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Davina Does Christmas


By LimeyLady




Copyright Mark C Woolridge (writing as LimeyLady), 2017

Distributed by Smashwords





All characters and events in this publication,

other than those clearly in the public domain,

are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.





Table of Contents


Introduction

Chapter Eighteen - A Night at Ellie’s

Chapter Nineteen - Playtime

Chapter Twenty - Another Mild Confrontation

Chapter Twenty-One - Christmas Kisses

Chapter Twenty-Two - Lorna

Chapter Twenty-Three - Meryl

Chapter Twenty-Four - More Meryl

Chapter Twenty-Five - A Late Night Call

Chapter Twenty-Six - A Sinful Saturday Afternoon

Author’s Note

Other Books by LimeyLady






Introduction



Yes, it’s me again, Davina, here to give you the dirt on my life to date.


That sounds good, doesn’t it? It sounds as if I’m much more interesting than your average IT nerd; as if I’ve got a dark side and secrets to shock the world.


And maybe I have.


Now there are other stories circulating about me. Some of them were written by yours truly, some by ex-lovers of mine. Anyone who missed them is welcome to catch up, but please don’t feel as if you’re obliged. I’m going do my best to make this account self-contained; with any luck it will be readable on its own. I’m also going to be more explicit than I’ve been before because I have reached the point where I started to really enjoy sex.


Not that I didn’t enjoy it from the off, of course. I certainly did. It’s just that it got even better as I found the spirit of adventure inside myself.


Right then; a few more words about me and I’ll begin. These days I’m twenty-six and the proud owner of a lesbian gold star. While I have been compared to Velma from Scooby Doo, I also get mistaken for a bloke more regularly than I would like. That has a lot to do with me having very short hair, an ironing board for a chest and being commonly known as “Dave”.


And my fashion sense probably doesn’t help. I’m only comfortable in Docs, jeans and sweatshirts. It’s a rare day when I wear anything else and I haven’t been seen in a dress since primary school.


I must be doing something right though. I’ve had girlfriends aplenty.


Speaking of which, let’s go back to the first weekend of November, 2008 . . .



Chapter Eighteen



Sara got quite touchy when she found out I was housesitting with Ellie on Saturday as well as Friday. I very reasonably pointed out that her parents weren’t back until Sunday and that it would seem odd if I didn’t go the full mile . . . just as I had when Sara’s parents were away.


She frowned and scrunched up her nose but in the end had to agree I had a point. I just gave her my best attempt at a Mona Lisa smile and left it at that.


Privately I was full of admiration for Ellie. I’d challenged her to get us one night together and how had she responded? By dramatically overachieving, that’s how. You bet I was up for two nights with her. I would have stayed a whole week if she’d managed to wangle it.


My mum wasn’t so much touchy as suspicious. She hardly knew Ellie and believed I was in love with Sara (which I was, but not unconditionally). I had to patiently explain that Ellie’d had more boyfriends than hot dinners and that I was effectively on guard duty.


‘Ellie’s mum doesn’t want the house full of strange men,’ I told her. ‘She trusts me to keep all of them at bay.’


‘As long as Sara’s okay with it,’ she said finally.


‘Sara’s just fine,’ I assured her. ‘She won’t miss me at all.’


That was, I reckoned on Friday evening, a more accurate assertion than I’d thought. The eighteenth that night was at Oakwood Hall, not so very far from Sara’s home or mine. Not that we accompanied each other. Oh no, not that night. I did suggest meeting up first but she pooh-poohed me.


‘You go with your date,’ she told me. ‘And I might just surprise you.’


She did as well. When I arrived with Ellie, Jacqui and Roberta, Sara was already there on the dance floor, brazenly strutting her stuff with the captain of the football team . . . no, with the very male captain of the football team.


She’d dressed for the occasion too. I watched her a while, wondering how she’d poured herself into that slinky silver affair and if bits of her were going to pop out. Her dancing was, you see, energetic to say the least. Not that I was wishing a wardrobe malfunction on her.


Not much.


‘Sara and Ray, eh,’ said Jacqui. ‘Who’d have thought it?’


I tried not to think about it for the rest of the party but did notice the two of them from time to time. And they were first back onto the dance floor when the music slowed. They even got there before Ellie and me.


Valiantly, knowing whispers must whizzing about here, there and everywhere, I let Ellie take the lead and banished Sara and Ray to the Siberian quarter of my brain.


There, I crowed as I slammed a thick iron door on them, enjoy the salt mines. I’m going to get laid.


Ellie was as thick-skinned as me. Ignoring countless curious glances, we danced closer than close, our groins pressing tight as we shared scalding-hot kisses.


‘Tonight,’ she whispered into my ear. ‘I can’t believe it’s going to happen.’


‘I’m all yours,’ I whispered back.


The party wasn’t due to end until midnight but by eleven we could wait no longer. Not bothering to say any goodbyes we left and walked the few hundred yards to Ellie’s house. At that stage of proceedings Fervent Dave was starting to take over from Logical Dave, partly because I didn’t want to do logic and was pushing it determinedly away.


You are in an open relationship, I reminded myself. And it works both ways. Sara has every right to go with Ray tonight. Good luck to her.


And with that I really did banish my number one girl for the duration.


‘I’m looking forward to this,’ I told Ellie as we neared her garden gate. ‘I’ve wanted to strip your clothes off and kiss you all over ever since we met up.’


She laughed. ‘It’s me calling the shots, remember?’


‘Okay then,’ I replied. ‘I can’t wait for you to strip me and kiss me all over.’


She squeezed my hand. ‘Sounds like a plan.’



*****



I’m going to skim through the first couple of hours at Ellie’s. Suffice to say we went straight up to her room and she did indeed kiss every last inch of my body. And then I moaned and groaned and sighed while she went down on me seemingly forever.


Mmmm! Very, very nice!!


And that was supposed to be her first time with a girl.


Flipping heck, I thought, if this is her without any practice; if she can only improve . . .


Finally taking a timeout, she told me she’d modelled herself on a couple of guys who’d dared to try oral.


‘One of them got close but no cigar,’ she said. ‘I just did it properly, the way they both should have.’


