Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Fiction, Safe Sex, Oral Sex, .
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Pam wasn't in the habit of picking up random guys, but she decided this one was an exception to the rule. Small towns don't offer a lot of options for romance, without commitment. She was only after a bit of relief, she wasn't looking for love.
I was sitting in a café, nursing a flat white coffee. I was waiting for my ‘Works’ burger when this guy walks in. I eyed him up and down. ‘I’d fuck that, ‘ I thought.
He had the most gorgeous red hair. It wasn’t that bright red, it had an undertone of brown making it softer like burnished copper. It tickled my fancy. The guy had that true Caucasian redheads skin. I reckoned the places the sun didn’t shine on, were as white, as white can be.
He had freckles and red hair on his arms. He had a rangy build and stood about five nine to five ten high (176cm). I picked him as close to my own age of twenty-four, although he could be a bit younger or possibly older.
The face wasn’t bad either. He had a longer face and darker coloured eyebrows. His cheekbones were high and his chin was rounded. His nose didn’t own his face and the lips where thin but not unpleasantly so.
The overall symmetry was pleasant. He was a cute guy. He was nicely dressed as well, in black slacks and a polo-shirt.
I watched him make his order and then he turned to find a seat. His eyes glanced over me as he took in the only table with less than one person was mine. I noticed a tiny shrug and he approached the other side.
He sat down in the chair furthest from me. Pulled out a tablet and after tuning it on, he started reading. I could see the earphone leads heading to a pocket.
I didn’t remember seeing him around here before. I pondered if he was staying in the Mine Camp or not and what he did for a crust. I then wondered if he was interested in a bit of fun.
It had been about fourteen months since my useless husband had died.
My dad had left me the farm when he passed away.
I was only twenty-two at the time. It was a lot of responsibly to take on. I had only been home from collage for about six weeks, when he went.
I remember being surprised to find Brad the foreman had moved into the house after the previous visit home. He seemed to have a lot of influence on my dad at the time.
I had also noticed that Bobby and Mark, who also lived on the farm, didn’t seem to like him a lot. But they wouldn’t talk to me about him when I quizzed them.
I was still nursing my heart from a big break up with the guy I had been with for the previous two years. He had wanted me to stay in Brisbane with him and couldn’t understand that I had responsibilities back home.
Finding out that he had been sleeping with another girlfriend of mine for the last six months of our relationship, didn’t help either. I was pretty cut-up.
Brad had been my dad’s foreman for a couple of years and had been chasing me since the day that he started working for us.
When dad had his massive hearty, Brad pretty much took over. In my grief, he was a shoulder to lean on. It wasn’t until he stuck his cock in me, on our wedding night that I realised I had seriously fucked up.
I’d stopped taking the antidepressants a couple of days before the wedding. I had even tried to call off the wedding but Brad had put on the charm and got me down the aisle. I think he dosed me the morning of the wedding because I don’t remember much about what happened until that night.
Admittedly, he was drunk at the time. He had carried me to the bed and tossed me on it. He stripped himself then climbed on me. He lifted the skirt of the dress, got my knickers off of me and stuffed a couple of fingers in me to see if I was wet enough. Then he climbed on despite my protests and stuck his cock in me.
He must have poked me about twenty times, grunted, sighed and rolled of me and went to sleep. I was just glad I wasn’t a virgin because it sure wasn’t the most romantic fuck I’d had.
He wasn’t a bad looking guy, with suntanned skin and dark hair. He was a couple of inches taller than I was at about five eight (173cm). He had however, already started developing a beer gut. I also didn’t realise just how much beer the sneaky bastard actually drank until after the wedding.
He hadn’t fucked me before the wedding and now I knew why. I thought he hadn’t pushed the issue because of my grief. He would mostly cuddle and kiss me and tell me everything was going to get better.
If I’d had known he was such a lousy fuck, there wasn’t any way in hell, even doped up as he had me, that I would have married him.
As it was, I still wasn’t sure how I had gotten to this point. Those three months after my father’s death were a haze of jumbled events. Now I was a married woman.
I soon got an idea of how things were going to be as Brad’s wife. He was about ten years older than I was. He soon made me aware that he wasn’t keen on my university educated ideas for the farm, my input wasn’t required.
He’d pat my arm and tell me not worry my pretty head about such things. My job was running the house, fucking him and having his kids. Despite this being the twenty-first century, people in the country still tend to have antiquated views on the roles of women.
Things turned to shit real fast. His attitude towards me also did a one eighty. The charming man turned into an arsehole.
He wanted to fuck me at least three times a day. When he woke in the morning, he would spread my legs and climb on even if I was still asleep. He’d come in for lunch, push me across the table, fuck me from behind and then bitch if I had burnt his lunch while he was fucking me.
Every night I was supposed to submit. Not that it was a real chore. If I gave him too much grief about how he was treating me, he would back hand me and tell me to act like a married woman. I was his wife and he would fuck me whenever he wanted to.
I have no problem with getting fucked three times a day. It just would have been nice if the foreplay included a little more than, him sticking his fingers in to see if I was wet enough.
Then he would jam his little cock in, pump about twenty times and come. I actually used to count the number of times he humped into me, it was so exciting. Then he would either roll off or continue on his way.
He never even asked me once if I enjoyed it, or what I wanted. I had never been more thankful for my menstrual period in my life. Apparently, he didn’t like to touch me when I was bleeding. It was a shame, that I had ten-day periods or at least that what I told him.
My life had become a living hell. Any argument was met with aggression. He stopped the kissing and cuddling. He would demand whatever he wanted and expected me to jump to ever command. Every day I had a new bruise or two. I wasn’t even allowed to help on the farm.
