Davina Falls Out

I wanted Kat desperately but you know me and the voice of reason. Ignoring howls of protest from my devil and Fervent Dave, I responded.

"I'm sorry Kat, but like you said, I'm a grown woman with needs. I've found someone else."

*****

To be fair to her, Kat didn't give up on me. Without being too pushy, she extracted my personal email address and steadily bombarded me with requests to meet or at least speak to her over the airwaves. Knowing what effect a sight of her (or even the sound of her voice) would have on me, I very stoically refused.

I didn't refuse to be increasingly intimate by email, though. I even sent her a few clips from that video of me with Ellie and Angie. Unsurprisingly, Kat wasn't outraged. Oh no, not her; she liked seeing that very much indeed.

Now let's get one thing straight: I never indicated to Philippa that I was back in touch with Kat. I didn't lie to her, but only for the simple reason that she never asked. And I most definitely did not volunteer the info. Maybe that was cowardly of me, or maybe I knew her too well. Maybe I knew how she would react.

Anyway, it wasn't supplying Kat with pornographic material that finished me with Philippa. No, it was a different blast from the past altogether.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

It was a Thursday and, believe it or not I was at my usual break-time place near the coffee machine, barely a minute into my morning respite, when I got the call on my personal mobile.

It was Margot, for once forgoing text messages. 'Hiya my sexiest darling,' she began, 'how's things?'

It seemed like months since I'd heard from her. And hearing from her was good. 'Hiya yourself, sexy ass,' I replied, 'how's your love life?'

Silly question; for two or three minutes I got more than I needed to know . . . none of it good.

Apparently Ray, Margot's supposedly rich, older man had fallen on hard times. Last week and out of absolutely nowhere, his company had been put into administration. Just an hour later his ex-wife had bought it back from the Administrator, effectively seizing sole control and cutting him adrift. And then his second wife's solicitors had hand-served the long-awaited divorce papers and her demands were excessive: she wanted his house as well as half of an income he no longer had.

'Oh dear,' I said naively, 'that must impact on you.'

'It has,' Margot replied. 'I'd sold my own house and was supposed to be moving in with him. Not that I did, thank God. I moved in with his mistress in Gargrave instead. Unlike Ray, she doesn't spend every last waking moment telling me sob stories and looking for a new investor.'

An awful thought occurred to me. 'Please say you didn't invest the proceeds from your house.'

'Don't worry; I most certainly did not. My proceeds are in a high interest account, while I decide what I am going to do next. Speaking of which: What are you doing tonight?'

I already had ideas but asked the obvious. 'What about your mistress friend? Won't she miss you?'

'She's having a big powwow with Ray tonight. It's with some lawyer and all about relationships and money. And he's not going to like what she tells him. I said I'd put myself up in a hotel to keep out of their way. And then I thought of you and your lovely cottage.'

I laughed as I said, 'Does six o'clock in The Busfeild do it for you?'

'Six o'clock,' she echoed. 'Goodness me, girl, you are keen, aren't you.'

'Yes,' I said truthfully, 'I am.'

*****

I enjoyed bedding Margot again. With us it was always a case of absence making for fonder hearts. A full night of non-stop sex with her never did exhaust me; rather it buoyed me. Next morning I bounced into work and lit the place up with my grin all day.

Then calamity struck.

The gradually established routine was for Philippa to overnight at my place on Fridays and Saturdays. That evening, agreeing a nine thirty "bedtime" was in order, we had dined in the pub, had a few beers and swiftly retired upstairs to my spare room. Then, completely oblivious to the big risk I was running, I kept the lights on while she eased the sweatshirt off me.

And, almost making me jump out of my skin, she screeched with rage.

'Your back,' she yelled. 'It has been clawed worse than ever. You've been fucking that old cunt again, haven't you? Or was it that other cunt; the one you used to fuck every night?'

I didn't really know how to answer that. I honestly hadn't realized Margot had been up to her old tricks and, at that very moment, the truth didn't seem to be a wise option. Perhaps silence was the best way to go.

But my motormouth wasn't buying that.

'Don't call my friends names,' it said.

'Friends,' she scoffed. 'You don't have any real friends. You're a whore, ready to fuck anyone who will have you. A whore who happily opens her legs to any pretty face.'