Lying entwined with her, deciding it would soon be time for me to take a more active role, I took in the décor. Ellie’s penchant for black and white carried over to her bedroom. Even the photos on the walls were monochrome: photos mainly of short-haired blondes, including a young (and exceptionally hot) Annie Lennox.


The room was stylish but had an edge to it. Grinning, I wondered if her mum had noticed the absence of male rock stars and guessed Ellie’s taste for girls hadn’t just appeared overnight.


My room should be more like this, I lamented, recalling the PC screens and lack of any photos at all. I shouldn’t just be functional and conformist. I should put my stamp on it.


And Ellie’s bed was something else! I’d say it was a small double: nice and cosy for two people and way too big for one person.


‘Dave,’ she said out of nowhere, the hesitancy in her voice surprising me.


I turned my head and lost myself in her eyes.


Again.


‘What?’ I enquired.



Chapter Nineteen



If Ellie’s request took me aback the sight of her “toy” almost knocked me out. I could tell what it was, of course, even though I was no expert at the time . . . but it wasn’t at all what I expected.


‘Ellie,’ I gasped, ‘what is that?


‘It’s my beaded glass dildo,’ she replied. ‘Ace, isn’t it?’


The thing in her hand was shaped like a man’s penis but didn’t look like any dick I’d seen in all those unsolicited pop-ups. It was jet-black, had a distinct curve on it and consisted of half a dozen “beads”: five of them spheres of a similar size, the sixth a lot larger. The overall shape aside, no effort had been spent to make it authentic.


And it was long. I later found out it measured nine inches and wasn’t exceptionally large. It seemed to be massive right then, however. I shuddered to think about going . . . well, going inside me.


‘It’s more like something from a torture chamber,’ I said. ‘Sorry Ellie, but no way.’


Her grin faltered and her eyes went all pleading. ‘You could use it on me,’ she suggested, reversing the proposition of only moments earlier.


I couldn’t imagine even touching it. It might not look like part of a man but it was definitely designed to act like part of a man, and a big man at that. I was worried I might struggle to accommodate it. And, as if that wasn’t enough, I had heard all the horror stories about tearing and bruising.


What was more, even if I did the using I was worried about hurting Ellie. I couldn’t contemplate hurting a fellow female. Never could, never will.


And I was still a virgin that way (I still am when it comes to actual men’s parts; ones made of flesh and blood). Up until then I had been penetrated by nothing bigger than fingers and tongues. I had, of course, heard of a woman’s elasticity but I had no genuine grasp of the concept. Rather naively, I thought Ellie’s natural tightness would make her as unaccommodating as me.


‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated woefully.


‘Watch me then,’ Ellie urged. ‘I’ll use it on myself. Show you how it’s done.’


I couldn’t come up with an argument so I perched on the corner of the bed and spectated. And as far as spectacles go, it was a good one. My initial revulsion soon gave way to interest, fascination and a deal of excitement.


Ellie’s running commentary helped. At first she gave me random details such as her toy could be used heated or chilled. And that it felt good when she slowly rotated it, its curve making the beads stimulate her “in parts other dildos can’t reach”.


She took her time in inserting it too. For long enough I supposed she was content to have just two of the beads easing in and out of her (and rotating a bit while they were at it). Then she pressed on to three, four and ultimately all five of the smaller ones, using the largest one as a handle.


‘I feel so wonderfully full,’ she assured me, her voice little more than a gasp. ‘Omigod, I’m cumming!’


She wasn’t stopping though. She kept going a while then astonished me by changing ends, pressing the largest ball into herself, not penetrating so deeply, obviously focusing on an area just two or three inches inside her pussy.


‘This is the best,’ she almost wailed. ‘Omigod, omigod . . .’


I was still vastly in awe of the dildo but knew when my input was needed. Moving up the bed like a stalking leopard I waited over her, letting the latest contractions subside before tugging her hand away, taking the toy with it. Then I buried my face in her.


Now I haven’t mentioned this before, but I have feelings for every woman I’ve had sex with. And I am determined that, even when I’m kissing, telling and naming names, I am not going to do comparisons. In my little world comparisons are a big no-no. How childish is it to claim that Lover A can French kiss even better than Lover B, but Lover C is superior at sixty-nine?


Very, very childish, that’s how!


That much said I have to observe that, fresh from the large end of her dildo, Ellie was wetter than any other girl I’ve ever known. That includes Ellie herself, by the way. She set records that night; personal and possibly global.


So did I in eating her. The more she yelled and cried out, the hungrier I got.


It really was ace. I must have enjoyed myself more sometime since, but don’t ask me when that was. My head’s too full of specific memories right now; memories of her and what I’d just witnessed.


Happy days or what?



*****



I woke at maybe nine Saturday morning. At some stage we’d gone under the zebra-striped duvet but by then it was halfway onto the floor. Ellie was still snoozing on her side, facing me, her legs and mine interlocked.


‘Are you awake?’ I asked in my softest whisper.


No reply.


I let my thoughts wander as I stared at her relaxed face. The sex had been great but I was very much aware that I’d chickened. So much for that spirit of adventure of mine! Ellie had raised the bar and I’d been found wanting.


And it had looked to be such fun. She hadn’t been in the least violent with herself; she’d been gentle and tender, coaxing the orgasms, not forcing them in any way.


I’m not sure how well it has come across up to this point but I am quite competitive. All that swotting I did was so I would be the best I could be, which was usually the best in town. When I went climbing I was always nagging to try harder ascents. When I went walking I was the one who wanted to tackle just one more hill . . .


Chickening wasn’t in my nature. And, although I was legally virgo intacta, I’d always struggled to find my hymen. To be brutally honest I don’t think I ever had one. Or maybe I did and lost it through all of my youthful exercise.


In other words, I gradually convinced myself I didn’t have anything to physically tear and that I had to be just as elastic as the next girl.


Steeling myself, I rubbed my snub of a nose against Ellie’s dainty straight one. She stirred but did not open her eyes so I did it again. That time she chuckled and regarded me with those startling peepers.


‘Is it that time already?’ she asked, stifling a (probably feigned) yawn.


