Chapter 1

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Swinging, Group Sex, Oral Sex, Exhibitionism, .

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - This is a strange (for me) romantic travelogue. A man seeking to escape from a tragic past buys a motorhome and takes off to tour the country. He quickly takes on a passenger whose past is just as tragic as his own and it turns out that they have a lot in common. This is a departure from my usual story and my small group of hard corps fans will probably be disappointed with the result. But it’s a pleasant little tale. Surely there is someone out there that will enjoy it.

I woke up the way I usually do, doused in a cold sweat, not certain where I am, my head swimming, lost in some murky, indefinable terror. It always takes me a few seconds to realize that it's over. I'm no longer waiting on death row, waiting to die for a murder I didn't commit, the murder of my beloved wife, Sara.

I'm no longer trapped in a cell surrounded by the dregs of society, the most dangerous, vicious, blood thirsty creatures our society has produced. I no longer have to live every moment like I'm in a war zone, surrounded by violent men who would just as soon kill me as look at me.

It has been almost a year since they arrested the man who killed my wife, the man who really killed her. But he wasn't their first choice. The cops arrested me shortly after she was murdered, I guess because they couldn't find anyone else to pin it on without actually having to do a little police work.

The prosecutor manufactured the evidence he needed to convict me from thin air. He had apparently based his belief that I did it on the adage that when a woman is murdered it's usually the husband who killed her. At the same time he hid exculpating evidence that was uncovered before my trial because it inconveniently would seem to indicate I wasn't guilty. That would, after all, tend to distract the jury and ruin his perfect record of convictions.

I was convicted and sentenced to death. I must have been guilty or they wouldn't have arrested me. Right?

I would probably have been executed if it weren't for a group of students at a local law school who started looking into my case as a class project. They were an industrious and diligent little group. They found, among other things, a copy of the pertinent security camera footage the prosecutor thought had been destroyed. It showed the real killer leaving the scene of the crime.

Even with all the evidence they uncovered it still took my little group of supporters from the law school several months to have me exonerated and released. The system fought them tooth and nail until they finally got the press involved.

I received some small satisfaction when in a remarkably short amount of time the prosecutor was disbarred and my defense attorney was censured. But that didn't come close to making up for the nearly three years I spent on death row.

I was, as you might expect, incredibly happy to be released. Prison is a terrible place to live. There were a lot of things I missed while I was in there; privacy, security, beer, good food, fresh air and the ability to go for a walk if I wished.

But without question, the thing I missed most of all was silence. The noise in a prison is deafening and constant. For a quiet man like me it was maddening. I mean that literally. It nearly drove me mad. There's just no way to cope with it.

I remember walking out of that prison like it was yesterday. I remember being surprised at the reaction of the guards. From the hostile way they glared at me you would have thought I was attempting to escape over the fence. They acted like I was somehow pulling a fast one. They seemed to believe that I must really belong there, no matter that the man who killed my wife confessed when presented with the evidence.

I remember standing outside of the prison gates, closing my eyes and enjoying the quiet and my first breath of free air in years. It smelled somehow cleaner. It even tasted better!

The young law students whose hard work made this possible were waiting for me with their professor when I walked out of there. They all rushed up and hugged me. I cried then. I cried when I was told that my wife was murdered. And I cried when those kids embraced me. Those are the only two times in my life that I can remember crying.

I owe those kids everything. I owe them my life. But it wasn't until that moment that it occurred to me that free or not, my life has been destroyed. My wife is dead. I wasn't even allowed to attend the funeral.

My once prosperous business folded up and disappeared, another victim of the miscarriage of justice that was my trial. None of my clients doubted for a moment that there had been a mistake when I was arrested. But still they all drifted away to my competitors at the earliest opportunity. My small but fast growing business went belly up even before the guilty verdict was read.

The students took me to a small party they had arranged in my honor to celebrate my release, my exoneration. I was cornered by the editor of the university newspaper for an interview as soon as I arrived. I had brushed off the local press. I suppose I'll have to deal with them eventually. I just wasn't ready for that yet. But I sat down with the editor of the university paper for an interview. I felt like I owed them that much. And it would give me a chance to tell them all how much I appreciate what they did for me.

The editor was a beautiful young woman, very intelligent. But it took me a few minutes to realize how sharp she was and take her seriously. She looked very, very young. I quickly realized she was older than she looked and had a lot on the ball.

I started to give her the attention she deserved. It was harder than you might imagine. I find that you run into very few pretty women while locked up on death row. I had a hell of a time looking her in the eye as we talked.

