Davina Does Three More

I let out a silent sigh of relief. It had been before I hooked up with Kat. She hadn't betrayed me.

'I wouldn't care,' Philippa continued, 'but the bitch didn't really want him. He got ditched after less than two weeks.'

'Sounds like Kat,' my traitorous mouth said.

Philippa froze. I saw cogs turning behind her eyes.

'My God,' she said, realization finally dawning, 'you're Dave aren't you, not Davina.' Her eyes widened behind her sexy specs. 'You're the one who lived with the cow.'

'I'm Davina and Dave,' I protested.

But it was too late. With a beetroot-coloured face, Philippa had fled.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

After the grand exit I resumed my circulating but, within moments, I was interrupted, and by a god of a man at that.

Don't worry about my gold star; it's as safe as ever. All I am saying is that the guy who strode into our buffet had a certain presence. He had "ex-soldier" written all over him (cut him in half and it'd probably be written through him too, like a stick of Brighton rock). Even I, the least likely girl to ever be swayed by a good-looking male . . . Well, even I might have given him a go.

(Again, don't worry; we didn't even come close. All I'm saying is that, if I ever absolutely had to stray, he would be high on my list.)

The god-like soldier introduced himself as "Mack", instantly commanding the undivided attention of the whole room.

'Me and my team are looking after you this afternoon,' he began, 'you horrible little lot!'

He was laughing as he spoke, sounding not unlike Windsor Davies, but jocular with it.

'Transport will be here at thirteen hundred,' he added. 'You'd best get changed. It might be sunny out there but those trenches are full of mud. They'll cause foot rot in no time at all.'

*****

The manor house's changing rooms didn't let us down. I'd been in some dodgy school facilities during my youth (including some in Bradford which were worse than the cages I could imagine in the foulest of prisons), but those were, if not brilliant, right up there with Wembley stadium.

Yes, my imagination is running riot again!

And here's (yet another) confession: changing in a roomful of grown women was very rewarding.

I had of course changed with females all through my youth, mostly without noticing my peers' bodies. In fact I'd been eighteen before I even started to study my peers' tits and bums; honestly I had.

Now, one of the youngest at twenty-one, I had all sorts of eyefuls to feast on.

The bad news was that the feast was hardly a banquet. There were two teenagers who were just too young to perv over. Then there were three of us in our twenties (me, Philippa and a shortish, pudgy girl who had nice tits but not a lot else going for her). And there was a cluster of thirty-somethings, all with floppy breasts and stretch-marks. The only real bright spot was provided by two older women.

I'm smirking, even if you can't see me. Those two were very much like Margot . . . "officially" forty but in reality nearer forty-six. They both had knockout bodies, though. Okay, so maybe a little surgical aid had been employed, but so too had many hours of gym time.

That pudgy twenty-something should have had half their drive! Not that exercise would have helped to lengthen her stubby legs.

Grinning, I opened my kitbag. I pride myself on being prepared and on that occasion I was better than best. I'd no need to worry about those muddy trenches; I'd brought an old pair of (expendable) Docs, long, bottle-green socks which I used for walking and the hardy combats I sometimes wore in place of work trousers or jeans. And, to complete the set, I had a sturdy army surplus top I'd bought from that charming Asian guy on Skipton market; the one who was almost as god-like as Mack.

(Heck, what's got into me? I like guys but wouldn't even keep one as a pet!)

As you might have realized, I'm not much one for appearances and mirrors. For once I had, however, got myself kitted out and examined my reflection in advance.

Tera-impressive!

Okay, so I was more GI Jane than Private Benjamin, but fuckable for all that (not that I'm implying that GI Jane wasn't very fuckable). Put it this way, and excuse my uncouth language, I would have fucked me in an instant, without a moment's hesitation. Is there a more sincere self-compliment than that!

I felt the touch on my shoulder as I pulled on a sock. It was Philippa, and this time she was suffering more from shock than embarrassment.

'Davina,' she gasped, 'whatever happened to your back?'

Margot happened, I thought with yet another grin.

'Nothing,' I said out loud, 'it's only a scratch.'

'Looks like you've been clawed by a tiger,' one of the older women put in, her grin matching mine. 'I hope he was worth it.'

