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Davina Again

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


Chapter Nine - Sleeping With Sara

Chapter Ten - Miss Williams

Chapter Eleven - Coming Out

Chapter Twelve - Friday Night

Chapter Thirteen - Ellie

Chapter Fourteen - Saturday Night

Chapter Fifteen - More Ellie

Chapter Sixteen - Confrontation

Chapter Seventeen - Bye For Now

Author’s Note

Other Books by LimeyLady


Hi it’s me again, Davina, although I hope by now you’re thinking of me as “Dave”.

As introductions go, this is going to be a short one. For anyone who missed the story of me losing my virginity, I’d have you know I’m currently twenty-six and often get mistaken for a bloke. I’m also tired of being depicted as a boring IT nerd so (quite shamelessly) I’m regaling you with tales of my escapades with girls. That’s purely in the interests of broadening horizons, of course. The fact I’m basically a slut has nothing to do with it.

Well, not much.

Boring and boyish I may be, but I have plenty of girl-on-girl tales to tell.

And I may be flat-chested and boyish, but I am by no means butch. Equal opportunities . . . that’s me to a T!

Because I’m kind and considerate, I’m going to try to make this latest selection a self-contained story (with emphasis on “try”). If you want to read more about my earlier adventures then please, feel free. But you really don’t have to.

Be like me and live for the day.

Okay, that’s enough of the foreplay. Let’s get back to October 2008 and the joys of the upper sixth.

Chapter Nine

My five days and nights as Sara’s housemate were fantastic. I simply cannot use any other word to describe them. I’ll give you a general outline but it can’t begin to do justice.

Nothing could do justice to the intimate bits . . . or so I believed at the time.

Yes, the sex was utterly, totally, absolutely mind-blowing. And we had tons of it; tons and tons. From the minute we woke to the minute we fell into sated sleep we hardly ever stopped. It was very highly addictive and it kept getting better and better.

Wow, didn’t it just!

The bad news was that school got in the way of our bedroom gymnastics. We had to be there all day Friday, Monday and Tuesday. Tuesday marked the end of our idyll and the temptation to bunk off was simply enormous (even though I never bunked once in my entire school career). Eighteenth birthday parties on the Friday and Saturday nights also got in the way, and I never thought I would say that!

And I had to work in the Spar on Monday evening!

Greek gods couldn’t have conspired to mess us about more. Jason and the Argonauts never had it so tough.

Okay, so I’m exaggerating. But every second out of her home was lost to us forever.

Dirty dancing, snogging and being a checkout girl suddenly seemed tame compared to the things we could do in her parents’ double bed.

Those precious moments alone together were so, so hot!

Other obligations aside, we spent most of our long weekend practicing cunnilingus and mastering the art of sixty-nine. And believe you me; our skills came on in leaps and bounds. From clumsy, fumbling amateurs we were soon up in porn star class.

Honest to God, I am not joking with that last statement. Confidence breeds success, right; every bit as much as practice makes perfect.

And how practiced did we get after all those hours of rehearsal! It’s fair to say we weren’t just perfect, we were tongue-tip perfect. I’m shivering at the memory as I write this.

Yes, those five nights were hot all right.

We even taught ourselves how to control our orgasms. Instead of cumming randomly, at the drop of a hat, we began to hold off longer and longer, building and building, higher and higher. Please don’t get me wrong; I had no problem with cumming at the drop of a hat, but dragged out climaxes were ace.

Especially the ones that were really, really dragged out.


In case you’re wondering we declared Monday to be laundry day, cleaning all the cum-stained sheets and remaking the double bed, leaving the master bedroom as we’d found it. Then we proceeded to stain the sheets of Sara’s single during a particularly passionate last night together.

(Fortunately, like me she did her own washing; we were able to stash the evidence in her basket, under a mound of other soiled items.)

Then we faced up to reality. For me it was another evening behind the checkout at Spar, followed by a lonely night back at home, alone in my own bed. Sara didn’t even have Spar to look forward to. She did, however, have one or two irons in the fire . . . starting with a “family weekend away”.

And yes, she did drop that on me out of the blue.

I stared at her over the breakfast table, nonplussed. I was aware she had a family fortnight coming up at Easter (I secretly had hopes she might wangle her way out of it, leaving me free to housekeep with her again). But a having a whole weekend away . . . and the coming weekend at that . . .

‘Hastings,’ I said, ‘who on earth goes to Hastings in October?’

‘King Harold did,’ Sara said smartly.

That threw me off track a bit. ‘Was the Battle of Hastings in October?’

‘Yes it was; on the fourteenth, to be precise.’

‘Well,’ said I, ‘he wouldn’t have been sending cheery postcards home, would he? It’s far too late in the year, even without an arrow in your eye.’

Flushing a little, she explained. Easter was being spent in their parents’ timeshare in Lanzarote. They had had the timeshare for ten years or more, as had their holiday next door neighbours and their own family. Friendships had long since been made and both sets of parents had grown close. More to the point, this Saturday was Alan’s eighteenth birthday party and they’d all been invited.

‘We’re picking Jenny up on Friday,’ Sara told me. ‘It’s almost impossible to prise her away from uni so I can’t back out. Mum simply wouldn’t let me.’

‘Alan,’ said I suspiciously. ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’ve know him over ten years and he’s like a brother to you.’

‘It’s nothing as corny as that,’ she protested. ‘He’s a friend, that’s as far as it goes.’

I wasn’t happy and I didn’t appreciate the way she blushed whenever she mentioned Alan’s name, but what could I do except grin and bear it?

‘Looks like I’ll be partying this weekend on my own,’ I concluded grumpily.

‘Watch out for Ellie,’ Sara replied, ‘she’s got the hots for you, young lady.’

Chapter Ten

There was one good thing about being back home: I got a full night’s sleep for the first time in about a week. I was, therefore, quite relaxed at school on Wednesday morning; relaxed and unprepared to be asked to stay behind after registration.

