Davina Again Page 3

  *****

  If I’d been coming out of Spoons on my own I’d have turned right and gone back down Main Street, towards Park Road. That night (at 12:10 precisely), because I was walking Ellie home, I turned left. Ironically, heading straight for her house was a more direct route to my own. It did, however, involve scaling a mountain known locally as “Ferncliffe”.

  I have two points to make here. Firstly, climbing is one of my hobbies; I’ll tell more of that a little later. Secondly, Ferncliffe isn’t really a mountain; it’s one of Bingley’s major roads and it is very, very steep. I’d rather scale a sheer cliff face any day.

  Hand-in-hand, we hauled ourselves ever upward, at last reaching her turn-off which was practically at the top of the hill. ‘Same again tonight?’ she asked as we stopped for breath.

  ‘But of course,’ I replied before kissing her again, acting impulsively, “rules” never entering any of my equations.

  And that time was even more explosive. Every last rational thought fled from my head. Come to that, almost all my thoughts fled; all of them apart from one.

  ‘Where can we go?’ I asked urgently.

  Ellie didn’t hesitate. She’d obviously been in this situation before. She was also equally obviously as up for mischief as me.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ she instructed, ‘don’t even whisper otherwise we might be overheard.’

  The alley was on the opposite side of Ferncliffe to Ellie’s turning, more of a staggered junction than a crossroads. Actually it was more of a narrow, walled track than an “alley”. It clearly led to somewhere; I could see lights perhaps fifty yards away. Just as clearly it was the sort of track that hardly ever got used by vehicles.

  And hopefully it would only be used by us at that time of night.

  Ten yards in and Ellie grabbed me, putting her back to the wall and pulling me close. Our mouths had scarcely met when my hand landed on her bare thigh.

  Ellie gave a grunt of approval through her nose.

  Encouraged, I slid my hand inwards and up inside her skirt, onto her pussy. Wasting no time I began to rub her, letting the damp fabric of her knickers add to the sensation, feeling the tension in her build at a rate of knots.

  If she hadn’t cum earlier she did then; and violently at that.

  Even more encouraged, I slid my hand higher, stopping when it met her waistband and immediately dipping it back down into her panties.

  And omigod, she was shaved as smooth as a baby’s bum! There was no groomed landing strip, no stubble . . . nothing!!

  Bypassing her clit, I pushed two fingers along her slit, drew them back then, without as much as a by your leave, penetrated her. She bit into my shoulder and began to buck her hips, which was just as well. My hand was in an awkward, almost cramped position; I would have struggled to give her the vim and vigour she seemed to need.

  The location was, in my opinion, far more secluded than the places I’d used near Sara’s home (not that I let Sara into my logic just then!!). But it was brand-new to me and therefore a big unknown.

  What I’m trying to say is that, slim as it may have seemed, the possibility of being caught in the act added enormously to the occasion.

  And that time Ellie took ages and ages to cum. Indeed at one stage I started to think it wasn’t going to happen. Not that I ever considered calling it a day. It was very much a case of I’ve started and you are going to finish.

  Eventually, yonks later, she did.

  Quite spectacularly.

  *****

  Back across the road at her turning we kissed once more, leisurely this time, almost coolly.

  ‘That was brilliant,’ Ellie assured me. ‘I want to sleep with you.’

  ‘That could be tricky,’ I replied (in Logical Dave mode). ‘With us both still living with parents, I mean.’

  She pulled a face at that and muttered to herself. Then, brightening up again, she said, ‘That’s not the case forever, is it? One of these days . . .’

  Maybe my expression gave something away: a guilty conscience as likely as not.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘Sara’s not to know. Okay, so she’ll soon find out we have been dancing and kissing, but that was allowed, wasn’t it? What you did just now is our little secret. I will never tell, not even if threatened with red-hot irons.’ She chuckled before adding more seriously, ‘I’ll never forget it, either. Tonight’s been wonderful. A date with you is better than a date with any guy I’ve ever dreamed about.’

  ‘We’re still on for the Saturday night party then,’ I said, somewhat wryly.

  ‘You bet we are. I can hardly wait.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  In full nerd mode I spent Saturday afternoon rock climbing (I think I mentioned before that I’ve always liked outdoor pastimes). Now don’t assume I was preparing for an assault on Everest. It was more of a development in tastes. As a young girl I’d enjoyed football, basketball and (not for very long!) rugby. Then, as a teenager, I’d dropped the team games in favour of long-distance walking.

