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Davina Falls Out


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 Sixty-two - Moving in

Chapter Sixty-three - Ellie again

Chapter Sixty-four - Teasing

Chapter Sixty-five - Philippa progresses

Chapter Sixty-six - Opening indications

Chapter Sixty-seven - Kat’s back

Chapter Sixty-eight - Joyce

Chapter Sixty-nine - London - again!

Author’s Note

Other Books by LimeyLady





Chapter Sixty-Two



It’s fair to say I got mixed reactions to my career change/house purchase. On the work front my team mates all said that they’d miss me, my line manager seemed to be devastated and my departmental head, Steve, just shook his head and sighed deeply.


‘Another one,’ he said, ‘how much are they paying you?’


Feeling Judas-like, I showed him the offer letter on my phone. He sighed again and turned to my line manager, who had booked the meeting room for the three of us to “discuss” my resignation in private.


‘Sorry mate,’ he said, ‘you know how it is with salaries at the moment. Even if times were a lot better, I couldn’t compete with that.’


My old school chums didn’t care much about my new job but were all impressed by the house buying. I got lots of messages congratulating me using words like “brilliant” and “excellent”. And Meryl rang within seconds to bagsie the first night of sex under my new roof.


‘I’ll help you move all your stuff,’ she added, ‘then I’ll make the earth move for you.’


Well, I had to honour her bagsie, didn’t I? It was our old school tradition to give first dibs to the first claimant. Not that Philippa was happy about someone else helping me to move in.


‘I wanted to help you,’ she said moodily. ‘And I just bet she wants to sleep with you.’


I hadn’t told Philippa about the sexual element of Meryl’s bagsie and shrugged as if I had never even considered sleeping with my self-appointed helper. ‘I’ve known Meryl for ages,’ I told her. ‘She’s going to valiantly undergo a three hundred mile round trip when she should be concentrating on her finals. And I have already agreed and thanked her for her friendship. I can’t put her off now.’


In the end Philippa shut up and kept out of the way on moving day (and, thankfully, moving night). Her views on my house purchase were, however, expressed again and again. On the one hand I’d bought far too quickly and had undoubtedly paid too much. On the other the distance “over the tops” between East Morton and her place in Silsden wasn’t great; we would be able to see even more of each other than we did when we were working together.


Sally was less impressed. Since she’d returned from college she had rarely ventured out of Skipton. In her eyes East Morton might as well be on the dark side of the Moon.


‘I’ll miss our Tuesday nights,’ she said sadly. ‘You will keep in touch, won’t you?’


I assured her that I would but it was never quite the same after I’d broken the news. I guess we both knew that our “thing” was as good as over. Gradually we drifted apart.


Margot wasn’t at all put off by the distance. ‘Morton’s a lovely village,’ she gushed. ‘We can carry on as always; all we’ll have to do is meet up in The Busfeild rather than The Black Horse.’



*****



Two months after I’d made my offer, already four weeks into my new job, I moved in to my cottage. And I almost immediately launched my major re-decorating project. Not that there was anything wrong with the way the rooms already were; I just intended to live there a long time and wanted to make them reflect my personality.


And no; I didn’t intend them to resemble a house of ill repute!


Looking back, I didn’t move in with very much furniture. All I really took with me was my sturdy kitchen table. Other brand-new bits and pieces arrived via delivery vans throughout the day, including one “large single” bed, which went straight into the spare room, where I meant to sleep until the bigger bedroom had been repainted, re-carpeted and furnished with a brand-new “large double” bed. Then it would be time to start on the kitchen itself. . .


The bad news was that we were getting busier and busier at work. I was overnighting minimally twice a week and was expected to be there in the office three Saturday mornings out of four. Finding hours to decorate in was nearly as tricky as finding someone to share my new large single.


More exaggeration from me, you may assume. Well, yes and no. The academic year was as good as over but a lot of my old crowd were not going to return. They’d fixed themselves up with jobs of their own, you see, mostly located anywhere but West Yorkshire. I had flying visits from Sara and Kelly and that was about it.


