Davina in Lust

Foreword

Hello, hello, hello, Davina here again . . . but please feel free to call me Dave.

It seems ages since I last contributed. In fact I just checked and it is almost a year. A whole year and no contact at all. What am I like! Please, please excuse my atrocious bad manners.

My last instalment covered a week in Lanzarote with Sinead, followed by a week in her home town of Dublin (Dublin being, of course, the world's fairest and biggest city, because it's doubling all the time).

Sorry about that.

That fortnight's holiday took place back in September 2015 and seeing the date shocked me. So too did a bit of research on the story so far. Initially my friend Mikela published her New Beginnings series in five episodes, describing the love triangle between me, her and Kat, from her viewpoint, obviously.

Reacting angrily (as only to be expected), Kat responded with the four part Two Sides to Every Story series, coming from a very different point of view.

Re-reading those series I realized that both my lovers were telling the truth, but only those bits of truth that suited them most. So, determined to set the record straight, I launched my own series, mostly but not always using "Davina" in the title* and omigod, I've already had twelve episodes published.

Twelve compared to their combined total of nine.

Even more alarmingly, I've only got as far as Two Sides to Every Story Pt. 02, and I haven't reached New Beginnings at all.

Long-winded or what!

This then is my opening effort to catch up. I doubt I can tell all in one three page yarn but I will do my best, and I'll begin by skipping Christmas 2015 and, resuming as of late spring 2016, skipping Easter as well.

Before I kick off here are some reminders about me. Appearance-wise I think that I'm boyish and not very attractive. I have often been compared with Velma from Scooby Do. You know who I mean; not the tall, shapely redhead, the shorter brown-haired one with the out-sized glasses.

I do, co-incidentally dispute that comparison. Okay, so I wear similar glasses and have all the freckles and a matching snub of a nose. But I'm much taller at five foot eight, my (admittedly similar coloured hair) is lots shorter and I'd never, ever dress the way she does. I am a Docs, jeans and sweatshirt sort of a girl, end of.

And maybe I'm not totally unattractive. I have had approaches from women. No, I've had approaches from many different women; surely they can't all be as myopic as me.

What else is there to tell? I am an IT techie, proud owner of a gold star and Maxine 2, an almost new red Mini, successor to the original Maxine (who didn't have a qualifying number). Like Maxine before her, Maxine 2 mostly lives on the Busfeild carpark in East Morton, close to my dream cottage. Parking fees are paid in the form of me buying several pints every day, an arrangement that suits both the pub and me perfectly.

And that's about it for now. Let's get on with the tale.

Chapter One

Sex has always been a big thing for me. Not that I have any hang-ups about it. By "big thing" I mean I do like to have plenty of it and have accepted nearly every one of those female approaches. Although I have male friends I have no intention of ever being intimate with any of them, or with any other man, come to that. No, for me it's girls all the way.

And come what may, I can always find a willing woman.

Or, rather, a willing woman can nearly always find me.

I suppose now is the time to mention Kat. In previous episodes I have often referred to Kat as the love of my life but by then, spring 2016, I'd had enough. No way was she living in my dream cottage again, Kim Kardashian look-alike or not.

Yes, you heard right: Kat closely resembles Kim K but is years younger and half a foot taller. Blokes have been known to swoon after one single glimpse of her.

So too have grown women so whatever you do, don't stereotype her as male eye candy.

Kat's problem (a far as I'm concerned) is her passion for travelling. Most recently she set off for "a year if my money holds out" shortly before my September holiday with Sinead. And that was not the first time, it was the third. Yes I've co-habited with Kat three times and guess how many times she's left without a backwards glance.

You've got it: the answer is three.

Okay, so Kat declared undying love when I dropped her off at Manchester airport, but I had already drawn the line. Three strikes and out, that was the order of the day.

Home alone, holiday over, footloose and fancy-free, I filled the last few months of 2015 and the first few of 2016 reacquainting myself with a lot of old conquests, not least with Margot.

What a babe is she!

Come to that, what an awkward so-and-so is she!!

Blonde, busty and significantly older, Margot drifts in and out of my life; sometimes she vanishes for months on end but always mysteriously reappears whenever I'm single again, ready to claw my back with her blood-red talons.

Golden eagles couldn't rake my back more efficiently than she can.

