Davina Does Older Women

by Limey Lady

  ‘Looks like a harness to me,’ Stan smiled wryly, ‘guess you want to fuck me for real.’

  ‘You guess right,’ I said smoothly, reaching for my toys, wishing the supply wasn’t so limited. These days I have an embarrassingly large number of playthings; back then I only had a vibrator and two dildos . . . and the flipping vibrator wasn’t compatible with my latest harness.

  ‘What the fuck is that?’ Stan gasped as I showed her the alternatives.

  She wasn’t staring at the green silicone, phallic-shaped affair which I used with Val Williams so very regularly; she was all eyes for Ellie’s present (the transparent glass one with six beads).

  ‘I can be gentle with it,’ I assured her. ‘I’ve used it loads of times.’

  ‘How old are you?’ Stan laughed shortly. ‘Did you say nineteen or sixty-nine?’

  ‘Sixty-nine sounds good to me,’ I said, adjusting the straps. ‘Well, it will do later on . . .’

  *****

  Stan enjoyed my attentions very much and I certainly enjoyed attending to her. In fact I got excited in direct proportion to her arousal. The harness certainly helped, as it was designed to give the user a bit of friction you-know-where, but mostly it was Stan’s enthusiastic cries; I found it impossible not to be incentivized by the way she yelled out her appreciation.

  Well, who wouldn’t be incentivized in that situation? A big, manlike skinhead wriggling and writhing under me while she begged for more and more and more; what is there not to like about that?

  Eventually, at stupid o’clock in the morning, she called another timeout. I was too wired to sleep and it felt to be too late for more wine, so we talked. And talked and talked.

  Somehow, after the usual shoes and ships and sealing wax chitchat, we got on to significant others. I told Stan about Sara and intimated there had been plenty more pebbles on the beach. Then, after a quick tot up, I told Stan she was my tenth in only ten months of sexual activity.

  She told me she hadn’t kept count (and wouldn’t have ever dared!) before showing me a photo on her mobile. It was of her with an arm around a woman who was even bigger than she was.

  ‘That’s Bethany,’ she said, ‘my neighbour and occasional bedmate.’

  I was impressed by Bethany’s appearance and presence. Her hair had been cropped with, at a guess, a number five guard, making her a long-haired lout beside Stan. Even so she reeked of feminine. And it didn’t matter if she was severely overweight; she was one of those women who look better for being a lot heavier than dieticians recommend.

  ‘Very nice,’ I said sincerely, trying not to too obviously leer at the woman’s humungous tits. ‘You look good together.’

  ‘Butch and femme, you mean?’ Stan laughed. ‘I guess in reality we’re kiki for each other; kiki and without a doubt jealousy-free.’

  *****

  We dozed off after a while but all too soon it was six am and the alarm was ringing loud and very, very insistently. Declining my offer of a shared shower, Stan said she needed to go home, change and put her “cummy clothes” in the wash. She was inspecting the front of her jeans as she spoke and I could not stop giggling.

  (Yes; I really had gushed down the front of her denims. I duly apologized for that but absolved myself of guilt for her soggy knickers; they were definitely all her own work.)

  ‘Tomorrow night,’ she said before she went. ‘Do you fancy another round?’

  ‘What’s wrong with tonight?’ I countered.

  ‘I’m only doing classes on Mondays and Wednesdays.’

  I was doing classes all five weekday nights, which turned out to be more than just about anyone else in the history of time, the universe and everything. Most people were doing one or two a week. For a moment, still unreasonably horny, I considered bribing Stan to meet me after that night’s lesson, even though she wouldn’t be part of it. Then I remembered I’d already arranged to meet Val.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘Wednesday it is.’

  *****

  Here’s where I confess to being even more of a slut than I may have come across as before. But let’s have a bit of a digression before I bare my all . . .

  That Tuesday afternoon I got a callout. It was nothing out of the ordinary: one of the girl accountants’ PC suddenly wouldn’t work. I duly rolled up at her desk and she illustrated the problem.

  ‘It was fine before lunch,’ she said, ‘but now it doesn’t want to know.’

  I did all the obvious checks (turning the power on and off first) and quickly discovered she had a point. There was juice getting to the PC but, apart from displaying all the usual icons, it didn’t want to play. In other words, she could have used Excel and Word to her heart’s content but didn’t have access to the society’s internal systems.

  (According to her, that was like being unable to breathe.)

  I quickly established that the problem had to be with what we called a “system cable”. Back then were not yet completely wireless and relied on basic bits of physical kit. To tell the truth, it looked to me as if the cable had simply become unplugged and I could fix it in seconds.

  Assuming I went down on my knees under the girl’s desk, that was.

  Hey-ho; getting grubby was part of the job description. I tugged on the suspect cable, hoping it would spring free but finding it was (very predictably) tangled in a spaghetti junction of other cables. Sighing like a superhero, I got on my knees and clambered into the dark unknown.

