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Hi, it’s Mikki again. First things first; please let me apologize for ending so abruptly the other day. As I said at the time, I was welling up, astounded by my own stupidity. I needed to pull myself together and guess what? Another bottle and a half of Shiraz sent me off to the Land of Nod before I could get back to my keyboard. Fast asleep there on the settee. I didn’t half have a hangover when I woke the morning after.

Girl oh girl, did I!

Serves you right, I hear you cry. And so it probably does.

Anyway, a brief résumé then I’ll get back to the story.


Up until recently I thought I was a straight girl with an exceptionally low sex drive. I now know I’m a lesbian sex maniac. I found out about being a lesbian by falling for Dave (also known as Davina), who’s an IT techie at work. At first we couldn’t have been more lovey-dovey. Every day dawned bright and beautiful. Then, in a remarkably short space of time, I managed to blow the wonderful thing we had going.

One last thing and I’ll begin. Well, two last things. I repeat my promise that I will always tell the truth in this tale, even when it shows me in a bad light, as it so often does. And I’ll try to curtail the foul language that keeps catching me unawares.

Okay, then. When I left you I was in a Brighton hotel room. The initial bust-up with Dave had happened the day before (over Sunday lunch). Proud to be on the rebound, I was in a rather compromising position with my boss . . .


Compromising? Joyce was sitting on me and I had my tongue buried deep inside her, keeping it as rigid as I could. She moaned and started to gyrate.

‘I’m cumming,’ she gasped. ‘Mikki, you’re making me cum harder than ever.’

She wasn’t joking and she certainly wasn’t faking. When she finished she nearly flooded my face. Then, laughing and ignoring my attempts to lap it all up, she insisted I took my turn by sitting on her. So I did, and it was absolute bliss.

God only knows how we weren’t complained about. It seems unlikely in such a busy hotel, but maybe the neighbouring rooms were all vacant. Or maybe they were all occupied by people with hearing difficulties. There must have been some reason because, even though we tried to keep the noise down as much as possible, we weren’t very successful. And we went on long beyond midnight . . .

Unlike our volume control, the sex was successful. In fact it was very, very successful. Joyce gave me a masterclass in different ways to sixty-nine, then taught me how to trib. Her tribbing lessons were, I must admit, a revelation. The activity was, to me, completely new and exciting beyond belief. My partner, in contrast, had obviously been there before.

Heaven. Sheer, unadulterated Heaven!

Here’s a confession for you. I needed to call a timeout before she did. Although she looks a lot younger, Joyce is forty-six, old enough to be my mother. But did she flag for one second? No, she did not.

Lying facing each other, we gradually caught our breath. We were on our sides, kissing close. I had a hand on Joyce’s outer thigh, slowly stroking the same small patch of smooth skin. She had hold of my tit, her hand seemingly motionless but caressing me nevertheless. Or perhaps I was unconsciously trembling, caressing myself against her innocent palm.

‘See,’ I said, ‘I told you I’d be able to look at you afterwards.’

She chuckled. Earlier, knowing she fancied me, I had offered her my body. Being admirably mature, knowing I’d only recently split from Dave, she’d politely declined. Well . . . she’d wilted in the end, umpteen offers later, but she’d certainly set out with gentlewomanly intentions.

‘Say that again in the morning,’ she said now. ‘Unless you want me to go sleep in my own room.’

‘No way,’ I replied. ‘You’re staying right here.’ Then, scowling at her: ‘What’s so funny, Ms Jackson?’

‘A thought I just had,’ she said. ‘And please, don’t call me “Ms”. I know it’s politically correct and all that, but it sounds far too neutral to me, as if I don’t know what I want. “Miss” sounds unattached and game for anything. And it’s short for “Mistress”, which is sexier yet.’

‘Okay, Mistress Jackson, what’s so funny?’

‘The thought of Paul if he could see us now.’

My scowl intensified. Paul was our FD, otherwise known (to my boss, at least) as “Ebenezer”.

‘Doesn’t he approve of lesbians?’ I wondered, feeling discriminated against for the first time in my life.

‘I’ve never had anything but support from him,’ Joyce said firmly. ‘And he never makes a fuss about affairs between workmates. Not unless they affect job performances, anyway. No, I was thinking what he’d say if he knew he was paying for an unslept-in bed. He’s so miserly! Never mind angina, he’d have a heart attack.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, laughing along with her, ‘I’ll keep quiet until our invoices have been safely paid and filed away.’

‘That would be best,’ she agreed. ‘By the way, are you going to tell Dave?’

