Don't Go Breaking My Heart
Don’t Go Breaking My Heart
By LimeyLady
Copyright Mark C Woolridge (writing as LimeyLady), 2017
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
Author’s Note
Chapter One - Felicity
Chapter Two - Booking in
Chapter Three - Feedback
Chapter Four - Room 444
Chapter Five - Dining out
Chapter Six - Back to uni
Chapter Seven - Ruby Thursday
Chapter Eight - Helen
Other Books by LimeyLady
Author’s Note: As is the case with all my “Angie” stories, I have done my best to write this as a tale in itself. Although “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” picks up from the end of “Come on Eileen”, it should be immediately readable in its own right.
Please let me know if it’s not!
Chapter One
(Saturday 10th January 1998)
Angie found the business card while she was rooting in her wallet, searching for proof of membership for her local library. Somehow the card had got in-between her provisional driving licence and one of the credit cards she tried never to use.
She’d forgotten she had it but instantly realized what it was.
It was her link with Felicity, the very helpful sales assistant in a certain Manchester sex shop.
No, make that the very alluring, older sales assistant in a certain Manchester sex shop.
She smiled and tucked the card back in a more prominent place. Felicity was drop-dead gorgeous as well as very helpful. And she’d been promised feedback on the most daring of Angie’s purchases.
How did a woman like that slip my mind? Angie wondered, recalling long legs and hair so blonde it was almost white. Why oh why didn’t I ring?
Then, grinning: And is three months later really too late?
By now Angie had been “home” for a week. For the first five days she’d slept in her parent’s bed with Sandra, her beautiful black girlfriend from school. After a full term at different universities they’d had a lot of catching up to do . . . obviously. Those parental bed springs had taken a pounding.
Yes, hadn’t they just!
But Mum and Dad had got back from Lanzarote in the early hours of Friday. And Sandra was going to return to her own bit of academia that very morning. By now, sexless for thirty-one hours, Angie was just beginning to feel deprived.
Well, okay, she’d as good as arranged to screw away most of this afternoon with another old school chum, Abigail. And she’d totally arranged Monday night with her former art teacher . . .
Thinking about “Miss Pearce” made her grin again, inside and out. Apparently fucking a teacher was taboo, even if that teacher didn’t actually teach her willing pupil.
Not in the classroom definition of “teaching” anyway.
Personally, Angie didn’t give a toss about taboos. Not when they were stupid ones. No, as far as she was concerned, being illicit only made the liaison more fun.
And fucking a thirty-something who looked like a young Brigit Bardot was fun in the first place, wasn’t it?
Make that another yes.
Sneaking up to Miss Pearce’s house, rapping on her door, wondering what delicious state of undress she’d reply in this time . . .
Wondering how few seconds it would take to get them in bed . . .
And wondering if they would make it to the stairs, come to that, never mind all the way up them.
Impatiently fucking semi-clad on the welcome mat had not been unheard of.
Truth was that sex was essential, wasn’t it? And so too was novelty. While it was always a pleasure to rekindle old flames, fucking with someone new and different was something else.
Yes, fucking with someone new and different was not to be sneezed at.
Unilaterally deciding it was unlikely to help her studies, abandoning the local library without looking back, Angie made her way to the nearest phone box and dialled Felicity’s number with a slightly trembling hand.
‘You won’t remember me,’ she said when her call was answered, ‘but I bought a few items from you in September. I said I’d give you feedback and then forgot until now.’
‘We sell a lot of items,’ said Felicity with a friendly, salesperson’s chuckle. ‘Do you have a name?’
‘I’m Angie. I bought a harness, a couple of dildos and a strapless affair. You gave me plenty of good advice about the strapless affair. I . . .’
‘I recognize your voice,’ Felicity cut in. ‘You’re tall and broad-shouldered with a skinhead, aren’t you?’
Guilty as accused, Angie laughed. ‘That’s me. I look like a bloke.’
‘Not in my memory bank you don’t.’ Felicity chuckled again. ‘Of course I remember you.’
‘Do you really?’
‘Sure I do. I’ve thought about you every now and then ever since. So how’s it going? Was I right about the Double-Your-Pleasure toy?’
‘You were spot on. My only conceivable complaint is that one of my girlfriends keeps pinching it. For use on another girlfriend, I mean. I wouldn’t complain at all if she only ever used it on me.’
Felicity’s chuckle was becoming ever warmer and evermore familiar. She seemed to be in no hurry to hang up. Angie was getting wet just listening to her.
