Davina

by Limey Lady

  Davina

  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

  Introduction

  Chapter One - Teenage Kicks

  Chapter Two - Sara

  Chapter Three - Street Sex

  Chapter Four - The First Date

  Chapter Five - Girlfriends

  Chapter Six - Alone at Last

  Chapter Seven - In Bed at Last

  Chapter Eight - Happy Awakenings

  Author’s Note

  Other Books by LimeyLady

  Introduction

  I can’t believe I’ve finally started writing this. I’ve been putting it off for months. But some stories need to be told, right? Sometimes the truth must out.

  I’m sorry if that opening sounds a bit pompous. I’ve been referred to in stories before, you see, and I don’t particularly like the way I’ve come across. Okay, I’m a boring IT nerd, I accept that, but I can’t possibly be as bland as I’ve been portrayed. I do have some sort of a life.

  And I’ve had loads of girlfriends; loads and loads. Sex-wise I haven’t been bland at all.

  Being completely honest, sex-wise I’ve been quite naughty.

  So here we are; this is my attempt at both setting the record straight and making me seem a bit more interesting. Be warned: it is going to include a lot of confessions, mostly of the bedroom variety. In fact it’s going to be a whole string of bedroom confessions, some of them slightly embarrassing.

  But hey, why should I let a little embarrassment get in the way of a good story?

  To kick off with I’ll tell you a few things about me. I’m twenty-six, a lesbian, currently single and proud owner of my own gold star. According to my birth certificate I’m “Davina” but I’m known to most folk as “Dave”. The exceptions are few and far between. My mother when I’m in her bad books (that’s quite often, tee-hee!), an aged aunt (from whom I have “great expectations”), and the IT administrator at work (who has a thing about nicknames).

  Thinking about it, it’s the only the administrator who causes me grief. I’m not really so often in mum’s bad books and I only ever see Aunt Maude at Christmas. On the other hand, having my work emails auto-signed for me as Davina means I have to have the “call me Dave” conversation more regularly than I’d want to.

  Like with every flipping new contact I ever make!

  I’m going to rely on others to describe my appearance, starting with one of my three true loves, Mikki. Mikki readily admits that, for the first twenty-four hours of our acquaintance, she thought that I was a bloke. If I recall correctly, she said I was about five foot eight with very short, light brown hair. And that my body looked lean beneath my shapeless clothes.

  Not a promising start, you might think. Mikki then went on to tell the world that, still convinced I was a guy, she masturbated that first night, picturing me and imagining God only knows what. I honestly did not know how to feel about that when I first read it. And I wasn’t entirely reassured when she went on to say that the next night, by then aware of her mistake but under the impression she was as straight as ever, she masturbated thinking about me again.

  Four times!

  Here’s an early confession: Mikki is not the only person who has taken me for a boy. It happens quite a lot and it’s never much of a surprise. My short hair is cut in a boyish way, I do not use makeup and, although I hate to admit it, my clothing tends to be on the functional side: sturdy work trousers, Docs and a blue Widget Company sweatshirt; that’s me on a daytime.

  My excuse is that I’m an IT techie. Most of my colleagues are male and I dress like them because I’m forever carting dirty pieces of kit away to be repaired. If I turned up to work in a summer frock it would be ruined within the hour. Try crawling through the jumble of cables under a typical workstation; you’ll soon see where I’m coming from.

  And okay, I appreciate that explanation is pretty thin. It doesn’t account for my out-of-work clothes, which tend to be much the same: jeans, Docs and various non-Widget Company sweats.

  I’m not apologising, though. I like the way I dress.

  Katrina is another true love of mine. Predictably, she uses direct comparisons and doesn’t settle for just one of them. Kat might well be the cleverest individual I have even met but, take her out of the IT environment and everything about her is dramatic and overstated. Why would she stoop to using only one comparison when she could use two?

  (I’m only surprised she didn’t use three or four.)

  Firstly she reckons I resemble Velma out of the Scooby-Doo shows. For anyone who hasn’t seen all the reruns, Scooby has four human sidekicks, two of them female. The taller, sexy redhead is called Daphne; Velma is the shorter one with large, thick-rimmed specs.

  Before I go any further I must stress that I do not see much resemblance. Okay, Velma’s hair might be approximately the same colour as mine, but it’s a lot longer. And she invariably wears a turtleneck jumper, a short pleated skirt and knee socks, predominantly in orange. I’m as unlikely to wear a skirt as I am to ever wear a frock. And knee socks! Not a prayer.

