Two Sides to Every Story Pt. 03

I was, consequently, quite chipper when Dave drove us in to work.

Dave wasn't chipper at all. I've never actually seen anyone on her way to the gallows, but if I ever do I bet she looks a lot like Dave did that morning.

The IT department seemed more spacious than it had done last time I was there. Then again, half the staff had been given the elbow in the meantime; finding floor space wasn't an issue anymore. Pleased to see I'd been allocated my old desk and a lot of lovely new kit, I sent Darling Mikela an email.

Devious? Me?

All I was doing was announcing my presence. Anyone reading the message would assume it was a slightly gushy hello between old friends. Why did I send it? I'm not really sure. I wanted to keep her on her toes, for one thing. And I didn't want her to believe she'd had the last word in the pub on Sunday, for another. Most of all I suppose I wanted to unsettle her. Anything to undermine her smug self-confidence couldn't be bad.

The rest of my morning was, by IT standards, hectic. It began with me joining in a project meeting with no prior knowledge of said project. Then I had an hour with Craig, getting the background on other projects and all the recent comings and goings (light on the comings, heavy on the goings). Then he told me we were off to the factory to help with their new production line.

'It's bog standard stuff,' he said, 'but it needs doing. And you could do with a project to put your name to.'

'Wow,' said I, 'my first day and a personal project already!'

The Factory Engineer had an office of his own. He also had an assistant who made my knees go weak. I've told you how it is with me and men, right? I see something attractive in almost every woman I ever meet, but I'm much more picky with blokes. Well believe you me, this one ticked boxes I didn't even know I had.

He was called Tommy Smith and had some resemblance to a young George Clooney. Having to work on a project with him wasn't going to be a hardship.

He wasn't backwards in coming forwards, either. I'd hardly got back to IT when my phone rang.

'Hi, it's Tommy. Seeing as we'll be working closely, I wondered if you fancied getting together. To discuss the production line in more detail, I mean. That meeting we just had was high-level stuff. You and me need to get down to the nitty-gritty.'

I grinned to myself at that and checked the time on my display. It was 13:07 and no sign of Dave. Her make or break session must still be ongoing. I took that as a sign it was ongoing well and that I wouldn't be fucking her again anytime soon.

So why not ease my woes with a hunky assistant engineer? I wondered. I haven't had any cock in ages, and my girlfriend's going to be wrapped up with Darling Mikela for the foreseeable.

'I'd love to get down to the nitty-gritty with you,' I assured him. 'Tonight's okay by me. Where and when?'

'I was thinking about Friday,' he replied. 'We're off to Stuttgart later today, visiting the guys who are making the machine. I won't be back until the end of the week.'

'You're not saying that because there's a Mrs Tommy to answer to?'

'No, definitely not.'

I agreed a date on Friday with him and, impulsively, said the wait would add to the experience. 'I'll be bringing a toothbrush,' I added, 'and extra condoms, in case you're running low.'

Social life sorted, I decided to grab a sandwich and do some actual work. Before I could get out of my chair Dave returned from her tryst.

I'm sure you've seen or read about dramatic entries; the real atmosphere-changers. Think Clint, going single-handed into a saloon, telling anyone who didn't want to be killed to "clear on out the back". Or any of those old Westerns, where the guys in black hats unexpectedly arrive and the piano player stops playing.

Dave's entrance was even more dramatic. Thunder clouds came in with her. Her scowl curdled the milk in a dozen cups of coffee. Not speaking, she stormed up to her work station and began slamming things around.

Okay, I'm exaggerating a tad, but everyone fell silent, afraid to intrude. Me? I was impressed by her slamming about. Dave is nothing if not impeccably neat and tidy. Her desk was the mirror of her soul. There was nothing on it to be slammed but, somehow, she found a way.

'Oh my,' someone murmured behind me, 'who pissed in her soup?'

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I got myself a sandwich and two coffees then, wondering what I would find, returned to the office. Not liking the lack of background noise, I put one of the coffees on Dave's desk and smiled at her.

'Are you all right?' I said very softly.

She nodded but wouldn't look at me. I patted her on the shoulder then, not knowing what else to do, went back to my station.

And what a long afternoon that was! Everyone gave Dave a wide berth and acted as if she'd had a bereavement. It was a relief when, late on, she got a call and took her thunder clouds away to another department for a while.

Craig arrived at my desk almost as soon as she'd gone. Grabbing a chair from a vacant desk, he wheeled up beside me and asked what was going on.

'I don't know for sure,' I told him, 'but I think it's girlfriend trouble.'

'I thought you were her girlfriend.'

'I used to be.' I smiled at him and lowered my voice. 'Until she found out I'd been sleeping with my boss.'

'So this is a replacement girlfriend,' he said, not having the decency to blush. 'Is it Mikki from Credit Control?'

'Got it in one.'

'What's gone wrong?'

'Beats me,' I said, desperately trying not to smirk, 'but it does seem terminal, doesn't it?'