‘I think you should rename it Triple-Your-Pleasure,’ she went on playfully, ‘or maybe even Quadruple. I cannot thank you enough for recommending it. I might well have to call in and buy another.’
Felicity paused a beat before asking: ‘Do you get into Manchester very often?’
‘No, but I’ll be passing through next week, on Tuesday or Wednesday, most likely.’
‘I have Wednesday afternoon off. I’d hate it if you came in when I wasn’t here.’
‘Me too,’ Angie agreed, her antennae eagerly twitching.
Sure enough, Felicity threw her an opening.
‘There again,’ she said seductively, ‘it could be quite convenient if you were in town on my afternoon off . . .’
*****
Angie never failed to marvel at the ease of hooking up. What was the lesbian population of the UK supposed to be? Wasn’t it reportedly less than two per cent of all women? If that was anywhere close to true, she was incredibly lucky.
No, she was lucky beyond belief. She did tend to mix with girls from LGBT and the university‘s own Lesbian Society, but even so her record for home runs was better than Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle combined. To be thirty-one (now going on thirty-two) hours without sex was, quite frankly, shameful.
Twelve hours was usually stretching it.
The call to Felicity had ended with agreement to meet on Wednesday, in the bar of a hotel in the city centre. Felicity was a member of the hotel’s gym and, she said, she always put in an early hour there on her Wednesday afternoon off.
‘We can have a drink and a chat after I’m done,’ she enlarged. ‘You can go into finer detail about your likes and dislikes.’
‘If we’re talking about sex toys my dislikes won’t take long,’ Angie replied.
‘Well whatever,’ Felicity said, laughing. ‘I like talking about sex toys and customer feedback is always valuable. If nothing else we can have an intimate chinwag and scandalize all the sexy-assed waiters.’
Angie laughed in her turn. ‘What,’ she said, ‘aren’t they any sexy-assed waitresses?’
Chapter Two
(Wednesday 14th January 1998)
&nb
sp; The train journey between Nottingham and Manchester Piccadilly took two hours. Fresh from a second night in her art teacher’s bed, Angie caught an early one and found herself close to the main shopping area maybe half past eleven.
Meaning maybe thirty minutes before Felicity knocked off for the day.
Acting on one of her impulses, she went into the sex shop and stopped to admire the “leisure wear for ladies” section. In fact she feasted her eyes on the displays. She liked the look of all the accessories and costumes. Not that any of them would work on her. Not with her mannish body.
And not that she cared anymore.
At one with herself nowadays, Angie accepted that as far as being provocative went, she was better off naked than kitted out for bawdy burlesque. For some crazy reason clothes never did work for her, but bare-assed worked just fine.
Well it did for quite a few discerning females, anyway.
No, make that an awful lot of them. Two per cent! Like hell! Make it ten or even twenty!!!
Excluding truly straight girls, that was.
Not that really, truly straight girls actually existed in her experience.
Not at uni, when temptation was so readily at hand.
Twitching deep inside, forcing her body to be outwardly stern and unflinchingly stoic. Angie strolled across to the harness and dildo section. Felicity appeared as if by magic, out of simply nowhere, as she drew to a halt.
As mirages went, she was a good one.
‘Well hello again,’ she said brightly, like the perfect salesperson she was. Then, sotto voce: ‘Is there some problem?’
‘No,’ said Angie, picking out a green Double-Your-Pleasure. ‘I just felt an urgent need to buy another of these. And I reckoned I’d buy it while you’re still on duty, so you get the commission.’
‘You’re too considerate,’ Felicity replied, her sales smile less forced, visibly relaxing. ‘I don’t suppose you want my advice as how best to use it?’
‘Of course I don’t,’ said Angie. ‘I want to compare very detailed notes about using it, not take advice.’
‘We’re still on for half past one, then?’
‘You bet we are. I’ll be in the bar, waiting agog. Come to that, what’s your poison; some sporty energy drink?’
‘Not after a workout,’ said Felicity. ‘I’ll be drinking spritzers.’
‘Does pinot work for you?’
‘It certainly does.’
*****
Exiting through the automatic doors Angie felt a gravitational pull towards the coffee shop opposite.
Window shopping or a hot drink and a greasy sandwich, she mused.
Not much of a contest, was it?
She bought a large regular coffee with cream and ordered an even larger sausage, bacon and egg in a barm cake. Then, borrowing a Daily Express from the generally available rack, she took a window seat and let the world go by while she caught up on a (slightly right-wing) view of the world’s events.
Apparently the “new roubles” in circulation in Russia weren’t going to trouble the almighty dollar . . .