Philippa's face wasn't even slightly pretty right then; just looking at it made me see red. And I lost all control in a big way; nought to sixty in no seconds flat. If she was screeching and furious then I was just as bad. How we did not come to blows I will never know.

(Pause for me to sigh and shake my head.)

I'm not going to regale you with details of our full argument. Let's just say insults were exchanged; insults that could never be forgiven or forgotten.

And what an evil, foulmouthed bitch she proved to be!

Before long I'd heard enough. Our confrontation ended with me telling her to get her dressing gown and mug and begone. Still snarling, she obliged, slamming the kitchen door behind her.

*****

Snarling a bit myself I showered then, aware I would never sleep, went back round to the pub (making sure Philippa's Citroen had gone from the car park before going in). At least our argument had been a quick one, I consoled myself. It wasn't even half past ten yet, and last orders weren't until midnight. I'd lots of time to have a drink or six.

Armed with a pint of Landlord I found a vacant corner and leant against the bar.

Bloody breakups, I thought. They're horrid. Note for diary: don't ever do it face-to-face again.

As I moodily swigged beer I was joined by a sort of workmate. I say "sort of" because I didn't know her very well at all. Joyce was late thirties and attractive. She ran the Credit Control department and, if all the rumours were correct, she was unmarried and therefore a lesbian.

Or maybe folk were judging her by all her rings, bangles and wrist bands.

Well, you know me and my dodgy gaydar. I tended to doubt the lesbian allegations but recognized her as a warm, people person; I'd had dealings with her during the working day and found her pleasant to talk to, and humorous with it. Socially I'd seen her here in the pub, usually chatting with the same little bunch of male barflies. We'd nodded and said hi but no more.

Tonight she seemed keen to progress.

'My, my, Davina,' she said in greeting. 'Why the long face?'

'You don't want to know,' I replied morosely.

But obviously she did. 'Was it something to do with that girl who was in earlier? I saw her leaving in a rush, not to mention in a cloud of dust and leaving a lot of burning rubber.'

'We've just reached the parting of our ways,' I said, draining my pint and ordering another.

'I'll get that,' Joyce said to the barman. Then, turning back to me, she said softly 'I know all about girls and fallouts. Let's get merry together and put the world to rights.'

*****

We didn't make it to last orders. Instead we went to Joyce's house and, sitting on her sofa, sipped out of wine glasses and talked in more depth. And by that I mean neither of us held too much back. I was of course hoping for a fresh shoulder to cry on; Joyce seemed to be hoping to save my soul.

Or so it felt at the time.

In her youth, she told me, she had been very much a free spirit. She'd even spent three years in a commune; a Cornish one where free loving was actively encouraged if not quite compulsory.

'I did sleep with girls,' she said lightly, 'and I slept with a lot of guys, too. Perhaps it wasn't the best of preparations for the real world; there were up to a dozen of us living and loving together and we never really argued. Well, we thought we did, but nothing serious ever went down; the worst rows we ever had were more like petty tiffs than proper arguments.'

'So all your fallouts have been in the real world,' I said.

'Yes, they have.' Joyce took my empty glass from me and put it on a low coffee table. 'And I found out that in the real world, splitting up with a girl is like falling off a horse. The best thing to do is climb back on straightaway.'

'I doubt I'll be climbing back on Philippa anytime soon,' I observed.

'The individual horse is immaterial,' Joyce countered. 'It's the climbing back on which matters, not the actual horse.'

Then, without removing any of our clothes and using only her mouth and fingers, she made the most wonderful love to me before refilling our glasses and leading me upstairs.

Talking to her as we sat on her bed and sipped vino was out of this world. I was in a big hurry and she was in a hurry not to be in a hurry . . . if you see what I mean.

Thankfully her teasing didn't last forever.

And being naked with her was even better the semi-clad lovemaking on the sofa. I didn't even have to try to push Philippa and my other day-to-day worries and concerns out of my head. Joyce was loving and caring and very, very good at every last thing she did. Concentrating solely on us was easy.

Never mind falling off a horse, fucking with her was easier than falling off a log.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

I woke next morning to find my head pillowed by Joyce's tits and her fingers running through my hair.

'You're even more beautiful asleep than you are awake,' she assured me.

I checked the time and groaned. 'I have to go into work,' I said, 'otherwise we could have had a very productive lie in.'

