Excerpt for Davina Does Three More by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

This page may contain adult content. If you are under age 18, or you arrived by accident, please do not read further.

Davina Does Three More

By LimeyLady

Copyright Mark C Woolridge (writing as LimeyLady), 2018

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

Chapter Fifty-Three - Sally the barmaid

Chapter Fifty-Four - Sally the lover

Chapter Fifty-Five - An uncommitted relationship

Chapter Fifty-Six - Hogmanay

Chapter Fifty-Seven - Head-hunters

Chapter Fifty-Eight - Philippa

Chapter Fifty-Nine - Team building

Chapter Sixty - Phil the lover

Chapter Sixty-One - Buying the dream house

Author’s Note

Other Books by LimeyLady

Chapter Fifty-Three

My weekend after the Aberdeen trip was a quiet one. I got back to Skipton early Saturday afternoon and, due to my nerdish nature, went straight in to work. And worse confessions are yet to come: on Sunday I was swotty all day as well as nerdish.

My excuse is that by then I was into the final furlong of my academic career. Yes, my blitzkrieg tactics had paid off; by taking courses end-to-end (without any of those long summer breaks fulltime students take as their due) I’d got to the point where there weren’t any more courses left for me. By Christmas I would be done, with the equivalent of a BSc packed into two and a half years of spare-time studying.

Needless to report, I was determined that my last few grades would be every bit as good as the ones I had been getting all along; hence my swotty Sabbath.

Omigod, I was so much of a goody-two-shoes I didn’t even self-abuse!

Leastways, I don’t remember it if I did.

A regular, run of the mill Monday was brightened by countless attempts to diagnose the problem with that faulty component (I’d brought it back with me from the Granite City). Everybody in IT must have looked at it and run tests, trying to establish why the flipping thing wouldn’t work. They all ended up scratching their heads. And if I had a tenner for every time someone said, “These things are meant to be unbreakable” . . .

Well that one wasn’t. Even though nobody could find anything physically wrong and it passed all of the tests, it simply wouldn’t function when asked to do its job. I finally gave up and sent it back to the manufacturers, never to be heard of again.

After an uneventful night class I decided a few beers were in order. But I was reluctant to go into The Woolly Sheep on my own. The place had too many memories, you see. So instead I made my way to another of the many touristy pubs, getting there around half nine and finding it full. Not that the lack of empty tables bothered me; I wasn’t there for food and there were vacant stools at the bar. Selecting a position to the far left, I ordered a pint of Copper Dragon.

The barmaid gave me my change with a smile and the instruction to “Enjoy”. I covertly watched her as I worked my way down the glass.

In my part of the world barmaids are renowned for having big chests and well-developed biceps. The theory is that both attributes are acquired through constant use of the big hand-pumps (the ones you see in just about every pub in Yorkshire). As a fully-fledged member of the flat-chested club, I tend to doubt the truth of that. I believe a girl only gets the job in the first place if she’s got a nice pair of tits. But there again, I might be spiteful and jealous . . .

Sally definitely qualified on both counts. The rest of her looked good, too. She was mid-twenties and about five foot five, with a well-shaped body, bright blue eyes and a dusky complexion. She also had the other essential barmaid ingredients: a quick mind and a ready answer for any nonsense that might be thrown her way.

I grinned as I listened to her shooting down a guy off to my right. I didn’t hear his no doubt suggestive comment but I certainly heard her politically incorrect reply. So did the guy’s mates. While they hooted laughter he actually blushed, probably wishing the ground would open and swallow him up.

As I watched the busty barmaid serving a new set of customers I noticed she was using both hands; first she would pull a pint using her right, then she’d pull the next using her left, and so on. I chuckled inwardly at that. Perhaps there was some truth in that old theory after all . . . at least so far as a girl’s biceps was concerned. Perhaps she did that to avoid getting “developed” lopsided.

Sally lingered a moment after giving me change for my second pint. There was a brief lull at the bar and she didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move away.

‘Excuse me for asking,’ she began, ‘but where’s your girlfriend?’

I realized at once that she meant Kat. While the Sheep was our local we had gone in other pubs often enough; she’d have seen us together lots of times in lots of different venues.

‘She’s left me,’ I said, smiling ruefully. ‘She’s gone travelling. We won’t be seeing her again.’

Sally’s eyes radiated sympathy. ‘You’re upset about, it, aren’t you?’

‘It wasn’t a surprise,’ I said with a shrug and an unexpected sting in my eyes. ‘I knew it was coming.’

A middle-aged couple arrived at the other end of the bar. Before going to serve them Sally patted my hand.

‘You poor thing,’ she said. ‘Let me know if you need a shoulder to cry on.’

That took me unawares. As you’ll have realized, I have black belts for taking opportunities but she’d gone before I could start to think about pouncing.

Now some readers might be wondering if I’d been mistaken for a bloke again. I did consider that as a possibility, but not for long. As I have said before, Skipton is not London or New York. All the locals who had never been introduced still knew each other by sight. And I must have bumped into Sally on my way in or out of the ladies’ half a dozen times: she knew I was a girl, all right.

Thing was, when I’d seen her out and about, away from her place of employment, she’d always had a bloke on her arm. Rarely the same one, though . . .

That dodgy gaydar of mine had had her down as a straight girl who was playing the field (meaning her very own field; one that was full of men). But she clearly knew that I’d been in a “lesbian” relationship with Kat. And even so she’d offered me a caring shoulder.

When I bought my next beer I asked her if she’d like one as well.

Her face scrunched up attractively. ‘Sorry, I can’t drink when I’m on duty.’

‘I thought it was only policemen who said that.’

‘The landlady’s an ex-policewoman,’ Sally replied. ‘Or was she in the Gestapo? I forget just which.’

‘Okay then,’ I went on. ‘I’ll have to buy you one when you’re not on duty. When’s your next night off?’

‘It’s tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow,’ I echoed, ‘it must be destiny. It’s my night off tomorrow, too.’

(That was true, by the way. My last few courses didn’t run to as many as five whole nights a week; I was down to three, and Tuesday was one of the two I now had off.)

‘Are you suggesting we meet up tomorrow?’

‘Yes. As I said, it must be destiny.’

‘If it’s destiny I guess I’ll have to say yes.’ Sally laughed.

Chapter Fifty-Four

I hope nobody was expecting a slow, sizzling courtship, because I reverted to form. After agreeing to a date on the Tuesday I told Sally I was coming over “all weepy” and needed that comforting shoulder to cry on sooner rather than later. Sally told me she didn’t finish until half past eleven. I said that sounded soon enough to me and . . .

Well, just before midnight we were in my bed.

And wasn’t she obliging!

She was strong too. Those biceps of hers weren’t just for show. I made sure I kissed and nibbled at them for ages before moving on to her tits. Then, after maybe half an hour of tit-play, I kissed, licked and nuzzled at every last square inch of her tummy. And then, as all the (relatively puny) muscles in my body twanged with excitement, I ran my tongue down her intriguingly thin landing strip.

And along her hood, bypassing her actual clitoris and attacking her outer lips instead.

She shrieked at that. Merciless, I moved on to her thighs, licking and kissing them, making sure that I did them inside and out, steering away from the two big you-know-where areas.

Her shrieks became wails.

Purchase this book or download sample versions for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-7 show above.)