Bowness was bulging at the seams that Saturday. Dave, who had been there several times before, suggested we ate sooner rather than later. ‘It will only get busier as the evening wears on,’ she said assuredly.
‘Suits me.’ I grinned at her. ‘What do you fancy?’
‘How about an Indian?’
‘As long as you don’t complain about my curry breath afterwards.’
‘You don’t notice when you’ve both indulged.’ Dave laughed. ‘Trust me, I’ve plenty of that sort of experience.’
We strolled the bustling streets a while, passing one or two possibilities, finally opting for the next. A beaming waiter met us at the door and ushered us to the last free table.’
‘Can I get you drinks?’ he said, addressing us as one.
‘Dry white,’ I replied, overlapping Dave’s, ‘Pint of Cobra.’
We all laughed. ‘Make that two Cobras and two Pinots,’ I said. Looking impressed, the waiter gave us a menu each and went for the drinks.
‘It doesn’t say chapattis are included,’ Dave observed.
I had noticed that myself. In our neck of the woods most Indians tend to include two or three chapattis as part of the main course (except, in our neck of the woods, most of the “Indians” are actually Pakistani). Elsewhere in the land chapattis tend to be chargeable extras. And often highly chargeable at that.
‘They’re listed lower down,’ I said. ‘Order as many as you like; I’m paying. And make sure you ask for a starter.’
The waiter returned with our drinks and a plate of poppadums, ready to take our order. I told Dave to go first and she went for mixed kebabs and a meat madras. I followed up with mixed tikka and a keema madras. Then we clinked wine glasses and tucked into the poppadums.
And we talked.
I probably haven’t explained those conversations of ours, not in detail, anyway. Fact is, they are hard to explain. I doubt I will ever meet anyone as easy to talk to as Dave. We can talk and talk and talk, jumping from subject to subject. Nothing is taboo and we agree on almost everything. I love those conversations nearly as much as I love the girl herself.
Thing is, though, afterwards I can’t always remember what we discussed. Maybe I focus too much on Dave. Maybe I’m too busy being attuned, marvelling at the way our minds dovetail. Whatever the reason, I never want them to stop.
I spotted the pitfall when our starters arrived. Well, the potential pitfall. The couple on the next table were settling up. While Dave was thanking the waiter I watched another waiter give the guy his bill and his girlfriend a red carnation.
Oh bother! I’d been in other Indians that did that: charging the man and rewarding the woman. Or charming the woman. Or whatever. Although slightly sexist I’d considered the act harmless and rather quaint. Up until then. Then I suddenly had images of Dave getting the bill and . . .
Our starters went down well. We shared them more or less equally, with Dave feeding me bits of kebab off her fork and me feeding her with chunks of tikka off mine.
In-between courses, while Dave went to powder her nose (as if she’d ever used makeup in her life!) I concentrated on four young women on a nearby table. They were almost certainly students and were busy divvying up their bill. Notes and coins were, amid much laughter, being handed to a blonde who was clearly in charge. Then, amid much more laughter, she paid by card and pocketed the cash.
Then the waiter produced four carnations and gave them one each.
No, no, no, I thought. If I get one and Dave doesn’t . . .
We chatted normally through our main courses, aided and abetted by more Cobra. Then, our plates empty and chapattis all gone, I suggest a sweet course. That was, I hasten to add, so, so completely out of character for me. Dave said she didn’t usually indulge but, after some pressing, finally agreed to a coconut and vanilla ice-cream.
I summoned our waiter and told him my “girlfriend” wanted a sweet. I probably overdid it a bit because I must have said “girlfriend” three or four times. Hoping he’d got the message, I went for chocolate mint leaves myself.
And then it was crunch time. I waved for attention, mouthed “bill” and pointed to my own chest for emphasis. By the time it arrived I had put five pound coins prominently on the tabletop as a tip.
Please, I thought, pretty please . . .
The waiter had brought a card-reader with him but, as far as I could see, no flowers. Thinking that none was, in the circumstances, better than one, I tapped in my PIN.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Then, to my horror, he plucked a carnation out of thin air. Just one.
‘And for you, miss . . .’ He grinned at me then handed the parting gift to Dave.
I didn’t know whether hug him or hit him.
*****
The streets of Bowness were still bustling but that didn’t stop us leaving the Indian hand in hand.
‘I knew what you were doing,’ Dave said. ‘And thanks.’
I beamed at her. ‘Worked, didn’t it?’
‘Don’t be so smug. Your face was a picture when you thought he was giving this to you.’
Dave was waving the carnation at me. Unable to think of any other answer, I pulled her to a halt and kissed her. Right there on the pavement, with throngs of people pushing past us. I was, I suppose, getting more and more daring.
It wasn’t third time lucky. Yet again Dave reacted exactly as before, kissing back but leaving all the instigation to me.
Bowness does all right for watering holes but just then they were too busy. Far, far too busy. Don’t misunderstand me, I like a raucous, boozy night out as much as the next girl. But we weren’t looking for a raucous, boozy night out. We wanted to converse, to attune and dovetail our minds. We tried three venues then, finding conversation impossible, we hailed a cab and returned to base.
The pub was, as I believe I mentioned, massive. The ground floor contained a restaurant, residents’ bar, public bar and . . . tucked away at the back . . . a hikers’ bar. Atmosphere-wise, I would have chosen the hikers’ bar every time. Never mind Bank Holiday spirit, in there it felt like New Year’s Eve, and the public bar wasn’t far behind it.