I answered her questions as honestly as I could. At every opportunity I expressed my gratitude to the students who worked on my case and to the school for giving them the latitude to pursue it. Everything was clicking along fine until she asked, "Aren't you bitter?"

It was a question I should have been anticipating. But I had to sit back and think about it. I wasn't sure what that meant. It seemed to imply that I'm different now and I suppose I am in some ways. But it also implies that the changes that were forced on me by this experience made me less good, twisted, shriveled up inside. I didn't think that had happened to me.

After a long, thoughtful silence during which she sat patiently, watching me and waiting for an answer, I finally said, "I don't think so. I'm changed. You can't go through what I did and not be changed. You can't live where I lived for the last three years and not be changed.

"I'll admit I was delighted when I learned that the prosecutor was disbarred. He deserved that. I feel a lot of resentment towards the people who fought those kids even after it was obvious to everyone that I wasn't guilty. I think that was the hardest part of all of this to understand.

"I'm certainly changed. But no, I don't think I'm bitter. I'm in a room full of very nice young people right now. It's hard to look at those great kids and not feel hopeful. No. I'm not bitter."

I meant it when I said it. But I'll admit that there were times in the months that followed when I was struggling to get my life back in order that I had to remind myself of that conversation. The next few months were not easy.

After the party I needed to rent a car. My vehicles were in storage and it would be days before I could get them out and get them running. That was when I ran into the first of the many obstacles I would face after my release. No one had thought to unfreeze my assets. I had money in the bank. But I couldn't touch it.

I was able to straighten that out in a couple of hours with a phone call because the DA's office was scared to death of the wrongful prosecution lawsuit they were expecting. My assets were released after the exchange of a few faxes between the DA's Office and the bank. But my credit cards and debit cards were useless.

The assistant manager of the car rental agency took pity on me and drove me to my bank so I could get some cash. I was also able to get a debit card on the spot. When my immediate banking needs were attended to we went back and completed our transaction.

I left the lot in a rental car and drove to my house. I almost cried again when I saw it. It had been vandalized and ransacked, repeatedly from the looks of it.

I attempted to have my belongings placed in storage and get a realtor to rent the house out or even sell it when I was sent to prison. But every move I made was blocked by my in-laws who blamed me for the death of my wife, never once giving me the benefit of the doubt, never believing for a moment that I might be innocent.

I shall never understand how they could have believed for a second that I could have killed my wife. They knew how much in love we were. I was surprised by their instant acceptance of my guilt because we had been so close. I was closer to my wife's family than I was to my own!

But from the moment I was arrested they hired an attorney to impede every effort I made to protect our house and belongings under the guise of protecting my wife's estate.

I walked through my house, the home I shared with my wife since shortly after our wedding day. We met in college and married two weeks after graduation. The day on which we would have celebrated our tenth anniversary fell on my second day on death row.

Now I'm alone. I'm thirty-six years old. My home has been all but destroyed. My prized possessions have been taken or were destroyed and are strewn about the house.

My wife's jewelry is gone. Our leather furniture, the pieces that were too large to steal, are slashed and torn. As I walked through the house I smelled the strong odor of urine in every room. But the thing that disturbed me the most was the destruction of my book collection.

I've collected a lot of books over the years. I could never bring myself to get rid of a book. Now they're torn to shreds and scattered throughout the house, not much more than confetti. I was so devastated by their loss that I hardly noticed the holes in the sheetrock, the ruined carpets, the shattered remnants of the happy home I once shared with my wife.

I saw nothing in the house to salvage and no reason to ever return. I turned around and locked the door behind me for the last time, more from force of habit than any thought of protecting my property. I drove to a nearby strip mall in a daze. I bought what toiletries I would need and enough clothes to last a week. Then I went to a decent extended stay motel in a quiet part of town and rented a small suite.

Over the next several months I began trying to put my life back together. I rented a quiet apartment. I have always loved peace and quiet but it has become almost a fetish for me now. While I was incarcerated over the last three years I missed quiet more than I missed freedom. I only lived on death row for two weeks before I began to look forward to my execution. I quickly attempted to put an end to the automatic appeals and requested the earliest possible execution date.

They even fought that! They wanted me dead, but not for a while. I knew that I couldn't survive in that place. My sanity couldn't survive in that place. Not for long.

Now I'm free. But free to do what? I'm struggling to put my affairs back in order and figure out what I'm going to do with my life. I hired someone to restore my house and put it on the market as soon as possible. I knew the minute I saw it I could never live there again.