'It was a tigress,' I replied smoothly. 'And yes, she's always worth it.'

Philippa was doing beetroot impressions again. 'Oh,' she said, 'I see.'

*****

I was seriously impressed by Mack's "transport". It consisted of two canvas-topped vehicles, equipped with wooden benches and as cosy as they were noisy.

Confession number seven zillion: In my youth I had fancied joining the Army. I'd always been healthy and fit and reckoned I would sail through basic training. I also reckoned that I could hack the discipline and could work well under pressure. But then I read about their policy on females.

Don't worry; this isn't going to turn into a rant. All I am saying is that I found out that women were not allowed to fight on the front line. Believe me, I had no desire to fight on the front line, but denying me a choice is one sure way to get my hackles up. Instantly my fancy evaporated.

Having said that, the way I see it the door is still open. When the British Army grows up and gets itself into the twenty-first century, I'll reconsider.

Anyway, it was good to be rattling about in the back of that truck, pretending we were on our way to war, even though communication was not so easy. And that was when we were driving on a metalled road; when our driver turned on to a rough track it got noisier still.

Philippa was sitting next to me, to my surprise. It seemed my relationship with Kat and freshly clawed flesh hadn't totally alienated her.

Putting her face close to mine, raising her voice, knowing only I could hear her over the ongoing din of the journey, she said: 'They could get infected, you know.'

'I get scratched a lot,' I said. 'And I haven't ever been infected before.'

'Is it always the same person? Who scratches you, I mean.'

'Yes. I have more than one girlfriend, but it's the same one who always scratches me.' Seeing doubt in Philippa's eyes I went on: 'It's part of a sex game. The better I perform, the more she scratches me. And the more she scratches, the better I feel.'

Philippa snorted. 'You must have been good last night.'

I beamed at her. 'Yes,' I said smugly, 'I excelled myself.'

Chapter Sixty

I won't bore you with my paintballing escapades. Let's just say it was fun. And to cap it, the very last battle was men against women and I only went and captured their flag, winning the day for our team.

Glory, glory me!!

Okay, so I was sneaky about it. I climbed down a steep banking and crept up from behind, shooting a couple of lookouts in the back, but all's fair in love and war, isn't it?

The mood in the ladies' showers afterwards was jubilant, with plenty of girlish horseplay. And I stayed under the jetting water as long as I could. This was SOP for me but, on that occasion, I had an ulterior motive. I was watching those two older women, you see. They'd been constantly touching each other throughout the day and I reckoned the contact might get intimate.

Given a bit privacy and opportunity, if you know what I mean.

And I wanted to see it.

The problem was that it was very steamy in there and they were at the opposite end of the showers to me. Thanks to the jetting water I was also without my specs (go on; think about Velma yelling "I can't see without my glasses!").

All told, the conditions weren't doing me any favours visibility-wise; I couldn't make out all the levels of intimacy. And if I sneaked any closer they might notice and stop. I didn't want that to happen, for their sakes as much as mine.

The hand on my shoulder surprised me; I'd thought everyone else was getting dressed. Before I could turn Philippa whispered into my ear. 'Shush,' she went, 'leave it to me.'

Her arms went around my waist, settling on my stomach. Suddenly her so-shapely body was pressing into mine, buns to groin and tits to shoulder blades.

Backwards to forwards but utterly blissful.

'Oh yes,' I moaned.

'Shush,' she reiterated.

I obediently shushed because her hand was gliding downwards, over my soapy pubes, onto my clit.

No: make that over my soapy, shower-soaked pubes.

And I had assumed this severe accountant was merely curious! How wrong I was!! She brought me off (very predictably, if I may say) within a matter of seconds.

The hot gush almost scalded my leg. Heck, but she was good!!

She was persistent too. I honestly do not know if she registered my cumming but she instantly moved on to my vagina, inserting two confident fingers and finding my special place straightaway.

'Fuck yes,' I panted.

'Shush,' she said yet again.

And then she did me as exquisitely as anyone ever had.

I was more durable that time. It might have taken her as long as five minutes to finish me. It was long enough for those two older women to leave anyway.

'Thanks for the show,' one of them said as they passed us, hand in hand. 'Feel free to give her one for me.'