  Yes, I know . . . I know; how boring is that! I hear you cry. All I’ll say in my defence is that we are over-blessed by Mother Nature in my part of the world. To the south we have the beautiful Peak District. To the north we have the incomparable (and expanding by the minute) Yorkshire Dales. And, not so far off to the north-west, we have the amazing Lake District.

  The Pennine Way passes close by as well.

  And if moors are your thing we have them in abundance, from Emily Bronte’s Haworth Moor to Mary Jane’s Ilkley Moor (baht ‘at!), with dozens of others in-between.

  Trust me, anyone who loves being outdoors, breathing clean air, seeing wonderful, quite spectacular scenery and drinking fine ales could not find a better place. Yorkshire is known as God’s Own County and I for one are ready to allow our neighbours to share that glory.

  (Writing this I can’t decide which I prefer between Cumbria and Derbyshire. Hey, I’m even getting a bit weepy about a few parts of Lancashire!)

  Walking is a great social activity but I needed a thrill as well as exercise, hence the climbing. That was what I believed when I first started, anyway.

  At the current stage of my ramblings (please excuse the weak pun), I’d been climbing for six months or so. Nowadays I venture far and wide but then I was pretty much a novice, so it was Ilkley Moor and the easier climbs in Rocky Valley for me.

  Well, for me, three friends from the upper sixth and one of them’s mum and dad (said parents being vastly experienced with cliff faces and extremely patient as teachers).

  It was another afternoon well-spent. The weather was exceptionally glorious for late October and the fresh air and exertion certainly cleared the cobwebs from inside my head.

  Then, recharged and revitalized, I set off for a much less healthy night out.

  *****

  That time Ellie greeted me in The Old White Horse with a real kiss, not an airy-fairy one. Already fully accepting that my reputation was trashed, I returned it in spades.

  (That last sentence is misleading, by the way: I never had a reputation capable of being trashed.)

  The set up was much the same as Friday except there were more of us sixth-formers scattered here and there about the pub. The eighteenth that night was Mark’s in East Morton, you see. And the eight o’clock bus literally passed the Horse’s front door.

  With the benefit of hindsight I’d say none of us were doing A-level Economics. Taxis would have been cheaper if we’d gone for those people-carrier things. But we never even considered it and, when the 727 pulled up at Morton Bus Shelter, two dozen of us spilled out like thirsty passengers piling off the stagecoach in Deadwood.

  Some of our number headed directly for the village pub, which might have been fractionally nearer than Morton Memorial Institute, the party venue. Or maybe it wasn’t. Whatever, Ellie had hold of my hand and she pulled me across Main Road and into the celebrations.

  The Institute has, I understand, been significantly mo
dernized of late. I Googled it the other day and was impressed by what I saw. Back in 2008 it was relatively rough and ready. But we were students and Mark had an affinity for the place, so it didn’t matter if it was a tad basic.

  The bar worked well enough; what more did we need?

  Between you and me, I couldn’t wait for the slow music to begin that evening. Ellie was exceptionally provocatively dressed. She had ditched the knee-high boots in favour of heels and what looked like nylon stockings . . . all in tasteful black, of course. Her skirt was shorter than ever and, although her teeny-weeny jacket hadn’t been replaced, her latest low-cut blouse was almost unbuttoned altogether.

  Not that I was complaining about her appearance, you understand.

  Okay, so the sight of her was drenching my knickers, but I certainly wasn’t complaining.

  *****

  As it transpired we only smooched for twenty minutes. Then Ellie was saying something about fresh air and dragging me outside. I had, you may recall, already had plenty of fresh air that afternoon. Ellie was up for more mischief though, that was only too obvious.

  And so was I; that was even more obvious.

  Perhaps needless to report, I didn’t resist. In fact I may have been the one doing all the dragging.

  The Institute’s front door opened onto Main Road. We took a left followed by another and went along a ginnel, past a crowd of smokers and onto Morton Rec. Yet another left took us past the rear of the building and an elaborate children’s play area, into darkness.

  Oh yes, my brain went. Oh yes, yes please!

  Morton Recreation Ground is quite large. It is also very uphill and down dale. Legend has it that there used to be a full-sized men’s football pitch on it. Legend also has it that the pitch was anything but flat. Apparently guys taking corners on one wing were five yards lower than their targets’ feet.

  From where we were walking that was easy to believe. I was conscious of tightly-packed contour lines and couldn’t image there being room for a hundred metres track at the top, never mind a full football pitch. Not that I dwelt on the issue too much, you understand.