‘What’s çankaya escort it got to do with her?’ I countered. Then, twigging what she meant, ‘No, Joyce. No! Tonight has nothing to do with getting back at Dave. I couldn’t use you like that. Even if she does deserve it.’

‘Are you sure you’re not misreading the situation with Kat?’ Joyce’s eyes were soft and sympathetic. ‘And haven’t you started turning your coins love-side up?’

I managed to return her smile. After university Joyce spent three years in a commune near Perranporth. Twenty or thirty years too late to be an “original” hippie, she is still more than capable of advocating free love and universal brotherhood. And sisterhood . . .

And shouldn’t I have called her lessons in sixty-nine a “mistress-class”?

‘I saw this van, once,’ I told her. When I was in Cornwall myself. One of those VW Camper things that look about fifty years old. It was blue and green and had bright yellow flowers and peace symbols all over, even on its wheels. I half-expected seeing Shaggy and Scooby in the front seats.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Joyce, ‘you’re remembering it now because of me. You’re as good as persuading yourself it had stickers on it. “Ban The Bomb” and “Make Love, Not War”. That sort of thing.’

‘Hmmm, now you come to mention it . . .’

‘As it happens,’ Joyce went on,’ ‘one of the guys I met at the commune was a dead-ringer for Shaggy. He didn’t have a pet Great Dane though. Not that you’d have even noticed him. You would have been more interested in Velma.’

‘And what do you mean by that, precisely, Mistress Jackson?’ I must admit, I had an inkling as to her answer before it came.

‘Velma’s scientific and clever with it. Short hair, big glasses and baggy jumpers. Sounds like your sort of a girl, doesn’t she?’

‘Joyce,’ I hedged, ‘you’re nothing like that.’

‘Not me!’ She gave me a dig in the ribs. ‘You know exactly who I mean.’

I could hedge no more. And I couldn’t keep Dave out of my head any longer, either. ‘Go on, then,’ I began, ‘I’ll come clean. I’m not misreading anything. I caught them at it.’

‘How could you?’ My boss frowned. ‘Kat only got back to England on Monday, didn’t she? While we were on some motorway or other.’

‘It was while we were changing before dinner,’ I said. ‘I had loads of texts from Dave, begging me to ring her. So I did, and it took ages for Katrina to answer . . .’

‘Kat answered Dave’s mobile?’

‘Yes. She was badly out of breath. So was Dave when she took over. It was obvious what I’d interrupted.’

‘Obvious if you have a negative mindset,’ Joyce observed. ‘Maybe they were out for a jog.’

‘Dave hates jogging,’ I said stubbornly.

‘Okay, maybe they were walking up a hill.’

‘Then why would Katrina answer the call? And besides, they were indoors. You can tell by the background noise, can’t you?’

‘Perhaps they were shifting furniture about.’

‘Dave doesn’t have much furniture. And it’s only a small cottage. Where would she move it to?’

Joyce sighed. ‘Dare I ask what you said to her?’

‘I told her she and Katrina deserved each other.’ I took my turn to sigh. ‘I was a bit rude about it. I probably won’t hear from her again.’


Our northbound journey went just as smoothly as our southbound one. There was, however, noticeably less urgency in Joyce’s driving. Rather than setting off at seven thirty we set off at nine, after more sex and a full English breakfast. And, rather than travelling at eighty miles an hour and watching out for speed cameras, we travelled at a steady sixty-five.

‘I said we’ll be back when we’re back,’ she said airily. ‘No point in risking life and limb to be in the office ten minutes sooner, is there?’

‘Better late in this world than early in the next,’ I agreed.

Predictably, we chatted all the way, jumping from topic to topic and very rarely mentioning our work. I honestly can’t remember where we were on the motorway network when we got onto “us”. I also can’t remember who brought the subject up. Me, as likely as not.

‘I’d be delighted if you keep coming back for more,’ Joyce told me. ‘I can always fit in another girlfriend.’

‘I don’t want to know about the others,’ I said cautiously. ‘I accept they’re there and I haven’t a problem with that.’

‘It works both ways, you know,’ Joyce replied. ‘You can see whoever you want to see, too, whenever you want to. Unless you’ve a prior date with me, of course. Speaking of which, what are you doing on Saturday?’

‘Nothing,’ I said after brief consideration.

‘I’ve something on for the morning. Fancy spending the afternoon under my duvet?’

‘I certainly do.’ Remembering to be jealousy-free, I didn’t wonder what was “on” for Joyce this coming Saturday morning. ‘Is an overnight bag in order?’ I asked instead.

‘It certainly is.’

‘In that case I’ll be there on the twelve o’clock bus.’