‘It’s not time to get up,’ I replied. ‘It’s time for me to woman up.’



Chapter Twenty



Call me a spoilsport but I’m only going to give abbreviated details about my Saturday with Ellie. I don’t want to be repetitive, you see. I also want to move on to new adventures. So here goes.


For an hour or two Ellie made love to me with her toy. Sheathing it with condoms because “I didn’t put it in the wash last night” she soon overcame the last of my fears. Yes, all of that endless yelling and shrieking I did had no connection to pain at all.


Seriously, I could not have had a finer teacher. If she’d been gentle and tender with herself then she was gentler and tenderer with me. She didn’t have to do much coaxing of orgasms, though. I started almost immediately and came at regular (embarrassingly short!) intervals throughout.


Or maybe it was just one continuous, glorious cum.


Afterwards we showered and breakfasted together, during which time it turned eleven o’clock. Smiling at me, Ellie suggested beers in the Suburban. Leering at her, I suggested she taught me how to best use a dildo on her.


And, thankfully, she decided back to bed was the healthier option.


Not that we spent all day pleasuring each other with toys. No, we pleasured each other in all sorts of varied ways. We even passed whole hours doing nothing more than kissing and stroking innocent bits of body: arms, legs, backs . . . you get my drift.


(As an aside, kissing and stroking is ridiculously underrated if you ask me. Anyone who classes them as merely foreplay is missing out big-time!)


We got up again around five-ish, showered and got ready for the Saturday night party. The problem of an evening meal was solved by Park Road Fisheries, who readily sold us fish and chips to eat out of the paper.


A blink of an eye later the party was over and, forgoing the late pubs, we were back in Ellie’s bed.


It was, we agreed next day, a weekend to remember. And it’s one I marked in my diary with a very big green tick and a couple of red circles. Thanks to Ellie I’d found a new avenue of fun, you see. Ever since then I have had a thing for dildos and there’s no sign of the novelty wearing off.


No, no sign at all.



*****



Sunday morning always seems appropriate for a lie-in but we didn’t linger. Well, we didn’t linger very long, anyway. Ellie’s parents were due back and she suspected her Dad would make sure they were home in time for the first televised football match.


‘It’s Scum United,’ she told me, using a local term for certain Lancashire rivals. ‘He reckons he hates them but he always watches when they’re on. And it’s a half-twelve kick off.’


I noticed Sara’s text while we were preparing a deliciously calorific fry-up. She wanted to see me in the Suburban as soon as possible. As there was no mention of meeting on the way I assumed it was Confrontation Time again.


No, I corrected myself. Last week it had been a confession, not a confrontation. Not that I could be so lucky a second time.


I texted Sara back without mentioning the exchange to Ellie.


“3 on the dot?”


Her reply was instantaneous.


“CU @ 3”



*****



I took care to arrive early. That time I was the one waiting for Sara with an opened bottle of Pinot and a couple of glasses, one of them already filled and half-drained.


‘Up there?’ she asked, indicating the elevated seating area.


I nodded and led the way, not fancying downstairs with all the football fans changing shifts in-between games.


‘So,’ she began when we were sat with full glasses. ‘Did you have a good time at Ellie’s?’


I nodded again, not liking her overly-cheerful front.


‘Is she as sexy as she looks?’ Sara persisted.


‘We had a good time,’ I conceded. ‘But I’m not going into detail. You wouldn’t like it if I went into detail about you, would you?’


Sara laughed and sipped wine. ‘Everyone’s talking about us, you know? They think we’ve split and I’m now with Ray. And that you are with Ellie, of course.’


‘Everyone will have a shock tomorrow, then,’ I replied, ‘unless you really are with Ray.’


(I added that rider because she had noticeably been “with” him on Saturday as well as Friday night.)


‘He’s shagged me,’ Sara said, blushing. ‘And I’ve shagged him . . . more than once.’


I can’t pretend I was surprised. Well, I was a little surprised about the use of “shagged”; usually Sara was as anti-swearing as I was. There were a lot of worse words she could have used, though, weren’t there? And the actual confession was hardly earth-shattering.


‘I assumed you would have,’ I said coolly. ‘Was it good for you?’


‘Yes.’


‘And are you and Ray an item?’


‘No,’ she assured me, ‘but I would like to upgrade him to my bit on the side.’


It was my turn to laugh and sip wine. ‘Poor old Alan,’ I said, ‘one night of sin and ditched already.’


‘It’s a long time until Easter.’ Sara blushed again. ‘And a bit on the side living over two hundred and fifty miles away isn’t much use, is he?’


‘Not when you’ve obviously found a use for men,’ I said tartly.


‘Precisely,’ Sara agreed.



*****



So, purely by chance, I avoided confrontation a second time. We amended our agreement in that we remained number one for each other and Ray usurped poor old Alan. Otherwise Ellie was confirmed as my official bit on the side and we both remained free to have one-off flings.


Not that either of us indulged in flings. For the next five or six weeks we concentrated mostly on each other, taking advantage of our mothers’ decision to let us “overnight together” on “one or two nights a week”.


Red letter days aside, my diary isn’t very extensive, but I would guess we overnighted ten times in that month and a bit. As far as the extra-curricular stuff went I (sadly!) only had outdoor sex with Ellie twice and Sara admitted to having sex in Ray’s mum’s car three times. And as I just said, one-offs simply didn’t happen.


Then December the twelfth came around and it was time for the Sixth Form Christmas Party . . .



Chapter Twenty-One



We’d been relatively good little girls for a while so Sara and I decided to go to the big bash separately. That is to say she went with Ray and, seeing as Ellie had set up a date with a sporty guy called Fran, I went alone.


(I wasn’t sad about that, by the way. I had no intention of being Billy No Mates. Oh no, my intentions were unspecific but I had mischief in mind.)


The good news was that the Sixth Form Christmas Party was legendary and simply everyone went to it. The bad news was that it was held in our common room and, being on school premises with some of the attendees aged seventeen or less, alcohol was verboten. We got round this by setting out earlier than usual and hitting the pubs down Main Street. All of them. And, needless to report, plans were in place to hit them all again later, on our way back up.