*****

I got the full details on our way home, the moment we closed the car doors. Mikki was the two-faced bitch this time, not me. She'd gone off on a big one when she found out I was coming back. Never mind freezing Dave out, she'd given herself to Joyce in Brighton, and then weekended with her in Morton. And God knows what they'd been up to in-between; more of the same, probably.

And why hadn't I told her she'd been in the pub on Sunday, no doubt revictualling before going back to Joyce's bed?

I'd readied myself for that question and answered with aplomb. 'I dropped in the main bar for a pint,' I said, 'while I was waiting for you. We bumped into each other in the toilets. She was quite rude, so I didn't mention it.'

'Didn't you guess she'd been staying at Joyce's?'

'I didn't think it was my place. And I was shocked by the things she said to me, if you must know. I didn't even want to think about her, never mind speculate about things that didn't concern me.'

That was it. If not whiter than white, I was off the hook and Dave went back to bemoaning Darling Mikela's slutty behaviour, getting madder and madder by the second.

'I think it was an act of revenge,' she told me. 'She wanted to lash out and boy, did she! Well it's over between us. There's no second chance after that.'

She left the Mini in one of its usual slots on the pub car park but wouldn't go inside with me.

'I've no appetite,' she said, 'and I don't trust myself with alcohol right now. I might make malicious phone calls or something.'

So I went in on my own and joined Donald and his little knot of adherents. Several pints and a bar snack later, I returned to the cottage. Dave was in her study, her nose in the Internet. I only got a grunt when I asked if she was okay and a terse "no" when I asked if she wanted me to make her something to eat.

Not fancying Coronation Street, I went to my room and, still in my work clothes, sprawled on the bed with a magazine. There was an article I wanted to read and, with nothing better to do, that seemed to be as good a time as any.

I won't bore you with the details, but the article explored "The Modern Acceptance of Lesbian Sex in Straight Society". According to the author, bi-curiosity has massively increased over the last three or four decades. And it has done so in a sort of "ascending sine wave". She reckons there are noticeable peaks every ten years, possibly triggered by a fear of AIDS and definitely fuelled by pop stars and celebrities with their lyrics and public behaviour.

It was a premise I'd heard before and (more or less) accepted. I wasn't interested in the theory, however; I was interested in the reporter's line of investigation. She'd only gone and got fucked by "a good lesbian friend of mine" and written a blow-by-blow account of what happened.

And in a mainstream publication, to boot!

By the sounds of it, "purely in the interests of journalism", that young lady had had the eating out of a lifetime and wanted everyone to know about it.

"It's very different," she concluded. "I won't say I won't ever try it again, because I've already been back for more! I haven't given up on men entirely, but now I can understand why some girls do. I may have been lucky in my choice of partner but trust me, ladies, it is so much better than a bit of DIY."

I'd undone my skirt by then. I scanned back up the page, not quite ready to finish, wanting to get to the part where they first got naked . . .

And heard Dave in the bedroom next door. Straightening my clothes in a hurry, I flicked on to an article about a reality TV show, wishing it featured my intrepid reporter "investigating" in a jungle. I didn't for one moment expect Dave to sleep with me after her upset, but I also didn't want her to walk in and catch me jilling.

Not that I hadn't jilled for her before. It was more of a pride thing; if she was going to watch then I shouldn't have started without her.

Two minutes later there was a knock at my door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Dave was wearing her diaphanous night dress again. Beneath it I could see a black harness and, proudly poking the blue material, a decent-sized strap-on. She was breathing heavily and had left her specs elsewhere. Her eyes had a strange light in them. It was obvious what she wanted but I egged her on anyway.

'My oh my, is that a tent-pole in there or are you just glad to see me?'

She shut the door without looking at it, her shiny eyes fixed in my direction. In that small bedroom she was already as good as on top of me.

'Come on then,' I said, opening my arms to her. 'Don't talk or think, just do.'

That was all the invitation she needed. She dived on me, covered my face with kisses and gave her hands the right to roam.

Her onslaught was no less than a force of nature. At first I didn't even try to respond; I left it all to her and meekly took everything that came my way. And yes, I was aware she was burning off her rage at Darling Mikela. She might have been doing without thinking, but there was nothing wrong with my thought process. Dave had been badly let down and needed mindless sex. That was fine by me. I was only too happy to oblige.

And did I say her hands were roaming? Well yes, they certainly were. My efforts at straightening my attire had been a waste of time. Her hand was already up my skirt, on the bare skin between my stocking-tops and thong. Except it wasn't there for very long. Still subjecting me to a shower of passionate kisses, she twisted it, turned it and then attacked my pussy.

Instant orgasm!

I mean what chance did I have? Honestly? There I'd been, innocently reading about an intrepid reporter enjoying her first real tonguing, easing myself towards a low-key climax . . .

And suddenly a combination whirlwind, volcano and earthquake was on me, finishing the job off in great style.

Although, of course, Dave was far from done; she hadn't even properly started.