She had other traits, too; significant other traits.

Confession time: I was well into spanking games, particularly with Margot. So too was she. She didn't disappear for any more than a week at a time while I was "getting over Kat" on that third occasion. On the contrary, I saw an awful lot of her, in every sense of the term.

Girl oh girl the palms of my hands are tingling just thinking about her.

I even more regularly slept with my workmate, Joyce, who ran the Credit Control department. Joyce, also significantly older, filled in two or three nights a week. Unlike Margot, she was totally and utterly reliable. If Joyce said she would meet me in the local pub (our usual trysting place) at eight, then she would be there on the dot.

Who else was there? Not any ex-lovers because I didn't (and still don't) burn bridges, with the sole exception of Philippa from the building society, my employers before I made a switch to the Widget Company. Not that I'd ever have chased after that bitch. I wouldn't fuck her again if she was the last woman on the planet.

Otherwise I wasn't exactly spoilt for choice. Most of my schooldays lovers went off to uni while I chose not to, in spite of my excellent grades. By then, late 2015, early 2016, they'd all graduated and almost to a woman lived "away". Home visits were not unknown though, and I usually got a "visit" as well as Mummy and Daddy.

I'm prepared to bet my "visits" were far longer (and infinitely more rewarding) than any drop by any of those mummies and daddies got; more so by miles.

And, talking about visits, Sinead came over for a week at Easter, her flight heavily discounted thanks to an obliging travel agent cousin of hers. Honestly, she paid less Dublin to Leeds/Bradford that I had once paid on the train, Leeds to Keighley.

Okay, so that's yet another exaggeration, but wasn't it good to see her again. I had promised to show her all the local sights but that never happened. Her sightseeing was restricted to my bedroom ceiling and the inside of the Busfeild Arms.

What a week of bliss. I waved her off with tears in my eyes but worry not; we'd already agreed a week in Lanzarote come September (and that became an annual arrangement that stands to this day).

Anyhow, I had a pretty random selection by any standards. I supplemented that with occasional nights out in Bingley, where it was usually possible to hook up with a like-minded young lady or, occasionally a like-minded, not-so-young lady.

(Warning: Please do not flock to sleepy old Bingley expecting it to be full of lesbian bars. It is not. No, a girl has to use her intuition and expect the occasional knock back. Unless she's inexplicably the one who gets nine tenths of the approaches, that is; unless she's me!)

Somehow I muddled along, getting in more or less my usual quota without Margot clawing my back to the point of extinction . . . well, maybe not quite.

Then I met Mikela.

Chapter Two

One Tuesday morning the IT help desk got a call. The caller was a relatively new starter who said her PC wouldn't start. I was nearest to the help desk, passing by with a fresh cup of coffee, and the finger was immediately pointed at me.

'Oh shit,' I moaned, as yet unaware of the problem, 'please don't say I'm off to Land's End or John o' Groats.'

'No worries,' I was told. 'It's an iffy PC in Credit Control. I said you'd be there soon.'

As it happened I was midway through re-assembling a different PC; that is, the tower for a different PC. It took me perhaps twenty minutes to finish that then, bright-eyed and bushy tailed as always, I made my way to the department in question.

And yes, I was grinning inwardly as I went, remembering the latest night with Joyce sharing my bed. Mid-forties as she was, Joyce had an extremely well-preserved body and could have passed for my age. No, make that extremely well-preserved and unbelievably pliable. The positions and contortions she could put herself in!

Credit Control was the biggest department we had and it was very much open plan. I made my way to Joyce's desk, knocking smartly on the shiny wooden surface to attract her attention. As per usual she was on the phone, staring off into space as she conversed.

'It's Mikela,' she told me, covering the receiver with one hand and directing me with the other.

'See you Thursday,' I replied, keeping my voice down, 'at eight on the dot.'

She gave me an exceptionally seductive smile then went back to her phone call.

'I don't care if he is six-four and a member of a renowned and very scary local family,' she said firmly, 'he's staying on Stop until he brings his account up to date.'

Typical Credit Control speak, in other words.

Grinning outwardly now, I crossed the room and introduced myself to Mikela, but only after having a good eyeful of her.

Oh my, why hadn't she been in the Suburban Bar last Friday evening!

'Hi,' I began, 'I'm Dave from IT. What seems to be the problem?'

