Davina in Lust

'"There's fuck all security," my mate concluded. "Why don't we just go in and help ourselves?"

'So that's what we did. We grabbed a trolley each and all six of us stocked up with high octane stuff; brandy, whisky and the likes. Then, ignoring the checkouts, we smashed our way out to freedom.'

The mad-looking bar fly laughed crazily. 'Best day of my life, in spite of the result. We're still in touch even now, all six of us. My mate reckons we invented Supermarket Sweep, decades before ITV.'

I laughed politely although I was cringing inside. Our allies from across the English Channel had stood by us throughout two world wars, suffering immensely. And what reward did they get? Leeds were up again a German team in that final and did those "service crews" battle with opposition fans? No, they robbed the host city's businesses and assaulted local security guards and officers of the law.

It was all before my time, of course, but sorry, Paris.

Reading my thoughts Joyce drew me to the other end of the bar, saving us both from hearing about a 1973 "battle" with nearby Burnley; a part of Lancashire that apparently had a history of not particularly welcoming invading Yorkies.

'He's not as bad as he sounds,' she assured me. Then, not waiting for me to comment, 'What are you after with my newest recruit?'

I chuckled at that. 'What do you think I'm after?'

'I think you're after something she's not ready to give. You do know she's straight, don't you?'

'I bet I know more about her sex life than you do,' I countered smugly. 'And no doubt about it, she is curious.'

'Promise me you won't hurt her.'

'Come on, Joyce, you know I'd never hurt a fellow female. Well, smacked asses aside, I wouldn't.'

It was Joyce's turn to chuckle. She knew quite a bit about Margot if not all the grittier facts. Personally she was an ex-hippie from a commune in Cornwall (her and Mikela, eh?). Even then, late spring 2016 and holding a quite senior position in a FTSE company, Joyce had a dress code of her own. She also had chains, bangles and rings in great profusion. Not to mention ear-rings and intimate tattoos.

Oh my, those tattoos . . .

Suddenly I didn't need another drink. Suddenly I only needed her.

'Come on, lass, sup your ale,' I said, setting an example. 'Let's go bounce those bed springs.'

Chapter Four

Now I had been sleeping with Joyce ever since my big break-up with that queen bitch, Philippa. She had witnessed Philippa storming out of the pub and she'd immediately befriended me. That is to say, previously we had acknowledged each other when our paths crossed but never got close. Not wasting any time after Philippa's exit she had told me break-ups were like falling off a horse; the best cure was to climb back on straightaway.

When I told her I wouldn't be climbing back on that bitch anytime soon she had laughingly assured me the individual horse didn't actually matter; it was the act of climbing back that mattered.

She'd proved it, too, taking me home with her and tenderly loving me throughout the night. I had gone home with her the next night as well, worried about all the black storm clouds over my dream cottage, gratefully accepting her sensitive, thoughtful attentions.

That was a while ago, however. By 2016 we were alternating, hers then mine, hers then mine. And, with both of us being a shade bohemian, we alternated roles. At her place I usually took the lead, at mine I let her have her way with me. Not that we'd written a rule book or anything. Whoever went first usually had around three hours in the sun before flopping. Then the initially submissive person would have maybe ninety minutes of control. And then, after an hour of shuteye, we would sixty-nine before sharing a shower and heading off to work, in a very civilized manner.

Yes, civilized and, in its way, very endearing. We had a connection you see; one cast in iron.

So away we went to my house. I poured two generous measures of dry white then followed Joyce's super-sexy ass up a steep and narrow set of solid stone stairs. Needless to report, she knew where my bedroom was. In no time at all we were in there, securely shut away from the world.

And no, I didn't think of Mikela at all. Not then, not with a youthful-looking babe sipping vino, eying me as if I was the most scrumptious sight she'd ever seen.

And yes, I was eying Joyce right back, convinced she was the most scrumptious sight I'd ever seen.

(I know I say that about all the girls but bear with me, please. Apart from that building society bitch, I have always retained some degree of love for all of my proper girlfriends, including one or two of the "ladies of the night". And don't expect another confession on that score; let's just say I'm easily led.)

'Take off your sweat,' Joyce commanded.

Putting my half-full glass on the bedside table, I obeyed. And, much as I'd like to say my tits instantly spilled out, I can't. As I indicated earlier, my chest is as flat as a board. My nipples are of a good size, though. They could have featured in men's magazines . . . if it wasn't for the rest of me.