I checked on all of my CDs at the bank. They have been in limbo since my arrest. Like my checking and savings accounts they were frozen. But at least they continued to accrue a little bit of interest over the years.

I checked on my investments. My wife and I accumulated sizeable 401Ks. Our assets still had to go through probate. I've been unable to do that while convicted of causing her death.

I finally got the insurance company to make good on my wife's life insurance policy. That was a lot harder than I expected. Even with the proof of my innocence they acted like I was still somehow responsible for my wife's death. They didn't pay off until I threatened to sue them.

Probate went quickly once my in-laws stepped out of the picture. I tried once to reach out to them. But whether because of guilt for the way they treated me or because their hate for me was too ingrained now to get past it, they rebuffed me. I wasn't inclined to try more than once. I had some pretty hard feelings of my own when it came to the way they treated me.

Six months after my release I still hadn't filed a claim against the DA's office for my fraudulent arrest and conviction. They were pretty nervous about it. The circumstances in my case were pretty egregious and they were aggravated by the almost immediate demise of my once lucrative business.

I honestly had mixed feelings about filing a claim. The terrible things that happened to me were the result of the efforts of one overzealous, unprincipled attorney, his assistants, and two cops. They have all been punished.

I feel that I'm owed something. My life has been destroyed. But I didn't feel like the people of the state owed me anything and ultimately they'll get stuck with the bill if I file a wrongful prosecution claim.

I heard from the DA several times, asking me about the status of my claim. I considered filing a claim for some token amount, just to put an end to the suspense. Then one day, totally out of the blue, the DA invited me to a meeting in his office.

I was certainly free. I had no job, no career, no prospects.

I attended the meeting at City Hall. Also in attendance were about two dozen people, attorneys and politicians representing or in the employ of the city. Before they told me why I was there someone, I don't actually remember who, insisted that I should have an attorney.

I'm not very fond of attorneys right now. I politely declined.

When everyone was seated some guy from the Mayor's Office handed me a folder and told me how sorry everyone was for what happened to me. He said that the folder contained a settlement offer and that I should take it to an attorney and discuss it. I guess they got tired of waiting for me to submit a claim.

I opened the folder and scanned the document. It was an offer to settle any and all claims I might have against them for fifteen million dollars, five million for each year I was imprisoned. There was no mention of compensation for the near destruction of my home or the collapse of my business.

I felt the strongest urge to tear it up in front of them and tell them I don't want their money. But I suffered a sudden attack of sanity. I pulled out my pen and asked, "Where do you want me to sign?"

They seemed stunned. They were hesitant, suggesting very strongly that I should see an attorney first. I don't know much about this sort of thing. But it seemed pretty obvious they felt I could get much more from them if I hired an attorney.

I just wanted it to be over. I almost told them that I probably wouldn't have filed a claim if they just kept their mouths shut. Instead I took the money. Now, altogether, I have close to eighteen million dollars in assets; but no life.

You might have thought that after almost six months in pre-trial confinement and three years in prison, one of my first concerns would have been female companionship, or at least the services of a call girl. While I cannot deny that I was incredibly horny, I couldn't bring myself to do anything about it.

It got so that every time I saw a woman in a pair of tight pants or a short skirt I got an erection. But thoughts of sex inevitably led to thoughts of my murdered wife and I just couldn't handle that. There ensued a confusion of lust followed immediately by feelings of guilt for feeling lust. I had no idea how to deal with my feelings. So I didn't.

There remained about six weeks before my six month lease expired on the apartment I was renting. I told myself I should be out there looking for work and a permanent place to live. I should be working to rebuild my life. Instead I stayed in my apartment day after day, reading or listening to quiet music, or just enjoying the absence of loud, obscene conversations and screaming, half sane men.

One day, when I was down to about three weeks remaining on my lease, I was out in the parking lot in front of my apartment. I was going to make a quick trip to the store when an older couple pulled in driving a large motorhome. It was as though I was seeing an RV for the first time. I suddenly knew what I was going to do!

I introduced myself to the couple in the motorhome when they stepped out. I explained quickly that I was thinking of buying one and taking an extended vacation.

When they realized I wasn't mugging them they were all too happy to talk about their lifestyle and their life on the road. They were there visiting their daughter and son-in-law and over the next few days I spent a lot of time with the old man. Bob and his wife Helen have been what they call full-timers for nearly two years now and they love it.