  To cut a short story even shorter, the cable wasn’t unplugged. When I re-emerged with it all the world could see it had been cut in half.

  No, it had been gnawed in half.

  The girl accountant didn’t actually scream and jump up onto her chair; she did, however, show all the signs of being afraid of mice.

  ‘It’s those cheese and onion crisps,’ one of her work-neighbours said, sniggering.

  ‘Or that cheese and tomato sandwich you just scoffed,’ another added, less-than helpfully.

  ‘Hope it’s not anything more sinister,’ someone else put in gratuitously.

  I resolved the issue with a replacement cable and studied the lie of the land while I was back under her desk. There were no mouse droppings as far as I could tell, and there were some of those box-like traps things left by Rentokil, all of them empty of victims.

  ‘I guess you’ve got Jerry Mouse,’ I said as I resurfaced. ‘This one’s smarter than your average rodent.’

  ‘I hate things like that,’ the girl confessed.

  ‘Mice are cute,’ her nearest neighbour said, smirking. ‘It’s Roland Rat you want to look out for . . .’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I remember that Tuesday for several reasons; it was the day after my first night with Stan; the start of the hunt for Jerry Mouse (which never did get completed; more of that later); and not least because of the new ground I broke with Val.

  As a quick aside; Val never did anything untoward as far as I was concerned. By that I mean that she did not corrupt me in any way. You might recall that I was the one who threw myself at her (as I throw myself at every beautiful woman who shows any interest in me!). By then, my second evening at night school, Val and I had been having sex for four or five months; me being taken advantage of was not an issue.

  I was a grown adult acing of my own free will; nothing more, nothing less.

  Anyway, we’d fallen into a caring and sharing routine. In other words we took it in turns to bring each other off. Okay, so we often brought each other off mutually, too, but you get the general. She would do me and then I would gratefully do her. Or we’d do it the other way around or whatever. Trust me; it worked for us.

  On that particular occasion I was on top and tribbing like crazy. Val was under me, her strong legs wrapped around my back (or, depending on my urgency from one minute to the next, my buttocks or thighs). She was groaning and moaning as per always, giving me the usual encouragement and ever assuring me I was performing up there with the best.

  And then
I felt her fingers circling my ring.

  Big shock or what! I was very, very accustomed to feeling Val’s fingernails digging into my ass. In fact I could have probably written theses about the sensation. Now she was doing something else.

  Now she was doing something completely different.

  Heroically, I kept on tribbing. Intrepidly, Val slipped her index into my anus.

  Cue instantaneous orgasm!

  Up until that moment I had been a bit smug about my recently acquired, ever-evolving staying power. I had genuinely believed that, with Val, at least, I’d overcome my hair-trigger orgasm youth and was capable of going an age without having to fight off the desperate need to cum.

  Wrong!!!

  I gasped and sighed and contracted like the world was about to end.

  Then she wiggled her invasive finger once or twice and I went supernova.

  *****

  Quite a while later, after peeling me off the ceiling, Val asked me if I’d enjoyed her “little variation”.

  ‘Why did you make me wait?’ I replied. ‘Why haven’t you been doing that to me every night?’

  ‘Too much of a good thing . . .’ she said, chuckling girlishly. Then, deadly serious ‘But, if you’d like to learn a little more . . .’

  *****

  The next couple of months were possibly the best in my life. All I did was work, go to night class, go to the pub and have sex.

  If that sounds rather drab I for one do not care. Okay, I’m an IT nerd but work and classes were fine entertainment by me. So too were the (relatively scarce) visits to drinking establishments. And, as for having sex . . .

  Routines were swiftly established. Stan shared my bed every Monday and Wednesday. Val took her turn on Tuesday and from Friday through to Sunday lunch (with time off to supervise a variety of team games at one school or another on Saturday mornings). Less routinely, I had fleeting half-term visits from Sara and Meryl and Ellie . . .

  Looking back I suppose those few weeks were the most sexually fulfilling I’ve had. Stan was a simply amazing lover and no-one on earth could be as inventive or as passionate as Val. My one-off visitors weren’t exactly flops either; it’s fair to say absence had made our hearts go fonder.

  Well, maybe not precisely our hearts . . .

  Then everything changed.

  *****

  It was a run-of-the-mill Monday and I’d just been called out on another Jerry Mouse investigation. If memory serves me right, it was the third one and in a third different department. That pesky rodent got about, that was for sure. As per usual I’d replaced a gnawed cable and left the PC user going eek and worrying about tiny teeth chewing her nylons.