Still in my chair I watched our form teacher, Miss Williams, close the door behind the last of my class, wondering what I could possibly have done wrong. In keeping with my very boring reputation I’d never been in any sort of trouble and my grades were all as healthy as ever. So whatever could it be?

Miss Williams was about thirty and taught sports. I’m a bit iffy with descriptions so, to give you an idea as to her appearance, I’ll just say that my male schoolmates called her “The Sex Kitten”. Not that she looked like a young Brigitte Bardot; if you ask me she was more like a young Audrey Hepburn, and so very athletic with it.

A young Brigitte or an athletic Audrey, eh; now there’s a choice to keep a girl tossing and turning all through the night!

‘This is off the record,’ she began, sitting opposite me on a desk, swinging her feet as if to prove she had energy to burn.

‘What have I done?’ I asked, fascinated by her eyes (they were liquid brown and even sexier than her nickname).

‘Nothing too serious,’ she replied. ‘Not that I’m aware of, anyway. I’m just slightly concerned by all the rumours flying about.’

‘Rumours about me?’

‘Yes, Dave; rumours about you, for the first time ever. I usually ignore the grapevine, but I can’t let this pass me by.’

I suppose I’d sussed it was going to be lesbian gossip right from the off, even though I really had been perplexed. I couldn’t dig the problem, you see. In England the lesbian age of consent is sixteen, same as it is for everyone else. And I was two years older than that. Heck, I was old enough to get married off my own bat, without needing permission from anybody . . . as long as I got wed to a bloke.

(Yes, same-sex marriage was still out in those days. Only eight years have passed but, looking back, they seem like the Dark Ages!)

Applying some of my famous logic I suggested Miss Williams could run her rumours by me. ‘I’ll let you know what’s true and what isn’t,’ I promised.

She smiled at that and I felt a strange flutter in my tummy.

Sex kitten, I thought, not half!

‘The first one is that you and Sara Clarke are more than just friends,’ she said, purposefully.

‘We are lovers,’ I replied candidly, ‘so that’s bang-on.’

Miss Williams smiled and my fluttery tummy was more noticeable than ever.

‘The second is that you’re living as man and wife.’

‘I wish,’ said I. ‘We’ve been housesitting while her parents were in New York. They’re back now and I am home again. And I object to the “man and wife” bit. We’re equal partners and men don’t come in to it. Not that anyone’s to know what we get up to together.’

‘Rumours are like Chinese whispers,’ Miss Williams said, smiling yet again. ‘They make me think of a butterfly flapping its wings somewhere along the Amazon, causing hurricanes in Africa. One tiny kiss is all it takes.’

‘I agree one tiny kiss can lead to all sorts,’ I said, still fascinated by those liquid eyes and that smile.

‘Do your parents know?’

‘I’m not altogether sure,’ I replied after some consideration. ‘My mum’s asked a few vague questions but she’s not come right out with it.’

‘What about Sara’s parents?’

‘I’m pretty sure they don’t suspect anything.’

‘Are you going to tell them?’

I shrugged. Sara and I had been sneaking about and hadn’t discussed confessing. Being sneaky had been instinctive; I don’t believe confessions had even occurred to us. ‘It depends how serious we get,’ I muttered.

‘Remember this is off the record.’ Miss Williams smiled wider than ever. ‘But I was in a similar position when I was your age.’

‘With a girl,’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes Dave, with a girl.’

‘Wow,’ said I, ‘lucky girl, whoever she was.’ Then, seeing laughter in my teacher’s eyes as well as sex appeal: ‘Sorry Miss. I was taken aback. I’d never have guessed.’

‘I was actually nineteen and doing my Sports Science degree,’ she told me. ‘I made the big mistake of going to my local uni. Well I would, wouldn’t I? It’s always been a bastion for sports and I wanted to go to the best. Sadly, I got carried away with the bohemian atmosphere.’

She shook her head, holding my gaze, shrugging prettily. ‘Cutting a long story short, I never imagined racy rumours on campus could get back to my old folk. But they could and did.’

‘Oops,’ I said with feeling.

‘It wasn’t so much my sexuality as me not being prepared to tell them.’ The teacher’s perpetual smile had grown sad. ‘My mother didn’t speak to me for a year. By then my dad had passed away. He’d got cancer and it wouldn’t go away. It turned out to be terminal.’

I gulped and said “sorry” or something just as pathetic and useless.

‘I was there at the end,’ said Miss Williams, ‘after the big reconciliation with Mum. But Dad was out of it by then. He couldn’t have known the two of us sat and watched him go.’

Leaning towards me, she asked, ‘Do you think your parents will kick off about your sexuality?’

‘No,’ I said automatically. Then, after thinking it through: ‘No, I don’t think they’ll even be surprised.’

‘Then don’t leave anything to chance. I know a lot of kids don’t speak to their parents these days but some of them do. And parents do speak to parents, don’t they? Rumours can spread like wildfire. If I were you I’d bite the bullet and do it as soon as possible.’

Chapter Eleven

I normally spent my free lessons in the sixth form library, swotting. That Wednesday, for no particular reason, I went into the common room, finding it quiet as a grave compared to breaks and lunchtimes; quiet and almost deserted. I spotted Ellie straightaway. She was sprawled out on one of the imitation-leather bench seats, surrounded by English books.

‘To be or not to be,’ I said, grinning. ‘Is that the question?’

‘Not in this play it isn’t,’ she replied. ‘I’m reading Othello.’

I shrugged at that. Shakespeare wasn’t required reading for IT nerds; Othello was out of my comfort zone by zillions of miles. ‘Wasn’t he the wife-murderer?’ I ventured.

‘He was a victim of racial persecution.’ Ellie returned my grin as she cleared a space beside her and patted the cushion in invitation.

I joined her and was surprised when she immediately put an arm around me.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she said. ‘I was just about to abandon Venice for the Australian bush.’

‘Sounds like a good idea to me,’ I said, not objecting to her one-armed cuddle.