'I'm due in too,' she countered. 'It's month-end. I have dozens of reports to compile.'

That surprised me. IT aside, I wasn't aware of any other weekend Widget Company workers. 'Doesn't our super-duper new system do that automatically?' I asked.

Joyce laughed. 'Not yet it doesn't. And there are always two of my gang in all day every Saturday, to assist our branch colleagues and keep the customers out of mischief.' Suddenly serious, she added: 'Last night was great but don't read a lot into it. I'm hopeless at relationships. That's why I've had so many fallouts to deal with.'

'I'm more into friendships than relationships,' I said, a hundred per cent truthfully. 'What do they call it nowadays; friends with benefits? We could be like that, couldn't we?'

Joyce chuckled. 'So when's your next intended benefit?'

'I'm going climbing this afternoon,' I told her. 'Tonight's free, though. And I'm afraid there's a big black storm cloud hanging over my lovely cottage. Another night here with you will give the sun time to burn its way through. Why don't I buy you dinner in the pub and let Mother Nature take her course?'

'Cliff climbing,' she marvelled.

'Yes,' I admitted.

'Wow! I'm talking about climbing onto horses and girls and you do cliffs!' Joyce chuckled again. 'Okay, I'm officially impressed. Let's dine and see what our Great Mother decrees for us.'

*****

So it was Sunday afternoon before I went home. Opening myself a bottle of pinot, I at last checked my phones (both had been switched off since Philippa's door-slamming departure). And yes, there were a host of missed messages and texts from her. I deleted them all in a matter of seconds.

Then I checked my email: two stood out; one from Kat and one from Philippa. Kat's got opened first.

She'd only gone and got herself headhunted by the same crew that caught me! And, surprisingly, she wanted my approval before accepting their mega-bucks offer. Touched by her consideration, I replied at once, assuring her she should go for the money and promising I wouldn't accuse her of stalking.

And then I opened Philippa's message.

I strongly suspect she'd been drinking when she compiled it. Normally her writing was spell-checked to the nth degree, but that communication included several typos. Even so, the gist came across.

She loved me.

She was sorry we'd argued.

She wished she could take back all the hurtful things she had said.

Please couldn't I give her one final chance?

Just then I would have sooner given Osama bin Laden one final chance than her. I sent back a very mild rebuttal (or so I truly believed) and she responded with:

"Please Dave, I'm begging you."

Hardening that icy heart of mine (never once suspecting that Kat's return was affecting me on levels I didn't know I had), I replied:

"Sorry Phil, but we're done. Too much has been said. It will never be the same again."

Two minutes later I received:

"I hate you, you fucking whoring cunt. I hope you die of AIDS."

Like wow! Love to hate in a hundred and twenty seconds!! Not bad going, even for me!!

*****

This next bit is easy for me to tell but ever-so-slightly embarrassing. Yes, I know I've said that sort of thing before and I know I should be beyond embarrassment . . .

Okay, here goes.

After her hateful email Philippa disappeared and I have not heard from her since (not in four years). I also got less traffic as far as emails were concerned from Kat, too. When she started working at the Widget Company she seemed to think it was her duty to not get so close.

Me? I was fascinated by the sight of her. Several months on she still had her staggering overseas tan. She looked even better than ever and working together in the same office, if not the same team, was a pleasure.

It was only a pity my sex life had slumped. Without Philippa I was down to snatched nights at Joyce's and one heck of a lot of self-abuse. Trust me; my toy drawer saw more use in six weeks than it had in the previous six years.

Okay, so I'm exaggerating as always, but there can't have been too many girls who used "devices" as often as I did over those forty-two days.

Then, after almost a fortnight out of Joyce's tender grasp, untouched by anyone but me, I overnighted in London.

It was a short-notice job; I had to go to our already re-furbished branch in Kensington High Street, fix a problem that hadn't arisen before in living knowledge, and then go back next morning to ensure my fix still worked.

So it was pretty straightforward for me. I found a fix then, after diverting into Ann Summers, booked in to a nearby hotel and damned the expense.

I was a star, you see. Deputy team-leader and the girl who fixed things other fixers had blobbed on. I know it's big-headed, but it's true and, consequently my expenses were shooed in like sheep through a gate.

