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Hi, I’m Mikki. I am twenty-four and I am a two-timing lesbian whore.
There, that statement surprised you, didn’t it? It surprises me, I must admit. A month or so ago I would never have used the words “lesbian” or “whore” when describing myself. Now I feel obliged to use them because they’re indubitably true. The way I’ve been behaving! It’s positively shameful!!
Last time we spoke, the Friday before last, I’d ninety-nine percent convinced myself that I’m a lesbian. I was also one hundred percent certain I was in love with my workmate from IT, Dave (also known as Davina). How times have changed.
My, oh my, how times have changed.
You might have noticed I’ve upgraded my lesbian status from ninety-nine percent. Yes, I’ve removed that question mark altogether. Sadly, a much larger question mark now hovers over my status with Dave. Whatever we had, I think I’ve blown it.
Out of the water and beyond repair!!
I am, as always, determined to stick to the warts and all truth in this account. Bearing that in mind, I think the way ahead is to simply tell you what happened . . .
Friday night, then. After an idyllic weekend away together, Dave had introduced me to her strapless strap-on. Girl oh girl, had she introduced me to it. Wearing a harness, “just in case”, she’d made me cum and cum until I flaked out. That had only ever happened to me once before . . . flaking out like that, I mean . . . and it had been thanks to her wonderfully wicked fingers and tongue. Now, nine days on, it was my turn to return the favour. Better still, I’d been invited to do it at her place. Yes, at last I was getting to have sex at her place.
Better, better still, she had lent me her toy in advance and I’d practiced with it like billy-o.
Dave lives in East Morton, situated on the hills between Keighley and Bingley, a stone’s throw from the famous Ilkley Moor. Because I’m a modern, independent girl (and because there’s a regular bus service), I made my own way there, alighting temptingly close to the village pub. Ignoring the little red devil on my left shoulder, I walked past it, soon arriving at her home.
I have to say I was impressed. It’s the left one of a pair of old cottages, shielded from main road traffic and nosy passers-by by a length of well-kept garden and a high hedge. Built of weathered Yorkshire stone, it has white divided-light windows, ivy on the walls and roses around the door. It makes my poky little flat seem pokier than ever.
I said there are “roses around the door” . . . that isn’t quite correct. There are two doors at the front of the property and none at the back. The one immediately at the end of the garden path (the “front door”) has roses around it. The other (the “kitchen door”) is surrounded by ivy. I’d been asked to use the kitchen door and Dave opened it before I could tap on one of its clear glass panes.
‘What do you fancy first?’ she asked saucily. ‘A meal round at the pub . . . or me?’
‘You,’ I replied without hesitation.
She stood aside and let me into a small but well-appointed kitchen. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘we’ll nip out and dine at nine. In the meantime . . .’
Taking my hand she led me through a tiny, odd-shaped room she descried as her “study”. It was full of IT kit but, being in an exponential state of arousal, I paid it little notice. Nor did I pay her “sitting room” much heed. We hurried up some steep stone stairs and arrived at a landing and three closed, solid oak doors.
‘Take me to paradise,’ she commanded, turning the nearest doorknob.
I would like to say I acted with mature restraint . . . but I didn’t, not completely, anyhow. After kissing and pawing her, I literally tore of her clothes and threw her onto the bed. Then, making us both wait for the main course, I dived between her legs and chewed clit. And licked labia. And tongued her everywhere else, inside and out.
After several orgasms (one for me, the rest all hers), I stripped myself while Dave dug out her harness. Needless to say, I hadn’t a clue how to get into it so she had to help, laughing along breathlessly as she did so.
‘Remember,’ she said, ‘we’re nipping out at nine.’
‘Suck it,’ said I, thrusting my newly acquired hard-on towards her.
‘In your dreams.’ Dave threw herself onto the bed this time. ‘It’s here if you want it,’ she said seductively. ‘Come and help yourself.’
I eased myself onto her and slowly, gently, (lovingly!) ran the tip of my “horse” up and down her slit. She sighed and told me she liked it, so I kept doing it until I couldn’t wait any longer.
Sliding into her was exquisite. I could almost feel her baking hot wetness enveloping my new, synthetic cock. More to the point, I genuinely could feel the “pony” end of her toy moving deep inside me. And the sensation of those cunningly placed ridges on the “saddle”, as they rubbed against my clit . . .