*****

How exciting was that little adventure! I had set out to snoop on two women fingering and ended up as Exhibit A. And it wasn't just those two older women who could have witnessed us; literally anyone could have caught us in the act. In fact for all I know, every last team builder could have peeped over the white-tiled partition and watched us.

But so what? Why should I feel guilty about expressing my sexuality? Okay, so most folk do express themselves behind closed doors but hey, this was a new era.

Or so I assured myself.

The day's official activities concluded with a slap-up meal in the manor house's grand dining room (a restaurant which would've graced the finer bits of Paris). I shared a table for eight with Philippa, those two alluring older women and four blokes who swigged wine instead of savouring it.

(I'm a connoisseur, me: I swig beer but sip wine . . . honest.)

In fairness to the blokes, I must say they didn't try to hit on us. Perhaps they read all the signals and knew they'd be wasting their time. Whatever it was, they swigged and laughed and jested and left us to our own devices.

'My car's back at work,' Philippa whispered to me (she was good at whispering into ears; so very, very good). 'I might need to find somewhere to sober up before I drive home.'

'To heck with that,' I whispered back. 'Leave your car where it is. You're coming to the pub and then you're sleeping with me.'

*****

As it happened Philippa's car stayed on the society's car park for three days. And she wasn't curious, she was highly experienced. I discovered that when I suggested she looked in my toy drawer and she swiftly picked out my eighteen inch double-ender.

What fun we had on that delightful device! At first I gave her control over the hand grip in the middle and enjoyed myself immensely. Then she gave me control and I made her enjoy herself immensely. And then we abandoned the hand grip altogether and just went at each other, using our most intimate muscles as "control".

Omigod, I swear that our groins ended up smacking together. How intimate was that!

How intimate and how hugely rewarding.

*****

The third head-hunting call came midweek after I'd hooked up with Phil (to lovers she was, she told me, Phil when she was giving and Philippa when receiving; that was too complicated for me, I told her to just call me Dave and leave Davina out of the equation).

Using that wonderful hindsight again, I reckon the third caller was the "closer". Or maybe, following the seed cultivating line of thought, he was the "harvester". Whatever he was, he quickly caught my attention by quoting a large number that ended in four noughts.

'It's not my shoe size,' I said smartly.

'No,' he agreed. 'It's your starting salary. When you see the light and say yes.'

The cunning so-and-so had given me an amount that was fifty per cent above my current wage. And he had only just begun. Having captured my attention, he went on.

'The package we are offering is much better than a high salary, of course. There is a non-contributory pension . . .'

I briefly switched off at that: pensions were light years away, weren't they?

'And if you don't want a company car, we can provide a travel allowance and petrol card . . .'

Unaware of the tax implications, my ears pricked up at "petrol card". Maxime would like a petrol card almost as much as I would.

'There is also a performance-based bonus,' he assured me. 'That will give you minimally an extra five hundred a month . . .'

Then he pounced.

'We're already talking to most of your teammates. Three months down the line they'll be on board with us, being paid twice the money, and you'll still be there at the building society, doing their work as well as your own, and all for the same pittance. You owe it to yourself to come and see me, Davina. You're cutting off your nose if you don't.'

Providence had made me book the next day as holiday. Well, maybe not so much "Providence" as the fact my savings had reached their targets. I had already got online "outline approval" from a mortgage provider. Tomorrow was the day I intended to start house-hunting.

'Okay,' said I, only a little reluctantly. 'My nose isn't really worth it, but I could do ten in the morning.'

Chapter Sixty-One

I'm not very up on job interviews. Okay, so I had a paper round as a kid, but I inherited that from my next-door neighbour. And when I got to work in the local Spar, I went in to buy a bag of crisps and the manageress asked if I wanted to earn some extra pocket money. The only real interview I'd had was at the building society. That had been very formal, with my line manager-to-be going through my CV line by line, aided and abetted by a young girl from HR.

(She was a lovely young girl from HR, by the way. And don't get me going on her luscious tits!)

The Widget Company interview was altogether something else. It was in the recruitment agency's office in Keighley and was attended by myself, Roger (head-hunter number three) and Craig (the head of IT for my prospective employers). Disconcertingly, they seemed to be selling themselves to me rather than the other way around.

Like what was that all about!