  (By the way, we never did catch Jerry; Rentokil quadrupled their traps but didn’t get a capture. As for me, I rather liked the idea of a tiny, resourceful opponent and particularly appreciated the way he went for new targets, always leaving us guessing. He had, I decided, a similar approach to those cables as I had to picking my bedfellows. And here’s a confession for you: I must have covertly stamped or knelt on fifty of those poison-laden cardboard box traps. To me they were tantamount to murder. I was sure Jerry wouldn’t fall for anything so blatant, but I also wasn’t prepared to run the risk of him slipping up.)

  Adhering to routine, I went back to my desk via the coffee machine. Sitting and sipping a scalding hot Colombian, I checked my email, my eye coming to rest on a previously unknown sender.

  Now I’m pretty ace at deciphering mail addresses. But I didn’t have to use my Holmes-like abilities to twig that one.

  ‘NHS,’ I muttered, ‘who do I know who works for the NHS?’

  The answer was nobody. For perhaps a second I wondered if it was some so-and-so phishing for God knew what. But our IT firewalls were better than NASA’s . . . and this one hadn’t even ended up in my trash, so it couldn’t be remotely harmful. Intrigued, I opened it and was surprised to note the identity of the sender. I still have a copy of it to his day, so here is a direct quote:

  “Hello Davina. I have heard all sorts about you and want to start a dialogue. And I am not a nutter or a lady with an axe to grind. Please say you’ll talk. Love, Bethany.”

  Shit fire and save matches, it was from Stan’s neighbour!

  And she’d signed it with love!!

  I pondered a while before answering. As far as I knew Bethany really was jealousy-free, but I’d never met

  her; I only had Stan’s word for that. And what sort of sane person opened a dialogue with a denial about being a nutter?

  Hmmm . . .

  Eventually I sent back a cautious reply.

  “Hello Bethany. I’ve nothing against talking, but how did you get my address?”

  Her reply was faster than fast.

  ‘My friend works at the same place as you. I know the email code.”

  That made sense. Major organisations are nothing if not predictable with email addresses; if you twig the general format all you then need is a surname and initials. I’d been daft to even ask.

  I took a deep breath and pondered some more before sending:

  “Okay, so let’s talk.”

  This time her reply took more like ten minutes.

  “Thanks for being so adult. I really have heard all sorts about you (Stan talks about little else!!) but I want to find out what you are like for myself. Shall we start by exchanging pics? I’ve attached one of me. Please do send back one of you.”

  I moved the cursor onto the attachment and hesitated, wondering if she knew that I had seen a photo of her already. It would have been very easy for her to send me a snap of, say, Scarlett Johansson, wouldn’t it?

  But she hadn’t; the attachment was definitely her . . . and in a very fetching nurse’s uniform too.

  Aha, I thought, hence the NHS address; she’s mailing me from work.

  I did briefly consider sending back a cartoon of Velma Dinkley but suspected she wouldn’t even start to get the joke. Instead I got my mobile out and flicked through some pictures Kelly had taken the last time we went climbing, back in June. Two of them stood out: the first had me tackling an iffy overhang like Spider-Girl; the other was of me sitting triumphantly at the top, looking more than a bit sweaty but hot in more ways than one.

  (Sorry if that sounds big-headed. I usually look awful in photos but that last one was flattering; it was far and away the best I’ve ever had taken of me.)

  “Here,” I wrote on the accompanying email, “this is me doing my second-favourite hobby.”

  She responded with:

  “Nice ass in the first one, lovely smile in the next. No wonder Stan’s been walking around with a big goofy grin on her face!”

  I won’t bore you with the rest of our exchange but it went on over a period of days, getting gradually warmer and warmer until she sent me:

  “My personal address is at the bottom of this message. If you tell me yours, I’ll send you some much more risqué pics. Go on, I dare you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Bethany’s risqué “pic” was actually a video clip. I turned it off after seeing the first few seconds, afraid of being caught in the act by some officious busybody. Then, with a pounding heart, I retreated to the ladies’ and locked myself in a stall. Seated on a shut toilet lid, I restarted.

  The clip seemed to be shot in a nightclub. As far as I could tell, the audience consisted exclusively of female nurses and they were all well on the way to being drunk. Two women on a low stage were the centre of attention.

  They were Bethany and a significantly younger blonde with a pneumatic chest.

  There wasn’t a soundtrack with the video but it was easy to imagine a jazzy rendition of The Stripper blaring out in the background.

  That was what they were doing, you see. I’m putting two and together and getting seventeen, but I’m as good as certain that the pair of them had done that sort of thing before. Maybe it was their party act and they did it every time alcohol had been consumed. Whatever; they were clearly eggin
g each other on and, just as clearly, neither of them was prepared to quit before the other.

  The blonde was attractive but I ignored her. So, for the most part, did the shaky-handed cameraman (or, more likely, woman). For us Bethany took centre stage and filled it with more than just presence.

  She was simply magnificent. Okay, so she had a roll of fat on her tummy but it worked for her. And if her legs and arms were plump so what? Seeing her halfway out of her uniform . . .