‘Not in the book I have to read it isn’t,’ she countered. ‘It’s on the syllabus and it’s hard going. I haven’t even read it all the way through yet. I was expecting shootouts with Ned Kelly, not a load of boredom, doom and gloom.’

I decided not to ask who had written the book. It obviously wasn’t Stephen King or Douglas Adams. And, come to think about it, I didn’t know any Aussie authors except Nevil Shute.

Well, maybe Nevil Shute. I had a sneaky suspicion he might have originated from England.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Ellie went on, giving me a matey squeeze, ‘we can discuss Friday and Saturday without being snooped on.’

‘Can we?’ said I.

‘Yes. Sara’s asked me to look after you while she’s away. She’s warned me to keep my hands off you as well, but I didn’t properly hear that bit.’

Now I haven’t tried to describe Ellie before, so here goes. Like most of our regular circle she was tall, perhaps scraping five foot seven. Looks-wise she reminded me of Miley Cyrus in short-haired blonde mode, except with bluer eyes and bigger tits.

Her face could weaken knees at fifty paces.

Needless to report, Ellie had guys sniffing around her all the time. In fact that morning was one of the few times I’d seen her without a crowd of sycophant admirers.

And she wanted to discuss Friday and Saturday.

What’s more, she made it sound as if we were going out on a couple of dates!

‘I’m really looking forward to this weekend,’ she assured me. ‘With any luck I’ll be the subject of next week’s rumours.’

That was too much innuendo for me. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘but aren’t you a straight girl with a massive collection of male scalps? One who uses and discards blokes like Zsa Zsa Gabor? Or are you a twin sister of Ellie’s I didn’t know existed?’

‘I’m a grown woman who isn’t afraid of her sexuality,’ said she. ‘And I don’t mind admitting it; I’m very jealous of all the admiration you two have been getting. I want my own day in the sun.’

‘Admiration,’ I echoed.

‘Yeah; every girl who’s ever had a crush on her best friend is wishing she’d had your balls.’

That flattered me and almost, but not quite, shut me up. ‘Tell me again what Sara asked you to do?’ I prompted, intrigued.

‘She asked me to be your minder, and to do whatever it takes to keep you out of mischief.’

Ellie’s were the second set of hypnotic eyes I’d been ensnared by that morning (and it was barely nine o’clock!). What was happening to me? And come to that, what was Sara up to? She’d been warning me to watch out for the blonde beauty only yesterday.

Hmmm, I thought. Interesting times or what!


I caught up with Sara at lunchtime and she was, to say the least, evasive. In other words she agreed with Miss Williams’s advice without demur, but hedged like billy-o when it came to Ellie.

‘So define “mischief” for me,’ I demanded. ‘And explain how Ellie’s going to keep me out of it.’

‘Mischief’s anything more than a dance and a kiss,’ she said without hesitation. ‘And Ellie’s got carte blanche to save you from yourself. I trust her with that; she’s very resourceful.’

Getting a Wednesday night date out of Sara was a darn sight easier than getting her to explain why she was suddenly pushing me and Ellie together. In the end I gave up trying and agreed to meet her at seven in the Suburban, by which time we would have both come out of our closets.


In theory I had nothing to fear. I’d been telling the truth when I said my parents probably wouldn’t be too surprised. Knowing that and actually confessing to them were, however, two very different kettles of fish.

Going home with my supposedly determined head on, I dithered and dawdled, trying to pretend I had nothing on my mind. That fooled my mum for perhaps ten minutes (she was making a cottage pie and engrossed with carrots and peas; otherwise it would have been more like ten seconds).

‘Davina,’ she said at length, ‘either stop hanging around my kitchen or make yourself useful and pour us some wine.’

I opened the fridge to find three bottles of Sauvignon (which doesn’t officially go with a cottage pie but who cares? The French think we English are food and wine heathens anyway). One of the bottles had already been opened. I emptied it into two glasses.

‘So,’ Mum continued, ‘take a pew and tell me all about it.’

I sat at the pine table, slurped vino and said nothing.

‘It’s as bad as that, eh?’ Mum laughed. ‘Come on Dave, spill the beans.’

I stared at the table top and wondered where logical me had gone. Whatever Mum’s reaction (be it surprise, anger or amazement), I wasn’t going to be physically hurt over this revelation. As one of the lads in my form said whenever someone was in deep trouble, “Chill baby, they can’t kill you for it”.

‘There are rumours at school,’ I mumbled, never once looking up. ‘I thought you ought to know.’

Mum took a seat opposite me and elegantly sipped her wine. ‘What sort of rumours?’

‘About me and Sara,’ I whimpered.

‘Do you mean about you being more than just friends?’

I hadn’t expected her to be so blunt but, still staring at that slab of pine table top, I said, ‘Yes.’

‘And are you more than just friends?’

‘Yes,’ I squawked.

‘So where’s your problem,’ Mum said without hesitation.

I lingered long enough to squeeze tears out of my eyes. Then I finally looked in my mother’s general direction.

‘You really don’t mind?’ I bleated.

‘Why should I mind? Sara’s a lovely girl.’

I slurped more vino and wondered why my eyes were leaking so badly. It had been years since I last cried; years and years.

No, I’m being honest here: I slurped more vino and wondered why I had such a wonderful mother.

‘Does Sara’s mum know?’ she enquired.

I glanced at the retro kitchen clock. It was five fifteen . . . or as good as. ‘She should be baring her all anytime now,’ I said. ‘Hopefully her mum will be as understanding as you.’

Mum coughed at that and, steeling myself, I looked her in the eye. And I saw nothing but kindness and love.

(At this point I must apologize to everyone who has come out to shame and ridicule. I feel for you my sisters. How lucky was I? Okay, my revelation was never going to really shock anyone, but it couldn’t have been easier. And it certainly couldn’t have been more civilized.)

‘I’ll ring Carole a little later,’ Mum said.

I nodded dumbly. “Carole” was otherwise known as Mrs C or Mrs Clarke, Sara’s mother.

