Two Sides To Every Story Pt 01

CHAPTER ONE

Hi, I'm Katrina. You might have heard of me before, courtesy of a storyteller who brands herself as "Mikki". If you did follow her lopsided version of events, please suspend judgment and listen to what I have to say. If you didn't follow her version . . . then halleluiah! There is a God!! Forget I ever mentioned her ramblings and, whatever you do, don't think you have read her tale before you start mine. Or read it at all, come to that.

Trust me; I'm going to tell you everything you need to know.

She's a sly individual, that Mikela. She keeps swearing she's telling the truth, warts and all. And maybe she is. Thing is, however, she only tells the bits of truth that suit her purpose. Anything at all inconvenient just gets swept under the carpet. And talking about swearing . . .

Okay, I'm not going to start by having a rant. I'm going to start as I mean to go on: calm, detailed and not ever skimping over inconvenient facts. I'm also going to use a lot of foul and unladylike language myself, and I'm not going to stop to apologize after every four-letter word. If you need an apology for that then here it is: Sorry.

Right then, let's get on with it.

*****

I'll kick off with a bit of background. I'm twenty-nine and like to think of myself as a woman of the world. Let's face it; I've travelled enough to call myself that. Close friends and lovers get to call me "Kat". Hopefully you'll think of me as Kat too. Becoming lovers could be a bit difficult, but there's no reason we shouldn't be friends.

In spite of the poison Mikela may have sown in your mind.

(You'll notice that I don't call my hated rival that sickly, sugary "Mikki". She, in retaliation, doesn't call me "Kat". Refusing to be friendly is a tacit arrangement that works well for both of us. Heaven forbid we should ever become matey!)

On with the background. Although I'm yet another proud Yorkshire lass, I was born in Lancashire. That was not deliberate; it was a result of my mother's pig-headedness. At eight months pregnant she badgered Dad into taking her to Frontierland in Morecambe. And, ignoring several warnings, she insisted on riding the Cyclone. Cue an emergency stop at Royal Lancaster Infirmary on the way home.

Cue me.

Apparently I was a big baby. At four weeks premature, I weighed over nine pounds. Mother never has forgiven me for that. I spent a whole chunk of my childhood with her chuntering on about how enormous I would have got if I'd gone full term. That was nothing compared to the grief I got later, though, when I came out.

Even now I shudder to think about it.

Physically, the fully grown me is five foot nine with a mane of black hair. Darling Mikela described my looks as being similar to Kim Kardashian's. Obviously, I'm not going to argue with that, even if I am half a foot taller and several years younger. Looks aside, I know I'm incredibly lucky with my figure and I work hard to keep the body beautiful. When I'm home and earning a living, I spend an hour in the gym, every day. When I'm off travelling I'm forever on the move, walking a lot of the time, covering incredible distances, always carrying heavy loads.

I like the way I am and the impressions I make. I've had admirers of both sexes since I was about ten . . . and lovers of both sexes ever since I lost my virginity at eighteen.

University flew by for me. I was doing IT (naturally!) and soon got the reputation of being a whizz. I won't say I was regularly teaching my tutors but, by my final year, I was involved in all sorts of extra-curricular things: holding bespoke workshops for freshers, giving demos to students of just about every age and level of competency . . .

All too soon it was over. I graduated and got buried under mounds of congratulation messages. I even got one from my mother (it was begrudging, but her first communication in over three years that didn't use the words "lesbian" and "slut").

Dad was much more effusive in his praise. Unprompted, he stumped up twenty grand (yes, that's what I said: twenty thousand quid) and suggested I "paid off some debts and went travelling".

Thank God I took him up on it!

Travelling means everything to me. Being a good little twenty-one-year-old . . . and not yet having been bitten by the bug . . . I squared off everything I owed and hit the roads. And the ferries. And the railway lines. And it's a good job I did it in that order. If I'd travelled first those debts would still be outstanding even now.

That first time I was away for four months, mostly in Europe. I think I got the bug on day two. Or was it day three? Whenever it was, I came home with one objective: to earn enough to get back out there as soon as possible. Backed with my top-notch degree and testimonies from uni, that was easily achieved. Fighting off offers of permanent employment, I walked into a short-term contract overnight. And I've been doing the same ever since . . . earning then travelling, earning then travelling . . . although not quite in the mercenary manner described elsewhere.