That’s how I found myself sipping Diet Pepsi at quarter to eight, listening to Noddy Holder yelling as loud as ever, “IT’S CHRISTMAAAAS!!’ and playing gooseberry to Jacqui and Roberta.


‘Look at them,’ Roberta said sniffily. ‘Aren’t they pathetic?’


I swapped puzzled glances with Jacqui.


‘I’m not with you,’ Jacqui said. ‘Who’s being pathetic?’


‘All the guys going round collecting Christmas kisses,’ said Roberta. ‘And the girls loitering near those bunches of mistletoe aren’t any better. Desperate or what?’


I haven’t described Roberta yet so here’s a snapshot. Most of my circle were ex-fifth form basketball players and consequently tall. At five-three Roberta was a bit of a shrimp but her figure was stunning and her tits could win prizes.


(All my friends had knockout tits! How unfair was that!!)


Roberta had a lovely ass too, but it was her face you noticed first; her face and her complexion. I had met her parents (a pale guy with ginger hair and a good-looking honey blonde with lovely brown eyes) and somehow they’d produced a compact Sophia Loren. There must have been some Mediterranean ancestry in one of their families, and I suppose Roberta was a throwback.


But flipping heck, she was hot.


I looked at her closely and suddenly my mouth was doing its automatic speaking trick again. ‘I hope I don’t seem pathetic,’ it said, ‘but I’m ready to collect my Christmas kiss off you.’


Maybe it was the self-confidence in my words but Roberta didn’t hesitate. She didn’t look for approval from Jacqui, either. She simply stepped forward and offered up her mouth.


Never mind Christmas, it was fireworks time. I’m not going to wax lyrical about all the sensations that I had; let’s just say she was an excellent kisser and preferred it passionate and steamy.


Logical Dave timed that kiss by music: the tail-end of Merry Xmas Everybody, all of I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day and well into Mary’s Boy Child.


‘Nothing pathetic about that,’ Roberta said as we eventually broke for air.


I was desperately trying to contain Fervent Dave, who had designs on her ass, tits and God only knew what else.


‘It was nice,’ I managed feebly.


‘Do I get one?’ Jacqui enquired.


She did; it would have been rude not to. So we snogged through Last Christmas, Do They Know It’s Christmas and only stopped when Lonely This Christmas began.


‘Anymore and I might do something you’d regret,’ she said, grinning at me.


‘I rather doubt that,’ I countered, returning her grin.


Leaving the two of them together (wishing one of them wasn’t there), I headed towards the “dry” bar, doing a mental toss-up. It was heads and a mild cold had kept Jacqui at home. Tails and Roberta had been kept away by a twenty-four hour bug . . .


Then an idea struck me smack between the eyes. If the guys could go round randomly collecting as many Christmas kisses as possible, why couldn’t I?


At this point I am going to enlarge a little. Sara and I were the first lesbians to go public. In our school year, I mean. Ellie had been next, closely followed by Jacqui and Roberta and a smattering of others. The reaction of our contemporaries was, quite frankly, amazingly positive. Oh I’m sure some dimwits slagged us behind our backs, but the vast majority couldn’t have been more supportive.


And inquisitive.


Yes, I’d had all sorts of individual approaches from girls asking scores of different questions, some of them deep and intelligent. But, opening gambits played, they all wanted to know the same one thing:


What’s it like having sex with a fellow female?


In the early days I tried to answer objectively. Heck, I even tried to describe feelings and emotions. As time passed and my experience grew, however, I became cocky and flirty. “Fancy a demo?” I’d reply. Or, “I’m game to show you how.” Now this was to supposedly straight girls, you understand. And I had not got my face slapped even once.


So why shouldn’t I chance my arm?


I mean what was the worst that could happen? They couldn’t kill me for it, could they?



*****



It was over an hour before I finally bought my second Pepsi and leant against the bar, taking stock. By then I had made at least a dozen approaches and still hadn’t been smacked. I had had some sort of a kiss on all occasions too, so if I counted a brief brush of lips, I could claim a hundred per cent success rate.


I grinned at that. I’d targeted straight girls only, casting around until I saw someone who was at least momentarily on her own. And then I’d pounced, playing the confidence card, not asking for a kiss but announcing I was “collecting my kiss”. Reactions had been varied but every last one seemed to think I was only claiming what I was due.


And some of them had been more forthcoming than others.


My grin spread as I swigged Cola and realized I’d left a greasy imprint on the can.


How many different transfers of lippy have there been tonight, I wondered.


If I counted girls prepared to snog for at least one of the DJ’s records I reckoned my rate to be around seventy-five per cent. And if I counted use of tongues, it would have been maybe fifty. Okay, so some of those straight girls had flinched at the use of tongue, but none of them had gone storming off. I had taken that as tacit consent.


I also took it to be very encouraging indeed.


I never have used handbags so had to tug a hanky out of my front pocket. A swift examination of the tissue confirmed I’d acquired a blend of at least ten lipstick shades. Not that the combination would win any awards. Even in the iffy light of the disco I could see it wasn’t going to give frosted apricot too many sleepless nights.


Chuckling, I had another swig of pop. My mirror-less wiping must have achieved because the rim of the can was now unmarked.


One-nil to cosmetic-free ladies!


I haven’t mentioned my little red devil, have I? I believe everyone has one but mine is as persistent as heck. He perches on my left shoulder (the one my lovers seem to love to chew) and whispers all sorts of nonsense into my ear.


“Do the rounds again,” he said wickedly. “You know there are curious straight girls out there, wishing you’d try them a second time. And who knows what they might try if you do!”


Accepting that as sound advice, I was trying to decide who to go for first. The permissive tongue girls seemed to be as good an option as any . . . or maybe the song-long kissers. Or perhaps some of the lip-brushers might have reconsidered and seen sense . . .


Then I saw her.



Chapter Twenty-Two



Lorna was, with the exception of Miss Williams, by far the school’s sexiest creature. She was my sort of height (five-eight) with a body to die for and tits that preceded her by a mile. And she was nice with it; not “up herself” at all.