Her first attack was made through my thong. Her second was more direct, burrowing beneath the very soggy fabric. Breathing more heavily than ever, she thrust three fingers into me and curled them, making a lot of urgent, beckoning gestures.

Cue cum number two.

I was actually afraid of her assault shifting to my clitoris. I was overloading already. My last shred of reason warned me a clit offensive might blow my circuits altogether. I caught her hand before it could move.

'Fuck me,' I said.

She stopped kissing and glared down at me. Her eyes had got even stranger.

'Fuck me,' I said again. 'Fuck me hard.'

At that moment I was probably as lust-crazed as she was. Most of the lower buttons of my shirt had somehow come undone and Dave's night dress had ridden up. I could feel her strap-on on my stomach and believe me, it felt good. I wanted her fingers away from my clit and I wanted her to push her hardness into me as deep as humanly possible.

So much for my controlled thought process!

Dave shifted position and tugged my thong to one side. I opened my legs as wide as I could and, fine-tuning as if she was completely rational and not sexually deranged, she thrust forward with her groin.

I squealed as the head of her sex toy bypassed my sodden underwear and eased an inch or so into me. She was, I dimly realized, using her supposedly strapless device. Using it in a harness was typical of her. When she'd first got the toy she'd used it as intended then moaned when one end or the other kept popping out. No matter what I said, I couldn't persuade her that was half the fun. In her opinion any job needed doing properly, and that was no exception.

Harness or no harness, she still had the "pony" in her, held in place by the automatic clenching of her most intimate muscles. And doesn't every action have an equal and opposite reaction? That is, I believe, Newton's Third Law of Motion. What a pity old Isaac didn't hang around to experiment with a strapless strap-on. He might not have been able to get as physically involved as two horny girls, but I'm sure he'd have appreciated watching the dynamics.

'That's brilliant,' I told Dave, gasping amid more squeals and giggles.

Thrusting from the waist, she drove the "horse" all the way in. Not to be outdone, influenced more than a little by Morag's slithering and sliding, I thrust back at her in a side-to-side sort of a way.

Cue her turn to squeal.

Then mine again.

Then both of us squealed as one.

I know I badly overuse words like "best". And I know I'm prone to exaggeration. But whatever the hype, that fuck was stupendous. I'd asked for hard and hard I got. And I returned the favour with interest. For a goodly while we took it in turns to cum, each bigger and better than the last. Then we came together a couple of times and then something amazing happened.

This really is going to sound crazy but I vowed to tell everything as it was. So here goes.

When I fuck with Dave we always get off multiply. It is without fail satisfying. And, because we go at each other for a long, long time, "multiply" equates to "lots and lots". Usually there is a pattern in it. The cums keep getting better and better until we reach a sort of saturation point, then they start to tail off. When that happens, when the intensity starts to lessen, we take a break . . . sleep . . . get more wine . . .

You probably know what I'm saying: too much of a good thing, and all that.

That night we never tailed off but we did stop cumming. Then, out of nowhere, without an orgasm on the horizon, Dave was thumping into me again and again and I was rising and rising. And it wasn't the usual plateau sort of feeling. I get that often in-between cums and I know the feeling well. This was different. This wasn't a question of hitting a level and staying there, this was a climbing thing. This was going over the very highest peak and seeing another, even higher, way off in the distance. And then another and another.

I tried to articulate myself and couldn't speak English. Vocabulary-wise, I'd regressed to cave-girl. And Dave was no better; she'd been unable to articulate for hours and hours. Being a good mate, I'd long since fastened my legs around the small of her back. Now, pulling her as tight into me as I could, I attempted to turn her thumping into a strenuous grind. That worked after a fashion, but I was still soaring ever skyward.

And I'd been worried about a little attention to my clit!!

'Nnnugh, nnnugh,' I grunted.

'Nnnugh, nnnugh,' Dave grunted right back at me.

Part of me expected an out-of-body experience. We never quite made it that far but, after God only knows how much peaking and peaking, we did achieve another nine on Mr Richter's scale.

In fact it might have registered higher. Put it this way, we somehow dislodged the bedhead and ended up in a breathless and sweaty heap on the floor.

*****

So the ice between us had been well and truly broken. After Dave's virtuoso performance I took my turn to pay attention to her. And I was thorough. I even gave her a blow job.

Yes, you heard me correctly. Before I took control of the strap-on I sucked on it, using my hand in sync with my mouth, keeping the pony end in perpetual motion inside her. She liked that; she liked it a lot. Towards the end she wriggled and squirmed and was shouting wild pleas and hot endearments. We'd gone condom-free and I actually began to expect her to splash semen onto my tonsils.

Later, after I'd played the man without using the safety net of the harness (I'm good at that by the way; it only popped out twice . . . once each), I kissed her and rubbed noses.

'The card was great,' I said, 'but tonight's been the welcome I really wanted. I love you, Dave, and I always will.

Then she made the night even better by saying the magic words:

'Me too you.'