by Limey Lady
Davina Does Older Women
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 Thirty-Five - A Drink with Stan
Chapter Thirty-Six - Sex with Stan
Chapter Thirty-Seven - More Sex with Stan
Chapter Thirty-Eight - Breaking New Ground
Chapter Thirty-Nine - Bethany
Chapter Forty - Three is Not a Crowd
Chapter Forty-One - Winds of Change
Chapter Forty-Two - Margot and Kat
Author’s Note
Other Books by LimeyLady
Introduction
We’re friends now, right? So I’m dropping the lengthy intros. From hereon I’m just going to get on with the story. Last time I left you having just clicked with a thirty-something skinhead with hairy armpits. We were bound for the pub after my very first night class . . .
And here’s how it went.
Chapter Thirty-Five
You probably assume that, as a self-confessed IT nerd, I struggle to make intelligent conversation and can only contribute in grunts and monosyllables.
Not true! I may not have mentioned it before, but I could chitchat for England and simultaneously talk the hind leg off a donkey. Okay, so perhaps not everything I come out with is strictly “intelligent”, but I am very rarely at a loss for words. And I’m also capable of flooding listeners with information, so they almost always miss my dumber observations amid the general torrent.
What can I say? I’m a people person at heart; that’s why I’m a techie and not yet a programmer. The idea of sitting at a desk, hardly ever exchanging a verbal sentence with a fellow human being doesn’t do it for me. Stuff the megabucks; I’d rather be out and about, saving the taciturn lifestyle for when I’m older . . . much, much older.
What I’m trying to say is that I wasn’t short of anything to say as Stan and I walked down Skipton High Street. She seemed content to mostly listen to me and, encouraged by the fade of her habitual scowl, watching it being gradually replaced by a faint smile, I kept on chatting.
I also kept on studying her. A moment ago I described her as having a number two cut but still being attractive in a certain, rough and ready sort of a way. Let me tell a little more. I’m quite tall but at six feet Stan towered over me. Her broad shoulders were impressive, as well. Honestly, she was better built than your average rugby league forward. And she had muscles; lots of them. I guessed she was far stronger than any lover I’d ever had, Val Williams included.
Trust me; the idea of being with such a powerful woman turned me on. No, it made me self-lubricate like crazy.
Why have I only bothered with pretty girls before? I wondered. Why haven’t I been with someone like this?
I liked Stan’s outfit, too. Well I would, wouldn’t I? She was dressed almost identically to me: red boots, blue jeans and a bright white T-shirt (it was mid-August, summer had arrived and it was too warm for my usual sweats). So, similar clobber but, height and physique aside, there was one crucial difference between us.
Stan’s tits were absolutely massive.
Okay, okay, I know I sound as if I have a fixation on breasts. Maybe I do. I’m certainly not going to try to make out I never notice a nice pair. And Stan’s were show-stoppers. I’d never got my hands on any remotely as big or as beautiful. Just trying not to stare was doing amazing things below my waist.
No bra and bouncing every which way. Yum, yum!!
Maybe my attempt at discretion was poor. Stan clearly realized I was salivating. Still smiling that faint smile, she opened her mouth to say God knows what . . .
Only to be cut off by her phone (with its The Weakness In Me ringtone). I politely shut up but carried on studying as I snooped on her half of the conversation.
‘No, I’m going to be late home . . . I’m off for a drink . . . Yes, of course she’s a girl . . . Right then, see you tomorrow.’
We’d reached the entrance to the Red Lion. Stan hesitated before going in.
‘What are you grinning at?’ she demanded.
‘You recognizing me as a girl,’ I replied. ‘I often get mistaken for a David.’
‘Not by me,’ she countered. ‘You’re obviously a . . . What; a Davina?’
‘Got it in one,’ said I. ‘I’m struggling with you, though. What’s Stan short for?’
‘Anastasia,’ she said, eyeing me levelly.
I was still pondering over that as we approached the bar.
*****
For anyone who doesn’t know Skipton, it calls itself the “Gateway to the Dales”. In other words it is on the fringe of the Yorkshire Dales National Park and, as the nearest town, serves as a centre for shopping, eating and drinking as well as being a base for thousands of tourists. I’m sure the place has some quiet periods but don’t ask me when they are. They most certainly do not include hot evenings in August.
Fortunately, by the time we got to the pub most of the diners had eaten. Stan bought us pints of Blond Witch and we found a vacant table in a not-so-crowded corner. That is to say the lounge was as good as full but we had perhaps two feet of space from our neighbouring boozers.
