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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.
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 started 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 casino şirketleri 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.’
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 one is 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 casino firmaları 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.’
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 güvenilir casino 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 . . .
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”!!
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