Guess Who Just Got Back Today



Hello everybody, Davina reporting in, remember me?

Please do not worry too much if you don’t. It’s been a long time since I personally spoke out. Looking back the other day I was amazed how much time has elapsed. I contributed eight consecutive stories in early 2017, filling you all in on my sex life (and intimately at that!). Kicking off in 2008 I got as far as 2012, decided to take a short break and . . .

Well here we suddenly are, almost two years later. And believe you me; there is still plenty to be told.

To refresh memories and save you re-reading old tales, I’m going to tell you a bit about me and then briefly outline the story up to where I broke off. Anyone who remembers me and my adventures can, of course, skip the updates and go straight to Chapter One.



I’m now twenty-eight-years old and a classic IT nerd. I am also proudly lesbian with my own gold star and (more often than not) I’m single, footloose and fancy-free. Sex, curry and beer aside, my hobbies include rock climbing and long-distance hiking.

Sex tops the list, though, by a mile.

I guess I’ve always known my true sexuality although it took a while to properly sink in. As an innocent schoolgirl I had friends of both sexes. As an adolescent I felt no real attraction either way. For a while I actually believed that I was sexless. Then, as an eighteen year old, I gave my friend Sara a birthday kiss and an insatiable passion was unleashed inside me.

Did I say passion? That first same-sex kiss unleashed all the sex-demons in hell. I’ve been completely at their mercy ever since.

Physically I am five feet eight with very short, light brown hair and, perhaps thanks to my exceptionally flat chest, I often get mistaken for a bloke.

I suppose my usual attire doesn’t help. By day I wear sturdy work trousers, company-branded sweats and red Docs. By night I wear jeans, non-branded sweats and Docs. Even so Kat, one of the loves of my life, reckons I resemble Velma out of Scooby-Doo.

How unfair is that! Okay, my glasses are like Velma’s and I do have the freckles and snub nose, but I keep my hair much shorter, even if it is a very similar colour. More to the point, turtleneck sweaters or pleated skirts will never be found in any wardrobe of mine.

As for wearing Mary Janes and knee socks . . . forget it!

Kat’s other comparison is infinitely more flattering (if infinitely less accurate). At least once she’s said I remind her of a certain American porn star . . . one with a gold star all of her own. Without naming any names she’s boyish but beautiful, and always seems to be on the giving end. And she also has a very nice pair of tits.

Unlike the ones I don’t have! I’ve got the nipples of an excited Page 3 Girl but nothing behind them.

The crosses we females have to bear!

Going back to my sexuality, I’ve been known as “Dave” since I was about eight. The only people who ever call me Davina are my mother when I’ve been naughty (quite often, then!), an aged aunt and the HR administrator at work, who simply hates nicknames.

So, I’ve been Dave from eight and a very active lesbian from eighteen. How time flies!

And however did I manage to wait until eighteen to kick-start my sex life?

Ten months after finally losing my virginity Logical Dave (the out and out nerd in me) calculated that I had already had ten different lovers. I’ve slowed down since then, obviously . . .

Honestly I have.

Oh all right. Cartoon character look-alike or not, I’ve always been able to pull girls. So why not make hay?

Events so far

The sixty-nine chapters preceding this new yarn (sixty-nine being a total co-incidence!) relate mostly about my lost virginity and eager adaptation into “lesbian” and “new”. I don’t know if my school was a particularly tolerant one, but I have to say coming out was not a big issue. Or maybe it just wasn’t any big surprise. It was simply accepted, just like that. In fact rather than an outcast I became a curiosity. Most of the girls in my little crowd wanted to know more and most of the guys wanted to watch.

As if!

I already mentioned I lost my virginity with Sara . . . who I love to this day . . . but she wasn’t cut out to be a proper girlfriend. We sneaked about a while, with me house-sharing when her parents went off on a mini-break in New York, but she still had a hankering after men. With the benefit of hindsight I’d say she was experimenting and blame her not one whit.

In all honesty she’s still experimenting now, ten years on. And I will be ready, willing and able to help her experiment until we are both old and grey.

So, skimming over a host of adventures with inquisitive fellow-schoolgirls and a quite marvellous affair with a stacked sports teacher, I passed my A-levels and said no to university. I had enjoyed every last minute of the upper sixth but felt the need for independence and earning power. Don’t get me wrong; I had always got A* in every exam that mattered porno indir (with the exception of Physics, a subject which didn’t matter very much to me, tee-hee). I could have sailed into most universities but didn’t want to sail into debt.