‘I give in,’ I said, not bothering to keep my voice down because of the background noise. ‘How do you get “Stan” from “Anastasia”; is it back-slang or something?’
Stan grinned. ‘Are you saying I don’t look like a tragic grand duchess?’
‘Frankly, no, you don’t. But I wouldn’t be wasting my time with a tragic grand duchess. I’d far rather be here with you.’
‘Just us two girls together,’ she observed, eying me again, ‘and neither of us particularly tragic.’
‘I feel quite the opposite,’ I assured her. ‘I feel very lucky and even more encouraged.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment. And Stan is not back-slang. It comes from when I was about seven and this kid struggled to pronounce my name.’
‘I think I get the gist,’ said I.
‘I bet you don’t,’ she retorted, still grinning. ‘There’s more to it than mispronunciation.’
‘Go on, tell all.’
‘The boys at primary school used to bully the girls,’ Stan began, her eyes glinting. ‘Didn’t you get all that attention-seeking crap? Well, I wasn’t standing for it. This lad called Bazza picked on me and I punched his lights out.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yeah; one punch and he was flat on his back, seeing stars.’
‘My hero,’ said I, totally sincere.
‘There was a big kerfuffle about it,’ she went on. ‘But nobody split on me to the teachers. It was like a code of omerta. Even Bazza kept quiet. Well, he did when he properly came round. At first he must have been still stunned. When they asked who hit him all he could say was “It was Stan”. And that was that; the name has stuck ever since.’
‘It suits you,’ I said. ‘Not preposterous and very, very sexy.’
Stan’s scowl was back. By then I realized it was her version of contemplation and just smiled at her.
Sexy, I thought. Oh yes, yes please . . .
‘How old are you, Dave?’ she eventually enquired, reaching across the table to touch my hand.
‘I’m nineteen next month. Dare I ask . . .’
‘I’m old enough to be your mother,’ she said.
‘Well thank goodness you’re not! I desperately need to take you
home to my bed. And I couldn’t do that if you were my mum, could I?’
Stan laughed. ‘I take it you’re footloose and fancy free as well as young.’
‘I have girlfriends but no commitments,’ I said truthfully. Then, remembering her recent phone call,’ Do you have commitments?’
‘That was my neighbour,’ she told me after a brief pause. ‘We sleep together quite often but, believe it or not, we have an agreement.’
‘Of course I believe it,’ said I. ‘I have an agreement myself. Jealousy is not allowed.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
The rest of our time in the Red Lion is a blur (not that I got drunk, I hasten to add). I remember telling Stan that I hated labels but didn’t mind being considered “kiki”. She laughed at that and asked if “that old term” was back in use with people my age. I said not as far as I was aware; I’d read it somewhere and reckoned it suited me.
Then we were miraculously in my bedroom, mouths passionately locked, Stan’s biceps flexing as she gripped me as if she’d never let go.
Kissing her was great but getting my hands on her tits was infinitely better. She didn’t seem to mind such forwardness but, after maybe ten minutes of being snogged and mauled, she surprised me by taking a backward step.
‘Not through cotton,’ she said, ‘if you’re going to do it, do it properly.’
I had honestly expected her to make all the running. In fact I’d expected her to rip my clothes off and molest me seven ways from Sunday (or rather, I’d hoped she would multiply molest me). I’m not one to miss an opportunity, though. I immediately advanced on her and grabbed the hem of her T-shirt. Two seconds later it was off.
And oh my, those tits were even bigger than I’d imagined. They were nice and firm as well; bouncy as heck and not at all floppy. I immediately buried my face in them, kissing and licking before finding her nipple and starting to suck.
‘Oh Davina,’ she murmured. ‘You’ve found the route to my . . .’
She squirmed and convulsed before she could finish her sentence. More encouraged than I’d ever been, I sought out her other nipple and gave it the same treatment.
‘Fuck me, yes,’ she groaned.
Then, abandoning the (surprisingly) submissive role, she gripped the hem of my T-shirt and pulled it up. I raised my arms, letting it be tugged straight off me.
‘Omigod,’ she went before attacking my flat chest. ‘Omigod I love it . . . yes, yes, yes!!’
I loved it too. And I loved it even more when she picked me up and tossed me onto the bed.
That was more like what I’d been expecting!
But I’d never expected anything approaching her tenderness and skill. Once I’d stopped pogoing on the springs she assailed me with fingers and tongue, attacking my non-existent tits and producing lots of very existent reactions.
Was it good? You bet it was. I must have cum fifty times in no time at all. Somehow she had instantly found a sexual superhighway between my nips and pussy and exploited it for all she was worth.
And I revelled in it for all I was worth.