'My PC won't come on. It's stuck on the saver screen.'

'Have you tried restarting,' I asked, 'by that I mean unplugging it from the mains?'

'Yes I flipping well have,' she said, a little abruptly.

I grinned even wider, knowing several of her teammates and the girl on the IT help desk would have already asked the same very basic question. Getting abrupt feedback was not entirely unheard of in my customer-facing role.

She'd taken me to be a bloke too; that wasn't unheard of either. To tell the truth, it happened quite a lot.

'Okay,' said I, 'let's see what I can do.'

Closing the PC down, I switched off the tower and unplugged it in every direction. Then, after waiting twenty seconds, I reversed the procedure and ta, da! The PC was fully functional again, just like that.

'That should do the trick,' I said, watching Mikela as she made sure she could access all the screens she needed to do her job.

'It looks like I'm sorted,' she concluded, much less abruptly. 'How come it worked so readily for you?'

'You've either got it or you haven't,' I replied saucily, still certain she thought she was dealing with a cocky young guy. 'See you around.'

*****

Here's another confession for you, doubtless one of many still to come. I was dateless that night and that was just as well because I simply couldn't get Mikela out of my head. And what a vision to haunt my dreams; I couldn't possibly have been haunted by anyone sexier.

I now know that Mikela was twenty-four when she told her version of events which, in all fairness, she virtually did in real-time. That is to say she was publishing about three or four weeks after distinct sets of ever-changing situations.

And here I am, skipping seven months and still four years behind the action!

Anyway, back then she was fresh from two and a half years in Cornwall. Apparently she'd got a rare-as-hens' teeth job in a B&B down there, running the public bar. She'd got the job because her family had been holidaying in that very establishment since God was a lad, and had become friends with the owners.

Then, returning home to her roots, she'd got a position as a credit controller at the Widget Company, working under Joyce.

Trust me; working under Joyce is a very pleasant position to be in. I had "worked" under her too many times to mention. And I'd relished every last second.

Just like I was relishing the coming Thursday night . . . be it under, over, or a blend of both . . .

Let's get back to Mikela. She was five foot eight, the same as me, with long auburn hair and "slightly too large" tits, according to the girl herself.

I am laughing as I write that. My own chest is flat as a pancake. As if any tits can be too large for me.

Cards on the table: I played with myself that Tuesday evening, running and re-running images of the auburn beauty. Yes, I played with myself for hours on end, running and re-running images, running and re-running yet again.

I did not, of course, have a clue about her sexuality just then. My gaydar isn't the best but I'd sensed nothing and presumed she was straight. How unfair was that! I'd been attracted to the odd straight girl before, naturally, but never to the current extent. Usually I'd spot somebody, devour her with my eyes and then move on, quickly forgetting forbidden fruit. No way was I forgetting Mikela anytime soon.

Getting in to work early on Wednesday morning I sent her an email.

"How is your PC performing? Let me know. X Davina."

Yes, I know use of "Davina" should have blown my cover as a bloke but, amazingly, it didn't. Benefit of hindsight now tells me why. It seems that, on her grand tour of all offices during "Induction", she'd seen Lynn from a distance. Apart from me and two teenage girls on the IT help desk, Lynn is the only female in our beloved department. Officially the manager's secretary, she was a born mother hen and quite frankly organized and ran the IT structure. Having noted her efficiency, Mikela assumed that the mail from "Davina" was the mother hen, professionally tying up loose ends.

Perhaps half an hour later I got Mikela's reply, assuring me all was well.

Not prepared to leave it at that I emailed again, asking her what time she went for lunch. Possibly in the belief some techie wanted to double-check her bit of kit, she responded saying twelve o' clock.

I was waiting outside her department, bang on the hour.

'Hi,' said I, 'fancy lunching with me?'

She gave me a peculiar look but came along easily enough. Then, armed with decent quality meals, we took a table and chatted. Leastways I chatted while she mostly listened. Don't ask what garbage I came out with but I wasn't at a loss for words. I never am. On I went, on and on, gradually noticing a change in my gorgeous audience's expression.

Yippee, I crowed silently, she's realizing at last.

(As an aside, I have quite a deep voice for a girl, although I prefer to class it as husky. Combined with my general appearance no wonder I often get mistaken. God only knows how many people there are who have never realized at all.)

