Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Fiction, Slow,
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Joseph Ramsden, a smallholder, had come to terms with tragedy in his life and had settled to a calm existence, until Angela Furness arrived and brought a whole lot of trouble. This tale is set in the hills of the Peak District of Northern England. All characters are fictional and are not based on any real (or unreal) living or dead people! Warning as far as sex content is concerned it is VERY slow!
Early January 2009
The Golden Labrador stood behind the man who was seated cross-legged on the floor of his living room before a small altar in one corner, upon which a candle was burning. The dog, technically a 'yellow' labrador, stood quite patiently, quite still, with his lead in his mouth.
At length the man uncurled himself, blew out the candle and stood, his broad, toned six feet two inches towering over the animal. The dog gazed up at him in adoration and wagged his tail.
"All right Bob," he said, "let's go."
His voice was deep, mellow and quiet, as was his whole demeanour, as he glided from the room to the hallway. It was only a few steps. He put on his scarf, Barbour Jacket, his Beanie Hat and his gloves, and picking up his torch went out into the dark, foggy winter's evening.
In fact, foggy is not an accurate description. In the hills of the Peak District of England, low cloud feels like fog, except for the wind and the fine rain battering the face. The man and the dog were used to that sort of weather. They were also used to the walk of a mile and three quarters to the village and its public house.
The cottage was in a valley between two hills or rather ridges, and as such was usually protected from the worst of the gales that blew often at those higher levels usually from the West or North West. It lay at the end of a mile long cart track. From the house, the track ran straight for half a mile or so, then bent sharply to the left and just as sharply to the right after a hundred metres, as it skirted a field, before running into a wooded area.
From the end of the wood it was a hundred metres to the minor road which led in one direction to the nearby town, and in the other to the more local village and the pub. From the track's junction with the minor road it was a further three quarters of a mile to the village.
Except in the very worst weather, man and dog would walk to the pub a few evenings each week. Apart from Barry's, his neighbouring farmer's daily visit, and Church on Sunday, it was his only contact with other people in general, to chat and exchange news.
Though he had a lead for the dog, he only used it when he arrived at the pub. The dog would run ahead, exploring and marking his route with a lift of the leg, returning often to the man. Once on the road the dog would walk carefully to heel, casting an occasional glance up at the face of his hero and leader of the pack (of two).
In the pub, Bob, with a wag of his tail, would be provided with a bowl of water, and would lie beneath or beside the man's seat by the fire, while he drank his beer and chatted with the landlord or his wife and the other patrons, before the walk home.
This evening however, as the man shut the cottage door, leaving it unlocked as always, the labrador stopped, sniffed the air, barked and took off at a gallop along the path in the opposite direction to the cart track that should have been taken, disappearing into the pitch black of the foggy night.
The man sighed, and turned in the direction the dog had taken. His torch made little impression on the foggy rain which beat on his face, so he walked carefully on the uneven ground. He had walked about fifty metres up the valley alongside the tumbling stream on the short sodden tussocky grass, when he heard Bob's bark again. It came from the right, and he obediently left the path and trudged in that direction up the beginnings of the slope. Another bark and he knew he was going in the right direction.
After a further fifty metres up the slope, a shadowy tableau emerged out of the cloud, picked out by his torch. A woman was sitting on the wet ground, and sitting beside her, licking her hand, was Bob.
"Good dog," he said, and fussed the animal who wagged his tail vigorously, panting with his tongue hanging out.
He shone the torch on the woman, careful to avoid her eyes. She was shivering continuously and he recognised the early stages of hypothermia. She had on a fleece and jeans both of which were completely soaked with the rain.
Ignoring the wet seeping from the grass into the knees of his chinos he knelt by the woman.
"My name is Joseph," he said gently. "I live near here. What's the problem?"
"T-t-turned my ankle," she stuttered through her shivering. "C-c-cold!"
He squatted on his heels and shone the torch on her foot. She was wearing trainers, footwear totally unsuitable for the conditions. He touched her foot which seemed to be a little swollen and she winced and gasped.
"My cottage is nearby," he said, "but you'll not walk that far. I'll carry you. Can you hold the torch and shine it in front of us?"