I read somewhere, once upon a time, that a woman should use her own experience when making escort atakoy love. That is, when making love to another woman. Up until that Friday, not having had a lot of experience, I’d been blagging it a bit. Rather than doing things to her that I like having done to me, I’d been doing the things I wished I’d had done to me. And I’d been trying to copy her own methods of lovemaking, of course.
That Friday I diversified. I had had two male lovers and, although I perhaps unfairly class them as “pathetic”, one of them had never failed to make me cum. Still in slow/tender mode, I did all the things I’d enjoyed when Joe did them to me. And I also did a few things Joe hadn’t done but should have. It may not have been missionary sex at its finest, but it worked wonders for me and, judging by her gasps, groans and entreaties, Dave got off on it too.
Countless cummings later, I coaxed Dave onto all-fours and, kneeling behind her, eased my seven inches of horse into her pussy . . . being slow and gentle, naturally.
‘Oh my God,’ she sighed, ‘this is a first.’
It was a first for me too but I didn’t admit it. Instead I shagged her, going at it a little harder than before but always being tender and considerate. Smiling to myself as, using skills I hadn’t known I had, I set up a rhythm that suited us both. Aided and abetted by bedsprings, we kept it going a long, long time.
Then, encouraged by my prowess, heady on sex, I removed the harness and refitted the strap-on in its intended, strapless state.
‘Oh yeah?’ said Dave, grinning at me.
‘You’d better believe it,’ I replied, conscious my inner muscles were on red alert, and not so sure I believed it myself.
‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘I’m all yours.’
I needn’t have lacked belief. Without going into great detail, my self-confidence grew rapidly and Dave received me gratefully. Then, after a quick shower, we hastened our way to the pub, getting there just before they started turning would-be diners away.
‘It’s too late to order starters,’ Dave said as we studied menus. ‘What main do you fancy?’
‘All of them,’ I replied.
‘I’ve got steaks for tomorrow,’ she said, seeing where my attention was lingering. ‘Not that I’m trying to influence you. Go for anything you like. I’m paying.’
‘No you are not,’ I objected.
‘Yes I am. You can buy lunch tomorrow. And rounds and rounds of beer, until you’re satisfied you’ve paid your corner.’
We both went for mixed grills (yes, they did include steak, but only relatively small ones) and chatted away as we ate them. Chatting was, for us, a sort of foreplay. We were both good at it and couldn’t get enough of each other’s gossip, even if it usually was in one ear, out of the other.
(Brief aside. When I said “foreplay” I meant it in a general sort of a way. Our relationship really began through gossipy conversations at lunchtimes. My sexual attraction to Dave was quite instantaneous but it came on in leaps and bounds during those conversations. And, although I didn’t realize it at the time, I decided I was going to actually do something about that attraction while I was chatting to her. That’s how stimulating our chatting could be).
I appreciate it might seem strange of us to have indulged in foreplay shortly after we’d had sex. Maybe it was. That is how we were, though. We were good together, before during and after. And besides, we were eating our meals preparatory to picking up exactly where we’d left off, back in Dave’s bed. Unconventional? Ask me if I am bothered.
Saturday mornings are the bane of a credit controller’s life. Well, they are where I work, anyway. My employers sell gizmos via a nationwide network of branches. Those outlets open all day throughout the week and from eight while one on Saturdays. We credit controllers stagger our starting and finishing times to cover Monday to Friday, but the five weekend hours are deemed payable overtime and covered by a rota. Once every six weeks I have to cover and, that particular week, I was “it”.
So much for the bad news. The good news is that IT techies have a Saturday rota too. And guess what, that was also Dave’s week to be “it”. Carrying on the good news theme, in Credit Control there isn’t a lot to do on a Saturday. Compared to the rest of the week, the telephones are quiet. We rarely get calls from customers and the few branches that ring usually have simple, yes-or-no questions to be answered.
Dave drove us in to work then proved IT techies have it even easier. She put some sort of divert onto her mobile and spent the morning in my office, yarning with me and making us occasional cups of tea. In total she had two calls to answer. One was swiftly remedied over the phone. The other necessitated her to use a PC in her own department. She was barely gone ten minutes.
Duties done, we pulled up on the pub carpark at quarter past one and lunched on the Sharing Seafood Platter and several pints of Landlord. Then, stoked up by more flirtatious chatting, we went back to Dave’s escort bahcesehir and made out on the settee.
Well, officially we sat down to watch Monsters University. During one conversation or other I’d admitted I’d enjoyed Monsters Inc. Dave had admitted she had the prequel and that afternoon we’d planned on watching it. Except . . .