It took about twenty minutes in the canteen for Mikela to conclusively link Dave with Davina. Maybe at first she'd assumed Lynn (aka Davina) was playing cupid between her and smitten boy Dave. Seeing her shocked recognition I carried on telling a tale about one of my colleagues. And it was a good one. Ted, a star programmer, had gone to St Helens for a rugby league match at which anything that could go wrong did go wrong . . . and not just for the Rhinos on the pitch.

'You've twigged, haven't you?' I said after concluding my story, 'finally and hurrah!'

'I don't believe it,' Mikela muttered, not completely unlike Victor Meldrew.

Chapter Three

'I like dressing this way,' I told Mikela. 'It helps me blend in with my workmates. The "Trekkies" I call them. It's best for clambering about under desks and what have you, and I do a lot of that.'

'I've heard good things about you,' Mikela said, looking a tad recovered. 'But all as Dave; nobody lets on you're a girl.'

'Most people here are already well aware. I guess they all think everyone knows and they don't need to mention it.'

'Is it true you're in line to be a programmer?'

'Yes, but I'm not pushing ahead in any queues.'

'Why aren't you?'

'I'm not in a hurry because I like being an operator and getting out and about, meeting people. And my qualifications will still be there when I'm good and ready.'

'Which university did you go to?'

'I didn't. I wanted to earn and buy a place of my own. So I got my qualifications at night school. And I didn't miss uni at all. Well, not apart from missing out on LGBT. Which uni did you attend?'

'I went to Aston but I didn't join LGBT, because I'm straight.'

'That's a crying shame,' I said, 'because you are exceptionally attractive to women, and that definitely includes me.'

Thankfully Mikela laughed at that. A truly straight girl would have run for the hills.

Well, wouldn't she?

*****

Margot spent Wednesday night with me, so there was no call for excessive self-abuse. I did manage to keep Mikela out of my thoughts most of the time. That's right, being spanked and raked to within a millimetre of a severed spinal column focused my attention on the there and then.

I still woke with long auburn hair to the forefront of my mind, however; long auburn hair, even longer legs and tits that weren't in any way too large or un-shapely.

In early again that morning, Thursday, my first act was to email suggesting we lunched again. Half an hour later I got Mikela's acceptance. And half an hour coincided with official Company working hours: she must have answered me as soon as she sat down at her desk and logged in.

Hope springs eternal or what?

Following my winning formula, I was there outside Credit Control bang on twelve. Mikela met me with a winning smile and we made our way to the canteen, side-by-side (if, sadly, not hand-in-hand). Then, armed again with decent quality meals, we sat and conversed.

This time I held back on the yarns. Instead I asked hundreds of questions, wanting to know as much as possible about my new divinity, particularly her sex life. And I was gratified to hear men were such low priority they hadn't featured at all in the last three years.

'Not even one Cornish holidaymaker lapse?' I challenged.

'Not so much as a kiss,' Mikela said convincingly.

Result!!

*****

This is where I become aware I've been skimping on sex. That is to say I've mentioned lovers' trysts and the likes without going into any detail. And, conscious my pursuit of Mikela was, by my standards at least, painfully slow, I'm going to tell you a little about Thursday night with Joyce.

Eight on the dot, right?

Joyce lived in East Morton like me and spent almost as much time in the Busfeild as I did myself. She seemed to know every customer who came in through the door and didn't have any enemies at all (a miracle, considering her day job as "Sales Prevention Officer"). Everyone liked her. She was even on close terms with a gang of older bar flies who competed to tell the most outrageous tales.

That's where I found her at eight precisely: in the middle bar, listening to the most outrageous bar fly of all.

Joining them, accepting the pint of Landlord Joyce thrust at me, I did my best to get up with the story. It was based in Paris with thousands of Leeds United fans en route for the 1975 European Cup Final. At the time France had massive hypermarkets which were unparalleled in the UK. Indeed most of us in Blighty considered ourselves lucky to have a corner shop within a mile or three.

'All those aisles and aisles,' the bar fly said, a hint of madness in his eyes. 'Someone on our crew said there was a ton of alcohol in this store just down the street. He also said all the police were over in the far side of the city, busy battling with other Leeds crews, using water cannons, batons and teargas.