Davina does Older Women

To cut a short story even shorter, the cable wasn't unplugged. When I re-emerged with it all the world could see it had been cut in half.

No, it had been gnawed in half.

The girl accountant didn't actually scream and jump up onto her chair; she did, however, show all the signs of being afraid of mice.

'It's those cheese and onion crisps,' one of her work-neighbours said, sniggering.

'Or that cheese and tomato sandwich you just scoffed,' another added, less-than helpfully.

'Hope it's not anything more sinister,' someone else put in gratuitously.

I resolved the issue with a replacement cable and studied the lie of the land while I was back under her desk. There were no mouse droppings as far as I could tell, and there were some of those box-like traps things left by Rentokil, all of them empty of victims.

'I guess you've got Jerry Mouse,' I said as I resurfaced. 'This one's smarter than your average rodent.'

'I hate things like that,' the girl confessed.

'Mice are cute,' her nearest neighbour said, smirking. 'It's Roland Rat you want to look out for . . .'

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I remember that Tuesday for several reasons; it was the day after my first night with Stan; the start of the hunt for Jerry Mouse (which never did get completed; more of that later); and not least because of the new ground I broke with Val.

As a quick aside; Val never did anything untoward as far as I was concerned. By that I mean that she did not corrupt me in any way. You might recall that I was the one who threw myself at her (as I throw myself at every beautiful woman who shows any interest in me!). By then, my second evening at night school, Val and I had been having sex for four or five months; me being taken advantage of was not an issue.

I was a grown adult acing of my own free will; nothing more, nothing less.

Anyway, we'd fallen into a caring and sharing routine. In other words we took it in turns to bring each other off. Okay, so we often brought each other off mutually, too, but you get the general. She would do me and then I would gratefully do her. Or we'd do it the other way around or whatever. Trust me; it worked for us.

On that particular occasion I was on top and tribbing like crazy. Val was under me, her strong legs wrapped around my back (or, depending on my urgency from one minute to the next, my buttocks or thighs). She was groaning and moaning as per always, giving me the usual encouragement and ever assuring me I was performing up there with the best.

And then I felt her fingers circling my ring.

Big shock or what! I was very, very accustomed to feeling Val's fingernails digging into my ass. In fact I could have probably written theses about the sensation. Now she was doing something else.

Now she was doing something completely different.

Heroically, I kept on tribbing. Intrepidly, Val slipped her index into my anus.

Cue instantaneous orgasm!

Up until that moment I had been a bit smug about my recently acquired, ever-evolving staying power. I had genuinely believed that, with Val, at least, I'd overcome my hair-trigger orgasm youth and was capable of going an age without having to fight off the desperate need to cum.

Wrong!!

I gasped and sighed and contracted like the world was about to end.

Then she wiggled her invasive finger once or twice and I went supernova.

*****

Quite a while later, after peeling me off the ceiling, Val asked me if I'd enjoyed her "little variation".

'Why did you make me wait?' I replied. Why haven't you been doing that to me every night?'

'Too much of a good thing . . .' she said, chuckling girlishly. Then, deadly serious 'But, if you'd like to learn a little more . . .'

*****

The next couple of months were possibly the best in my life. All I did was work, go to night class, go to the pub and have sex.

If that sounds rather drab I for one do not care. Okay, I'm an IT nerd but work and classes were fine entertainment by me. So too were the (relatively scarce) visits to drinking establishments. And, as for having sex . . .

Routines were swiftly established. Stan shared my bed every Monday and Wednesday. Val took her turn on Tuesday and from Friday through to Sunday lunch (with time off to supervise a variety of team games at one school or another on Saturday mornings). Less routinely, I had fleeting half-term visits from Sara and Meryl and Ellie . . .

Looking back I suppose those few weeks were the most sexually fulfilling I've had. Stan was a simply amazing lover and no-one on earth could be as inventive or as passionate as Val. My one-off visitors weren't exactly flops either; it's fair to say absence had made our hearts go fonder.

Well, maybe not precisely our hearts . . .

Then everything changed.

*****

It was a run-of-the-mill Monday and I'd just been called out on another Jerry Mouse investigation. If memory serves me right, it was the third one and in a third different department. That pesky rodent got about, that was for sure. As per usual I'd replaced a gnawed cable and left the PC user going eek and worrying about tiny teeth chewing her nylons.