As a natural computer whizz I could have programmed anything, anywhere. But employers wanted to see “experience” so I got myself a job as a techie in a building society based in North Yorkshire.

I loved fixing things “users” carelessly broke on an hourly basis. My knowledge was practical as well as theoretical. And I was good at it. Careless users would call the Help Desk and ask specifically for me.

By the time I’d settled in to my job I must admit that my sexual knowledge was practical as well, too. After ten months and ten lovers I’d learnt a hundred ways to trib, a thousand ways how to best use a strap-on and anal wasn’t a problem. I had also gravitated from exclusively shagging with good-looking schoolmates to fucking with older women of all shapes and sizes.

No, let me qualify that: I preferred good-looking but could very easily go to the other extreme. And age did not matter in the least. Older generally meant wiser, so there was never an issue with that.

For the avoidance of doubt, after ten months I’d been in a very “grown-up” threesome and a less adult (but just as fun) foursome in a tent.

Yes, not quite nineteen and I was already experienced as heck.


When I mention “experimenting” and the likes please don’t think I preyed on anyone. I have from time to time made the first move but, more often than not, I’ve been the one accepting indecent proposals. And I have always believed in equal opportunities. In no way am I butch or femme. A close friend of mine used call me Kiki Girl and that’s spot on. I only like it if it’s friendly, consensual and hot, hot, hot.

Where was I?

Oh yes: I got me a job, rented a flat in Skipton and enrolled in night school, purely to get certificates. I knew more than the tutors, you see; but everything nowadays revolves about pieces of paper, which is totally ridiculous when you’re talking about IT qualifications, isn’t it?

Somewhere along the way, after spending a lot of nights with a large skinhead called Stan, I clicked with Margot, who was maybe forty and the polar opposite. Bottle-blonde and high-maintenance, her fetish was ass-smacking and she quickly converted me. She was fickle, though. I’d see her six nights a week or not at all for a month.

Not that I often went without. My first year or so of working for a living soon passed and I enjoyed it as much as I’d enjoyed school.

Then I met Kat . . .

Omigod, where to begin?

Kat worked in IT at the building society, so was a colleague. I’d seen her before but hardly spoken to her because soon after I started she’d taken a year off to go travelling. Her return coincided with my twentieth birthday. That is to say she returned to her desk on the same Monday I was embarrassed by a “presentation” and made to wear a badge with 20 on it, in very large numerals.

To my surprise Kat emailed me, apologizing for not sending a card and offering me a drink after work instead.

Seeing as she looked like Kim Kardashian (except younger and half a foot taller), I said yes.

Within an hour of sipping our first drink we were in her bed.

Within a fortnight of sleeping together (every night without fail), I’d moved in with her.

And within a year she’d gone off travelling again.


I can’t pretend Kat’s departure came as a shock. All along she’d told me she was addicted to going off to remote, exotic places. She’d actually begged me to go with her. Focused on buying a house of my own, I repeatedly said nay.

Kat lingered at work to attend my twenty-first birthday presentation then departed, promising me she’d be back. Disbelieving her, I reverted to my old ways, classing myself as “slut”, “harlot” or “whore” and sleeping with any woman who’d have me. And there were plenty of them. Whenever I overnighted on company business I even answered the hotel-door-knocking prostitutes and hired them by the hour.

(Horrid of me, I know. But that only happened a handful of times and was as exciting as heck.)

Then, on a society teambuilding day, I met Philippa and we almost instantly became an item.

Well, sort of.

We shared beds two, three even four times a week. But then Philippa became needy. I was screwing around still and she wanted blind faithfulness. Indeed I think she wanted a rose-covered cottage and the patter of tiny feet.

Perhaps I played into her hands because I only went and bought a rose-covered cottage . . . one up in East Morton, straight off a chocolate box. I did that in maybe twenty minutes, by the way. One glance and I knew I had to have it. Already provided with a mortgage offer and a much better one if I took up an option of switching employers, I made a few calls. And, in that spell of plummeting house rokettube prices, I soon got the better offer confirmed and outbid the previous best bidder by ten grand.

Trust me; the vendor bit off my hand and the estate agents are probably still celebrating in the pub.