Later . . . much, much later . . . I recall lifting my bum so she could tug off my jeans. And I’ll never ever forget her taking off my socks, kissing and sucking my toes, one by one . . .
Sometimes two or three at once . . .
Even less forgettable was the way she ran her tongue tip along the underside of my foot . . .
Believe me; I used to think my feet were ticklish; Stan didn’t exactly dispel that notion but she certainly did add a new dimension to the experience.
To be honest, I’m close to cumming right now, just remembering that first time.
Moving swiftly on . . .
Stan’s skill down there was beyond compare. I know I keep saying I’m not doing comparisons and I intend to stick to that. Her use of fingers, mouth and tongue was, however . . .
Mmmm, yum, yum!
Suffice to say she made me very happy indeed. Don’t ask me how long or how many . . . let’s just say “ages” and “lots” . . . but finally she was looking up at me, her face glistening with juice and sweat.
‘Okay, Kiki Girl,’ she said, ‘it’s your turn.’
I responded by grabbing her arms and pulling her up my quivering body. At the time she was bare-chested but still in her jeans.
‘This first,’ I said, wrapping my legs around her.
*****
What can I say? Stan obviously wasn’t too practiced at tribbing but she was a very quick learner. And I was as horny as a rabbit on steroids. I seriously enjoyed the feel of her rough denim crotch rubbing against my bare, very, very wet pussy.
Cue massive orgasm.
And, after maybe quarter of an hour of extras, cue massive mutual orgasm!
Then, when we were both gasping for breath and trying to control our heart rates, Stan repeated her challenge.
‘Okay, Kiki Girl, it’s your turn.’
I would like to think I rose to it. I certainly had no problem in re-assaulting her tits . . .
(It was hard work, but somebody had to do it!)
Next up I did my best to match her in stripping, fingering and tonguing, not to mention toe-sucking and sole-licking. And I have no doubt that I achieved when it came to tribbing her thoroughly and well.
(Here’s one of my infamous asides. Stan shaved her pussy as bald as a billiard ball. She really must have attended to herself there every other day, at least. Everywhere else . . . and I mean her armpits and legs . . . she left to Mother Nature. I was almost the polar opposite. For me “every other day” was too much of a drag but, although I never, ever shaved my pussy, I did occasionally skim over my legs and pits. Rubbing bodies together we were, therefore, a mass of interesting contrasts.)
That first tribbing I gave her was nothing if not painstaking. She was gasping and panting instructions so I played along and let us cum more or less in synchrony. But then I pressed on, taking her up, up and away, making her yelp, wail and shriek like a banshee.
Then I had her again.
And only then did she grab me and ask for a timeout.
‘Oh to be young,’ she sighed.
‘Fancy a glass of wine?’ I said seductively, wanting to put our break to good use.
‘I’m driving.’
‘Come on, Stan, it’s not much after midnight. Surely you’re not running off before dawn?’
‘Oh to be young,’ she said again before turning her head and staring me in the eye. ‘I have a meeting at nine,’ she announced. ‘That means I need to be home, showered and changed for seven.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ I replied, ‘that gives us plenty of time to drink, make merry and maybe even catch forty winks; if you absolutely need to sleep, that is.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘So,’ I began as I thrust an extra-large glass in Stan’s direction, ‘what is it you do for a living?’
She laughed. ‘Aren’t you supposed to ask that before you fuck me?’
I laughed with her, taking the foul language as the sort of thing an older woman would say. ‘Us young ones are re-writing the rules,’ I said. ‘It’s the in thing to ask afterwards, nowadays.’
‘I’m in banking,’ she said after a pause.
‘Me too,’ I said eagerly. ‘Well, I’m in IT in the banking sector. Not that IT is struggling; this global crisis only makes us more in demand.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Stan. ‘I work in a branch and we’re more reliant on technology than ever.’
‘What do you do? Are you the manager?’
‘With the keys to the safe in my handbag?’ she said, scowling once more.
‘You don’t even have a handbag,’ I pointed out. ‘And I wouldn’t want to mug you anyway. If I ever rob a bank it’ll be online. No way would I go in with a sawn-off shotgun or anything like that.’
Stan chuckled and conceded she was the assistant branch manager, very rarely left with the keys and under strict instructions to hand them over straightaway if
shotguns ever became involved.
‘Nick a million today and, the way things are going, it’ll only be worth half a mil tomorrow,’ she said, ‘maybe not even that.’
We finished our drinks and I put our empties on my bedside cabinet. Then, horny as ever, I opened the top drawer.
‘Oh,’ I said theatrically, ‘just look what I’ve found.’