She was also half of the school’s dream couple. I guess in America she would have been the state’s most prominent cheerleader and her boyfriend would have been the all-star quarterback. In Bingley she was just stunningly gorgeous and her boyfriend captained the rugby team.


I’m aware I earlier spurned “comparisons” but to heck with that; I’m going to make one. Ray, Sara’s new bit on the side, was about six foot, very well-built and as athletic as anyone could ask. His good looks and short blond hair attracted girls like flies round you-know-what.


By contrast Lorna’s guy, Steve, was six-four. His shoulders were wider than a double-decker bus and he must have weighed fourteen or fifteen stones without carrying an ounce of fat. Sporting opponents broke out in bumps and bruises just looking at him. I’m not a big fan of he-man blokes but, if I was in a bar and a fight erupted, I’d make sure I was on his side every time.


Yes folks, Steve made muscleman Ray look like the guy who'd get sand kicked in his face.


Yet suddenly he wasn’t there.


Don’t get me wrong, there were rarer sights than Lorna without Steve by her side. The Fab Four doing a 2008 reunion gig on the studio rooftop, perhaps; or maybe Lord Lucan riding Shergar to his second Derby win.


(For anyone who isn’t British or Irish, read JFK playing Khrushchev, best out of fifty-one at chess, live from Uranus!)


My brain did/does sometime behave like my mouth and go off unprompted. It did back then, seeing Lorna on her lonesome.


‘Hi,’ I said, arriving at the edge of the dance floor unannounced, ‘fancy seeing you all forlorn. Where’s Steve?’


‘He’s out the back.’ The stunner rolled her eyes. ‘Apparently they need to do some work on their set lineout for tomorrow.’


‘Apparently that leaves you free to give me my Christmas kiss,’ I countered.


Now Lorna wasn’t only tits, blonde hair and beauty; she had a real presence about her. I must admit my bravado was forced more with her than with all that night’s other approaches put together.


But I needn’t have worried.


‘Thought you’d never ask,’ she said before launching herself at me.



*****



What can I say, eh? Me and beautiful women! I can’t pretend it works every time but I have been blessed with more luck than I deserve. Me, a plain girl who looks like one of Scooby’s sidekicks . . . and not the blatantly sexy one at that!


Being philosophical, I reckon my boyish looks have a universal appeal. Straight girls like boys, yeah? So do bisexual girls. And okay, so perhaps fellow lezzies can be a bit pickier, but a lot seem to prefer butch to femme . . .


Never mind the whys and wherefores. Lorna snogged me like her life depended on it and you can bet I snogged her right back. Don’t ask how long or how hot. She went way beyond one or two DJ’s discs, up to five or six . . . at least. As for hot . . .


Think volcanoes, baby; think a trip to the molten centre of the Earth. See where I’m coming from?


Finally, regretfully, we parted.


‘Steve will be back,’ she said, gasping for breath. ‘Steve will be back any minute and I don’t have your number. Give it to me right now, this second.’


I may be an IT nerd but I knew how that social convention worked. I recited my number even as I got my mobile out. Lorna entered it as I recited and dialled as soon as I’d finished.


‘Gotcha,’ she said, saving the details.


‘Me too you,’ I replied, doing likewise.


‘Ring me,’ she said, looking around, passing her urgency on, infecting me with it. ‘Ring me later, when we’re both in bed.’


‘Worry not,’ said my mouth, ‘I’m your gal.’


‘You bet you are.’ She laughed shortly. ‘I guess you’re out for drinks after here.’


‘It’s a distinct possibility,’ I admitted.


‘So am I, but I’ll declare an early night. How does one o’clock sound?’


‘It sounds good.’


‘Promise me you’ll be in bed.’


‘I promise.’


‘Promise . . . Oh crap; here’s Steve.’


Steve had two rugby cronies with him. He was grinning and slapping folk on the back as he came (no doubt inadvertently breaking bones and dislocating limbs as he did so).


‘Got it sorted,’ he said to Lorna. Then, beaming at me, ‘Hi Dave; you’re looking good.’


‘I wouldn’t receive at three if I were you,’ I replied. ‘I’d stay at three and receive at five.’


Steve’s face had been in the wars over his eighteen years. It had permanent lumps in it and his nose must have been broken three times, if not more. He was ruggedly attractive, though, even I could see that. At my words his manly brow creased into a scowl.


‘Have you been discussing our tactics?’ he asked Lorna.-


She laughed. ‘Do I look like someone who knows what “receive at three” means?’


He turned back to me. ‘Dave . . .’


‘Stick at three and take it at five,’ I said cheerily. ‘Bye . . .’



*****



Back at the dry bar I bought yet another can and wondered what to do next. It was barely half-nine and I was nowhere near pulling. And, of course, I now had Lorna to call at one.


I shivered at the prospect. Up until then I’d had very little phone sex . . . and that was what I hoped and expected to have with Lorna. Something along the lines of the late-night calls I’d had with Ellie on several occasions.


Talking about Ellie . . .


I cast around without spotting her and concluded she must have gone somewhere a bit more private, to give Fran his “Chrissie present”. It was my turn to scowl. I hadn’t been to bed with my favourite blonde bombshell since our housesitting adventure; our more recent sex had been regrettably dildo-free.


Crikey, could I have done with that dildo right then!


I forced Ellie (and her toy) out of my head and resumed brooding. One o’clock was ages away. And my inclination to do the rounds again was gone. It seemed like too much hard work and I had that call to come anyway. Why waste the effort? Why not go to The Old White Horse instead?


Leaving the party early and alone wasn’t a concept that fazed me. It was a Main Street pub in Bingley, not The Bucket of Blood in Tortuga. Okay, it was Friday night, but even so . . .


Then I had another “I saw her” moment.



Chapter Twenty-Three



Meryl was as close as we got to an outcast in our tight-knit sixth form community. In all honesty she didn’t do herself any favours. She was a bright enough student but had no social skills at all. In fact she went out of her way to be rude to folk (or so it seemed) and answered friendly approaches with grunts and monosyllables. If ever there was a born loner, it was her.


So why was I struck by the sight of her, you may ask. Well, for one thing it was the first time I’d seen her at any sort of party. And for another she looked . . . different.