That was when Philippa and I started to draw apart. Without going into too much detail, she began to nag about all sorts. And I caught her snooping on my phone at my own kitchen table.

She’d snooped out something extremely incriminating as well! I’m not sure if I was more outraged or horrified. All I could do was respond with an ultimatum: accept me as I am, stay and be punished for snooping . . . or go and it is curtains for the two of us.

Philippa snarled a while before giving in and accepting a colossal fucking.

Many hours later, after I’d thoroughly smacked her ass then even more thoroughly reamed it, she told me that Kat was back in the UK and starting at her place (my old place) of work Monday morning. And what a big shock was that. My initial instinct was to go see Kat, bury her in kisses.

But I was afraid of my own emotions. Maybe Kat would want fidelity too. Or maybe she wouldn’t want anything to do with me at all. And, after that big bust-up with Philippa, I’d just smacked and fucked her back into friendship. I couldn’t ditch her in the current circumstances.

Could I?

Hmmm . . . Tricky one or what?

When Kat contacted me . . . almost miraculously since I had changed numbers and addresses without letting her know . . . I fobbed her off and said I was “with” someone else.

Kat only had my email address but didn’t give in. We exchanged messages regularly but I refused to talk on the phone; I knew what the sound of her voice would do.

It would make me crawl over hot coals so she could have me and have me and have me . . .

Meanwhile Philippa upped from three-to-four nights a week, making it minimally five.

Then I screwed everything and slept with Margot.

Nothing wrong with that, you might presume. I’d been accepted as I was, warts and all, so I was free to do what I liked. Or so I sincerely believed.

Anyway, Margot had been off the scene for a while before she suddenly resurfaced. Not that that was anything new. She had been vanishing and reappearing as long as I’d known her. That time I was on my own in my local boozer, minding my own business and she came up out of the blue, just like Jaws, smiling that smile, so I dutifully fucked her. End of.

Except next night Philippa exploded when she saw the trademark claw tracks on my back.

I exploded in response. I’d sworn no vows and hadn’t even felt the claws (or maybe was only too used to them) and I was still miffed about the mobile snooping.

Bitter words were exchanged and Philippa stormed off.

Good riddance, thought I.

And that’s us just about up to date in 2012. Let the new story begin . . .

Chapter One

For some inexplicable reason I kept my distance from Kat. After first clearing it with me via email, she accepted a head-hunter’s offer and transferred jobs from the building society to the Widget Company. In other words she was working at the same place as me again.

No, she was working in the same department and in the same vast, open-plan office as me.

I let myself down when she was given the grand tour on her first day. By the time she got to IT, guided by our boss, Craig, who’d taken over as guide from a guy from HR, it was going on for noon. Keeping my head down I covertly watched him introduce her to the Programmers on both teams: Legacy and Replacement. Then I watched him introduce her to the Operators.

Davina, stay calm, I kept telling myself.

But it wasn’t easy. Kat’s tan was off the scale. She was brown as a nut and fitter than ever. I wanted her so bad it hurt me deep inside. Philippa was by then ancient history yet still I dithered. Don’t ask me why. As I said already, my reasoning was inexplicable.

At last it was time for the divinity to meet the Technicians. I waited in place at the end of the line.

‘Davina,’ Craig gushed, ‘this is our new starter, Katrina.’

‘Hello Dave,’ she said, tentatively holding out her hand.

‘Kat,’ I mumbled, shaking and far too quickly letting go.

How guilty must I have looked!

Craig said something about old acquaintances and Kat confirmed that we were. ‘I’ll try not to break as many bits of kit this time,’ she said to me.

My heart was hammering and my aridly dry mouth was stuffed with cotton wool. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ I somehow managed.

Then she was gone . . . again . . . and I was alone with my thoughts.

Have I mentioned Logical Dave and Fervent Dave before? Logical Dave is a restraining influence, the one who analyses odds and does her best to look after me. Fervent Dave just wants to rip clothes off the nearest woman and fuck her all night. I also have two guardian angels . . . although one of them is more porno like a red devil . . . and they play very similar roles.

She wants it as bad as you, Fervent Dave insisted. So do something. Email, ring, crawl on all-fours if you have to, but ask her out for a drink tonight. She helped you celebrate your birthday; why not help her celebrate her first day in a new job?

And think of those tits! Think of that luscious body and its all-over tan . . .