'Even harder than usual,' Joyce observed (as if she couldn't have already noticed through the strained fabric of my company branded sweatshirt). 'Girl oh girl, I'm going to enjoy this.'

'Enjoy it without your blouse,' I countered. 'You're significantly overdressed.'

Depositing her half-empty glass next to mine Joyce unbuttoned and removed. And, because she had a nice pair on her, she was wearing a bra.

'Off with it,' said I, pretending to be Ming the Merciless.

Eying me even closer than ever, Joyce complied.

And yes, she spilled out in the most delightful way.

Not that I was jealous or anything . . .

In her mid-forties or not, I'd never seen a better pair on a twenty-year-old Page 3 girl. (Assuming there still are Page 3 girls. Honestly, being a techie I never bother with the daily press. Why pay real money to get newsprint on your fingers when everything is already out there and free on-line?)

'Trousers,' Joyce persisted, 'off with them.'

Hearing that always made me laugh. Joyce was nothing like the Queen of Hearts, but she demanded "off with . . ." just as often.

And I always complied.

With both of us having left our footwear on the mat in my kitchen I was by then trouser-less, down to white cotton ankle socks and a distinctly soggy thong.

As I intimated earlier, my wardrobe is nothing like Velma Dinkley's. An orange turtle-necked jumper and knee socks, a pleated skirt and Mary Janes . . . no way, José.

Not me. I'd die first. I had my working day uniform and varied it with denims and an unbranded sweat else a T-shirt when off duty. Knee socks and turtle necks never entered the equation.

'Okay boss-woman,' I said, 'off with your skirt.'

If you'd been expecting something floral and hippy you'd be disappointed. Work-wise Joyce could've modelled for whatever is business class's version of Vogue. Her skirt was dark charcoal, short and as stylish as could be, if a little too revealing. It was almost upsetting to see it get discarded.

Yes, almost but not quite.

Retrieving my wine glass I had a slurp and studied her. As it was, Joyce was still a little overdressed. She was wearing a suspender belt with dark nylons and black panties.

Okay, so maybe we had a more or less equal number of items left on us; hers were just infinitely more impressive when I compared them to mine.

Oh yes, the urge to order her to strip off those stockings was immense. There again, I liked the sight of them. And I certainly liked the feel of them on my bare body parts; make that on just all of my bare body parts.

I'd felt them before, you see . . . many, many times.

'Off with that thong,' Joyce directed.

Again I obeyed and, without waiting for further instruction, I swigged the last of my wine and spread myself obligingly on the bed.

'Come on, boss-woman,' I enticed, 'give the girl what she wants.'

Finishing her glass of white Joyce began with my (non-existent) tits. Or, rather, she set upon my nips in a big way, paying lashings of attention to the surrounding areas, flat as they were. As always, she went on a goodly while, managing to excite me in ever bigger ways. Fuck me but wasn't she skilled!

I guess that's what three years in a free-loving commune does for a girl: a guy one night, a girl on the next two nights. Yes, God being a woman after all, there were always more girls than boys.

Next, perversely, after kissing, licking and sucking my chest, Joyce kissed my mouth. She also kissed all the rest of my face, hair, eyebrows and ears. She kissed my stub of a nose as well, saucily running her tongue-tip along it, her hands still busy on my nipples.

Knowing what was coming next, I climaxed.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not on a hair trigger and Joyce isn't entirely predictable. But she varies her attention from one area to another, switching every time. I never know how she's going to start but two sets in and I invariably know "what happens next".

Or did I?

To my astonishment she slid her sexy, partially nyloned person down my appreciative body without any sign of calling in on my pussy. Instead she homed in on my white ankle socks and . . .

It's strange to admit it, but having my feet chewed and sucked through cotton was wildly erotic. So too was the sensation of my by then wet socks coming off and individual toes getting direct treatment.

I kid you not, Joyce paid lengthy, lavish attention to all ten digits and I must have cum five times at the very minimum.

Only then did she home in on my pussy.

Omigod, she was better than best. Never mind patiently awaiting my turn, I could take her lips, fingers and tongue on me there for ever and ever.

Amen.

Chapter Five

That's enough of the most sexually skilled ex-hippy in the world for the time being; back to Mikela.

There was no need for emails on Friday; we had arranged in advance to go to the pub to celebrate an end to the working week. Getting in first, playing "hostess", I bought both of us a few pints of Landlord and a round of roast chicken sandwiches.