Normally Meryl dressed in a similar way to me and kept her medium-length hair tied back in a severe ponytail. That night she’d pushed the boat well out. Her usual ragged-kneed jeans had been replaced by a brand-new pair in very dark blue. Her trainers had given way to black leather ankle boots and, instead of a sweatshirt, she was wearing what looked to be the waistcoat of a man’s three-piece suit.


I liked that waistcoat a lot. It was jet-black, the front unreflective material and the back something silky and shiny. Best of all it left her arms bare, exposing lots of hitherto unsuspected tattoos: a full sleeve on her upper left and a fair old smattering of ink on her upper right.


She’d ditched the ponytail too, letting her hair frame her face in a spiky sort of a way.


Spiky like her personality.


True to form Meryl was there alone. She was sitting on a double chair in a clutter of furniture that had been pushed aside to make room for dancing. I was as sure as I could be that nobody was supposed to be sitting where she was, but I was not at all surprised. The girl wasn’t just alone in a crowd; she’d gone and cast herself away on a desert island amid the crowd.


Please don’t assume I felt sorry for her. I did, but only a teeny-weeny bit. No, my primary feeling was one of intense lust. I hadn’t previously considered her sexually but just then, with her edgy black hair and mostly black wardrobe . . .


Not to mention those F-me boots!


And her blood-red lips were eminently kissable. Mmmm, yum, yum!


I saw her as a challenge too; I freely admit that. There she was, sexy, abrasive and unsociable. And there I was, unexpectedly drooling over her.


On that night for me to think was to act. Without rationally considering what I was doing, I clambered my way through the pushed-aside chairs and tables and said hi.


‘Hi,’ she replied, not sparing me a glance, continuing to stare out over the dance floor but not seeming to be watching anyone in particular.


‘Mind if I join you?’ I asked cheerily.


She grunted so I took a seat beside her, taking care to get as close as I could.


‘I’m glad to see you here,’ I went on, expecting another grunt in response.


Instead Meryl looked at me. ‘Am I next on your kiss list, or are you just taking the piss?’


‘It’s the kiss list,’ said my automatic mouth.


‘Come get it, then.’


Well, I wasn’t going to say no, was I? Thinking I would be the cool, super-experienced one, I leant in and . . .


Wow!!! Meryl blew me away. How good was she? How good and how exceptionally passionate? She had me instantly reeling. Then, after maybe thirty seconds, she eased off. I almost wept but there was no need. Rather than backing away she suddenly switched the intensity up by times ten.


Confession time: that change of gear was too much for me. I came instantaneously and had to hang on to her to keep myself upright.


Trust me: a lesser mortal would have swooned like a Jane Austen heroine.


And still she kissed me. I endured it like a good ‘un, feeling myself building and building. Then, when I was closing in on cum number two, she abruptly stopped.


‘Happy Xmas,’ she said (pronouncing it Exe Mass), and abruptly turned back to the dancing.


It took me a while to steady myself and get some air back in my lungs. Eventually, having no intention of being summarily dismissed, I tried again.


‘You’re a heck of a good kisser, Meryl. Where did you learn to do that?’


Nothing in reply; not even a grunt.


‘No, I mean it,’ I persisted, ‘I could get accustomed to kisses from you.’


‘Are you still here?’ she said without looking my way.


‘You bet I am. I’m staying here until they kick us out.’


‘I’m not an easy leg-over,’ she announced, surprising me with her bluntness (although God Himself only knows why; “Bluntness” was her middle name).


‘Kiss me again and I will be,’ I countered. ‘I’ll be an easy leg-over, I mean. Kiss me like that and I’ll let you do anything you want.’


Meryl grunted.


Undeterred, I tried a new tack. ‘Are you going to Ralph’s eighteenth tomorrow?’


‘Not invited.’


Now I did feel sorry for her. I had invited everyone to my eighteenth and took it for granted everyone else did likewise. But Ralph evidently hadn’t. And maybe there was a reason Meryl was rarely seen out and about. Maybe she’d been blacklisted and I didn’t know it.


‘My invite is for “Dave and guest”,’ I said inventively. ‘Come as my date.’


That got her attention. Peering at me through her sharp, dark brown eyes she said, ‘Like I was your girlfriend for the night?’


‘Yeah. Exactly like that.’


‘Anything for the leg-over.’ Her laugh was bitter and abrupt.


‘Come on Meryl,’ I almost begged. ‘Give me a break. I’m asking you on a date because I want to get to know you. And yes, I’d like to have sex with you, but not at any price. I won’t even touch you unless you want me to. And you can do all the touching, if that’s what you prefer.’


She took a moment or two to absorb that.


‘You want to be my friend,’ she said at last. ‘And I get to decide how friendly we are.’


‘In a nutshell,’ I agreed.


She had another brief consider then came out with: ‘Say that’s a promise.’


‘It’s a promise.’


She nodded thoughtfully before saying, ‘Okay.’


‘Thank you,’ I gushed. Then, chancing my arm, ‘What about tonight? Can I buy you a drink on the way home?’


‘Have to be in by eleven. Sorry.’


‘Eleven o’clock on a night like tonight!’ I was shocked and couldn’t hide it.


‘I told Mum the party ends at ten thirty and I’d be in by eleven. If I’d said twelve she’d have been okay with it, but I didn’t. So it’s like a promise, see? I never break promises or try to change them at the last minute, so I can’t even ring and ask for an extension.’


That was far and away the longest speech I’d ever heard Meryl say. By her standards it was up there beside the Gettysburg Address.


(And yes, I know Abe only spoke for a couple of minutes.)


Well, you know me and how I tend to be with promises. I could dig that. ‘Let’s leave now,’ I said after checking the time. ‘You live in Poplar House, don’t you? We can grab a couple of drinks and be there for eleven, easy.’


‘Okay,’ she said again.


‘Come on then, let’s say our farewells and be off.’


‘I’ve none to say. I’ll see you outside.’



Chapter Twenty-Four



My farewells weren’t much more extensive than Meryl’s. One quick cast about the dance floor found Sara and Ray. By then the slow songs had started and it would have been an intrusion to part them. Ellie and Fran were scarcer still; I (probably correctly) guessed that Fran was getting something for the New Year as well as a Happy Christmas. And Jacqui and Roberta were seated with tongues quite clearly down each other’s throats.