They happily showed me their motorhome and filled my head with tips for living on the road. Bob even took me to the bookstore at the mall a couple of days later and helped me select several good books on the subject.

I read the books and did some research on the internet. I quickly started narrowing down my choices of a vehicle. Nothing was set in stone yet. But the Class C motorhomes didn't look any bigger than the deuce and a half I drove all over Germany when I was in the Army. I thought I would feel more comfortable driving one of those than the larger, more sumptuous Class A motorhomes.

Rather than towing a car behind it I found an ad from a company that makes hydraulic lifts for motorcycles that attach to the backs of motorhomes. I intended to get rid of my cars and get the lift for my Harley.

I put an ad in the paper, offering to sell my cars for a very reasonable price. I just wanted to get rid of them. I considered selling my bike and getting a newer one. But I love my bike and I've put a lot of money into personalizing it.

I packed a change of clothes and a toothbrush in the saddlebags in case I ended up spending the night and headed south. I remembered seeing one of those mega motorhome dealers on the side of I-95 just across the border in Florida. There were acres and acres of big, beautiful motorhomes lined up. I figured I'd be apt to get a better deal there and have a bigger selection to choose from than at the small dealership in town.

I left early in the morning and arrived before lunch time. I pulled onto the lot and parked in front of the showroom. I got a few curious stares from both customers and salespeople. I guess a lot of bikers don't shop there.

I looked around and spotted a large display of Class C motor homes. Since no one working there seemed interested in talking to me I went over and started looking around on my own.

I had been climbing in and out of motorhomes for several minutes before anyone came over to ask me if they could help me. I suppose I didn't look like I could afford more than a pup tent. They were probably more interested in seeing to it that I don't steal anything.

I ignored the fact that the guy seemed to be humoring me and explained that I'm a recent widower and I've decided to try full timing in order to get away from it all for a while.

Recent widower? It struck me then that I don't think I've really begun to cope with the loss of my wife. I've accepted it of course. I acknowledge that she no longer lives. But for the three years of my incarceration I think the only thing that kept me sane was that in my mind she was with me. I talked to her every day and every night. She helped me survive. So although almost four years have passed since her death it has seemed to me that she was always there when I needed her. I'm only now starting to deal with the reality of her loss.

I told the salesman I was interested in a Class C because they are generally smaller and I thought I would feel more comfortable driving one of them.

He replied that if that's the only reason I'm interested in a Class C he has a new Class A that just came in. Because of its special chassis and unusual drive train he thought I might be interested in it. It was ordered by a customer who went bankrupt before it was delivered. Because he put a large deposit on it I can get it for a good price.

It's only thirty-one feet long. That's pretty small by Class A standards. But it has three large slide outs and every accessory the guy could think of to put in an RV. The thing that makes this one special is the rear wheels. At slow speeds the rear wheels steer in the opposite direction of the front wheels when cornering. It has an incredibly small turning radius making turning and maneuvering it a breeze.

He led me across the lot to the maintenance area. They were still taking the plastic off of everything and prepping it for display in their showroom. It was beautiful! I liked it the moment I saw it. I didn't even ask the price. I turned to the salesman, held out my hand and said, "Sold!"

He got a little nervous. I could tell that he didn't think I could afford it. I don't know why he showed it to me. I'm still the guy in jeans and a Harley t-shirt who arrived on a loud motorcycle. He would probably have felt better if I handed him my bank statement instead of shaking his hand.

He recovered and showed me through the coach, pointing out the highlights. The only other similar vehicle I have seen the interior of was Bob and Helen's RV back at the apartment. Theirs is very nice. This one made theirs look like a livestock hauler.

We went to his office and worked out a deal. I arranged to have them order and install the hydraulic lift on the back for my Harley. I wrote them a check for half the agreed upon price of the vehicle and they promised the vehicle by the time my lease expires in two weeks, assuming they receive the lift in time.

I went home that evening and got out the road atlas. Now what? There are so many places I want to see. I planned out a route for the first few days that would be easy on me and give me a chance to get used to the RV.

That evening I talked to Bob and Helen again. I told them about my purchase. They seemed almost as excited as I was. They told me what I needed to do to get my mail forwarded to me on the road. That wasn't such a big deal in my case. You can do most of what you once did through the mail online now. And when you've been locked up for three years on death row you don't get a lot of mail, although I have been getting a surprisingly large number of credit card offers. You'd think they wouldn't be anxious to deal with me.