'I'm Mikki, by the way,' Mikela told me between pints one and two. 'I don't use it at work, but all my old schoolmates always call me that. I'd like you to call me that too.'

Heartbeat rising, I assured her I'd never think of her as anything else.

'What are you doing this weekend?' Mikki went on.

I said (quite truthfully) I was going rock-climbing and invited Mikki along. Mikki declined, saying she'd break her neck in no time at all.

'What about hill walking?' I ventured, sensing some outdoors spirit in her, risk of broken bones or nay.

'I've done some and I like it,' she admitted, 'assuming you mean "hills", not mountains.'

Gift horse in the mouth or what! 'I'm hill walking up in the Lakes next Saturday and Sunday,' I gushed eagerly. 'Please come with me. I've got transport and everything. And I'll guarantee booking separate rooms, naturally.'

'Is there a crowd of you?' Mikki wondered.

'No,' said I, holding my breath and crossing my fingers, 'just me. And, I sincerely hope, you.'

'Are we talking hills or mountains?'

'We're talking hills on Saturday, very titchy mountains on Sunday.'

'And you'll remember I'm straight?'

'Mikki darling, however could I forget?'

*****

Elated by the prospect of next weekend, unable to wait another seven days, I did my climbing before ringing Mikki late Saturday afternoon, saying I had survived without breaking anything and asking if I could call in on her to share some wine.

To my utter delight Mikki immediately said yes, with no hesitation whatever.

Was she bi-curious? You bet she was. Never mind dodgy gaydar, by that stage in proceedings I was picking up signal after signal.

Wanting to make an impression, I made a detour to a garden centre and bought a dozen red roses. I also detoured to ASDA to buy three bottles of wine. Both sets of offerings went down well. Indeed I thought Mikki was going to burst into tears when, with a suitable flourish, I presented the flowers.

We spent the evening on Mikki's settee, sipping vino and watching soppy films on Sky. I did risk a bit of a matey cuddle but daren't try for more, even though Mikki seemed up for anything.

Softly, softly, I regularly reminded myself: softly, softly, catchee monkey.

All three bottles down, well over the drink-drive limit, I did the decent thing. In other words I rang a taxi firm and left Maxine 2 parked up outside Mikki's.

'I'll come collect her in the morning,' I told Mikki. 'And don't worry about me waking you up. I will be in and out like the SAS; you won't even know I've been.'

To my astonishment, and to my great gratification, as we waited there in the hallway, out of the blue Mikki kissed me. Struggling to keep Fervent Dave shackled, I kissed back almost demurely.

And I haven't recently mentioned Fervent Dave, have I?

For new readers please let me enlarge. I have four alter-egos: a little white guardian angel, a little red devil, Logical Dave and Fervent Dave.

Think Hergés Adventures of Tintin stories for the angel and devil. Their roles are obvious: the angel without fail recommends caution while the devil invariably supports a totally different approach.

Logical Dave is an extension of the angel except, as her name implies, she uses pure logic instead of a sense of right and wrong.

Fervent Dave is something else. Forget diabolical influences, she just wants to fuck every female who crosses her path . . . and not just once in a fleeting, ten minute session of passion.

Hopefully you can see what I was up against. Given her head Fervent Dave would have . . .

Well, she'd have given a lot more than just head.

And Mikki wasn't ready for anything mild, never mind the female equivalent of Errol Flynn.

Consequently I chained Fervent up in my deepest dungeon and somehow stopped myself returning a hot, hot embrace with even half of the vim Mikki was injecting.

Party-pooping or not, it seemed to be the right thing to do.

Later, much later, when we at last broke for air, Mikki told me (possibly tipsily) that she wasn't ready to share a bed, not yet, but she was up for messing about in the B&B shower.

Omigod, how promising was that! I was hardly trying, holding back in a very hot kiss, respecting Mikki as best I could . . . and suddenly there she was, wanting to mess about in a shower!

Joyce would accuse me of all sorts if I let on. Needless to say, I had no intention of letting on. Far as I was concerned Joyce could wait until the shower was a done deed. She could moan about morals . . . or should that be scruples . . . later.

As if she had morals or scruples herself.

Stressing this as essentially true, I really would never hurt Mikki or anyone else. For me "hurt" means emotionally as well as physically. If I had any doubts I'd keep Fervent locked away and turn the other cheek . . . no matter how badly I wanted Mikki, I would never do her harm.