  Not with all sorts going on in my head.

  The jabbering, insistent mantra: Oh yes please, Oh pretty please yes!

  And mixed with it, quite rational thinking . . .

  It’s rumoured that the local pub team went on amazing unbeaten home runs because of their playing surface. I tend to accept that as fact. There might be more uneven strips of grass in places like Nepal and Peru, but there can’t be so many in England.

  Pretty, pretty please!

  ‘Here,’ said Ellie, her voice husky, ‘this will do.’

  I quickly examined our surroundings. We’d rounded the steepest bit of hill and the Institute was now hidden out of sight behind us. Ahead was a high dry stone wall marking the Rec’s boundary. To our right there was a stretch of steep hill, leading up to that long-gone football pitch. To our left there was perhaps twenty yards of downhill and a small but dense growth of trees.

  Two minutes’ stroll and we had isolated ourselves.

  My night vision had kicked in by then. I had another glance around. House roofs were visible over and beyond the trees but I couldn’t see any windows, so nobody that way could see me. I could easily see the Busfeild Arms, though. It was brilliantly lit and had smokers outside, some of them standing under a massive “smoking umbrella”, others sitting on benches.

  (To the right of the pub I could also make out part of the cottage that would one day become my first non-rented home. Unaware of that eventuality, content we weren’t in its line of view, I dismissed it as not currently relevant.)

  ‘We’re out of sight in the shadows,’ said Ellie. ‘And the grass couldn’t be drier.’

  I had to agree with that. There hadn’t been any rain in the last fortnight and the ground was solid, as proved by her smooth progress in heels. And a swift feel proved that the grass was indeed dry. It was short too; it must have recently had its last mow of the year.

  Isolated and hidden in the shadows. What more could a girl ask for?

  I grabbed Ellie and kissed her fervently. She accepted my attentions a moment then sank down onto the grass, pulling me with her.

  Now Logical Dave should have been worried. What if one of those Busfeild smokers had the eyes of a barn owl? What if the grass was dewy after all? Had Ellie checked for dog doings?

  Fervent Dave didn’t waste time on such trivia. She pushed Ellie onto her back, making sure she was lying with her head on the upslope . . .

  And then she ravished her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I can’t begin to tell you how good it was being Fervent Dave. And I can’t remember enough of all the nitty-gritty details to give you a blow by blow account. Here’s the abridged version instead.

  I unbuttoned Ellie’s blouse, quite skilfully removed her bra and set to work on her tits. After maybe half an hour of that, still nibbling and chewing, I put my hand on her thigh.

  And omigod, the feel of nylon under my fingers! Trembling, I traced a line upwards, swiftly confirming she was in stockings and not the dreaded tights.

  Not that I’d really expected tights; it was just nice to know for certain.

  Ellie moaned and sighed as I examined the straps and followed them up to her suspender belt.

  Oh good, I thought, she’s put her knickers on over the straps. I don’t have to undo anything fiddly.

  Sighing harder than ever, she lifted her bum, enabling me to remove her rather wet panties, sliding them down her lovely, shapely, stockinged legs and over her heels.

  Then I got my face into her fanny and ate and ate and ate.

  Everything about it was great, from my first real taste of her to her endless cries and begging for more and more. Don’t ask me how many times she came or how good it was to feel her contracting around my fingers and tongue. All I know is that the number was exponential and sensations were out of this world.

  That is to say the overall sensations were out of this world; every time she came they got better.

  Blowing my own trumpet for once, I must say I’d placed her just so. From a lower elevation between her legs I had perfect access and she was able to flex and twist and thrust up to meet my mouth. And, even if the details are now hazy, there are some things I will never forget:

  Ellie’s tiny squeals punctuating her never-ending stream of moans and sighs;

  The sleek feel of nylon brushing my cheeks as I licked her stocking-tops and the inch or so of smooth bare flesh above them;

  The juices leaking out of her faster than I could gobble them up;

  The way she kept trying to grab my too-short hair;

  The way she gave up with my hair and grabbed my ears, using them to pull me even closer for every cum;

  My own cums, rocking-horse dropping scarce compared to hers, but there all the same . . .

  Yes, between us we’d got it just so.

  *****

  The weather that day had been glorious but the night did get chilly. Not that I noticed until late on in proceedings, when I paid a return visit to Ellie’s boobs and found them to be like frozen melons.