Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Safe Sex, Oral Sex, .
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Sheila arrives at the beach house a day early. Her host isn't pleased. They play tennis and dance and then both of them are more comfortable. She wonders if her stepmother set this all up. Then, she faces a choice that will cause a major change in her life.
Squinting through the covered porch over the brilliant white beach into the gulf, Greg intently supervised each bird's diving in quest of the sea's bounty. The ebbing surf whispered, and the birds squeaked and squawked as his keyboard replied with urgent sentences. A car door slammed in the driveway — then the car drove away. It's about time! Queen Marcia is finally here. Two days late and just like her not to call!
He finished the next brilliant sentence with an emphatic period when a non-Marcia woman's voice from behind, challenged, "Who are you?"
Looking around in surprise, he replied, "I'm Greg. Who are you?"
"I'm staying at the House of the Mermaid," she replied.
"This is it. Every splendid board of it."
She probed, "Are you here with Marcia?"
"Well, no, I thought you might be she. She stood me up."
She posed, disheveled, at the top of the stairs drooping a carry-on bag from one shoulder, a laptop from the other, and a shopping bag from Bloomingdale's in her hands, then dropped her athletic bag on the floor. She tossed her long brown hair back in anguish, revealing earrings and a pretty face needing basic makeup repair. She shot back quick questions. "Where is she? Why isn't she here? When is she coming?"
He responded, "A. I don't know. B. She chose not to tell me. C. The day before yesterday. And, who are you?"
Greg was annoyed. She was about 5'9," athletically trim and shapely, though drooping at the moment from carrying the heavy bags.
"I'm Sheila. Marcia is my stepmother."
"Welcome Sheila, please put your stuff down. Marcia has told me a few things about you."
With a sigh, she dumped her bags, and then began seeking her PDA. Finally, she said, "Marcia told me we're supposed to be here from the 29th through the 6th."
"No problem. What date does your calendar say?"
She stared in disbelief, then said, "The 28th."
Greg you're the only one here. Get ready for the brunt of her anger. Try humor. "I feel better already. I thought maybe the salt air had addled my mind. I did not expect anyone but her. How did you get here?"
"A couple on the plane dropped me off. We were late out of Atlanta and they were going just down the beach. Otherwise, I'd have to take the shuttle."
She sat dejectedly on the top stair, cupping her chin in her hands, and said, "I rescheduled a job interview so I could get here in time. Shit! I forgot to tell her about my changed dates. I just don't do this kind of fuck-up."
Go easy, Greg. This is not your fault. "It wouldn't have mattered, we were supposed to be here anyway. You're welcome to phone," he replied, trying to solve her problem.
He was visibly annoyed -- she had interrupted his work, and was putting him in a corner. I'll relax and regroup. She will not get to me.
She jerked her cell phone from her purse and started to punch numbers. She looked at it and then tried again. "I'm not getting anywhere. There is no signal here."
"You're right. We're out of range of civilization. The land line is just there in the kitchen."
Walking to the phone, she muttered, I can't believe I did this. She poked numbers briskly.
In relief due to her momentary distraction, he pondered the situation. Some days at the beach foil even the most critical who cannot improve the moment. A gentle on-shore breeze rumples the hair and with a soft pressure on the skin moves on from the water where it created a shimmering of late spring's yellower light. Pelicans patrol parallel to the waves in stealthy quest for the gourmet delights available just down the beach, their squawks, neither harmonious nor pleasant, mark their territorial rights.
He wondered, did the first human emerging from the jungle to walk on the white sugar beach return there led by undiscovered genetic drivers? Diving birds now plunge to retrieve the warm Gulf bounty. The Romans, the Greeks, and those before, described splendid feelings of well being at the seashore that science now tells us is caused by negative ions.
And I came here to work? That's right, Greg. Back to the draft.
Greg and some colleagues rented this beach house to write a difficult proposal, rather than meet at the wintry O'Hare Marriott one more time. Isolated, they produced an acceptable draft, which he now had to polish. Non-disclosure ideas longed secretly for coherence.
He had been using the electronic blue pencil for several hours, looking up only to reflect on the squawking birds, and the sound of one sentence after another striving to convert technical jargon into readable prose. His collaborators finished their contributions yesterday, and left quickly. With no people, email, or other obligations, he made remarkable progress turning genius into understanding.
Enduring permanent hold on the kitchen phone, Sheila idly flipped through a stack of photos on the counter. Though not really snooping, she followed her curiosity. My God, is that him? Her gray haired host-adversary had his arm around a smiling knockout blond by a sunny ski lift, and in the next photo she was kissing him. Then she wore a thong bikini at a rocky beach. Well-dressed stepmother Marcia stood smiling with him by the fireplace. Then, she did a double take on a shot of the blond in shorts and halter chained under a staircase. Regaining her purpose, she said, "I'm on permanent hold. The damn people forgot me." She slammed down the handset.
"You can try again now, or wait until later. Your choice."
She cradled the phone in her neck and was reconnected. After several minutes of waiting and asking questions, she hung up. With rising frustration, "The damn secretary told me that Marcia went to San Francisco on a big crisis and did not know when she would be back! Oh, there is a message from Marcia on your phone."