But messing about in a shower . . . how harmless was that.

How harmless and how incredibly alluring.

And it wasn't as if I'd suggested it, was it? That had come out of Mikki's supposedly pure imagination.

'That's fine by me,' I said, grinning like a great white. 'But I have been known to have ten showers a day.'

'Looks like we'll be messing around a lot, then' Mikki replied perkily.

Trust Bingley Taxis. They turned up right then, bang on time, before I could ask for a definition of her version of messing around and, even sadder, before Fervent cast off her chains and showed her how kissing really should be done.

'See you Monday for lunch,' I said as I got in the cab. 'I'll be there, waiting for you.'

Chapter Six

Never mind Monday, we lunched together all five days of the working week, wishing our lives away as we waited for Saturday. Even Friday in the pub seemed tedious. Clocks were running backwards and calendars made no sense at all.

Then, finally and hallelujah, the long awaited day dawned. I picked Mikki up at six thirty, as agreed, then Maxine 2 magically transported us north and west. Traffic was there but not over the top. I was happy as could be and we both sang along with the car radio, Mikki more tunefully than me.

(That's right; I am as good as tone deaf. My version of singing would have gone down well in the 70's or early '80's, maybe with the Sex Pistols. Then, in 2016 . . . well, put it this way, Adele had nothing to worry about.)

Cutting to the chase I'd booked us in to a public house in Troutbeck; my plan was to walk three miles uphill to The Kirkstone Pass Inn, the third highest pub in England, dine there, and then yomp back to our digs.

That covered Hill Day. I had other plans for Sunday but, aware of the gradient going up the Kirkstone Pass, initially kept mum about them.

A girl could have too much of a good thing, right?

All was going well in the world. We made great time under mostly blue skies with rain nowhere to be seen, my singing accepted if not truly appreciated. Then we arrived at our destination and the wheels fell off our wagon.

'Ah yes,' the receptionist began, 'bad news: there's been a burst pipe in your room, Dave. It won't be habitable again until after the Bank Holiday, meaning next Tuesday at the soonest.'

Gutted, afraid I'd be accused of somehow engineering the incident . . . also aware we wouldn't ever find anywhere else with two rooms available at such short notice . . . I got a little snotty.

Unperturbed, the receptionist offered to refund half my money and said we could share Mikki's room. Reluctant to even look at Mikki's reaction, I asked if there were any other spare rooms.

And perhaps my snotty attitude paid off. Checking her ledgers, the receptionist told us there was only the best room, which we could have if we shared and I accepted a reduced refund. She explained that she was imminently expecting a regular guest who didn't know which room he was getting.

'He knows we'll always put him up,' she enlarged. 'And he's had the best room often enough.'

Still unreasonably guilty, I would have bickered but Mikki pulled me aside. 'It's share or back home,' she said, sounding like Logical Dave. 'And if we're going to share we might as well have the best.'

Girl oh girl, wasn't that best room something! It even had a genuine, old-fashioned four poster bed.

How I wished we could ditch our uphill trek and spend the rest of the day in that bed.

But we couldn't, obviously. Most I was going to get was a shared shower. Steeling myself, I chucked my overnight bag into a corner and announced it was time to hit the trail.

*****

Trust me, that hill walk was a steep one, surrounded by mountains, many of them fringed with fluffy white clouds. Otherwise the sky was still clear and the sun beat down on us.

'Where is it?' Mikki kept asking, referring to our destination.

'I think it's round the next corner,' I kept replying, crossing my fingers behind my back, knowing that it was a way to go yet.

But eventually, ultimately and at last, we got there. Mikki, perhaps being sincere, perhaps overcome by a dose of sheer relief, insisted on buying, saying I'd paid for the room, even if I'd got half a refund.

I'd actually got a third of my money back but, unable to come up with an argument, I bagged a table outside and waited.

'That's Helvellyn over there,' I said when Mikki returned with frothing glasses, pointing. 'Fancy a race to the top?'

'Show me how it's done,' Mikki replied. 'I'll stay here and drink your beer for you.'

Walking back downhill, exercising a completely different set of muscles, I confessed I was currently twenty-six and had never had a boyfriend. I also made it plain that my last regular girlfriend was off travelling again and wouldn't be back. (I did so mentioning Kat's name and precious little else about her apart from my three time rule.)