‘We’ll need to agree things,’ Mum continued brightly. ‘You are grown women and have needs. I’m not going to come out with “not under my roof” or anything like that, but I’m also not going to let you sleep together every night. Not with A-levels in the offing.’

Did I just say everything was easy and civilized? Mothers, eh? They try to help as best they can but still make you feel as if you are five years old. Or maybe only three . . .

Chapter Twelve

And so we come to Friday evening. Sara’s parents had collected her as school let out and set off in a southerly direction, hoping to make the M1 before the rush hour. I had headed for home . . . after first assuring Ellie that I would see her in The Old White Horse at seven on the dot.

I meant her and half a dozen other girls, of course. Not that she seemed to care about the others. The way she was talking! It was all “us” and “we”!!

Walking down Park Road, passing the end of Sara’s turning, I felt a teeny twinge of guilt. I loved Sara and we’d only just properly got together. How could I be going out, playing while the cat was away?

And how could I have been playing with myself so often over the last couple of nights?

I haven’t confessed much for a while so I’ll balance the books, shall I? Sometime in the early hours of Thursday I’d woken from a very sexual dream. Even though I’d snapped right out of it the details were already obscured. All I knew was that it hadn’t involved Sara.

No, it had involved Miss Williams in . . . and mostly out of . . . her sexy tracksuit.

Well, her and a certain friend of mine.

Still massively aroused, trying to think thoughts about my official girlfriend, I began to masturbate. But it was no good. However hard I tried to picture Sara she kept being superimposed by my form teacher and Ellie. Her face wouldn’t stay in my mind’s eye longer than a few seconds; nor would any other bits of her, not even her tits.

We were not having a threesome. Well, I’m reasonably sure we weren’t. I believe it was more a case of bodies and faces morphing from one lover to the other. That is to say I did my best to picture Sara but the other two kept elbowing her out of the way.

In the end I gave up and focused on Miss Williams. Then, after a simply colossal cum, I did it again and focused on Ellie, eventually cumming even harder. And then, at last, I was able . . . more or less successfully . . . to focus on Sara.

The early hours of Friday saw almost exactly the same sequence of events.

What’s got into me? I wondered as I negotiated Main Street that evening.

As questions go it wasn’t a bad one. Up until Sara’s party I hadn’t seriously, sexually looked at women I saw in real life. I’d never mentally stripped my girl friends or imagined going down on someone I saw across a crowded bar. I’d reserved my baser urges for actresses in videos and some of the models in glossy magazines.

Only fantasy people featuring in my fantasy world, you could say.

But now I was seeing potential in every adult female who crossed my path . . . and sometimes I was bringing myself off in line with that potential.

Especially the kittenish ones in sportswear . . .

How wicked was I!

How wicked and, as I got nearer to the White Horse, how nervous!! My knees were watery and I had that fluttery tummy again.

It’s not a date, I told myself sternly. It’s just another eighteenth with the same old faces.

Isn’t it . . .


Ellie was at the bar when I arrived. She greeted me with a hug and air kisses.

‘You’re looking good,’ she assured me.

I laughed. I was in Docs, blue jeans and a black and white sweatshirt, makeup-free and looking much as always. She was mostly in black: knee-high boots, a short skirt and a teeny-weeny leather jacket over her low-cut blouse. To be fair she’d used minimal slap and lippy. If anyone mistook her for a tart at least it would be an expensive one.

‘You’ve scrubbed up well yourself,’ I replied.

The night’s gang was as good as assembled in various parts of the pub. I spotted a dozen or so gals and four guys, all of them busy doing groundwork. That is to say the guys were doing their best to do the groundwork, with differing degrees of success.

‘We’re sharing a taxi with Jacqui and Roberta,’ Ellie advised me. ‘It’ll be here at half past so time your drinking accordingly.’


The party was at another pub; it was three or four miles out of Bingley and seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. Despite its location it had a good reputation and was one of those places that had phases when it was suddenly “the” venue to go to. We split the cab fare four ways then made our way directly to the function room, where celebrations were already in full swing.

‘The place is buzzing,’ Ellie said, taking hold of my hand. ‘Now there’s to be no sneaking off from your minder. And get the drinks in. I’m parched.’

Ellie had bought me my glass of wine back in the White Horse so she was correct in suggesting it was my round. Leaving Jacqui and Roberta in a round of their own I bought our first drinks out in the wilds. Then Ellie bought us our next and on we went.

It was soon clear my super-sexy minder was going to follow Sara’s instructions to the letter. She even came with me when I went to the loo. That was A-OK with me. I might have been seeing some of my schoolmates in a new light just lately, but I had no intention of doing anything rash.

Well, not unless the opportunity arose with a blonde in black.

It was another of those occasions when groups formed, split and reformed. I have no memory of who we chatted with or what we chatted about. Shoes and ships and sealing wax, as likely as not. All I am sure about is that Ellie wasn’t as flirty as usual. Or rather, as far as predatory guys went, she wasn’t in the least bit flirty.

She saved all her flirting for me.

That was how I read the situation, anyway. And who wouldn’t? If we were standing in a knot of fellow students she behaved herself. If we weren’t every other thing she said was a double entendre.

A dance and a kiss, I kept reminding myself. That falls short of mischief, apparently, so why not?

As luck would have it, Ellie was setting off for refills when the music slowed. I caught her arm and told her to ditch our glasses.

‘I’m allowed one dance and a kiss,’ I said, ‘if you don’t mind taking the lead with the dancing part. And assuming you’re even remotely interested.’

She was. Getting rid of our empties in no time at all she took my hand and led me onto the floor. ‘Let me teach you a few moves,’ she grinned.

I laughed and took hold of Ellie’s shoulders while she put one hand on my waist and the other on my lower back. Then she was leading and I was following and she seemed like the best dancer the world had ever known.

Okay, I keep saying things like that about everyone I dance with. But Ellie was exceptionally good. It was easy to move with her, easy to let her hips do all the guiding. It was easy to press my groin tight to hers, too. And it was even easier to kiss her.

Well, I had to take the lead in something, surely, so why not that?