(By the way, we never did catch Jerry; Rentokil quadrupled their traps but didn't get a capture. As for me, I rather liked the idea of a tiny, resourceful opponent and particularly appreciated the way he went for new targets, always leaving us guessing. He had, I decided, a similar approach to those cables as I had to picking my bedfellows. And here's a confession for you: I must have covertly stamped or knelt on fifty of those poison-laden cardboard box traps. To me they were tantamount to murder. I was sure Jerry wouldn't fall for anything so blatant, but I also wasn't prepared to run the risk of him slipping up.)

Adhering to routine, I went back to my desk via the coffee machine. Sitting and sipping a scalding hot Colombian, I checked my email, my eye coming to rest on a previously unknown sender.

Now I'm pretty ace at deciphering mail addresses. But I didn't have to use my Holmes-like abilities to twig that one.

'NHS,' I muttered, 'who do I know who works for the NHS?'

The answer was nobody. For perhaps a second I wondered if it was some so-and-so phishing for God knew what. But our IT firewalls were better than NASA's . . . and this one hadn't even ended up in my trash, so it couldn't be remotely harmful. Intrigued, I opened it and was surprised to note the identity of the sender. I still have a copy of it to his day, so here is a direct quote:

"Hello Davina. I have heard all sorts about you and want to start a dialogue. And I am not a nutter or a lady with an axe to grind. Please say you'll talk. Love, Bethany."

Shit fire and save matches, it was from Stan's neighbour!

And she'd signed it with love!!

I pondered a while before answering. As far as I knew Bethany really was jealousy-free, but I'd never met her; I only had Stan's word for that. And what sort of sane person opened a dialogue with a denial about being a nutter?

Hmmm . . .

Eventually I sent back a cautious reply.

"Hello Bethany. I've nothing against talking, but how did you get my address?"

Her reply was faster than fast.

'My friend works at the same place as you. I know the email code."

That made sense. Major organisations are nothing if not predictable with email addresses; if you twig the general format all you then need is a surname and initials. I'd been daft to even ask.

I took a deep breath and pondered some more before sending: "Okay, so let's talk."

This time her reply took more like ten minutes.

"Thanks for being so adult. I really have heard all sorts about you (Stan talks about little else!!) but I want to find out what you are like for myself. Shall we start by exchanging pics? I've attached one of me. Please do send back one of you."

I moved the cursor onto the attachment and hesitated, wondering if she knew that I had seen a photo of her already. It would have been very easy for her to send me a snap of, say, Scarlett Johansson, wouldn't it?

But she hadn't; the attachment was definitely her . . . and in a very fetching nurse's uniform too.

Aha, I thought, hence the NHS address; she's mailing me from work.

I did briefly consider sending back a cartoon of Velma Dinkley but suspected she wouldn't even start to get the joke. Instead I got my mobile out and flicked through some pictures Kelly had taken the last time we went climbing, back in June. Two of them stood out: the first had me tackling an iffy overhang like Spider-Girl; the other was of me sitting triumphantly at the top, looking more than a bit sweaty but hot in more ways than one.

(Sorry if that sounds big-headed. I usually look awful in photos but that last one was flattering; it was far and away the best I've ever had taken of me.)

"Here," I wrote on the accompanying email, "this is me doing my second-favourite hobby."

She responded with:

"Nice ass in the first one, lovely smile in the next. No wonder Stan's been walking around with a big goofy grin on her face!"

I won't bore you with the rest of our exchange but it went on over a period of days, getting gradually warmer and warmer until she sent me:

"My personal address is at the bottom of this message. If you tell me yours, I'll send you some much more risqué pics. Go on, I dare you."

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Bethany's risqué "pic" was actually a video clip. I turned it off after seeing the first few seconds, afraid of being caught in the act by some officious busybody. Then, with a pounding heart, I retreated to the ladies' and locked myself in a stall. Seated on a shut toilet lid, I restarted.

The clip seemed to be shot in a nightclub. As far as I could tell, the audience consisted exclusively of female nurses and they were all well on the way to being drunk. Two women on a low stage were the centre of attention.