Cards on the table: I absolutely despise Darling Mikela. As well as defaming me at every single opportunity, she has stolen the only woman I have ever loved. Okay, Mikela's good-looking and I'd like to fuck her, but she's the mercenary bitch, not me.

Back to the story. My first paid position was in the IT department of a local building society. They needed programmers for a special project and didn't mind hiring on a short-term basis. You could say we were a perfect fit. They wanted twelve months of my skills and I wanted a wedge of cash. If only everything in life was so simple and straightforward!

I met Dave at work, after I'd been there about ten months. It was her first day and she was being shown round by HR, nodding, smiling and trying to memorize name after name. I could tell at a glance what she was but, mistakenly, thought she was too young for me. I didn't do teenagers back then (or now, come to that) and anyway, my contract was about to end. I had travel preps to make and no time to chase after skirt.

Not that I ignored "Davina" altogether. She has been compared to Velma out of Scooby-Doo and, in her sexily-framed glasses, that's not so far off the mark. But take off her glasses and she looks completely different. Without her glasses she looks like a boyish lesbian porn star. You know who I mean; that babe who likes strap-ons as a giver but not a taker.

What's that? You're not with me? Get on the Net before you miss out. Search for "gold star" and be on the lookout for a redhead. That's what Dave's like without her specs. The only difference is that the actress has a nice pair of tits and my ex-lover does not.

And how exciting is that! To have no tits at all!! I must have masturbated fantasising about the sweet, innocent new starter on fifty separate occasions before I headed off for the airport.

Yes folks, if Darling Mikela can tell the truth, then so can I. And with me, what you see is what you get. As I promised earlier, I won't try to get away with my version of reality; I'm going to tell it as it is.

Here's your first dose of truth-telling, Kat-style. I have been portrayed as a goddess who can have any partner I like. That sometimes seems to be the case, I must admit, but I can't always be arsed to chase or be chased. So, like just about every other adult on the planet, I regularly bring myself off. No, make that very, very regularly. And I always, without fail, fantasise while I'm at it. Usually I focus on someone I haven't yet had, but often it's someone who is for some reason unobtainable.

And, most erotic of all, I occasionally think about someone I've no intention of ever fucking.

Anyway, that's as far as it went to begin with. Fifty or more lengthy fantasies about a girl I didn't really know at all. Naughty of me, I know.

Naughty but nice.

CHAPTER TWO

The best part of a year went by and I was back in Blighty . . . back at the building society. Believe it or not, they were embarking on a special project and needed programmers. We were a perfect fit all over again.

My first day was a Monday. Because I already knew the place inside out, I was spared the grand tour and shown straight to my desk. My line manager told me there was a "New Project Meeting" at nine and recommended I made myself at home in the meantime.

'The hard work starts after the meeting,' he said, grinning at me. 'Make hay while you can.'

After a cursory inspection of my work station I decided a caffeine hit was in order. The machine was still in the same place and the coffee was still as good as ever. I drank one cup straightaway, chatting to one of the programmers who remembered me of old. Then, armed with a second cup, I headed back to base. And frowned.

At my particular building society the IT team is split into three sections: Programmers, Operators and Technicians. I couldn't help noticing that all of the techies were gathered around one of their colleagues, seriously embarrassing her. The blushing victim was Dave and the occasion was her twentieth birthday (I knew that because someone had made her wear a badge with big numbers on it, announcing her age to the world).

Resisting the temptation to join in, I went back to my station. And my mind was whirring. Dave was older than she looked. Still young, obviously, but a teenager no longer.

Hmmm, I thought, nothing ventured . . .

I prepared an email and waited until the gathering had dispersed before clicking on Send.

"Hi Davina. I'm only back today and didn't know, so sorry, I've no card to give you. Can I buy you a drink after work to make up?"

That was a little forward of me, I know. I couldn't have exchanged more than a dozen words with her during our first stint as workmates. But we were females in a man-dominated department. If I was wrong about her sexuality (unlikely, but it had happened before), she'd think I was offering no more than friendship.

Two minutes later her reply bounced back.

"Only if you promise to call me Dave."

*****

Calling her Dave at every opportunity, I escorted the birthday girl to The Woolly Sheep, getting us there for five thirty precisely.