Two more not to be parted, I wisely decided.


I was about to split when I spotted Lorna and Steve, sexy-dancing. Lorna had her head on Steve’s so-very broad shoulders but sensed me looking her way. She glanced up and raised a hand in a wave.


I raised my own hand and wiggled my fingers in goodbye sort of a way.


She responded by closing her fist and raising her middle finger . . . but not at all offensively. She was not giving me the finger; she was giving me a reminder.


I closed my fist and raised my middle finger in reply, signalling I hadn’t forgotten.



*****



I had assumed that by “outside” Meryl meant the cloakrooms. Consequently I had a moment of panic when she wasn’t where I’d expected. Grabbing my short leather jacket I hurried to the real outside . . . and drew in a big breath of relief.


Meryl was out there, wearing a black hooded cape contraption. On anyone else it would have seemed bizarre. On her it was ace. It even had a blood-red lining to go with her lips. She reminded me of those babes in Scottish Widows adverts and my self-lubrication was faster than fast.


Not that I was lusting over TV ads, you understand. Why should I do when I had a real-life babe within my grasp?


‘Permission to flatter,’ I said, ‘but how hot are you?’


‘Leg-over hot,’ she countered, surprising me yet again. ‘Shall we get under way?’


She obviously didn’t intend to take my hand so I took hers. When she flinched I squeezed and . . . one heart-stopping second later . . . she squeezed back.


It was a bit of a trek from the sixth form block down to the Keighley/Bradford road. Meryl seemed to be happy do it in silence but I’ve never done silences well myself.


‘So tell me,’ I said after perhaps fifty yards, ‘where do you go? When you’re out of a night, not getting home before midnight, I mean.’


‘Gigs,’ she replied, back in monosyllabic mode.


‘What sort of gigs?’


‘Rock.’


‘What sort of rock?’


For the first time Meryl smiled at me. And don’t ask me if she looked good for it. Put it this way, I could not contain that second cum any longer.


‘I love all rock,’ she said in blissful ignorance of the state of my knickers, ‘particularly glam and punk, hard and progressive.’


I had another look at her hair then I noted the eyeliner and finally twigged: ‘Joan Jett, circa 1980!’ I exclaimed.


‘Fuck that,’ she said, her language making me wince. ‘I saw her only last year, touring with Motorhead and Alice Cooper. Imagine that! Lemmy, Alice and Joan one after another!! I was masturbating for weeks afterwards.’ She laughed. ‘Lemmy and Alice even got the odd look-in.’


‘Joan still looks okay, then,’ I ventured.


‘Yes, but how she looks hardly matters. It’s her, isn’t it? I’d give her the leg-over without hesitation, no matter whether she was twenty or two hundred.’


‘Right,’ I said, somewhat diplomatically.


Then, aiming to move the conversation on: ‘Do you do local gigs?’


‘St George’s Hall is my second home. They only seem to get tribute bands nowadays, though, so I do a lot of Manchester and Leeds. And would you believe it! Suzi Q once did Myrtle Park! If I’d been born a few years earlier I’d have been there to kiss her feet.’


I’d heard of all these rock stars but was beginning to feel out of my depth. My toes were scraping on the tiled pool bottom. To be completely honest, I’d excelled myself with Joan Jett. Yeah, I knew Suzi Q by sight and guessed that Alice was that creepy guy who bit the heads off chickens. I was a lot surer about Lemmy. He drank a bottle of Jack Daniels a day and made my mum look like a teetotaller.


He’d be my sort of a guy, if I ever did guys.


Not!!!


As we hit the high road and turned towards town I changed subject. ‘Ralph’s party,’ I said. ‘I’m looking at it as a proper date. You do like girls, don’t you?’


‘Course I do. That’s why I jack off over the Queen of Rock ‘n’ Roll.’


‘Suzi,’ I hazarded.


‘Nah, she’s Leather Forever. Not that I don’t jack off over her too.’


‘What do you prefer?’ I added cautiously. ‘I mean when you’re with a girl and . . .’


‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said, cutting me off. ‘I know what you mean. I guess I prefer a bit of both. Not that I’m madly experienced, you understand.’


By then we were approaching the Shama and the curry smells were out of this world. ‘Fancy a quick vindaloo?’ I enquired.


‘It’s bring your own booze,’ she said, ‘and it’s too late to stock up. We haven’t time.’


Encouraged by her increasingly long replies, I tugged her to a halt. ‘Okay,’ I said, fancy another kiss instead?’


‘No.’


The certainty in her answer took me aback. ‘No,’ I echoed.


‘Not here.’ She jabbed her thumb to our right, indicating the parish church. ‘Let’s go somewhere more secluded.’


I wasn’t sure if she was objecting on religious grounds but “somewhere more secluded” sounded good to me. We walked on, passing inviting pub after inviting pub, never breaking our stride.


She’s a giver, I told myself. She’s definitely a giver and I’ll take all she’s got. One more kiss and I’m hers.


One more kiss and I won’t have a say in the matter.



Chapter Twenty-Five



Poplar House” might sound like a tower block but it’s actually a grid of terraced houses, most of them built in Victoria’s last few years. Being obliging, letting Meryl tug me past the last Main Street watering hole (Wetherspoons), we turned into the network of streets and backstreets. Picking one seemingly at random, she led me halfway down and took a left into a ginnel separating two tall terraces.


‘I thought here would do,’ she said.


I thought she was right. The ginnel was theoretically wide enough for a small car but so overgrown it was only passable on foot. Meryl was indicating a bit of house-end next to a would-be tree. The street we had just left was narrow; the sort that was seldom used by day and never at night. The street ahead of us was wider but un-adopted (else the Luftwaffe hadn’t stopped strafing it yet). It too seemed to be seldom used and we would be screened from it by the tree, anyway.


‘It’s perfect,’ I said.


‘Come on then, come and get what you’re hankering after,’ she replied, putting her back to the wall and holding out her arms.