They were Bethany and a significantly younger blonde with a pneumatic chest.

There wasn't a soundtrack with the video but it was easy to imagine a jazzy rendition of The Stripper blaring out in the background.

That was what they were doing, you see. I'm putting two and together and getting seventeen, but I'm as good as certain that the pair of them had done that sort of thing before. Maybe it was their party act and they did it every time alcohol had been consumed. Whatever; they were clearly egging each other on and, just as clearly, neither of them was prepared to quit before the other.

The blonde was attractive but I ignored her. So, for the most part, did the shaky-handed cameraman (or, more likely, woman). For us Bethany took centre stage and filled it with more than just presence.

She was simply magnificent. Okay, so she had a roll of fat on her tummy but it worked for her. And if her legs and arms were plump so what? Seeing her halfway out of her uniform . . .

Well trust me; if you like girls to any degree at all, you would have liked her.

And then she unfastened her bra and let loose those humungous tits!

Flipping heck, I'd never seen a sight like it.

As if that wasn't enough, she continued to dance and vigorously gyrate her body, letting those two miracles of nature bounce this way and that.

If I hadn't been in lust before that moment the sight of those bouncing beauties sealed the deal.

Crikey, didn't I want her!

My hands were shaking as I replied to sender.

"Bethany, that is the best clip ever, ever, ever. I can't begin to describe what it did to me."

She came back with:

"Give me your phone number. We can discuss it tonight; late on tonight."

It was a Thursday and I had no date. I was dimly aware that Bethany probably knew that. I was also aware that speaking to her would be a mistake. But stuff being sensible; stuff being responsible. I had another look at those tits of hers and fired off my number.

"I'll be home around ten," I advised her. "Ring me at half past?"

"On the dot," she responded, "I know you're into punctuality."

*****

I won't give details about our first session of phone sex (the first of many!), but I do have to mention Bethany's voice. Now I knew she was a white girl with close-cropped blue and purple hair, but I had never expected her voice to be so . . . so wonderful.

Believe you me; she sounded like Aretha Franklin. Two words from her and I'd wet my panties. She was as sexy as that. And the very thought of her whispering sweet nothings into my ear . . .

Put it this way: if she'd operated one of those online sex services, she'd have been able to retire after a single night. Men, women . . . they would have thrown billions at her. God only knew what she'd be like at karaoke.

(She did, incidentally, tell me later she couldn't sing a note; I told her not to worry; that she could just talk her way through all the songs, assuring her nobody would mind.)

Afterwards, after we'd phone-sexed ourselves to Heaven and back, I suggested we met up in person. She said her situation with Stan was "delicate" and perhaps we should wait a while. Not forever, she added, but "a while". In the meantime the telephone connection seemed to be working okay . . .

So we were mobile lovers for seven weeks and it was great. Thursday and Sunday nights; that was us, together with all sorts of texts and emails in-between.

At this point I'm going to assume you deem me to be a whore. Or a slut, a harlot or whatever the term is these days. I'm not going to deny that. All I'll say in my defence is that I was young, free and single. As far as I could tell, men in that position went out and shagged as many willing women as they could without being tarred for it.

So why couldn't I?

Face it, men in that position were often admired and called "swordsmen" and juvenile crap like that. I had very similar tastes to them so why couldn't I go out and be admired for doing the same?

Anyway, they were happy days for me back then. I had real, all-in sex five nights a week and Bethany to talk to on the other two. And I won't deny it; I liked jumping from one woman's arms into another's, even if sometimes it was a virtual jump. I've always got off on variety and probably always will. Way I saw life that autumn was simple: no promises had been made so we were free to enjoy ourselves and nobody could get hurt.

But then Christmas came along and it was all change again.

*****

It was another Monday morning, a fortnight before the festivities officially began. My night classes finished on the coming Friday and there was already an end-of-term feeling in the air, palpable even to nerdy IT techies. Workwise, I had just responded to what was probably the last of my Jerry Mouse callouts. Sad to report, the cable that time had come out of its socket and wasn't gnawed at all. Jerry, who'd been conspicuous by his absence for a while, had not resurfaced.