So then, the much quieter resident’s bar it was. The trouble was, quiet or not, it was busy. All the tables were taken and it wasn’t easy to chat at the bar. Well, we managed to chat all right, but not in the warm, bonding way we were used to. After two drinks we accepted the place was filling up rather than emptying and agreed to call it a day.
Confession time again. I was petrified going upstairs to our room. Petrified but determined not to take a backward step. Before closing the door behind us, locking us away from the world, I put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. ‘For tomorrow,’ I explained. ‘When we’re showering.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Dave. ‘Tell me, pray, what can Davina expect from you in the morning?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I admitted. ‘I might be asking Dave for tips.’
She smiled and, heart thumping, I kissed her.
Fourth time lucky. This time she did respond, and passionately at that. Wow, was that good! I tried to match her enthusiasm, hoping against hope she would grope my bum. When she didn’t I threw caution to the wind and groped hers instead. Next thing I knew our bodies were grinding together, groin to groin. Heat was building inside me at an incredible rate . . .
Then Dave was fending me off, red-faced and breathing heavily. ‘It’s me who should be asking for tips,’ she said, ‘not you. Another ten seconds of that and I’d be messing about with you right now, never mind tomorrow morning.’ Then, visibly controlling herself, ‘Okay, bedtime. Do you sleep on the right or left?’
‘I’ve never slept in a double bed,’ I said. ‘I’m left-handed so . . .’
‘Left it is. How’s this for a plan? You’ve already seen everything I’ve got, so I’ll undress in the bathroom, giving you time to undress in here in private and get into bed.’
‘I’m not that self-conscious,’ I protested.
‘Pretend you are. God knows, I’m tempted enough as it is.’ She smiled and dramatically rolled her eyes. “What am I like!” the gesture said. Then, business-like once more, she asked, ‘Do you need a pee before I shut you out?’
The state of my knickers came as some surprise. Grateful to be alone in the bathroom, I had a close inspection. Soaking wet! How could that be? Okay, I’d been building up to something, but I hadn’t cum.
Had I?
Dave was waiting outside the door. I’ll give you five minutes’ start,’ she said as we swapped places.
There was a dressing table and chair on my side of the bed. I took off my trainers and socks and put them tidily under the chair. Then I wriggled out of my jeans, folded them neatly and put them on the chair cushion. My thick-ish cotton shirt and plain white bra were soon added to the pile. As for my knickers . . . pulling a face, I put them in a zip compartment of my travel bag. They were far too stinky to leave out in the open.
Then, for the second time in a matter of hours, I stood there, staring at the four-poster bed and thinking about Dave.
Our Sunday morning shower seemed so very, very far away. Too far, in fact. And I knew I could rely on Dave to keep her word in the meantime. If anyone was going to change the rules, it had to be me.
‘I’m Mikki,’ I murmured softly. ‘I am twenty-four and I am a lesbian.
‘And I’m in love with Dave.’
This time my feet would not make the decision. I had to order them to turn me around and carry me to the door of the en suite. Rather than turning the knob I then ordered my hand to softly tap on the wood.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Dave’s voice was as subdued as my knocking. ‘What is it?’
‘Can I come in?’
‘What for?’
‘I need to see you. I need you to see me.’
‘Mikki, what are you playing at?’
‘I’m not playing games. I want to sleep with you properly in that sumptuous bed.’
She opened the door slowly. ‘Mikki,’ she gasped, ‘you’re naked.’
‘I know I am. That’s why I want you to see me.’
‘Beautiful,’ she said after looking me up and down. ‘Utterly frigging beautiful.’
With no conscious in-between we were kissing fiercely, groping bums, grinding groins. I was aware of the building heat again and this time I did cum; there was no chance of stopping it and no inclination to even try. Still fiercely kissing, I emitted peculiar grunting noises via my nose. My excitement levels were off the scale.
‘Bed,’ I gasped. ‘Please Dave, I’m begging you.’
Seemingly a second later, mysteriously, magically we were on the bed. Dave was on top of me, showering my face with dozens of tiny kisses. Her hands were on my tits, squeezing them firmly yet tenderly. Pushing herself down my body, still rhythmically squeezing, she brought her mouth into play.
‘Omigod,’ I groaned. ‘Omigod, omigod, omigod.’
Then her hand was moving lower, lower, coming to rest on my vulva. I half-expected a crude, man-like lunge with probing fingers. It didn’t happen. Instead she began to slowly, gently rub. I nearly screamed at that. She was stimulating everything . . . absolutely everything . . . without concentrating on the obvious. And the longer it went on, the better it got.
I moaned and I groaned and I sighed. At one point I turned my head, burying my face in a pillow so I could cry out as she made me cum again. And again.
And then she was pushing herself down again, abandoning my tits. Guessing her destination I opened my legs wide. She slid into position and chuckled throatily. I could feel her breath on my wet sex. It felt like a light, summer breeze.
Dave was my first. Nobody had ever laid a tongue on me down there. She knew that because I’d told her so a few days earlier. Perhaps, being aware, she gave it her best go. Or perhaps it will always be like that for us. My God, I hope it is. She was so loving, so caring . . . so . . . wonderfully persistent. Even when I explored the uncharted territory of multiple orgasms she kept at it, patiently coaxing me from one to the next.
Finally . . . and I really have no idea when . . . my body had had enough. I flaked out. Before Saturday I would never have believed it, but I flaked out. I’ve always pooh-poohed accounts from girls claiming they’d swooned or fainted at the heights of passion. Well, I have been converted. It really happened to me.