And it was oh . . . my . . . GOD time again. In fact it was oh . . . my . . . GOD time to the nth degree. I had never experienced anything remotely close to it. My head wasn’t so much whirling and swirling; it was on its way to exploding.

The passion was mutual. The harder I kissed her, the harder she kissed back, our tongues going at each other like Errol Flynn duelling at his swashbuckling best.

I can’t speak for Ellie but I came in my panties before the end of the first song.

Well, that was it for us as far as the party went. Yes, I did determinedly stick to the one dance, one kiss rule . . . I just made sure that both went on for over an hour.

Of course that hour flashed by. Before I knew it the smooch music had stopped, overhead lights had been switched on and Jacqui was telling us our taxi was on its way. Then she grinned at me.

‘Pink Afterglow probably isn’t your best colour,’ she said, indicating my lips. ‘Would you like a tissue?’

Chapter Thirteen

We split the fare as usual and the cabbie left us on Bingley’s Town Square, debating what to do next. Jacqui was, I noticed, holding Roberta’s hand. It seemed that somewhere during the evening they had become an item. Or perhaps they’d been sneaking about for ages and I’d been too wrapped up in my own goings on to figure it out.

‘I’ve had enough to drink,’ Roberta said to Jacqui. ‘I want to go for a walk in the park.’

‘Okay,’ Jacqui said without a second’s pause for thought.

‘You’ll get assaulted in there at this time of night,’ I warned.

‘I think Roberta wants assaulting,’ said Ellie, sniggering, ‘if you know what I mean.’

‘It’s Myrtle Park, not Central Park,’ Jacqui said to me. ‘The muggers and rapists here are cowards. I’ll soon sort out anyone who gets in our way.’

I checked the time while the new young lovers walked off towards the Arts Centre. ‘So what’s it to be,’ I asked, ‘The Ferrands or the Mid?’

Ellie pulled a face. ‘What about a couple before last orders in Spoons?’

I had to agree that wasn’t a bad idea. Wetherspoons shut at midnight and the bar staff were notorious for clearing the decks within ten minutes. The other “late” pubs would still be booming when the doors to Spoons shut. And we did have another late night coming up on Saturday . . .


If I’d been coming out of Spoons on my own I’d have turned right and gone back down Main Street, towards Park Road. That night (at 12:10 precisely), because I was walking Ellie home, I turned left. Ironically, heading straight for her house was a more direct route to my own. It did, however, involve scaling a mountain known locally as “Ferncliffe”.

I have two points to make here. Firstly, climbing is one of my hobbies; I’ll tell more of that a little later. Secondly, Ferncliffe isn’t really a mountain; it’s one of Bingley’s major roads and it is very, very steep. I’d rather scale a sheer cliff face any day.

Hand-in-hand, we hauled ourselves ever upward, at last reaching her turn-off which was practically at the top of the hill. ‘Same again tonight?’ she asked as we stopped for breath.

‘But of course,’ I replied before kissing her again, acting impulsively, “rules” never entering any of my equations.

And that time was even more explosive. Every last rational thought fled from my head. Come to that, almost all my thoughts fled; all of them apart from one.

‘Where can we go?’ I asked urgently.

Ellie didn’t hesitate. She’d obviously been in this situation before. She was also equally obviously as up for mischief as me.

‘Don’t say anything,’ she instructed, ‘don’t even whisper otherwise we might be overheard.’

The alley was on the opposite side of Ferncliffe to Ellie’s turning, more of a staggered junction than a crossroads. Actually it was more of a narrow, walled track than an “alley”. It clearly led to somewhere; I could see lights perhaps fifty yards away. Just as clearly it was the sort of track that hardly ever got used by vehicles.

And hopefully it would only be used by us at that time of night.

Ten yards in and Ellie grabbed me, putting her back to the wall and pulling me close. Our mouths had scarcely met when my hand landed on her bare thigh.

Ellie gave a grunt of approval through her nose.

Encouraged, I slid my hand inwards and up inside her skirt, onto her pussy. Wasting no time I began to rub her, letting the damp fabric of her knickers add to the sensation, feeling the tension in her build at a rate of knots.

If she hadn’t cum earlier she did then; and violently at that.

Even more encouraged, I slid my hand higher, stopping when it met her waistband and immediately dipping it back down into her panties.

And omigod, she was shaved as smooth as a baby’s bum! There was no groomed landing strip, no stubble . . . nothing!!

Bypassing her clit, I pushed two fingers along her slit, drew them back then, without as much as a by your leave, penetrated her. She bit into my shoulder and began to buck her hips, which was just as well. My hand was in an awkward, almost cramped position; I would have struggled to give her the vim and vigour she seemed to need.

The location was, in my opinion, far more secluded than the places I’d used near Sara’s home (not that I let Sara into my logic just then!!). But it was brand-new to me and therefore a big unknown.

What I’m trying to say is that, slim as it may have seemed, the possibility of being caught in the act added enormously to the occasion.

And that time Ellie took ages and ages to cum. Indeed at one stage I started to think it wasn’t going to happen. Not that I ever considered calling it a day. It was very much a case of I’ve started and you are going to finish.

Eventually, yonks later, she did.

Quite spectacularly.


Back across the road at her turning we kissed once more, leisurely this time, almost coolly.

‘That was brilliant,’ Ellie assured me. ‘I want to sleep with you.’

‘That could be tricky,’ I replied (in Logical Dave mode). ‘With us both still living with parents, I mean.’

She pulled a face at that and muttered to herself. Then, brightening up again, she said, ‘That’s not the case forever, is it? One of these days . . .’

Maybe my expression gave something away: a guilty conscience as likely as not.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘Sara’s not to know. Okay, so she’ll soon find out we have been dancing and kissing, but that was allowed, wasn’t it? What you did just now is our little secret. I will never tell, not even if threatened with red-hot irons.’ She chuckled before adding more seriously, ‘I’ll never forget it, either. Tonight’s been wonderful. A date with you is better than a date with any guy I’ve ever dreamed about.’