In the next few days I sold one of my cars. I notified my bank and my broker that I'm going to be on the road for a while and told them how to get in touch with me.

The RV has been fitted with complete satellite communications. I arranged to initiate service, to include computer access for the PC that came with the RV. My wife's car wasn't generating any interest so when I was down to two days to pick up the RV I gave it to a young couple I met in the building who are struggling to make ends meet. I was in such a good mood that I even gave them an envelope and told them not to open it until after I left. It contained enough money that they could get the car insured and registered.

The afternoon before the day I was to pick up the RV I gave the dealer a call and verified that it was ready. I went down on the bike and booked a room in a nearby motel. The next morning I went in to close the deal and pick it up.

It was a very lengthy process. We took care of the paperwork and I wrote them another very large check.

The salesman took me into the motorhome and checked me out on everything. They even made sure the large plasma television and the computer were working and the satellite was getting a signal.

They showed me how to use the electronics and how to empty the waste water. Then the salesman took me for a practice run around town and made as sure as he could that I wasn't going to kill anyone with it. I was extremely pleased with how easily it handled in tight spaces.

We figured out the motorcycle lift together and loaded my bike onto it. I thanked him for his help and cautiously headed home. It's a four hour drive. About three quarters of the trip is on the interstate. The rest is on well maintained secondary roads.

By the time I got back to my apartment I was feeling pretty confident driving it. I was amazed at how well it drove around town. I can't say enough about that turning rear axle. It made negotiating turns a snap.

I wouldn't want to drive the thing into the downtown area of any major city. But If I get a little more practice I'm starting to think that I could if I had to.

The next day I put what few belongings I've accumulated into the RV and transferred the contents of my refrigerator and kitchen cabinets. I double checked to make sure I didn't leave anything. When I was certain I wasn't forgetting anything I went to the manager's office. I gave them the key and told them that I arranged with a cleaning service to clean up. It probably would have passed inspection as it was but this way there's no hassle.

I asked permission weeks ago when I was still making all my plans to spend the night in the parking lot and leave in the morning. They're pretty picky there about security. When I turned in the key I reminded them I'd be there overnight and they told me they'd already notified the security guard.

The nuts and bolts were taken care of. There was only one thing left to do. That evening I visited a few people I've gotten to know and like and said goodbye.

The bed in my furnished apartment seemed very comfortable to me after sleeping on a prison bunk for three and a half years. That night I was introduced to the joys of sleeping on a Tempur-Pedic mattress. I'll never be the same! That mattress took me into its arms and gently carried me off to the most restful night of sleep I've ever experienced! I could write odes to that mattress!

Despite how anxious I was to get an early start I slept until after seven. By the time I took a shower, dressed and made coffee it was nearly eight. I sat down in the easy chair they put where the driver's seat should be and started up my fancy new home. I sipped my coffee and started off on my new life, totally relaxed.

The RV is a dream to drive. If my bladder was larger I could have driven non-stop from dawn to dark! I spent the first night on the road in Wytheville, Virginia. The next day I drove to Charlottesville. I went to school there at the University of Virginia for a while and I like the town. I wanted to spend the day there and visit a few of my old hangouts.

I spent the next day cruising around on my bike, checking out the town, reminiscing and eating at a couple of my favorite restaurants. In the early evening I stopped in at a bar just off campus that's popular with the students. I pretty much lived there when I was going to UVA.

The nostalgia quickly dissolved. The experience wasn't as much fun as I expected. I looked around at the college kids and suddenly I felt so damn old! I wasn't the only one who thought so. The kids looked at me curiously, obviously wondering what an old fart like me is doing there. Going there had been a mistake. I drank one beer and left. Talk about a buzz kill!

There was one other minor annoyance on that excursion into my past, aside from learning that I'm not a kid anymore. I discovered it when I topped off the fuel tank in the morning before leaving town. I didn't expect to get the same gas mileage on the RV that I get on my Harley. I was told that I could expect to get about eight miles per gallon. But the fuel tank holds ninety gallons so I didn't plan on spending too much time looking for gas stations.

I can drive close to seven hundred miles on a tank of fuel if I'm willing to take a chance on there being a gas station around when I run low. But it takes forever to refill the tank and it costs about two hundred and fifty dollars each time I fill it up from empty.

I actually don't mind the expense too much. I have money to burn now and I've gotten used to being gouged by petroleum companies. But the time! You can spend an awful lot of time staring off into space while you're putting fuel in that sucker! I resolved to bring something to read the next time I stop to gas up.

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