Fed and watered keçiören escort en route, we arrived back at HQ shortly before three pm. Joyce went to give the FD her report and, feeling much less important in the scheme of things, I headed for my workstation.

‘Hurray,’ Rupen, my next-desk neighbour, said in greeting. ‘At last!’ Then, grinning at me, ‘I hope you’ve brought us plenty of Brighton rock.’

‘Oh,’ I said, theatrically smacking my forehead, ‘I completely forgot.’

‘You never!’

‘Sorry Rupes, it somehow slipped my mind.’

‘Oh, Mikki,’ he moaned. ‘I was looking forward to pigging out and breaking my teeth.’

‘Ta-da!’ I cried, unable to continue the pretence, producing a bag containing thirty or so sticks. Fortunately, I’d remembered Rupen’s nagging at the last minute. Even more fortunately, our hotel had had forgetful guests before; there was a small outlet in reception, selling different types of rock along with picture postcards, souvenir tea towels and stuff like that. Most of my selection simply had BRIGHTON embedded throughout. Having first pick, my neighbour went for a much more elaborate one; his had a gaudy Union Jack and BRIGHTON ROCKS.

‘Cool,’ he said. ‘I knew I could depend on you.’

While Rupes got us coffees I fired up my PC. Ten million emails to answer. No surprise there, then. More surprisingly . . . much more surprisingly . . . there was one from Dave. I sorted all ten million into “sender” order then shrugged. Just the one from Dave, not dozens of them. I wasn’t sure whether to be glad or sad. I’d reassembled my mobile earlier to find she hadn’t been in touch again at all. No texts, no missed calls . . . nothing.

To tell the truth, I’d assumed she was gone forever. And I hadn’t known whether to be glad or sad about that, either.

Suddenly apprehensive, I opened her email and read it (hearing her voice as I did so):

‘Mikki, please believe me, you have got it all wrong. We’d been to the pub when you called yesterday. I’d left my mobile on the kitchen table. We heard it ringing as we came through the garden gate and had to run to answer it. Kat’s got longer legs than me. So she got there first.’

Humph! I thought. As if I’d buy that!

‘Kat is staying here platonically, and not forever. She’s already got job interviews lined up and her dad has agreed to lend her the deposit for a flat. Two or three weeks and she will be out of mine and in a place of her own.’

I had mixed feelings about that middle paragraph but liked the gist of it. Well, I liked “out of mine and in a place of her own”. Shame it wasn’t “out of mine and back in New South Wales”.

‘Please Mikki, can’t we just forget the last couple of days and go back to how we were? I miss you terribly. I haven’t slept since Saturday night. I love you so much.’

I replied with a couple of questions.

‘Hi, Dave. I thought Katrina’s parents had disowned her. And what are these interviews she’s miraculously lined up in less than 24 hours?’

Dave’s answers bounced back almost immediately.

‘Kat’s mum disowned her but her dad’s always been supportive, probably on the QT. And she is in demand. Her interviews are here (tomorrow at 2:30), Skipton Building Society (Thurs am) and Yorkshire Building Society (Thurs pm). She’ll be out from under my roof before you know it.’

After a couple of minutes spent in profound reflection, I responded.

‘We’ll never be able to go back as we were, but it wouldn’t hurt to try, I suppose . . . when Katrina’s gone, I mean. I assume she’ll get a job in no time; so what’s she doing about this flat?’

‘She’s flat- hunting on Friday,’ Dave wrote in response. ‘And Sat/Sun if needs be.’

‘Okay,’ I proposed. ‘Let’s have a cooling off period until Monday. No contact between now and then. Mail me on Monday morning with an update. If Katrina’s found somewhere, you and I can get together and talk.’

This time her response was instantaneous.

‘Deal. I’ll mail you first thing Monday.’


Feeling the need to dry out, I spent Tuesday evening drinking coffee and thinking as deeply as I had ever done. No prizes for guessing my three major themes: Dave, Katrina and myself.

Dave first. I loved her. After sulking for two whole days I could finally admit it, if only to myself. I didn’t really hate her, not even a teeny, tiny bit. No, I’d been shocked and disappointed when she let her ex back on the scene, but I didn’t hate her. And, judging from the barrage of texts yesterday and follow-up email, she still loved me. I hadn’t managed to alienate her after all.

So what did the future hold for us? In the absence of my crystal ball (an essential tool for all credit controllers, by the way!) I was unsure. Okay, it was obvious we couldn’t just turn back the clock. And it was obvious she still cared for Katrina . . .

(Note in passing: I will always find it impossible to think of that woman as “Kat”. In fact I’m etimesgut escort not ever going to stoop so low as to try.)