What if she doesn’t want you? Logical Dave countered. You said you were otherwise committed and she has respected that. Her opinions have to have changed by now, haven’t they? How will you feel when she shuns you? And how right will she be to shun you?’

The devil and angel had little constructive to add and the truth is I chickened. I wanted to believe Kat was as desperate for me as I was for her, but couldn’t convince myself. Rejection once and for all was a more likely scenario. And rejection would crush me.

So never mind the rest of Kat’s first day, I bided my time for two months. Yes, eight whole weeks filled with self-abuse, the occasional night with my neighbour and colleague, Joyce, and the odd visit from an old schoolmate . . . usually but not always Meryl.

I’m blushing as I mention self-abuse; not because I’m ashamed of admitting I indulge, but because of the vast amount of it. I must have brought myself off more times in those eight weeks than I had in all the rest of my life put together. And Kat haunted my fantasies. I would try my best to keep her out yet up she’d pop, pushing the other fantasy figures aside.

Yes, up she’d pop like a power-crazy jack-in-the-box, tits out, smiling and beckoning like the finest of whores in Antwerp or Amsterdam.

Audibly tapping on glass . . .

Or maybe like the finest tattooed whores in Wonderland.

Audibly tapping on glass . . .

Suddenly, as if by necromancy, it was the company Christmas party. I’d been in two minds whether or not to go but Logical Dave swung the deal. You ticked the box so the Widget Company are paying for your meal, she observed. That’s not peanuts; that’s serious dosh. And never mind dosh; think about the millions of people starving in the world. Blob and you’re helping to destroy the planet.

Yes, sometimes Logical Dave could be even more dramatic than Fervent Dave. But for once I agreed she had a point: blobbing was not an option.

Dressing for the big night was surprisingly fun. For the first time in a year I wore a skirt . . . but a black leather one, not red or at all pleated. For the first time in living memory I also wore nylons, heels and a touch of lippy and mascara. And, in case you’re wondering, up top I selected a crisp, tight-fitting white shirt that wouldn’t unduly expose my super-sized nips.

In all honesty I felt good, even though I wasn’t dressing up for anybody in particular. Joyce would be there, of course, but I already knew someone else was “on a promise” . . . not that I knew who that lucky person might be . . . or even if it was a he or a she.

I was keen to find out who the lucky so-and-so was. As friends with benefits, I always applauded all Joyce’s conquests and wished her well. Despite the age difference, we were kindred spirits. So long as she had a good time I’d allow her anything.

Living in East Morton (with a postal address of Keighley) it was actually closer for me to catch the laid-on transport from Bingley. Consequently I met up with three fellow techies in the Myrtle Grove at a tad before six and we sank four pints each.

I’d brag about me matching the boys but no need. Those three really were boys, all of them under the age of twenty. If it had come to a drinking contest I would have had them under the table in no time.

Then we were on the coach, at the back, occupying the solitary seat for four, me in the left-middle.

‘I didn’t realize you had legs,’ said John, speaking from out of nowhere, not so much surprising me as astonishing me. He was the most shy of three very shy techies.

The beer must have got to him already.

I blinked behind my thick-framed specs before replying. ‘I’m glad you noticed.’

John’s face was on fire. ‘I’m just saying,’ he gabbled. ‘I don’t mean anything by it.’

I patted him on the knee, turning his face from bright red to crimson. ‘Are they as nice as Lieutenant Uhura’s legs?’ I wondered.

Call me manipulating but the most fleeting mention of Star Trek instantly flipped switches. ‘Yes,’ all of them cried as one . . . even though it was bollocks and they must have known it. My legs weren’t bad but muscles had built up with walking and climbing. The gorgeous lieutenant had much more shapely pegs on her.

In fact the gorgeous lieutenant’s legs would have won global or, in view of her role on the Enterprise’s mission, universal prizes.

(And fuck me; I was getting as screwed up as the boys!)

‘Thank you,’ said I. ‘Thank you one and all.’

‘I know you don’t,’ said Ritchie, his face almost as flushed as John’s, ‘but if you ever do, please let me know first.’

‘No,’ Simon put in, ‘tell me first.’

‘You know I don’t what?’ I asked, although I suspected I knew the answer.

‘Go out with . . .’ Ritchie spluttered, ‘with . . . well, you know.’

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