To tell the truth, I had a hit and miss existence. Margot did visit quite a few times before doing another of her vanishing acts, and Sally was nowhere to be seen. Ten weeks living in my lovely cottage and I was down to Philippa and the odd tryst with Meryl (she was by then working in the West Midlands but regularly travelled north to see her mum).


Now I liked Philippa and the sex only got better, but she was clingy with it, and only getting clingier as time went by. As if that wasn’t horrible enough, she’d also started talking about us being faithful. Believe you me; I soon dismissed that as a possibility.


Even if, conscious of my diminishing sex life, I was discreet about the way I dismissed it.


‘Being faithful isn’t in my DNA,’ I told her. ‘I’ll sleep with you whenever you want, but I can’t promise to be a one girl gal. Sorry and all that, but it just isn’t my scene.’


‘It will be,’ she assured me. ‘Your back hasn’t been clawed for weeks now, so you’re slowly but surely getting there. Meanwhile I’ll be faithful for both of us. You’ll catch me up, eventually.’



*****



I did actually manage a few weeks of being a one girl gal and didn’t feel too uneasy about it. But then I had an installation to do in London, involving two nights in a reasonably decent hotel.


Did I just say “reasonably decent”? I’d had a couple of drinks in the bar and was in my room, yawning, preparing for bed, when a knock came at my door. I answered in all innocence to see a painted lady there in the corridor, her eyes spinning like cartwheels.


‘Fancy a bit of business?’ she slurred.


Startled, I shook my head. She immediately moved on to the next door and repeated her question.


Bugger me, I thought, she’s a whore!


As I watched the girl she knocked on yet another door and was almost immediately ushered inside.


I blinked rapidly. The hotel had to be in on this. Maybe the whore was paying off key individuals . . . reception, security and the likes. Or maybe she was employed by the hotel . . . maybe she was one of the “other luxury services” they mentioned but didn’t itemize in the glossy brochures.


Regretting my instinctive head shake, I wondered if a girl like that would be clean. No two ways about it; I was intrigued. Okay, she was a junkie and possibly infected with God knew what . . .


But the idea of fucking a stranger for money turned me on.


And yes, I never have denied being a shameless slut.


Still full of regrets I turned back towards the bed and froze.


Someone else was knocking on my door.


This girl was a little older and shorter. Her eyes seemed to be under control and she had a punky sort of look about her that reminded me of Sandra from Aberdeen.


‘Hi mate,’ she said, ‘fancy a bit of business?’


‘I’m a girl,’ I replied, in case she hadn’t realized.


‘And a sexy one at that,’ she smiled. ‘Fancy fucking or what?’


I waved her in and swiftly shut us away from the world.


‘How much is it?’ I asked, my heart pounding harder than ever before.


‘Depends what you want,’ she countered. ‘Name your game and I’ll give you a price.’


I hesitated a second or two. A girl like this had to be an HIV risk. But surely safe sex was a possibility.


‘Head,’ I said, ‘exclusively you on me.’


‘Forty quid,’ she replied.


That sounded to be a lot and, conscious I might have overvalued my cottage, I wangled. ‘I’d want an hour for that, at least.’


‘It’s a done deal.’ She held out her hand.


I gave her a twenty. ‘Here’s half now; you’ll get the rest when I’ve checked the clock.’


She laughed. ‘I like your style. Now take your pants off and get on your back.’



Chapter Sixty-Three



That hour was well worth the money. I’d go as far as to say it was the best forty quid I’ve ever spent. My hired harlot’s tongue never left one bit or other of my pussy for even a second. Okay, so she used her fingers from time to time as well, but everything about her attentions was perfect.


And right at the end, when her mobile buzzed to signal that my sixty minutes were up, sensing I was eighty per cent of the way, she didn’t just stop and demand the rest of her dosh. Oh no, even though she had to be aware I’d already cum multiply, she gave me enough unpaid overtime to properly finish the job.



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