Roger confused me by using "us" and "we". He sounded to be even more of a Widget Company man than Craig did. He was convincing, though. I was offered a position as deputy team leader and told that, if I didn't mind travelling and sleeping in hotels, I would soon be rich as well as invaluable.

Yet one more confession: he totally blinded me with wealth-to-be.

In the end, unable to deny the offer was in my best interests, I asked for twenty-four hours to consider (the decision was patently obvious but I had that nagging loyalty to contend with, didn't I?). Roger was not an idiot; he agreed in a flash.

'Here's my card,' he said, thrusting it at me. 'Don't hesitate to ring if you have any questions at all.'

Ten minutes later I was in Maxime, driving past the Widget Company's HQ, which took up most of a whole business park to the east of town. And how industrious did it seem! At a time when the global economy was contracting there were swarms of logo-marked lorries coming and going. The packed car park looked busier than Old Trafford's on a match day.

So where would I live? I wondered, skipping over all of the ifs and buts.

That was a good question. Skipton wasn't a million miles away but I liked a drink to wind down after a working day. And Keighley itself had a rough and ready image . . .

(Brief interlude: Keighley has its own identity, even if it is now trapped in the Bradford Metro district. Back in the day it was known as a "wool town" but did cotton and silk and bank notes as well. During WW2 engineering firms in the town provided the Navy with engines, the RAF with bombs and the Army with enough ordinance to blow the enemy to heck. In its time it drew migrant workers from just about every corner of the globe. Being such a melting pot contributed to the old rough and ready image, of course. And bare-knuckle fighting on Church Green hadn't died out altogether.)

I ruminated, at last deeming Keighley as okay if not my preferred scene. Then a big cartoon light bulb illuminated right above my head.

East Morton!

Morton was politically in Keighley, if much closer to the centre of Bingley. And it was on the right side of town for the Widget Company. I could probably walk from East Morton to the office in about fifteen minutes . . .

In no time at all I was driving up the delightfully named Swine Lane, lush golf course to my right, lots of fancy new houses to my left. Then I was entering the village itself, passing between School Green and the Institute. And then I saw another light.

Well, actually I saw a For Sale sign as I rounded a bend into an uphill stretch of road. Inside my head I instantly went back in time. Suddenly I was on my back on Morton Rec with Ellie licking my clit. That sign had to be for one of those cottages I'd seen from up there; one of them was on the market.

Fucking hell! One of the best-looking cottages in the whole world was up for sale!

I quickly found somewhere to turn and crawled back down the hill, much slower than the 20 mph limit, not bothering the digital slow sign at all. Irritatingly, a tall hedge screened the cottages. All I could see for certain was that the estate agents' board referred to the one on the left.

Maxime was more on the ball than me just then. She took a right into the pub car park and drew to a halt in an empty slot. Recalling my dad's advice about pub car parks (never use one without having a drink) I went into the bar and ordered a pint of Landlord and, as an afterthought, a steak sandwich.

Then I told the barman I had to nip out for a couple of minutes and asked him to guard my purchase.

And trust me; I never noticed his eyes on me as I left.

(Turned out he fancied me, that barman!)

That hedge really was tall. There was no way I could see over it but I could see over the garden gate. And what a sight! The property had roses around the door. It also had ivy on the wall and its windows were white mullions with lots of small panes of glass.

Talk about love at first sight!!

Knocking at the door produced no reply. Then again, it was the middle of a working day.

Flipping annoying working days!

I called up the estate agents' site on my phone as I returned to the pub. Rats! The asking price was twenty grand out of my bracket. Giving the barman a thumbs up for protecting my interests, I swigged my beer and opened the mortgage provider's site. Putting in the salary Roger had quoted widened my bracket considerably. In fact it widened my eyes too. I could now bid for castles and stately homes if I wanted to.

Not that I wanted castles; not just then.

I rang the estate agents and spoke to a guy called Richard. There had been two previous offers, he told me; one three months ago that was rejected out of hand and a slightly lower one only last week. The owner was, he said, now in a chain and still therefore considering the lower, more recent offer.

I wasn't sure about the etiquette of house buying but desperately wanted that cottage. I suppose that I should have tried to make an offer slightly higher than the one under consideration. But bugger that; I wasn't going to lose out by using uninformed guesswork to try to save a few quid.