Donna and Box


‘You are about to enter Box.’ Donna looked at me, her mismatched eyes curious. ‘Explain.’ We were on a train, travelling from Bath to London. Donna had been invited to a prestigious London art gallery to join the opening of an exhibition by an artist she had shown some months before. Her boss had not altogether approved of Donna’s selection of this particular artist, whose work is representative and to some eyes, apparently, a little passé. To my own and Donna’s, it just looked good. Her judgement had proved sound because a substantial amount of the work sold and because her show had led to the one we were going to now. That meant the artist, Sheila Fennimore, was on her way up. ‘Isambard Kingdom Brunel built the Great Western Railway. Box tunnel was one of the major parts of the line and it is said that on Brunel’s birthday the sun rises in direct line with it and shines right through.’ ‘Cool,’ said Donna. ‘Indeed. Now whether this is true or not, it’s still bloody brilliant.’ At that moment we plunged into the tunnel. ‘And why, pray, Box?’ ‘It is named after a village nearby.’ Donna slipped her arm around my shoulders elvankent escort bayan and pulled me to her. ‘You, College, are a bloody mine of information. Who needs the Internet when she’s got you? My little Wikidyke.’ ‘Donna,’ I hissed. ‘There are other people on this train.’ ‘No slouch at observation either. Fancy a drink? I feel like getting you a bit tipsy then having my way with you.’ God but she talks loudly sometimes. To my astonishment she produced from her rucksack two glasses and a bottle of Champagne. ‘I decided we should travel in some style, hence first class and bubbles. I know how bubbles tend to loosen the elastic of your otherwise impenetrable knickers.’ Since when had she found them impenetrable? Oh, yes, since about 9 am that morning. That was the most recent occasion on which she had breached my defences. Insatiable! But I was not complaining. The train thundered through the countryside of Somerset, Wiltshire, Oxfordshire and Berkshire before arriving in London Paddington. She’d booked us a room at an hotel near the gallery and we took a cab; Escort emek yet another indulgence. ‘It’s called a niche hotel, College. That means it’s small and ridiculously expensive. Nothing but the best for you.’ We checked in and went to our room. ‘Knickers off, darling. Donna wants a quickie.’ She pushed me onto the bed and with indecent haste slid her hands up under my yellow summer dress and hefted my knickers down unceremoniously. She undid her white button down and took it off, looking at me with undisguised lust. That always works for me. She knelt beside the bed and pushed my legs apart with a hungry growl. She leant in, but I placed my palm flat on her forehead and said, ‘Donna, you haven’t even kissed me.’ She looked up. ‘No time for pissing about.’ She pushed my hand away and leant in again. ‘Donna.’ She looked up again, exasperated. ‘What?’ ‘Do you think I might be a lesbian?’ ‘If you keep fucking about I may never find out. Hold your tongue and let me use mine.’ And she did. So, as it happens, did I. When she had brought me close to the edge she’d stood, stripped her trousers eryaman escort off very slowly and then sinuously (have I used that adverb about her before?) slithered onto the bed. I spread her legs and feasted at the Y. ‘Time for a little tribadism, I think, College. No idea what it means but it sounds wonderful.’ She seemed to have grasped the essentials. Our pussies kissed deliciously and then, scissored, we rubbed, eyes locked, and after about four minutes all hell broke out. ‘Stone me, College!’ She was breathless as was I. ‘I must look that word up. It works for me.’ ‘I don’t think you need to look it up. You seem to have the right sow by the ear.’ ‘That sounds kinky.’ She gave a wicked grin. ‘Now, glad rags time. I trust you have brought the essentials?’ Donna loved watching me put stockings on. Showered and dried, both of which took longer than necessary, we dressed. I wore a black cocktail dress, one of her favourites and she wore mid-blue trousers and a cream silk camisole and looked far more feminine than she normally does. ‘No good looking at me like that. Just because I am not wearing jeans a t shirt that says ‘College’s Butch’ does not mean I have become all girly. This is business dress.’ ‘Works for me.’ ‘Oh, and by the way, yes.’ ‘Yes, what?’ ‘I think you might be a lesbian, given a bit of practice.’ The short walk to the gallery in warm sunshine and holding Donna’s hand was a pleasure.

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