Could I possibly share Dave with Katrina? No, perish the thought. If we were to get together again, that would have to be made clear. Even if we were to agree on an “open” relationship, it would have to exclude Katrina.

As for the lady herself . . .

Although I had never met her, I hated Katrina with all my heart. And I didn’t for one second pretend that it wasn’t a hatred born of jealousy. According to Joyce, she was both stunningly beautiful and an absolute whizz at IT. I saw neither quality as positive. Indeed I saw her as a calculating bitch who’d flown home like a wicked witch on a broomstick, determined to cause havoc.


Rethinking it over, Dave’s email puzzled me a bit. The Katrina who existed in my imagination wouldn’t meekly borrow a deposit from her dad. Oh no, taking on a flat would incur rent. Why should she shell out when she could live at Dave’s for free? No, she was up to something sly and underhand, wasn’t she? And why oh why couldn’t Dave see through her?

Because Dave was infatuated, that was why. In my twisted mind Katrina regularly travelled the world, fucking and being fucked by equally beautiful woman of all colours, cultures and creeds. By now she’d acquired the sexual skills of the finest courtesan and calculatingly used them to meet her own ends.

Faced with such temptation poor Davina had no chance, had she?

Except . . .

Except, undeserving as I was, I obviously wasn’t going to be dropped just yet. Dave was heroically clinging on.

Still in inadequate self-worth mode, I mused a while on Katrina’s job prospects. Having her sharing our workplace was not an attractive idea. Could I somehow sabotage her interview? Hmmm, not so easy, I concluded. And possibly counterproductive anyway. I did, after all, need her to be in paid employment and able to pay for a place of her own.

Bugger, bugger, bugger, I thought, it’s catch-22.

Thinking about myself was not a pleasant experience. Toys out of the pram or what! As soon as Dave mentioned Katrina I had gone off on one. What sort of a way was that for a true love to behave? How little sympathy and understanding did I possess? Why couldn’t I have made an attempt to listen? And, as for that night of sin in Brighton . . .

Try as I might, I couldn’t make myself regret having had sex with Joyce. And I wasn’t about to miss our weekend encore. I’d been a free agent ever since Sunday, I told myself. All said and done, I still was a free agent, and would be until Monday at the very earliest. So why shouldn’t I further my sex education?

Because I was in love with Dave?

Hmmm . . .

In the end I decided Joyce was right about love. Like everyone else, I had much more to give than I’d ever realized. Giving it all to one person . . .

Well, just look at Dave. She was adamant she loved me but clearly still felt for Katrina. Who knew who else she felt for, too? Maybe she was still in love with dozens of ex-girlfriends.

And who was to say she was wrong for feeling that way?


I swapped lunches on Wednesday, not wanting to awkwardly bump into Dave. Thanks to the day’s most complicated phone call, it was one fifteen by the time I reached the canteen, my stomach rumbling. By then the “second sitting” rush had eased and I was able to saunter to the front of a non-existent queue.

‘Well hello,’ said Becky, grinning at me over the counter. ‘Where’ve you been all of my life?’

I returned her grin. ‘Brighton,’ I said. ‘And it’s good to be back.

Selecting and paying for my meal, I took a seat at an empty table for four. Before I confess what I had for lunch, I have to tell you our canteen is ace. And it’s so cheap it just has to be subsidized. There are three or four main courses every day with extras available separately.

By “extras” I mean everything from a portion of chips to a wide variety of veg. And, as I said, the prices are very reasonable. Anyone hard up (just before pay day, say, when there’s been a lot more month than money) can skip the main and fill up with two or three extras for less than a quid.

So to my meal: cottage pie, roast potatoes, chips, sprouts and cauliflower cheese. Yes, I do know how calorific that little lot was. And yes, I know there was far too much starchy spud and that my plate was badly colour-coordinated. But I’m lucky in being able to eat and drink just about anything I like. Way I see it, if you’ve got it . . .

‘Mikki,’ a voice said unexpectedly. ‘I didn’t know you worked here. Can I join you?’

I looked up and was surprised to see my old schoolmate, Tommy Smith. From the way he was dressed it was apparent Tommy worked in the gizmo factory. ‘Please do,’ I said, well aware that “factory” seldom mixed with “office”.

‘I’ve been here four or five years,’ he told me. ‘Working with the factory engineer. Right now we’re supposed to be putting in a new production line. We spend more time fixing machines this lot have broken, though.’ He jerked his thumb as he said “this lot”, pointing at nobody but presumably meaning everyone who’d ever set foot on the shop floor.

‘I’ve been here since December,’ I replied. ‘Working in Credit Control. I thought you’d be playing for Saracens by now.’

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