Well, although we did play the DVD twice, we also made out a lot. And put it this way: I can’t remember very much about the film.
Confession time. I’d never had anyone put a hand in my knickers before. None of the boys at school got nearly so lucky and my two university lovers were grown-up . . . or so they thought; they both believed sex should only happen naked. So did I, I suppose. Until Dave persuaded me otherwise.
‘Watch the film,’ she commanded, unhooking my belt.
‘But . . .’
‘Never mind “but”, Mikki. You had your way with me nearly all of last night. Now it’s my turn.’
I obediently fixed my eyes on the screen. Heard my zip going down. Felt the brass button coming undone.
‘Lift your bum,’ she said. Then, as I obliged, ‘That’s enough. You can sit back down.’
When I sat I realized she’d lowered my jeans. Not by much, probably not even by six inches. But enough for her to get her hand in my sexy black panties.
‘Watch the film,’ she repeated.
So I watched the monsters while she steadily masturbated me. And trust me, she can do it much better than I can. Starting off stroking my labia, she gradually homed in on my vagina. Popping a single finger inside me, her other fingers rocking a little on me as she began to probe. It was simply amazing. Somehow she probed everywhere without once touching my G-spot, often brushing close by, but always deliberately avoiding it.
‘Oh Dave,’ I sighed.
‘Watch the film,’ she replied.
I was dripping down there. Even though Dave’s hand was closely confined, even though it was hardly moving, I could hear sloppy wet noises. Or maybe that was my imagination running away with me.
‘Dave,’ I gasped, ‘I’m going to cum.’
She laughed and kept going. ‘Mikela, my darling, you’re going to cum lots of times.’
I did cum lots of times. And Dave did let me return the favour . . .
And only too briefly.
Then, after one of the best Saturday afternoons of my life, getting on seven o’clock, Dave announced she was going to make a start on our meal.
‘Homemade mushroom soup,’ she said. ‘Followed by prime fillet with my most special pepper sauce. Jacket potatoes, even more mushrooms . . . fried this time . . . and salad. And a choice of profiteroles or ice cream to finish. Sounds good?’
‘Mmmm, mmmm. Sounds truly scrumptious. I might have to finish off with both profiteroles and ice cream,’ I said, very sincerely. Then, slightly less sincerely, ‘Do you need me to be your commis chef?’
‘No. But you can open the wine.’
‘Deal,’ said I. ‘I’ll nip upstairs and get rid of the last of that beer, then I’ll spring into action.’
As I peed it occurred to me that I hadn’t been given the grand tour. Okay, there wasn’t much to see, that was only too apparent. But I’m a nosy so-and-so. Always have been. So what had I missed seeing? Nothing downstairs, that was for sure. Except hadn’t Dave mentioned a cellar?
I turned my nose up at the very idea. Apart from storing bottles of vintage wine, I’ve never seen the need for cellars. Gloomy, musty, stinky places. My parents have one and it’s not fit for anything, not even storage. Store anything in there for more than ten minutes and it comes out swollen and mildewed.
There wasn’t an attic so all I was missing was behind the third door here, upstairs. Flushing the loo, feeling only marginally like a snoop, I opened the door.
Dave will never know, I told myself.
I had expected a sort of box-room, heaped with junk. Instead I found a second bedroom just as big as Dave’s and featuring an even nicer bed. The window was open, letting in fresh air and letting out the smell of fresh paint. Recently decorated in tasteful pink, the room had a homely, girlie air to it.
Don’t say . . . I thought, excitedly.
The bed was neatly made. The duvet was deep red, like the roses Dave had once bought me. It complemented the rest of the décor.
Omigod, omigod . . .
There was a bright pink envelope on top of the two deep red pillows. It obviously had a card in it.
A card welcoming Mikki coming to live here, in this house? That is what I assumed. At that moment in time I reckoned Dave wanted me to move in. That she’d been keeping me away from her home while she had that room tarted up . . .
Tarted up especially for me!
Forgive me if I say I was flattered. Flattered, excited, delighted, grateful . . . The list went on and on. Not that I had any intention in sleeping in a separate room, of course. Oh no, I wanted to move into that house and into Dave’s bed. 24/7 would do nicely. Failing that . . . and given the need for us to work for a living escort gungoren . . . 8/7 would do. Or maybe 10/7 . . .
Dave’s voice interrupted my daydreams.
‘Hoi,’ she called from downstairs, ‘are you opening the wine or not?’