Felicity left her place of work at two minutes past twelve. And, seen from a distance, what a sight she was. If asked before September, Angie would have guessed that a sex shop worker dressed like a . . . Well, like a sex worker. But that clearly wasn’t the case. Felicity dressed like a high-powered PA.
No, scrap that sacrilege!
Felicity dressed like a high-powered CEO with a herd of personal assistants of her own.
Most of them probably sourced via the Chippendales . . . whether she wanted them or not.
Even as she sniggered Angie took in more specifics. Felicity was wearing a short, business-like black skirt, tasteful (and tasty) black stockings, a startlingly brilliant white shirt and a jacket that matched just everything.
Angie wasn’t the only one watching her sashay down the city centre street.
Hell, she was merely one of hundreds.
As the sight for sore eyes disappeared around a corner Angie’s sandwich arrived. She’d seen much smaller footballs but set into it with a relish. Then, using a napkin to wipe the brown sauce and grease from about her person, she checked her watch.
Forty-five minutes to go. What was it going to be; more coffee or the hotel bar?
Even less of a contest!
Angie went into the hotel and paused in the lobby. It was, she had to admit, an impressive set up with lots of dark, shiny wood surfaces and acres of polished marble floors. She felt as if she’d jumped back a century or so, back to the days where customer service counted ahead of budgets.
Or had she? As she cast around, searching for the bar, her attention was caught by a sign.
Usually advertisements interested her as much as horny young boys . . . meaning not at all. But this one was different. Approaching the reception desk, she read it more closely.
As their contribution to the “Manchester Experience”, the hotel was supporting the January Sales by hiring out rooms on a one-night basis (weekends excluded). Comparing the special rate with a nearby list of tariffs, Angie could see they were being generous. Hell, one night in a double room was cheaper than her rail fare from the East Midlands!
And an “all you can eat” breakfast could be added on for a fiver a head.
Angie chuckled at that, wondering exactly how many guests the powers-that-be expected to stay in one of their double rooms.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ a clerk asked.
Doing her utmost not to laugh, reckoning it was the first and last time she’d ever be called “madam”, Angie pointed to the advert.
‘Does one need to book in advance?’
‘No madam, one just needs to sign on the dotted line.’
Go for it, Angie’s pet little red devil urged, perched as always on her left shoulder.
As per (almost) always, Angie went for it.
‘I’ll take a double room for tonight,’ she said boldly, ‘and two breakfasts.’
The clerk clicked a few keyboard buttons and held out his hand. Provided with Angie’s debit card he clicked a few more then beamed at her.
‘Room 444,’ he said. ‘It’s on the fourth floor.’
Kismet or what! Angie’s room in halls of residence was number 444 . . . on the fourth floor. Convinced the gods were smiling down on her, she accepted the key.
‘Thank you so very much,’ she said to the clerk. Then, flirtatiously, ‘Has anyone ever told you that you look a bit like Leonardo DiCaprio?’
*****
She had, naturally, been lying about DiCaprio. The clerk looked more like Godzilla on a bad-hair day.
But hey, he’d cut her a good deal. Why not flatter his ego? It wasn’t as if he was likely to be there in the morning, ready to share that breakfast, was it?
And, judging by the movement of his eyes, he obviously thought her tits were film star quality.
Angie was, as ever, travelling light: one small backpack and a medium-sized sports bag. She strode over to the elevators and had to admire their efficiency. Back at uni you could be trapped in a lift for hours if you were unlucky. With these she’d hardly pressed the button for 4 before the car stopped on her floor.
And the doors immediately, smoothly opened.
Feeling like the Queen of Sheba (or maybe Cleopatra’s favourite handmaiden), Angie made her way to 444 and ditched her things in a corner, not bothering to unpack. The room was, she decided, quite acceptable if bog-standard hotel.
It would do, however the rest of the day turned out.
Well, wouldn’t it?
The bar turned out to be easy to find but, very sadly, it wasn’t equipped with proper hand-pulls. Angie scowled at a range of free-flow lagers and ciders and finally went for a pint of Guinness. Or maybe there was nothing “final” about it. In her opinion Guinness was the only free-flow option that wasn’t full of gas.
The actual bar was large and about half-full with few solitary drinkers to be seen. By far the majority of the other c
ustomers were in pairs or small groups. Frowning, Angie wondered if Felicity was a regular in there.
And she wondered about Felicity, full stop.
The girl was sex on legs; no doubt about that. She had also openly admitted she was a woman who liked to have sex with women.