I must have missed that while I was out on the beach. He dialed up the message and listened on the speakerphone. "Greg, I am very sorry about this. I am in San Francisco virtually being held hostage in a high security building, working on the rapid transit system. We can't receive calls and our phones won't work in here. I told Sheila it would be okay to stop by for a couple of days before she went to St. Augustine. Tell her about this when she arrives. Sorry. Bye."
Sheila had her turn listening to the message. I guess she couldn't leave me a message either.
So, Marcia had invited Sheila to be here, too. Why didn't she tell me that we were having other guests?
"Well, it appears that Marcia invited you here without telling me," he blurted.
She flashed back, "Like, man, it's no big deal, I'm sure there are other places on the island where I can stay."
They stood a minute glaring at each other across the room, then, he took a deep breath and reflected: Unless there is absolutely a need for conflict, there is absolutely a need for NO conflict.
He regretted being cold and rude to Marcia's stepdaughter who was not at fault. Relax. Take charge. "Sheila, we have a problem to solve that neither of us really needed. Can we solve it together?"
She sat reluctantly and with crossed arms and legs in the proffered dinette chair. "I'm sorry I was rude, I was caught off-guard, please feel free to stay here."
She shrugged in disbelief, tossed her head back and dismissed the offer, "I can't stay here with a strange man who is my step-mother's boyfriend."
"I reject strange. Could we settle on unique? I hoped to be Marcia's weekend date. I'm not her boyfriend. Staying here was my first offer; we can negotiate. So, what would you like?" He asked her, but the humor was flat.
After a sigh she said, "I'm like exhausted. Marcia was supposed to be here. I want to walk on the beach and relax. I don't need a hassle."
"No problem. No hassle. What would you like now?" he repeated.
"Where else can I stay?" she shot back.
"The village has the most options."
Silence. Real good, Sheila! You're an honors college graduate, have a prestigious scholarship, and you can't even keep dates straight on your vacation? How did you get into this and how will you get out? Jesus! Or, Moses, or who the hell...
Greg's years of dealing with hungry children told him that she had reached the end of her string. When children get ugly, feed them. She was tired and quite frustrated.
"Please forgive my lack of hospitality. Would you like a snack, a glass of wine, or a soft drink?"
"No, thank you," she quickly rejected his offer.
"Think about it. Make yourself comfortable. There is Brie, strawberries, and carrots in the fridge. Crackers and pretzels on the counter. Relax and decide what you want. I'm going back to work. Let me know if you need anything."
She pouted in a large rattan chair alone for a while, and then pondered. Okay, you're like out of here. Get to the village. Now, you have a plan. Get off your ass and go tell him. No, snacks first, then go tell him."
She came to the porch with a plate full of carrots, strawberries, and Brie, then asked, "Will you take me to the village?"
"Of course. Whenever you say."
"Is there any place to stay there?" She repeated.
"There is a hostel and the magnificent Surf 'n Sand. You might be able to find a bed in the hostel. It's usually pretty tight this time of year."
She thought about being abandoned and asked, "If I go to the village and don't find a place how would I get back here?" You want to get back here?
"I have to pick up a bottle of wine and some shrimp. You can ask around while I shop and make up your mind then, or you can phone."
Use the phone, Sheila. Do you know how to phone? While calling, she flipped through his photos again. Then, she offered flatly, "There's nothing available. I can only be a stand-by at six at the Surf."
"Good. You now have choices. I can take you to the village at six and you can check it out. Your chances will be much better then because they won't hold the rooms after that. Now, working together, we are getting to a solution."
"Great," she said sarcastically, "just what are those choices?"
"You always have a room here. You can stand-by at the Surf-'n-Sand. You can check out the hostel. You already have a home, now you're shopping for the best deal!"
She brightened a little. Then, he said, "Oh, by the way, I must tell you that staying here has strings attached."
Just like life, options, and strings! Shit! "I'll just bet there are strings. I thought this was coming. What kind of strings?"
"First, if you're sharing my house, you'll have to act right, have a good time, and enjoy yourself. There is a large bedroom downstairs with a bath and the price is right. We offer your own beach to walk on, a gulf to swim in, a hot tub to sit in, a shower to lounge in, and good food to cook and enjoy. Your concierge can arrange for tennis, a surfboard, or a sailboat.
"You may lock your door and have total privacy. If you help with the meals, then you may come to the table, engage in civilized conversation, forget your plight, and be a real person. You may bring a smile. There is no television but there is a radio and good CDs on the stereo," he continued, "if you don't want to play here, you can ride the bike into the village and be on your own."
What do I have to lose? He'll take me to the village at six — that's four hours. All I have to do is kill time until then. The beach? After a pause, "Did you say there was a place that I could change?"
"It would be my pleasure to show you your room. I do hope you will find it and our service to your liking."
Still no smile. He took her large bag, and with a servant's gesture, said, "Follow me, mam'selle," and showed her Derrick's unmade room. "Your special room has a lovely view of the sea, beach, and birds. Shower's in here. The hot tub's at the end of the hall on the deck. Shower's out there, too. The hot tub's clothing optional. I go optional. It has many bubbles. Wear what you like. Sheets and towels in the cabinet. Our guests require privacy, so we don't offer maid service."
She sat down on the bed and sighed. As he turned to go, he offered, "There's a snorkel and some fins on the outside deck. I'm going to work now." He heard the deadbolt latch as he went upstairs.