I went down the steep stone stairs and into the kitchen, consciously trying to keep a big soppy smile off my face. The soup (which Dave must have part-prepared earlier) was simmering in a saucepan. So too was pepper sauce. There was no sign of our fillets. They were presumably still in the fridge. The air was thick with the smell of roasting jacket spuds.
‘I gave them a blast in the microwave,’ Dave explained as I struggled with the cork. ‘But I’m finishing them off in the oven. They’re not the same out of a microwave, are they?’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘And they smell delicious already.’
I poured us glasses of Shiraz and looked up into a quizzical expression.
‘Mikela, why have you got a big, soppy smile on your face?’
Not wanting to spoil her surprise, sure she’d be making her proposal sooner or later, I kissed her.
‘I’m smiling because I love you,’ I said. ‘And because I love being here with you. And because I love steak and mushrooms, ice cream and profiteroles . . .’
The meal was excellent and I did get profiteroles with ice cream. I also got a night of mind-blowing sex and, after a brief spell of shuteye, a morning of mind-blowing sex.
Hi ho sex on Sunday! My sun was shining!!
Let me say it again: Hi ho sex on Sunday!!
Yes, my sun was shining brightly indeed.
We dragged ourselves out of bed and showered about eleven-ish. I think. Early enough to have cups of coffee before retracing our footsteps to The Busfeild, anyway.
At this point you might think we did nothing that weekend apart from fuck . . .
(Apologies for my atrocious language; it’s the Yorkshire/Cornish lass in me, I’m sure it is!)
. . . and eat and drink. Well, apart from pointing out we did work for five hours and sleep a bit, I’d say you would be right. There’s nothing wrong with fucking, eating and drinking, if you ask me. It’s far more civilized than football hooliganism, fox hunting or planting roadside bombs. If only everyone could behave the way we did.
Not knowing my cosy little world was about to collapse around me, I studied the menu again. It was very similar to the regular, rest-of-the-week menu but included roast beef and Yorkshire puds and “our guest roast of the day with Yorkshire puds” . . . served with both roast and new potatoes and every veg under the sun. That day’s “guest” was roast lamb. I purposefully shut out images of springy, bouncy newborn sheep and shamefully went for the guest.
And it was melt-on-the-tongue delicious.
I’ve admitted before that I’m not very scientific. Okay . . . I majored in English Lit. I know more about Mrs Malaprop than I do about Isaac Newton. I do have scientific traits, though, even if they are built on shaky ground.
Back then, cosily eating Sunday lunch, I had a hunch. (Lunch and hunch . . . classy, huh?).
All right, all right, maybe not. Anyway, my thoughts went like this . . .
Dave’s pussy produces the most intimate, sweetest juices. They just have to contain the very essence of her. No, they have to contain her DNA, which is, after all, the real essence of her. I must have consumed . . . what, gallons? Well, maybe not gallons, but certainly a pint or two of her juices. And one is what one eats, no? Her very essence, her DNA, is in me. As mine is in her. We are as one. We are inseparable.
Okay, okay, okay. I told you my science is dodgy, and I’ll readily admit I felt no “at-one-ness” with the guys I’d known at uni. And, although neither of them had imbibed a lot of juices from me, I had imbibed the essence of them . . .
‘Mikki,’ Dave said, her face suddenly solemn. ‘There’s something I have to say.’
I rapidly pulled myself together, expecting her proposal, ready to bite her hand off.
‘You might not like this,’ she went on.
‘But there’s no avoiding it,’ she continued.
I looked at her blankly, nonplussed.
‘It’s Kat,’ she enlarged. ‘She’s coming home.’
I haven’t mentioned it before, but I have a temper. I usually keep it in a cage, well out of reach of passing sightseers. It’s ferocious but unlikely to take off hands or limbs. Not if they are kept out of its reach, anyway.
And I don’t usually have a short fuse.
Choking on disappointment, gagging on rejection, I spluttered my next words.
(But first another enlargement. Dave had told me next to eff-all about her ex. I knew she was called Kat or Katrina, and I knew she had, allegedly, lesbian bed death. I also knew that, some three or four months earlier, she’d gone off on her travels.
Travel, my arse! Kat was a user. Dave openly admitted as much. Kat was some sort of whizz-kid IT programmer. Firms fell over each other to bring her on board. She could . . . and often did . . . walk into and out of jobs as she wished).
End of enlargement.
And sorry if I seem like am cow.
No fuck it, I am a cow. And I deserve to behave like one. So there! Who deserves it if not me?
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