'Do you fancy beer or wine?' I wondered. 'Or are you ready for something to eat?'

'I've promised myself a Shama curry for supper,' she said. 'A pint of Landlord will do for now.'

The pub was busy-ish already, but mostly with diners in the main restaurant areas. I bought two pints and, as it was a nice evening, we went and sat out in the beer garden.

'So,' I began, 'why aren't you at university?'

'I'm still living at home,' she replied, 'and I want my own place sooner rather than later.'

'That's exactly why I went to uni; to get away from my mother's disapproval.'

'My mum's not too bad. She doesn't like some of my friends, but she never says anything out of order. And she's a great advocate of night school. She thinks I'm following in her footsteps.'

'Are you?'

'Not really. She did English Literature.'

I laughed and asked what A-level results she'd got. She told me and I whistled softly. The girl was smart; she'd done even better than swotty old me. And, if she was to be believed, her progress at night school was impressive indeed.

'Are you going to be a programmer?' I asked.

'I'm not sure,' said she. 'I'm a people person. I could do with the mega-bucks you guys get, but I like being a techie. It gets me out and about, meeting folk.'

Well, I'm nothing if not an opportunist. I smiled my most seductive smile. 'What folk do you like meeting most? Boy people or girl people?'

She blushed again but held my gaze. 'Both when I'm working. Girl people when I'm socializing.'

'Me too,' I said.

Within an hour we were in my bed.

*****

That first night, the night of Dave's twentieth, I did everything for her, insisting she played Pillow Queen for a Day, fucking her and fucking her and fucking her. I don't normally go into detail about such goings on but, seeing as I promised to reveal all, I'll bend the rule.

One secret I have to share concerns Dave's pussy: it was very hairy and very, very moreish, even if lots of her pubes did keep getting stuck between my teeth. Seeing it for the first time was, I kid you not, electrifying. There we were, in the bedroom, stripping ourselves and bickering excitedly about who was going to do what . . .

And suddenly her knickers were off and I was gaping at this amazing, light brown bush.

Cue instant orgasm on my part.

Don't ask me why, but I've always had a thing about hairy pussies. Perhaps it's because the girl who took my virginity was somewhat hirsute. Or perhaps it's because most of my other girls have been either fully shaven or closely trimmed. Hell, perhaps it's because I do occasionally do men, and none of them ever tidy up down there. All I know is that one glimpse of Dave made me flow and flow.

Pushing her onto the bed, I went down on her, making her gasp and sigh. Foraging eagerly with my tongue, I hunted for places of interest. Clitoral hood . . . tick. Clitoris . . . tick. Labia majora . . . tick, tick. Labia minora . . . tick, tick. Vaginal opening . . . tick, tick, tick!!

My self-imposed mission was to make her cum by paying attention to each place of interest. That is to say, I started with her hood and didn't stop until I was sure she'd climaxed. Then I moved on to her clit and brought her off three times in quick succession. Then I moved on to her outer lips on the right-hand side . . .

God only knows how long I spent eating her. It had to be hours rather than minutes. Eventually, mission accomplished, I got on my knees and surveyed the results. You already know she has no tits but, apart from comparing her to cartoon characters and porn stars, I haven't really described her. So here goes.

Dave is nearly as tall as I am and has a slender torso. Her legs and arms are, in contrast, quite well-developed. I could easily imagine them wrapped around me, holding me where she wanted me most . . .

And don't forget the glasses. Dave wears supersized specs with thick black rims. They are very, very sexy. She'd been wearing them throughout my extensive munching and was wearing them still. Behind the lenses her eyes seemed to be burning. Part of me was burning, too. I knew I had to do something about that, and soon.

'Please,' she murmured, 'let me love you.'

'Not listening,' I replied, easing myself on top of her. 'Nipple-to-nipple,' I went on. 'Do you like it like that?'

Her eyes were enormous and burning brighter than ever. 'I like your boobs,' she said. 'I want to chew them.'

'Later,' I countered, 'this is your big day, not mine.'

That was a bit of a fib. I desperately needed to cum again but, otherwise, felt as if all my birthdays had come at once. Never breaking eye contact, I began to move, my shaven pussy running up and down over her hairy one, my generous tits rubbing against her non-existent ones. We were both sweating and flowing and couldn't possibly have been more lubricated.