He stripped off his Barbour, putting it on her, then his beanie, and gloves. He shivered briefly as the cold hit him, then handed her the torch. Then he lifted her effortlessly and she put an arm around his neck, shining the torch with the other. He could feel her shivering.
She was not heavy for him, long hours of manual work had made him strong, and they made their way steadily back to the cottage, the wind now at his back, where he opened the latch with his elbow, the light from inside bursting out as he did so, so that they both blinked and squinted at the contrast. He carried her inside and placed her in an armchair by the log stove in the living room, moving the chair further away from the direct heat.
Bob followed them to the living room with a resigned air, tail down, having missed his walk, and lay down by the wood stove.
Between the humans no word had been spoken on the short journey back. His silence had a peaceful quality to it which she instinctively knew not to breach with unnecessary conversation. In any case she felt exhausted and immensely relieved, and felt it was enough that she had been carried to this warm place. She continued to shiver, her teeth chattering.
He knelt at her feet and untied her trainers, carefully removing them. He was gentle with her socks but she still moaned as he peeled the fabric from her injured foot. He glanced at her face and she smiled bravely at him. She was still shivering.
He left her there and returned shortly with a man's vest, teeshirt, briefs, shorts and thick socks, as well as two large towels.
"Can you undress and dress yourself?" he asked.
She nodded. He held his hands out to her, and she took them and stood, wincing as she inadvertently put weight on the injured limb.
He took the Barbour, Beanie and gloves from her.
"I'll leave you now," he said. "Take all your clothes off, towel yourself down thoroughly and put on these things. They'll be big for you and not very feminine, but they're dry and warm. Leave the sock off your injured foot. Call me when you're finished or if you need help. I'll make you a drink."
He turned and left her, shutting the door behind him. Bob looked up at the door, then put his head on his paws again.
She wondered why she felt no worry that he might have designs on her, and why she felt so secure with him.
She quickly stripped off her clothes, all of which were damp, even her bra and knickers. She towelled herself off and put on the oversized clothes. She immediately felt warmer and the shivering lessened.
She had time now to look around her and take stock. Two armchairs, a small circular dining table with four ladder-back chairs, a sideboard, and what looked like a small low altar in one corner, which seemed to feature some photographs in frames; she could not see clearly what else was upon it.
The place was spartan but very clean and tidy, and she was surprised how much at home and how comfortable she felt there. She felt better for being dry and tentatively put weight on her injured foot. There was immediate pain and though it felt better than before, she thought better of trying to walk on it. She called him.
He arrived, a crepe bandage in one hand and a mug of steaming tea in the other. He gave her the mug.
"It's tea and it's very sweet," he said. "You need warmth and energy inside you. The sugar will warm you from the inside. You are on the edge of hypothermia. Even if you hate the tea you should drink it."
She obediently began to sip the tea, while he knelt at her feet and applied the bandage quite firmly. It hurt.
He bundled up her clothes and took them away. The dog got up and followed him, perhaps wondering if it was time for his walk. Joseph checked her clothing to see if he could tumble dry it, and then set it to be washed. He noted she had been wearing a camisole vest, a thick shirt, a sweater and a fleece. There were jeans and long socks, though her bra and knickers were thin and lacy.
Joseph poured some soup into an earthenware bowl and cut some home made wholemeal bread, then returned to the room with a steaming bowl and a plate of bread.
"Some soup to warm you," he said. The dog followed him into the room, and came to her for some loving. She fondled and patted him. She realised if the dog had not scented her, she could well have died. Fortunately the wind was from her to the cottage that night, blowing down the valley from the pass.
Joseph put the soup on the table and she hopped to it and sat down.
"You are not eating?" she asked.
"I ate earlier," he said. That was all.
Then he spoke again, "You had no waterproofs?"
"When we were climbing I got hot and gave my boyfriend my cagoule. Then we had a row and he went off with it in his rucksack."
Silence fell and she realised, looking round her, that there was no television or radio that she could see. There was no sound but the panting of the dog and the crackling of the logs in the stove.
She ate the soup, which was obviously made from vegetables and was delicious, and the bread more so, noticing that Joseph now moved her armchair nearer to the stove, was seated in the other armchair and was reading from some sheaves of A4 paper.
