Davina Again

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 this 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.