  If I’m being completely frank, I admire Velma’s intelligence. She’s definitely the academic force in the Mystery Machine gang; the brains who is almost always the one to solve the latest conundrum. And I will accept that I’m quite studious myself (my dad swears I came out of Mum’s womb with a laptop in my hands).

  I also admire Velma’s supersized glasses. Although uninfluenced by her choice of frames, there’s no denying my own are very similar. And my snub of a nose is nearly as appealing as hers . . .

  Good God, I’m seriously comparing myself to a cartoon character!!

  Moving swiftly on . . .

  Kat’s other comparison is between me and a certain lesbian porn star. Kat never named names but I know who she means, all right. Well I should do: we’ve watched enough of her videos together.

  I’m not going to argue much about this one. The lady in question is boyish but very, very hot. It’s a big honour to be mentioned in the same breath as her, even if her hair is a few shades redder than mine and I’m an inch or two taller. All I am going to say is I only wish I matched her for tits as well as looks; hers are lovely while I am as flat as a pancake.

  Yes, my tits are the bane of my life. Or they would be if I had any.

  Strangely, the combination of snub-nosed, boyish cartoon porn star works. Mikki and Kat are beyond drop-dead gorgeous yet they’ve both often assured me I’m the beautiful one. And their words can’t all be just flattery: I wasn’t kidding when I told you I’ve had loads of girlfriends. Beautiful or not, I have never struggled to pull.

  Somewhere, somehow I must be doing something right!

  There you are, then. That’s a sketch of me. I’ll add to it as we go. Let’s get on with the story and some of that sex. And where better to start than my very first time?

  Chapter One

  We’re going back to my final year at school, spent in the upper sixth. And what a year that was. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to anyone who didn’t enjoy their time in any sixth form, anywhere. Mine was the best, though. I relished every second of every day. If I ever get my time over it’s the sixth form I’ll most look forward to re-living, especially that last year.

  That’s not to say I didn’t like my earlier school years. I did; I liked them a lot. Studious little me always got an A in everything apart from Physics (and trust me, I dropped that as soon as I’d scraped a B in my GCSEs
).

  Studying wasn’t everything to me, however. There were other things I enjoyed, not least the outdoor games lessons. And I always had plenty of friends, both male and female. The schools I attended were all well-equipped and, by and large, the teachers were dedicated and skilled. I was blessed with positivity everywhere I looked. What was there for me not to like?

  Now, at this point I want to make a couple of things clear. As far as my sexuality goes I am and will always be a lesbian. That’s the way I was born, even if I didn’t come out of the womb with a rainbow tattoo as well as that laptop. And, although I’ve met others who swear they have “always known” they were lezzie, my realization was very, very gradual.

  In all honesty I can’t tell you when I did realize.

  That much said, please don’t think I’m a man-hater. I like guys. I had boy friends at school and I have boy friends even now, most of them work colleagues. And I do actually find most guys a lot easier to get on with than quite a few gals I’ve had the misfortune to meet.

  Yes, I like guys . . . I just can’t imagine ever wanting to have sex with one.

  I hope you noted the distinction I made between my boy friends and boyfriends. Until the upper sixth I could have made the same distinction between girl friends and girlfriends. The truth is that before then my life was romance-free. I hadn’t even shared a romantic kiss when I began that final glorious year.

  And, needless to report, my virginity was still intact.

  *****

  With the best part of two hundred of us in the upper sixth, the eighteenth birthday parties came thick and fast. Simple maths decreed the actual birthdays averaged out at almost four a week and, even accounting for the ones which weren’t openly celebrated, there was always a party every Friday and Saturday night.

  As a September baby my party was one of the first. My parents hired a function room in the centre of Bingley and I spent the entire evening worrying. There was a bar, you see, and at that stage I was in the oldest four per cent in the school. In other words, ninety-six per cent of my guests were only seventeen and still too young to legally drink.

  Honest to God, I expected the police to raid us at any minute.

  Talking afterwards, having a glass of vino over the kitchen table with Mum, she gave me one of her many pearls of wisdom.

  ‘It’s done and nobody got arrested. Consign it to history and concentrate on all the parties to come; the ones where you are old enough to drink whatever you like. Let your schoolmates do their own worrying from now on.’

  Mum and Confucius, eh?

  Robbie’s eighteenth was two or three Fridays after mine. He was definitely a boy friend, there was no doubting that; we’d been in the same classes ever since pre-school. And like everyone else, he had never shown any sign of romantic interest in me. Not even a flicker. Not until then.