She looked about her as she ate. She was nearer to the little altar and saw it contained a crucifix, a little statue of what seemed to be the Buddha, and the photographs. He was so obviously living alone that she wondered whose the photographs were, but she feared to break the silence which enveloped the place, so peaceful was it, nor did she feel comfortable looking too closely.
Angela Furness, for that was her name, was a city girl, living in a suburb of Manchester. She was twenty-five years old. She was Personal Assistant to the General Manager of a company that provided industrial cleaning materials and expertise, and was very good at her job, knowing nearly as much about the firm, its products and its customers as her boss did.
Her flat could not have been more different from this house. It was plush, with central heating, thick fitted carpets, leather sofa and a massive wall mounted Television. The bedroom featured a king-sized bed. Either the TV or her radio was in constant use; the place was never quiet while she was at home. She had always thought she hated a silent flat, but now she wondered about this quiet man who seemed so much at ease with himself and of so few words.
As she finished the soup, he was immediately by her side.
"More?" he asked.
"It was lovely," she said smiling up at him, "but with the wonderful bread, I'm feeling full and warm."
He smiled at this, and she noticed his soft brown eyes looking down on her. There was a tingle up and down her spine. She felt an urge to reach out and touch him, but felt unaccountably shy.
"You should be careful with that ankle for a few days. Have you got someone at home to look after you? Someone to come and pick you up; take you home?"
Her face hardened into an angry grimace.
"Not any more!" she retorted. "He left me behind. It was sunny when we started out this morning, then it got cloudy and you could see the clouds rolling in lower and lower. I got tired and the ground was rough. We had a row and he went off with my stuff in his rucksack. He shouted me to keep up. I said I couldn't and he said tough. He had the map and the compass. Then the fog came down and the rain started. I didn't know where I was going, and then I turned my ankle over. I tried to walk on, but the pain got worse and worse."
Joseph did not comment, because there was nothing constructive he could say. What would be the point of saying she was ill-dressed for hiking in the Peaks in winter? She now knew that and she had a brush with death to prove it. A sturdy cagoule would have made a big difference in that she would not have been drenched by the rain, and as a result would have been warmer. Over-trousers would have been even better.
"What would you want to do now?" he asked. "If you want to be taken home, I could do that."
She spoke almost without thinking, "Could I stay here for the weekend? I mean if it's not too much trouble?"
She surprised herself with her boldness, but she felt totally safe with this quiet self-possessed man and his acceptance of her gave her confidence.
"Of course you can stay," he said, "but you may be bored. I haven't got a television. There is one wind-up radio somewhere if you would like it. There are books in the study. I have no phone and I'm afraid your mobile won't work; there's no signal between these two ridges, but you are welcome to my home. Is there anyone you need to tell where you are?"
"My parents don't know, but they wouldn't anyway: I only phone them now and again. Gerry is the only person who knows where he left me, but he did leave me out here. I don't really fancy telling him."
"If you put a text message on your phone, I will take it to a spot where I can send it."
"Let him worry." She was venomous.
"He might call out mountain rescue," Joseph offered. He left the implications for her to work out, "You could tell some of your friends so they can let him know you're safe."
She thought and then took out her phone. Her fingers flashed over the keys, and then she gave the instrument to Joseph.
"I won't be long," he said, "Bob needs a walk. Explore the house if you wish, but hop, don't put too much weight on that ankle. May I know your name?"
She put a hand to her mouth in embarrassment, "How rude of me!" she exclaimed, "I'm Angela Furness."
"Well, Angela," he smiled, "You've not been in the best condition to remember such niceties!" and he laughed. It was a deep and musical noise and she loved it, laughing in her turn.
He put on his second coat, his Barbour being slightly wet inside as well as out, and Bob caught on immediately and with tail wagging furiously, brought the lead. The pair went as far as the road. The cloud had lifted and the moon shone down. When he saw he had a signal, he sent the text without reading it.
He took out his own phone and called the mountain rescue.
"Bob, it's Joseph. If there's a call-out for Angela Furness, she's with me. I found her, or rather Bob did. She was cold and wet and it could have been worse, but she's OK now."
"Not the first one Bob's found, eh? OK, thanks Joseph."
Then man and dog turned back for home.