‘We’re still on for the Saturday night party then,’ I said, somewhat wryly.

‘You bet we are. I can hardly wait.’

Chapter Fourteen

In full nerd mode I spent Saturday afternoon rock climbing (I think I mentioned before that I’ve always liked outdoor pastimes). Now don’t assume I was preparing for an assault on Everest. It was more of a development in tastes. As a young girl I’d enjoyed football, basketball and (not for very long!) rugby. Then, as a teenager, I’d dropped the team games in favour of long-distance walking.

Yes, I know . . . I know; how boring is that! I hear you cry. All I’ll say in my defence is that we are over-blessed by Mother Nature in my part of the world. To the south we have the beautiful Peak District. To the north we have the incomparable (and expanding by the minute) Yorkshire Dales. And, not so far off to the north-west, we have the amazing Lake District.

The Pennine Way passes close by as well.

And if moors are your thing we have them in abundance, from Emily Bronte’s Haworth Moor to Mary Jane’s Ilkley Moor (baht ‘at!), with dozens of others in-between.

Trust me, anyone who loves being outdoors, breathing clean air, seeing wonderful, quite spectacular scenery and drinking fine ales could not find a better place. Yorkshire is known as God’s Own County and I for one are ready to allow our neighbours to share that glory.

(Writing this I can’t decide which I prefer between Cumbria and Derbyshire. Hey, I’m even getting a bit weepy about a few parts of Lancashire!)

Walking is a great social activity but I needed a thrill as well as exercise, hence the climbing. That was what I believed when I first started, anyway.

At the current stage of my ramblings (please excuse the weak pun), I’d been climbing for six months or so. Nowadays I venture far and wide but then I was pretty much a novice, so it was Ilkley Moor and the easier climbs in Rocky Valley for me.

Well, for me, three friends from the upper sixth and one of them’s mum and dad (said parents being vastly experienced with cliff faces and extremely patient as teachers).

It was another afternoon well-spent. The weather was exceptionally glorious for late October and the fresh air and exertion certainly cleared the cobwebs from inside my head.

Then, recharged and revitalized, I set off for a much less healthy night out.


That time Ellie greeted me in The Old White Horse with a real kiss, not an airy-fairy one. Already fully accepting that my reputation was trashed, I returned it in spades.

(That last sentence is misleading, by the way: I never had a reputation capable of being trashed.)

The set up was much the same as Friday except there were more of us sixth-formers scattered here and there about the pub. The eighteenth that night was Mark’s in East Morton, you see. And the eight o’clock bus literally passed the Horse’s front door.

With the benefit of hindsight I’d say none of us were doing A-level Economics. Taxis would have been cheaper if we’d gone for those people-carrier things. But we never even considered it and, when the 727 pulled up at Morton Bus Shelter, two dozen of us spilled out like thirsty passengers piling off the stagecoach in Deadwood.

Some of our number headed directly for the village pub, which might have been fractionally nearer than Morton Memorial Institute, the party venue. Or maybe it wasn’t. Whatever, Ellie had hold of my hand and she pulled me across Main Road and into the celebrations.

The Institute has, I understand, been significantly modernized of late. I Googled it the other day and was impressed by what I saw. Back in 2008 it was relatively rough and ready. But we were students and Mark had an affinity for the place, so it didn’t matter if it was a tad basic.

The bar worked well enough; what more did we need?

Between you and me, I couldn’t wait for the slow music to begin that evening. Ellie was exceptionally provocatively dressed. She had ditched the knee-high boots in favour of heels and what looked like nylon stockings . . . all in tasteful black, of course. Her skirt was shorter than ever and, although her teeny-weeny jacket hadn’t been replaced, her latest low-cut blouse was almost unbuttoned altogether.

Not that I was complaining about her appearance, you understand.

Okay, so the sight of her was drenching my knickers, but I certainly wasn’t complaining.


As it transpired we only smooched for twenty minutes. Then Ellie was saying something about fresh air and dragging me outside. I had, you may recall, already had plenty of fresh air that afternoon. Ellie was up for more mischief though, that was only too obvious.

And so was I; that was even more obvious.

Perhaps needless to report, I didn’t resist. In fact I may have been the one doing all the dragging.

The Institute’s front door opened onto Main Road. We took a left followed by another and went along a ginnel, past a crowd of smokers and onto Morton Rec. Yet another left took us past the rear of the building and an elaborate children’s play area, into darkness.

Oh yes, my brain went. Oh yes, yes please!

Morton Recreation Ground is quite large. It is also very uphill and down dale. Legend has it that there used to be a full-sized men’s football pitch on it. Legend also has it that the pitch was anything but flat. Apparently guys taking corners on one wing were five yards lower than their targets’ feet.

From where we were walking that was easy to believe. I was conscious of tightly-packed contour lines and couldn’t image there being room for a hundred metres track at the top, never mind a full football pitch. Not that I dwelt on the issue too much, you understand.

Not with all sorts going on in my head.

The jabbering, insistent mantra: Oh yes please, Oh pretty please yes!

And mixed with it, quite rational thinking . . .

It’s rumoured that the local pub team went on amazing unbeaten home runs because of their playing surface. I tend to accept that as fact. There might be more uneven strips of grass in places like Nepal and Peru, but there can’t be so many in England.

Pretty, pretty please!

‘Here,’ said Ellie, her voice husky, ‘this will do.’

I quickly examined our surroundings. We’d rounded the steepest bit of hill and the Institute was now hidden out of sight behind us. Ahead was a high dry stone wall marking the Rec’s boundary. To our right there was a stretch of steep hill, leading up to that long-gone football pitch. To our left there was perhaps twenty yards of downhill and a small but dense growth of trees.

Two minutes’ stroll and we had isolated ourselves.

My night vision had kicked in by then. I had another glance around. House roofs were visible over and beyond the trees but I couldn’t see any windows, so nobody that way could see me. I could easily see the Busfeild Arms, though. It was brilliantly lit and had smokers outside, some of them standing under a massive “smoking umbrella”, others sitting on benches.