  The night progressed with everyone in the usual high spirits. Nothing was out of the ordinary and we were all having a good time. Then, as it grew late-ish and the music slowed, I saw mein host chatting to the DJ. Thinking nothing of it, I carried on talking with a knot of girl friends at the edge of the dance floor. Two minutes later he approached us, picking me out and addressing me with a tentative smile.

  ‘They’re playing Three Times a Lady next but one,’ he said, ‘will you please do me the honour?’

  I was surprised but it was his birthday, so I said yes. Well, I had to, hadn’t I? It would have been rude not to. He said he wouldn’t be far away and, as soon as he turned his back, my girl friends pounced on me.

  ‘Three Times a Lady,’ Jacqui cooed, ‘that’s practically a proposal of marriage!’

  ‘It’s a proposal of something,’ said Sara, ‘but I doubt it includes marriage.’

  ‘You lucky mare,’ Ellie added, ‘he’s the hunkiest guy in town. If you don’t fancy it, point him my way.

  My heart was pounding as Robbie led me onto the floor. I was wondering what I’d let myself in for and if I’d show myself up. Speaking of which, I was very conscious of the fact I couldn’t dance for nuts.

  Omigod, I flapped, this is going to be a disaster!

  Fortunately Robbie was a fine dancer . . . or maybe my ineptness made him seem like a professional off Strictly. Whatever, his confidence was infectious and I let him steer me hither and thither, avoiding other couples and somehow keeping my two left feet from tripping over each other.

  The close contact was, I must admit, pleasant. So was the motion of his hips as he subtly prompted my movements. Then my eyes widened.

  He had an erection!!

  If you’re expecting me to say I was outraged, I’m sorry; I wasn’t. Indeed, apart from that widening of my eyes, I was quite emotionally detached. It was almost as if I was in a biology lab, dissecting rats with all my feelings prudently switched off.

  Oh, I thought, so that’s what it’s like to have a hard-on pressed against one’s tummy!

  Then Robbie asked me for a birthday kiss. Using the same logic as before (“can’t say no, it’s his big day”) I offered up my mouth.

  Now this was my first ever proper kiss, remember. Previously I’d only had pecks and brief brushes of lips from relatives. This was real, though. Robbie went at it with a passion.

  I suppose my reaction was underwhelming. I couldn’t muster any oomph at all. Even so, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t at least mildly enjoyable. Being held in his arms was comforting; I felt safe and cared for. I was even able to forget about his still-interested dick.

  Of course at the time I had no comparisons to make. I didn’t know that a lover’s kiss can send a girl’s mind whirling and swirling. I didn’t know that a soul can burst free and soar up to the heavens.

  So I accepted the mild enjoyment and let Robbie inject all the va-va-voom. And I did not object when Lionel Ritchie and his Commodores gave way to another golden oldie (I Feel Love, by I honestly know not who). Then, after nearly two whole songs of munching me, Robbie broke for air.

  ‘That was nice,’ he said. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘I’ve already got one,’ I replied. ‘Enjoy the rest of your birthday.’

  And that is it: the sum total of my sexual experience with men. I know a girl should never say “never”, but over eight years have passed and I haven’t felt the faintest urge to try it again.

  Not with a guy.

  Chapter Two

  Sara’s official eighteenth was on the Wednesday after Robbie’s, but her party was held on the Friday. She was another friend from pre-school (my memory’s not perfect, but I suspect the three of us might have all started playgroup on the same day), so I would have been there even if I hadn’t committed to attending every function that would let me through the door.

  By then a lot of us had become eighteenth aficionados. We’d travel in the same little groups, meeting up for “pre party drinks” in the same few pubs. And, once in attendance, we’d circulate, forming and reforming ever-changing knots of friends.

  At first Sara’s party followed the usual pattern but, as the night progressed and the music slowed, she abandoned her hostessing duties and approached me.

  ‘They’re playing Three Times a Lady next but one,’ she said, ‘will you please do me the honour?’

  Up until that moment I hadn’t harboured any sexual thoughts about Sara. She was a girl friend and she gave every impression of being straight. But, although she was smiling as she shamelessly repeated Robbie’s request, there was something in her eyes that told me this wasn’t a piss-take.

  ‘Ye gods,’ said Ellie, getting in before me, ‘she’s proposing marriage . . . or something.’

  ‘Yes, Sara,’ I replied before anyone else could weigh in, ‘but the honour will be all mine.’