We had been married for just over a six weeks when Brad came slamming into the house. I was vacuuming near the front door. He grabbed me by the throat and slammed me against the wall.
He snarled his beer breath into my face, “So when were you going to tell me about the trust, bitch?”
I had no bloody idea what he was talking about at the time. I started crying as he was hurting me. I felt blood trickling down my leg where it had scraped across a sharp edge when he had hauled me against the wall.
My head also hurt from where he slammed it into the wall. He slapped me hard with his other hand. My head hit the wall again, hard. I now had blood in my mouth from biting my tongue and my face was stinging.
“The fuckin’ ol’ bastard, he tied it all up so I couldn’t touch anything without your say so,” he spat at me. “You will sign the papers so I can sell the back grazing paddock to Don. We need the money to get us out of debt,” he growled at me.
“What debts?” I asked through my tears and the pain.
“Just sign the fucking papers you stupid fucking bitch,” he snarled again. He pulled a wad of papers from his back pocket and shook them in my face. Then he slapped me with them.
“Get fucked,” I screamed at him.
It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say to an enraged drunk. But I didn’t appreciate being smacked against a wall or being slapped either. I was seriously regretting this marriage.
Brad was a wife bashing fucking arsehole. He was also history. This time I had enough bruises to get a restraining order.
“Yes, you fuckin’ will or I will make you, you stupid cunt,” he screamed at me covering me in spittle.
He still held me by the throat, he squeezed harder cutting of my airway. I struggled to breath and thrashed around trying to get free. Somehow, I poked him hard in the eye.
He released me and then staggered back clutching his face. He started screaming and stumbling around, “You stupid fucking cunt. You’ve fucking blinded me.”
I didn’t care. I was too busy getting air back down my painful throat. I heard a crash and then his scream as he fell. The friggin’ idjit had stepped on the vacuum cleaners hose, got his feet tangled and tripped. He fell into the corner of the open doorway.
He then ricocheted out through the doorway. He stumbled across the short landing, hit the rail and fell backwards then rolled down the half flight of stairs to land on the middle landing.
I slowly got my breath back. I could hear him groaning. He was dragging in ragged breaths. I headed out the door to see what he had done to himself. He was half lying across the bottom three steps and the middle landing and wasn’t moving.
I ran down the steps and asked him if he was all right. He wasn’t making any noise now. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving. I picked up his hand and his arm was just loose. I knew it was bad and I ran up the stairs, and rang the ambulance.
It would have to come from Emerald to get to our place, about forty minutes away. I grabbed the blanket off the old lounge and rushed back out to him.
I sat on that step with Bobby one of our hands, for two hours waiting for the ambulance. Brad came in and out of consciousness, but couldn’t speak or move. Emerald’s ambulance was busy, so they had to send the one from Tieri.
Bobby has seen him trip out the door and roll down the stairs. There wasn’t anything we could do. We were not game to move him.
The cops turned up in the first hour. I explained we had an argument and he tripped over the vacuum cleaner.
I’d gone to school with the younger cop. We had even dated at high school. He was really pissed when he saw the bruises.
Bobby backed me up that I was nowhere near Brad when he fell. So no charges were laid against me. The cops didn’t move him either but they stayed with us until the ambulance finally turned up.
Brad ended up in the hospital for the rest of his sorry life. He had cracked a vertebra in his neck and it had crushed his nervous system. He was paralysed from the neck down. He had also managed to damage a kidney that he lost. He had also cracked several ribs and his skull.
We didn’t realise he was bleeding internally or that he had a serious head injury. He lived in intensive care for two months. He regained consciousness several times in the first couple of days, but each time he went under it was for longer than the last.
I don’t think he liked the idea of being paralysed, after the doctor told him the first time he came around. His brain swelling from the depressed skull fracture didn’t help either.
After three months of marriage, I was a widow. This time I had to arrange the funeral.
While he was in hospital, I had learned from my lawyer and the cops of the debt’s Brad had been talking about. Unbeknown to dad and me, Brad had a gambling addiction and was in serious debt when he married me.
I also found the bastard had swapped the depression medications the doctor had given me after my dad died, for sedatives. The doctor suspected that he had also changed my dad’s medications as well. The prick had even paid for the wedding out of the farm accounts.
This didn’t make us popular with the tax department. They did a full audit on the farm. Brad had been dipping into the accounts for months before and after my dad had died. The arsehole had me in debt to the tune of a quarter of a million dollars.
Fortunately, for me, when my dad had his first heart attack five years before, he set up a trust for me. He had squirreled any spare cash we had into it. He had also leased half of our land to one of the mining companies, and it paid directly into my trust.
Our savvy investment accountant had also invested it well. The lawyer was worried I was going to faint on him when he told me there was over three million in the trust. In addition, the mining lease would keep topping it up for the next ten years.
Brad hadn’t known about this trust fund. It had been set up before he came to work for us over two years ago. Dad had tied the farm up in another fund so only the lawyer and I could agree to the sale of the land or the listed assets. Even as my husband, Brad had no control unless we let him.
We made a comfortable living off the farm as it was and I still wanted to run it as one. I felt responsible for the two other families who lived on my farm.
Two weeks after Brad’s accident, we had a team meeting to determine what we were going to do. For all intent, we went on as before, except now I was in charge.
One of the biggest problems with living in a small town is that everybody thinks your business was theirs. They gave me twelve months give or take, to get over the loss of my husband and father.
But now the well-meaning souls had decided I needed a man and were trying to fix me up with anything with a cock and no marriage certificate.
I preferred to find my own guy.