(To the right of the pub I could also make out part of the cottage that would one day become my first non-rented home. Unaware of that eventuality, content we weren’t in its line of view, I dismissed it as not currently relevant.)

‘We’re out of sight in the shadows,’ said Ellie. ‘And the grass couldn’t be drier.’

I had to agree with that. There hadn’t been any rain in the last fortnight and the ground was solid, as proved by her smooth progress in heels. And a swift feel proved that the grass was indeed dry. It was short too; it must have recently had its last mow of the year.

Isolated and hidden in the shadows. What more could a girl ask for?

I grabbed Ellie and kissed her fervently. She accepted my attentions a moment then sank down onto the grass, pulling me with her.

Now Logical Dave should have been worried. What if one of those Busfeild smokers had the eyes of a barn owl? What if the grass was dewy after all? Had Ellie checked for dog doings?

Fervent Dave didn’t waste time on such trivia. She pushed Ellie onto her back, making sure she was lying with her head on the upslope . . .

And then she ravished her.

Chapter Fifteen

I can’t begin to tell you how good it was being Fervent Dave. And I can’t remember enough of all the nitty-gritty details to give you a blow by blow account. Here’s the abridged version instead.

I unbuttoned Ellie’s blouse, quite skilfully removed her bra and set to work on her tits. After maybe half an hour of that, still nibbling and chewing, I put my hand on her thigh.

And omigod, the feel of nylon under my fingers! Trembling, I traced a line upwards, swiftly confirming she was in stockings and not the dreaded tights.

Not that I’d really expected tights; it was just nice to know for certain.

Ellie moaned and sighed as I examined the straps and followed them up to her suspender belt.

Oh good, I thought, she’s put her knickers on over the straps. I don’t have to undo anything fiddly.

Sighing harder than ever, she lifted her bum, enabling me to remove her rather wet panties, sliding them down her lovely, shapely, stockinged legs and over her heels.

Then I got my face into her fanny and ate and ate and ate.

Everything about it was great, from my first real taste of her to her endless cries and begging for more and more. Don’t ask me how many times she came or how good it was to feel her contracting around my fingers and tongue. All I know is that the number was exponential and sensations were out of this world.

That is to say the overall sensations were out of this world; every time she came they got better.

Blowing my own trumpet for once, I must say I’d placed her just so. From a lower elevation between her legs I had perfect access and she was able to flex and twist and thrust up to meet my mouth. And, even if the details are now hazy, there are some things I will never forget:

Ellie’s tiny squeals punctuating her never-ending stream of moans and sighs;

The sleek feel of nylon brushing my cheeks as I licked her stocking-tops and the inch or so of smooth bare flesh above them;

The juices leaking out of her faster than I could gobble them up;

The way she kept trying to grab my too-short hair;

The way she gave up with my hair and grabbed my ears, using them to pull me even closer for every cum;

My own cums, rocking-horse dropping scarce compared to hers, but there all the same . . .

Yes, between us we’d got it just so.


The weather that day had been glorious but the night did get chilly. Not that I noticed until late on in proceedings, when I paid a return visit to Ellie’s boobs and found them to be like frozen melons.

‘Why didn’t you tell me,’ I said, scrabbling around for her bra.

‘I didn’t notice I was cold until you pointed it out,’ she replied, ‘and you don’t have to stop yet, do you?’

I’d located her bra and was trying to suss how to put it back on her. I was also suddenly aware that it was very quiet. Wondering where the time had gone, I looked towards the pub.

Oh bother, it was virtually in darkness. Only ten minutes ago it had been lit up like a Christmas tree. Or was it a little more than ten minutes ago? Was it hours and hours?

According to my mobile it was half past midnight. I got Ellie to check her phone too, thinking mine had malfunctioned. But no, her time-check coincided with my own.

‘I never hear car doors or anything,’ I said as Ellie redressed herself. ‘And why didn’t we notice when the disco in the Institute shut down?’

‘I didn’t notice because I was cumming like an express train,’ she replied. ‘And I doubt many people drive home from this pub. It’s too risky drinking and driving these days, isn’t it?’

I called Bingley Taxis as we walked arm-in-arm back towards the very obviously closed Institute. ‘We must have been out here for three hours,’ I said after closing my call.

‘Three very satisfactory hours,’ said Ellie. ‘I’ll have to repay you sometime very soon.’

The cab arrived as we got back to Main Road, before we made it to our agreed pickup point at the bus shelter. Quarter of an hour later we were safely deposited at the top of Ferncliffe, having what I had intended to be a goodnight kiss.

But Ellie’s hands were roving; they didn’t seem to believe the night was over.

‘Hey,’ I said as she rubbed me through the crotch of my jeans, ‘we’re in full view.’

‘Yes,’ she said provocatively, ‘and you’re one of those super-butch girls who doesn’t want to take any of her own medicine. Not ever and never, never, never in full view.’

I bit at her words. I suppose that, up until then, some part of my brain had believed if I touched while remaining untouched I was, somehow, not being altogether unfaithful. By that I mean some part of my deep subconscious. As you are already aware, the rest of my brain hadn’t been working properly ever since school finished on Friday.

But now, accused of being a “type” . . .

I grabbed Ellie’s hand, tugging her across the road and into last night’s narrow track. This time it was me putting my back against the wall.

And this time I popped open the top button and unzipped my jeans. Then I took hold of Ellie’s hand again and showed it where I wanted it to go.

Afterwards Ellie told me I was her first girl; that before Friday she hadn’t even sneaked a kiss. Well, if that was true she was certainly a fast learner. I wasn’t massively experienced myself just then, but it seemed to me she knew what she was doing all right.

Didn’t she just!

She hesitated only once, as her fingers entered my panties and encountered my bush of pubic hair. It was not a reluctant hesitation. No, it was a taking stock sort of a hesitation. After two seconds and a sharp intake of breath she was burrowing away, finding my clit with ridiculous ease.