And a couple of months earlier I'd gained kudos for three nights in Aberdeen without any hotel costs whatsoever. That was due to Sue, of course. She happily "put me up" even though I was no longer a colleague of hers.

Let's go back to the night in London. Come ten o'clock I was fed, watered and wondering if I ought to try my new purchase alone (it was a purchase very definitely intended for two). Then the long-awaited knock came on my door and I hastened to answer it.

What a vision awaited me in the corridor!

The girl was at least six feet tall, mixed race with perfect dark almond skin and looks that were to die for. I gaped at her a second, finding it hard to believe a beauty like her could be touting for business. As I saw it she should have been on TV, advertising something ultra-expensive in commercial breaks during blockbuster films.

Or perhaps starring as James Bond's latest love interest . . .

But she was touting, nevertheless.

Temporarily speechless, I grabbed her hand and pulled her into my room, using the bolt to ensure she couldn't easily escape.

'So,' she smiled, 'I take it you do fancy doing some.'

'I'm a girl,' I babbled, 'and I've never fancied anything more.'

I was taking more and more of her in as we spoke. Her top was skimpy and bright white; it showed off her tattoos to perfection: an enormous, elaborate one on her back (a multi-coloured bit of artwork that I couldn't quite identify), and a red and green flower that flowed from her shoulder and halfway down her left tit.

Jesus but she was hot. She was certainly one of the few who could stand beside Kat and not be at all overlooked.

With me still babbling, we agreed forty quid for an hour of her eating me and every second flew. And oh my, didn't I cum!

The reality was that I could cum just looking at her. I honestly do not know how skilled she was. I was orgasmic from the very start, even before she removed that bright white top. She only had to smile at me to multiply bring me off.

If I had any complaint it was that she was only half-naked while she kissed and nibbled, licked and gnawed. There again, I might have self-combusted if she'd revealed even more.

Only too soon her phone was buzzing, indicating my sixty minutes were up.

'Don't go,' I said, babbling yet again, 'let me fuck you.' Seeing some doubt in her eyes I fumbled in my overnight bag and pulled out my newly purchased strapless strap-on.

'Oh my,' she said, 'they are expensive, aren't they? I've only ever seen them in videos.'

Impulsively, I asked her name, which was a first. With my previous harlots I hadn't actually wanted to know names.

'Rose,' she said after a brief hesitation.

I must have too blatantly stared at her tit because she laughed.

'The tattoo is after my name, not the other way around,' she told me, sounding quite credible.

'So do I get to fuck you?' said I, desperately wanting her to say yes.

And she did, for next to nothing on top of our original arrangement, too. Me . . . I would have paid lots more than I had in my wallet and it was just as well we didn't set an hourly rate; if we had set a rate I'd have bankrupted myself.

I went down on her as well, before I started to fuck her. Strictly speaking that wasn't part of the deal, but I couldn't resist and she didn't protest.

Then, as excited as I could ever recall being, I set to.

And now for yet another confession: the instructions with those strapless gadgets assure a buyer that they're simple to use. They imply that a girl's pelvic floor muscles are naturally retentive; that although the odd slip-out might occur, it is dead easy to pick up the knack.

Well, I didn't find it dead easy. Maybe I should have practiced solo beforehand . . . or maybe not. Let's just say that it took me a good ten minutes to get the knack and Rose's patience and sense of humour was unparalleled.

Then didn't I fuck her!

As an aside, I love using strap-ons and double-enders. I am very well practiced and have been often showered with praise about my prowess. Strapless sex is something else, though. Awkward groin-to-groin positions (meaning lying back on asses) are not required and there is no clumsy harness to get in the way.

No, it was all body to body and, being the giver, I was astounded by the sensations I had. I really did go on beyond the call of duty and then some.

Finally, maybe four hours after she'd first knocked, Rose put her clothes back on, tittering as I handed over the agreed balance.

'I should be paying you,' she said. 'That was fabulous, even if I have missed a couple more tricks.'

That much said, she didn't offer me a discount.

I didn't ask for one, either. I watched her sashay her way to the door and wondered. What next? Was she off chasing more business? Or was she off to spend my twenties on some substance I would not approve of?

Come to that, who was I to criticize? Whatever she chose to do, I was complicit, wasn't I?

'Rose,' I called as she unfastened the lock.

She turned and smiled at me.

'Take care,' honey,' I said.