”.

Demanding or not, fucking Margot was never a hardship. At one stage I’d become so accustomed to all the clawing that I didn’t feel it anymore. That night, (over a year out of practice as I was), I did feel it . . . but not in any way likely to make me want to stop.

Think about it. There she was, a pneumatic, red-hot blonde, ravenous for multiple increasingly bizarre positions, imploring me to fuck her harder, deeper . . . harder . . . deeper. And there was the strapless device, doing wonderful things for me as I did wonderful things for her.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but what was there not to like about that?


Spanking Margot’s ass again was sheer delight. She showed me her nails, clogged with bits of freshly shed skin and blood-red (not that I’m sure it was my blood; Margot’s nails are invariably varnished in blood-red).

‘Naughty me,’ she sniggered. ‘What do I deserve?’

Naturally, she knew exactly what she deserved so I duly put her across my knee and spanked her for maybe an hour. Then, when I had her shrieking and yelling in ecstasy, I turned her face-down on the mattress and took her from behind, as deep and hard as even she could beg for.

Or wish for.

It was a cosmic experience. My tight belly on the fulcrum of her glowing, freshly smacked butt . . .

What a masturbatory image is that! Going ever deeper and harder, her flesh burning lustily against my flat stomach, her cries and pleas getting louder and louder, her body as good as motionless under me yet somehow not, the bedsprings and my endless, relentless rhythm spurring her ever onwards, ever upwards.

My hands gripping her tits as I gritted my teeth and fought off climaxes of my own . . .

Yes, fucking Margot was never a hardship. On the contrary, it was a gift from the gods.

Chapter Two

My first couple of Kat-free months found me very much in slut, harlot and whore mode. Margot was as unreliable as ever but she still showed up once or twice a week. My workmate Joyce (also a tad older than me but very, very yummy) soon fell back into the routine. That is to say we alternated, spending one night in her bed, the next in mine. We probably averaged three nights together a week, and three deliriously happy nights at that.

I had other ex-lovers too. Except “ex-lover” wasn’t a term that really applied to me; I rarely burn any of my bridges and am always glad to see a familiar face . . . and then sit on it for hours on end.

In all honesty I had a host of ex-lovers. Lots of them were old school-friends who’d gone away to uni, graduated and stayed away. But they still occasionally came home to visit Mummy and Daddy. And when they did, they nearly always visited me as well.

What can I say? I class me as boyish and unattractive; girls with any degree of bi-curiosity at all seem to class me as alluring.

Not that I’m complaining. I couldn’t possibly ever allure myself, but I’m glad others feel differently.

Something about my Velma Dinkley-like looks obviously works.

Yippee for that! Thanks a million, Scooby-Doo!!

And sorry Danger Prone Daphne; I know you’re really the glamour puss of the Mystery Machine crew; I sincerely do not know how I keep outdoing you!

Where was I?

Oh yes, I had done a lot of catching up with exes but absolutely zero “new”. And it was not for lack of looking. At risk of alienating both my alter egos, my guardian angel and that little red devil, I’m obliged to admit I can be an awful perv whenever I see a new girl. Covertly, I take in every last detail, strip her naked mentally then replace a handful of items (you know what I mean: sexy bras; lacy black panties; suspender belts and stockings . . . innocent, incidental items like that, whether she’s actually wearing them or not).

Why oh why are so many beautiful girls straight? Can’t they appreciate what I could do for them if only they’d let me loose on their luscious bods?

Yes, the things I could do for them, again and again and again!

Okay, I confess all this self-pity is building up to me having the best fortnight of my life. And the girl in question wasn’t just “new”; I’d never physically met her before.


Sinead was my prime contact at one of the Widget Company’s component suppliers, based in Dublin. We had spoken on the phone many times, developing an ever closer, evermore flirty relationship. Not that she’d ever admitted to being lesbian or even bi. Well, not apart from telling me that she was done with “bastard men” after her most recent break-up.

And take it from me; she knew my orientation, all right.

Getting her to agree to a week in Lanzarote took patience and skill, depending on points of view. On the one hand I had been flirting with her for two or three years, nudging her in the direction I wanted her to go. On the other hand I finally invited her and, within an hour or so, she had booked us flights via a cousin of hers, and heavily discounted flights at that.

If anything she was even more up for it than I was.

Yes, she’d agreed with her eyes as wide open as I hoped her arms . . . and legs . . . would soon be!

It was the first week in September and my plane landed at Arrecife Airport just half an hour after hers. She was waiting for me in Arrivals and I recognized her at once. We had exchanged snaps, you see. Well, we had after initially sending each other “I wish” images of old film stars, cartoon heroines and a quite busty pornographic actress with a gold star all of her own.

At that moment in time I’d had precisely one genuine snap of Sinead to go on, and I wasn’t so entirely sure it really was her. Seeing her in the flesh made me realize her stupendous bikini-clad pic didn’t begin to do anything like justice. She was infinitely better than merely “stupendous”.

How to describe her? Here is my best try. She was as tall as me (five-eight) with lovely long, dark red hair, beautiful bright green eyes and quite spectacular tits. Her skin-tone was amazing too. Think “red hair” and “Irish” and you expect paleness, but not in her case. No, she was dark-toned and, from one single glance, was clearly going to tan far better than me.

As if I was going to let her free of the bedroom long enough to sunbathe!

Turned out she spotted me before I spotted her. Fresh from the carousel, cases in hand, I stopped in my tracks when she sprang up before me.

‘Dave,’ she cried, ‘we meet at last!’ Then she showered my face with kisses.