(In my imagination Jerry was always a boy mouse. When he went AWOL for good I sincerely hoped he had found a nice girl mouse and settled down. I know that might contrast with my own lifestyle but that's genuinely what I wanted for him. The idea of him fathering a family of baby mice, teaching them all how to gnaw through plastic and wire. . . Well that didn't come into the equation. Honest!)

I quickly plugged the cable back in, made sure the user could access her systems and then grabbed a coffee on the way back to my desk.

The NHS email was there on my PC, waiting for me. It was short and sweet and said:

"Ladies, check your personal email RIGHT NOW."

The message had been sent to Stan as well as me; we were obviously the "ladies" in question. I got out my mobile and, after checking for snoops, swiftly logged in. Sure enough, there was a recent one from Bethany headed "Crimbo Present For Me".

Underneath it read:

"Venue: Stan's bedroom tonight (after your classes). Activity: Dave to fuck Stan with that big dildo she is reputed to use so well. Audience: Just little me. Be there or be square."

Bethany had touched on wanting to watch me bonking Stan during our late night chats. I wasn't so sure about it but had played along with her (it was that sexy voice of hers; I would've played along with just about anything it suggested). Now, faced with the possibility of that sort of thing happening for real . . .

Well, I was less sure than ever. Fortunately Stan's response landed before I could say anything silly and wreck the possibilities. It was addressed to me, copied to Bethany and merely said:

"I dare if you dare."

A thousand emotions raced through my head. Logical Dave couldn't cope with them; she abdicated all responsibility. Fervent Dave clapped her hands and urged me to go for it. It's the chance of a lifetime, she reasoned, be there or be square.

Gulping, I replied with just one word:

"Okay."

Chapter Forty

Stan drove me to her place (it was a big old house in Ilkley, divided up into flats) and we went inside, trying to act casually. Bethany was already there, waiting for us in Stan's kitchen. It was good to finally meet her in the flesh and wow, did I appreciate the uniform she was wearing.

'I've just finished the shift from Hell,' she said before grabbing me in a bear hug and giving me a true lovers' kiss.

Perhaps five minutes later she broke for air and grinned at me. 'Okay Dave, show me how it really should be done.'

'Grab yourself a chair,' said Stan, pointing to the ones sited around her butcher's block and taking me by the hand. 'The bedroom's through here.'

Believe it or not that was my one and only visit to Stan's. Maybe it was the circumstances but I didn't take very much of our surroundings in. Not that I was given the grand tour or anything. In a matter of moments we were in her room and standing by a small double bed.

Without speaking, Bethany put her chair in a corner and sat on it, looking at us expectantly.

Remembering what we'd agreed in the car, I embraced Stan and we gradually got naked while still standing, taking our time about it and gratuitously groping each other. Then I feasted on her tits for a while until she threw me onto the bed and ate me.

Up until that moment I'd done my best to put Bethany out of my mind; I couldn't see her therefore she wasn't there . . . it was a pretence I almost managed to maintain. But flat on my back I was suddenly staring right at her; it was impossible to pretend she was somewhere else.

She smiled at me but otherwise said and did nothing. I'd sort of expected her to be masturbating, the way audiences masturbate in porn videos, but she wasn't. No, he was just watching in rapt interest.

Skipping through a lot of Stan-on-me action; I at last donned my harness and took her vigorously with my favourite glass beaded toy (both specially brought along for that very purpose). And if I do say it myself, I excelled. Within seconds she was moaning and groaning, wriggling and writhing; begging and yelling and squealing. And cumming; it was another of those instances when statistics were incalculable. I do not know how long or how many. All I can honestly swear is that her last climax was utterly colossal.

And so were several of mine.

Then, her breath still coming in mighty gasps, Stan looked me in the eye.

'Bethany,' she said. 'Come on, Kiki Girl, give it to Bethany, right now.'

That came as a bit of a surprise. Our en route agreement had been to keep the sex between the two of us. In fact I'd got the clear impression Stan didn't want me anywhere near Bethany. She'd certainly scowled at the intensity of our greeting kiss.

Before I could comment Stan had pushed me off and was on her feet. 'Come on Beth,' she said, 'strip for my Kiki Girl.'

Bethany got up from her chair and elaborately gestured for Stan to replace her. I half-expected her to do her party striptease but she didn't. Instead she just started to unbutton her blouse-like tunic, eying me all the while.