'Fuck me,' she cried, hooking her legs behind my back, plunging both hands into my mane. 'Fuck me harder. Yes, yes, yes!!'

*****

Later, much later, in the wee, small hours, when she said it wasn't her birthday anymore and both begged and insisted, I finally let her have a go at me. And it was sheer heaven! She took me to places I didn't know existed. I haven't the clichés to describe how good she was. And, when she took off her sexy specs and went on top . . .

Heaven! It was sheer, sheer heaven.

She'd moved in with me before the week was out.

CHAPTER THREE

Here's a big flaw in Mikela's case against me. She's regularly called me a sponger and a user. In reality that first year together was spent with me paying every penny of the rent. Dave provided our daily transport via her snappy new Mini (she'd relatively recently passed her test) and we split all the other bills equally. In other words, shared bills aside, I was shelling out over five hundred a month to our landlord while she was putting about sixty quid's worth of fuel in her tank. So, there wasn't a lot of sponging from me there, was there? And, as for being a user . . .

Sexually we were both insatiable and, special occasions aside, we nearly always took turns. And we were both ever-eager to try anything and everything. If that counts as "using" then so be it. But the truth is we were equally guilty and equally enjoyed every last second.

I have tears in my eyes as I look back on those early days. I didn't realize it at the time, but they were simply the best. If I had a poetic bone in my body, I'd call them "halcyon days".

No, fuck it, they really were halcyon days. I only wish I'd been savvy enough to relish them even more.

Moving swiftly on . . .

That was my one and only year-long contract. And it highlights another flaw in Mikela's case: I've never actually done a year working/a year travelling. In my experience, "annual" IT contracts tend to overrun as projects need to be properly finished off. Usually I end up working fourteen or fifteen months and have all sorts of hassle with accommodation. And, it probably goes without saying, my travelling money rarely lasts anything like a whole year.

As luck would have it, my full year was up the day before Dave's twenty-first. She'd known that I was leaving, obviously, and had found a flat of her own, conveniently close to work. I helped her find it. And I helped her move in, the weekend before I finished. I also gave her all of my furniture (admittedly second-hand), including the sturdy kitchen table we so much liked to fuck on. And, of course, fuck on it again we did, celebrating her coming of age in style before parting with a kiss.

'Come back to me,' she said, her glasses misty. 'I won't even look at anyone else until you do.'

'We are grown women with needs,' I said world-wisely. 'Look after yourself and don't worry about me. I'll be back.'

*****

World-wise or not, I was faithful to Dave for nearly four months. Then I had a fortnight of madness in Vietnam, sleeping with a different woman just about every night (believe me, those Vietnamese babes are hot, hot, hot!). Then I upped sticks and had a fortnight of madness next door, in Phnom Penh (Cambodian babes are possibly even hotter!). And then I was back to my usual travelling self, having safe but casual sex every other day. Well, not as often as that, obviously . . . but often enough.

Here's an aside for you . . . and another nail in the coffin of Darling Mikela's case. I may well have behaved like a sex tourist from time to time, but I have never paid for it. I swear to God I haven't. To the best of my knowledge, none of my lovers have been out for anything other than fun. Okay, I have sometimes bought more than my share of drinks, but sometimes I haven't been allowed to buy any at all. Payment has never once been mentioned and, as for making the opening move, it must be fifty-fifty. My overseas sex has all been friendly and legit. Trust me. I cannot tell a lie.

Good things always come to an end and so does my money. I rang the building society as soon as I got off the ferry in Dover, securing an interview for the very next day.

'I'm losing staff right and centre,' Steve, the head of IT, told me. 'You can have your interview at eight o'clock and start at nine, so bring a packed lunch.'

I thought he was exaggerating but it turned out he wasn't. Back then the global economy was still reeling but, in nearby Keighley, the Widget Company was going from strength to strength. And, more pertinently, they were installing a new, all-singing, all-dancing IT system.

'It's as cheap now as it's ever going to be,' Steve explained, 'and their existing systems date back to the 1980s. They're all bespoke and a lot of them don't speak to each other. The big plan is to install the new system and run everything side-by-side for six months, and then to shut down the bespoke systems one at a time. The project's timetabled to run for three years minimum, and they need to double their staff in a hurry. Guess where they've been recruiting?'