I went to her with alacrity, chuckling when she enveloped us both with her cloak before nearly passing out when she kissed me more passionately than ever.


The expected intimate touch didn’t materialize. That is to say she didn’t touch me sexually. No, she contented herself by gripping my bum and pulling our bodies tight together. Then, when I was starting to wonder what was keeping her, she took my hand and drew to her breast.


Okay, I decided, if that’s the way she wants it . . .


Still kissing, senses swimming, I gently squeezed. And then, emboldened, satisfied she’d given me a green light I undid a few waistcoat buttons and let her spill out.


Well, she did spill out more than I ever could. In reality her tits weren’t so large. They were, however, very shapely and her nipples were hard enough to cut glass.


I honestly do not know how long I mauled her against that wall. I recall the urge to nibble and chew on her was massive. I also recall that my mouth was too busy with hers to be side-tracked. And, best of all, I recall her taking my hand again and leading it to her groin.


Her jeans were the sort with brass buttons instead of a zip. My fingers trembled as I unfastened them, and then trembled some more when she tugged them partway down.


Breaking our kiss for a nanosecond, she breathed one word: ‘Yes.’


I needed no urging. Dipping into her flimsy, damp panties I had a feel, finding very short, presumably trimmed hair and a very prominent clitoral hood. Well-practiced at that particular activity, grateful I’d been given extra room to manoeuvre, I set to work.


And Meryl’s kissing shot off the top end of the passionate scale.


Three minutes is all it took: two and a half on her hood and thirty seconds on her actual clit. And there was no question of her faking it. I could feel the mighty orgasm rushing through her; it was impossible to miss. So too was the bite of her teeth into that yummy left shoulder of mine.


Being a woman of the world I assumed she’d want more, so I simply kept going. She held back better that second time, lasting more like quarter of an hour. Her cum was stronger though, much stronger. The first one might have made the earth move for her but that second one was more like an asteroid impact.


Crikey, didn’t she cum hard!


Deciding a little penetration was in order I ran my fingers along her slit and . . .


Her flipping phone rang!!


‘It’s my ten minute warning,’ she gasped pushing me away.


I checked my mobile as she fastened herself back up. It was indeed ten to eleven.


‘Are we still on for tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Or have you had what you wanted?’


‘Tomorrow’s a must,’ I assured her.


‘What’s Sara going to say when I show up on your arm?’


‘I’ll sort Sara,’ I said, adding silently, somehow.



*****



Heroically forgoing the pubs and clubs I went home, shut myself away in my room and masturbated for at least an hour. What a night I had just had! Summoning images to help me on my way was not a problem. Neither was rolling on from one climax to the next.


My sexuality was fully awake by then, you see; my sexuality and an insatiable hunger.


At ten to one the alarm on my mobile rang. Grinning, I congratulated myself on learning from Meryl. It was a good trick that alarm-setting. It’s one I use to this day.


Self-congratulatory or not, that ten minute hiatus was uneasy for me. Still convinced phone sex was imminent, I felt guilty. How could I jump for one fling to another in a matter of minutes? And how come I could agree to date Meryl for two nights in a row? Flings were supposed to be one-offs, weren’t they? I had to be cheating all of womankind as well as just Sara!


Not that I considered dodging the call to Lorna. I’d promised, therefore it had to happen.


Just as I’d promised Meryl a date; logically that had to happen too.


I entered Lorna’s number with minutes to spare then watched the seconds tick away, pressing Send at one am precisely.


She answered midway through the first ring.


‘Punctual or what,’ she said in greeting. ‘I like that in a girl. Are you in bed?’


‘Yes.’


‘Are you naked?’


‘Yes,’ I said again, shivering ever so slightly.


‘And are you alone?’


‘Apart from my teddy bear, yes, I’m alone.’


(That was almost a fib; Ted had lived on top of my wardrobe for a few years by then, watching down on me as I slept and self-abused.)


‘What about you?’ I added.


‘I’m alone, naked and in bed. And I want to know what you’re doing this afternoon.’


Realizing it was Saturday already I answered automatically: ‘Rock climbing.’


‘Fancy climbing into my bed instead?’


All notions of guilt, loyalty and betrayal fled from me. ‘Say when and I’ll be there,’ I told her.


Lorna chuckled throatily. ‘One o’clock seems like our lucky time. One in the afternoon, I mean.’


‘Tell me where you live and I’ll be there on the dot,’ I said. Then, Logical Dave butting her snub nose in: ‘How’s it going to work?’


‘My parents are visiting relatives in Sheffield. They won’t be back until seven, at the soonest. Steve’s got his big match, so he’ll be out of the way as well. We can have three or four hours and nobody will be any the wiser.’


‘I’ll be there,’ I said yet again.


‘I’m wet already, just thinking about it.’ Another throaty chuckle. ‘There again, I should be soaking. I’ve been playing with myself for ages. Are you wet, Dave? Are you playing with yourself?’


Now that was more like a midnight chat with Ellie! ‘Yes,’ I said, a fraction of a second after clamping a hand between my legs (so I’d be telling the truth, understand?). ‘I’m playing and I’m wetter than wet.’


‘Glad to hear it. Now, are you going to tell me what you’re going to do to me?’


‘Do you mean before or after I chew your tits?’


‘Both.’ Lorna’s sexy laugh was even throatier than her chuckle. ‘Don’t hurry yourself, though. Take me through it slowly . . .’



Chapter Twenty-Six



I must have spent the best part of an hour ringing around on Saturday morning. After my mum had woken me with coffee and a gripe about the weather, that was.


‘Don’t come running to me if you break your neck climbing those rocks,’ she said. ‘The weather’s not fit for ducks.’


My first call was to Kelly, my main rock climbing buddy (the one whose parents I also climbed with).


‘Dad’s calling it off today,’ she said before I could make my excuses.


‘In that case I have a favour to beg,’ I said smoothly. ‘And don’t worry; I’ll make it worth your while . . .’


My second call was to Meryl. I liked her but was conscious she was a bit odd. And a girl didn’t have to be odd to have regrets, did she? I was afraid she might have changed her mind about Ralph’s. Again I heard what I wanted to hear without having to ask.



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