Aided by Logical Dave (my self-contained alter ego), I had prepared a selection of witty opening lines that Garbot and Hepburn would have been proud of. As it happened I just stood there and gratefully accepted the ongoing shower.

Thankfully, Arrivals in airports witness lots of emotional reunions, so we weren’t thrown out. Or maybe my boyish looks fooled everyone into believing we were a straight couple, long-parted by an evil fate.

To be honest, I didn’t worry about anyone else. I waited until the storm abated then kissed her mouth in a very thorough way. Her arms tightened about me as she kissed back with equal passion, her tits pressing into my flat chest.

‘Sweet Mary, Mother of God,’ she said when, some significant time later, we broke for air. ‘Whatever have you done to my knees?’

‘Let’s get a cab to the hotel and I’ll show you how kissing should be done,’ I replied.

‘You mean there’s more to come?’

I grinned at her and said, ‘I haven’t even started.’


We got a taxi off the rank almost straightaway and the ride into Puerto Del Carmen took about quarter of an hour. Because the driver spoke English as well as we did, we kept our conversation away from sex.

And yes, since we’d agreed the holiday, we’d had phone sex on several occasions. Sinead still hadn’t confessed to having had actual physical lesbian activity, but she certainly had a lot of creative ideas. If nothing else she’d put in plenty of time on the good old Internet.

‘How long has your dad had the timeshare?’ she asked primly.

‘Maybe fifteen years,’ I said after working it out in my head. ‘Believe it or not, some young girl stopped him in the street and persuaded him to go look at the latest new project.’

‘Happens to me all the time,’ said Sinead in that entrancing lilt of hers.

The cabbie eyed us in his rear-view but said nothing.

‘So he liked what he saw and bought in?’ Sinead went on.

‘That’s right.’

My companion laughed. ‘Do you mean the young girl?’

‘Possibly, because that sort of salesgirl isn’t picked for her brains, is she? But Dad isn’t really like that. He liked the complex and signed on the dotted line. At first he went for two weeks in April. Then, when it was apparent it wasn’t a con, he bought two more in November. Up until I left home I used to come here twice a year.’

‘So how are we here now, in September?’

‘Some weeks haven’t been sold, even nowadays. And sometimes people can’t make their dates due to personal commitments. The hotel then gets in touch with other owners, offering them an extra week at a knock-down rate, aware they have already been paid for the lease and that they can only benefit from a second, peppercorn rent, extra bar sales, restaurant sales . . . Get my drift.’

‘I don’t get how your dad bought this extra week but isn’t here.’

‘He bought it as a birthday present. And don’t worry; my parents aren’t going to show up.’

‘Is that a promise?’

‘Swear to God and hope to die.’

‘When’s your birthday?’

‘I’m twenty-five on Monday. Play your cards right and I’ll invite you to my very exclusive party.’

‘Can I come too?’ the cabbie asked, unexpectedly.

I looked from him to Sinead and back. ‘Sorry,’ said I. ‘Nothing personal, but Monday’s going to be an all-girl sort of a thing.’

He laughed and said, ‘Just my luck.’

Chapter Three

Tipping the driver generously (maybe too generously, not being quite aware how strong the Euro had become), we went to Reception and I was pleased to recognize a familiar face.

‘Senorita Davina,’ the god-like guy said, ‘it’s very good to see you again.’

Pooh-poohing the documentation my dad had given me, he handed over a key. ‘Do you need a guide or can you remember the way?’

‘I’ll never forget it,’ I said. ‘Thanks a million, Manuel. Catch you in the bar later, yeah?’

‘Manuel,’ said Sinead when we were safely out of earshot, skirting the swimming pool, on our way to the time-let apartments, separate from the hotel itself.

‘Be careful what you say,’ I replied. ‘Nearly everyone who ever stays here is English or Irish. Or Scots or Welsh, come to that. Even the cleaners speak good English. Manuel knows all about Basil and his disgraceful treatment of Andrew Sachs. And the Spanish are very proud people. When Fawlty Towers was on TV in these parts, Manuel wasn’t a Spaniard, he was an Italian called Paolo. In Catalonia and France he was Mexican.’

‘I’ll watch what I say.’ Sinead laughed. ‘But I bet back in Ireland he was sometimes a Cockney.’

I wasn’t going to argue the toss and laughed with her. Then we were at our own little bungalow and I was showing her around. We had two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and a living area. Sinead was clearly impressed and resisted not at all when I dragged her back into one of the bedrooms.

No, she wasn’t kicking and screaming.

She wasn’t resisting at all.

By way of explanation, it was by then mid-afternoon. We’d eaten on our flights but that was some time ago and airplane meals aren’t exactly full Sunday dinners, are they? Yet just then our hunger only had one inspiration, and it didn’t include food.

I was, coincidentally, dressed for the trip: leaving warm weather in Leeds/Bradford, I’d abandoned my trademark Docs and jeans in favour of open sandals and a lightweight pair of long shorts. Predictably, I had also gone for a thin white T-shirt.

Sinead wasn’t too differently attired, except she looked infinitely better. But not nearly as good as she looked as her clothes slowly, steadily came off her.

At this point I’ll put emphasis on “slowly” and “steadily”. I’m often overly passionate and far from being restrained. On that occasion I controlled myself.


So slow and steady it was.

Thanks to those phone sex sessions, we had a plan. It began with a lengthy snog and eager hands all over each other, but not in an intimate way. Well, not in an indecently intimate way. At that time every last touch seemed intimate. Indeed at that time I practically self-combusted when just one feather-light finger intricately traced a route down my spine.

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