Again don’t ask about orgasms. They were legion and by two o’clock I was still left wanting more. All fastened up again, back across the road having another goodnight snog, I told her she’d been simply brilliant.

‘I still want to sleep with you,’ she assured me. Then, probably mirroring something she’d seen on the Internet, she sucked her fingers and said, ‘Yum, yum.’

My mouth moved without engaging my (dormant) brain. ‘How’s this for a deal,’ it said. ‘If you can find a way to wangle us a night together, I promise you I’ll be there and I’ll be all yours.’

Ellie frowned. ‘How am I supposed to do that?’

‘I don’t know, but you’re supposed to be resourceful. Come up with something and I’ll prove I’m not in the least bit butch.’

‘You mean like babysitting or a night in a hotel?’

‘There has to be an unshakeable reason behind it. Like maybe housesitting and I’m the one everyone calls in to help.’

She nodded. I could tell from her eyes that she was scheming already. ‘I have the inkling of an idea,’ she said, ‘but what about Sara?’

Good question! My mouth hadn’t taken her into account at all . . . just as the rest of me hadn’t taken account of her all weekend.

‘I’ll come up with something to keep Sara sweet,’ I assured her. Then, somewhat spoiling the effect, I added, ‘Somehow.’

Chapter Sixteen

I had reserved Sunday for A-level work. Not that I was behind or ever had been behind. No, I didn’t have last-minute coursework to complete, only a bit of homework which I could clear in an hour or so. I did, however, have a habit of reading in advance. Using previous years’ exam papers to steer me in the right direction, it was a practice which had always reaped rewards.

Terribly swotty, I know, but it made school life easier in the long run.

Rising at the early hour of 9:47 (before Mum could bring coffee and start crashing about), I showered and dressed and got to the kitchen as she was adding milk to my mug.

‘You were later than usual,’ she said in place of “Good morning”. ‘I thought you’d be in early with Sara being away.’

I mumbled something and sat at the table, pinching a slice of cold toast. ‘Where’s Dad?’ I enquired. ‘Or should I ask which golf course is he on?’

Mum put my steaming drink in front of me. ‘I honestly didn’t listen. He did mention St Ives, but I think that’s next weekend.’

‘Here’s hoping you don’t need him in a hurry.’

‘Davina, whatever would I need him for on a Sunday morning?’ Mum chuckled. ‘No, don’t answer that. Do you fancy a sausage and egg sandwich instead?’

I agreed with alacrity and sipped coffee before opening my phone. There were several texts including one from Ellie. It read:

“My scheming is working. Keep your fingers xd and a week on Sat free.”

Yes, I mused, she’s very resourceful.

Mum was buttering a teacake while the bangers sizzled in the frying pan. I pulled the HP Sauce a little nearer to me, ready for action. Then another text arrived.

Oh bother, it was from Sara.

“Cant talk I’m in the car. I have to speak 2u tho. Its mega urgent.”

Double bother. Guilt came crashing down around my ears. She knew! Sara knew about Ellie!! Some rotten ratfink had grassed us up!!!

With numb fingers I sent a reply, trying to play the innocent.

“Sounds bad. What have I done?”

Her response bounced straight back.

“Cant say N E thing rt now. CU at 3 in the Sub?”

That was it; she didn’t suggest we met on the way. No, she just suggested the time and place. It was a confrontation she wanted, not a date. And I knew when I was beaten.

“OK,” I sent. “CU there.”

At some stage I told you my mum’s cooking is excellent. I’m sure her prime pork sausages and fresh farmyard eggs were as good as ever. But I didn’t enjoy them that morning.

They tasted like sawdust and cardboard.


I arrived at the Suburban Bar at three on the dot. Sara was already there. So were dozens of football fans. The big screen was showing Liverpool in the process of winning away at Chelsea and, although there were a couple of Chelsea supporters present, the atmosphere was tense but not hostile.

If I’d been a cynic I might have thought that the atmosphere was only hostile when it was Manchester United on the box. Not that the Suburban was the place to allow fighting amongst its clientele. And not that it was likely Man United would be playing their old rivals from Leeds anytime soon.

Sara had an opened bottle of Pinot and two large glasses. She pointed towards an internal staircase and we ascended into the elevated seating area, which was deserted apart from us.

‘I don’t know how to begin,’ she said as we took pews opposite each other.

I was resigned to whatever tirade she chose to throw my way. ‘Just go for it,’ I said.

‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she almost wailed.

Eh! Wasn’t that my line?

‘It was all Jenny’s fault,’ Sara went on. ‘I never intended anything like that to happen.’

My gran has all sorts of adages and sayings. One of her favourites involves not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Fortunately, for the first time in two days, my brain kicked into gear. Still uncertain where Sara was going, I summoned an expression of uncertain expectance.

Or maybe I looked constipated. Whatever; my policy worked. Sara hurried on without prompting.

To cut a long story short, Alan had an older brother called Keith. Jenny had known Keith as long as Sara had known Alan (obviously; they were holiday neighbours, remember!) and last year, she had made a move.

‘Jen’s always been man mad,’ Sara told me. ‘And going to uni has only made her worse. In Lanzarote our parents go out on a night with his. Not all the time, of course, but often enough. Starting from last year Jenny got into the habit of shagging Keith while the coast was clear. Me and Alan got the honour of being lookouts.’

Sara swore solemn oaths that she hadn’t previously “done” anything with Alan; that the two younger siblings had been the better-behaved ones. But the situation had changed over the weekend. What, with both sets of parents out and Jenny shagging Keith as per usual . . .

Well, Alan’s actual eighteenth had been on the Friday, he seemed to expect a “present” . . . and the obvious had finally happened.

‘I’m so, so sorry,’ Sara wailed again. ‘It was his birthday and I know I’m a whore . . . and . . . and . . .’

I made a rapid and logical (no surprise there!) assessment of my feelings. The overriding sense was of relief. I was expected to be the one giving the tirade, not the poor so-and-so on the receiving end!

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