Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, First, Slow,
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Sam's been disappointed... but that's going to change.
I was not a happy bunny. I had been looking forward to a weekend camping in the Lake District; as it was coming up to Easter, the office would be closed from Thursday evening until Tuesday morning. Admittedly, it would be busy, but I was pretty sure there'd be plenty of room on Coniston Water for my sixteen foot Kestrel sailing dinghy. We'd had it arranged for weeks; Jack and I had been sailing together for years, and friends for longer. But Murphy got his oar in. Jack's wife came down with something nasty (but not life-threatening) and, quite reasonably, he'd cried off to look after her and his kids. It was now Wednesday and I thought it unlikely I'd find another crew by tomorrow night. The Kestrel is a nice boat, but it does really need two bodies to manage it. And the drive from Sheffield to Coniston may be only about a hundred and forty miles, but it's still over four hours towing a boat on a trailer over single-carriageway roads; the scenery may be pretty, but you don't get to see much when you're driving ... it's boring.
"What's up, Sam? You look as though your pet dog died, or something."
I looked round. It was Anne Abbott, a colleague I'd worked with for nearly three years. We'd maintained a friendly distance for all that time; occasionally thrown into one another's company at office parties and such like, but never taking things any further. She was ... well, I'd never really thought about it. Pleasant, quite good looking, blonde hair (I prefer brunettes) carrying a pound or two too much weight, maybe, (but so what?) with a sense of humour as similar to mine as any woman's can be to a man's. She was good company; I felt a little better just hearing her voice.
"Oh, just a bit of bad luck. I was off to Cumbria for a weekend camping and sailing, but my crew has had to cry off; family problems."
"Can't you go on your own?"
"Well, yes, but the boat's a bit hard work single-handed, and besides it's not as much fun alone. I'll probably stay in town and perhaps go walking in Derbyshire."
"What boat is it?"
"It's a Kestrel dinghy."
"I know it! Narrower than a Wayfarer, same length, bigger sails!"
"You got it. How'd you know that?"
"Oh, there's a lot about me you don't know. I used to do quite a lot of dinghy sailing, but I haven't been in a boat, oh, maybe ... ten years. If you need a crew, though ... I'm at a loose end this weekend."
Suddenly, the world was a brighter place. Not only could I have my weekend with company, but Anne was definitely better looking than Jack. My mate's a great bloke, but ... he's a bloke. What's more, I hadn't had a steady girlfriend since Julie decided I was too serious ... crumbs, that'd be over a year...
"If you're serious, you're on! Pick you up four am on Friday?"
"Yes. It'll get us to the camp-site around eight or nine am, beat the rush, get us a site near the lake, and leave us a full day to relax."
"OK, sounds good ... but I'd better go and pretend to do some work. Did you ever hear the one about the Soviet workers?"
"No, but do tell..."
"Apparently, wages were a bit erratic in getting paid, and the saying went round, 'as long as they pretend to pay us, we'll pretend to work'"
I snorted. As I say, we had similar tastes in humour.
She left to go to her own desk, I turned back to what I was doing.
I picked her up at four am; she was ready, carrying a small rucksack, sleeping bag in a stuff-bag and a pair of hiking boots as well as wet-boots. She was rapidly rising in my estimation. Up, on time, and apparently properly equipped for the weekend. My opinion rose even further as we drove; she made a very good travelling companion. We shared similar tastes in music as well as humour. We got to Leeds before the traffic really began to build and left the motorways to pick up the A65; that took us right through the Yorkshire Dales (stopping for breakfast at a Little Chef, we both had a cooked breakfast) to the M6, which we crossed and picked up the A590, turning off at Penny Bridge, and eventually finding our way to Old Hall camp site on the banks of Coniston Water. As I predicted, despite very good weather, there was a lot of space to choose from.
We got the tent pitched before walking the mile or so to the village for fresh provisions ... and a good cup of coffee. The walk is across fields, with livestock (mainly sheep) grazing around the path; later in the year there would be spotted flycatchers near a copse of trees; today, just crows, a few jackdaws, and a robin. It is a pleasant walk, made even more enjoyable when Anne slipped her hand into mine.
"Have you read Arthur Ransome's books?" she asked.
"Swallows and Amazons?" I glanced at her ... she nodded. "All of them. In fact I've got the whole set on my shelves at home."
"It's a very special place, this," she said.
"It is," I agreed.
By the time we were back at the tent with our purchases, it was lunchtime. More so, having been awake since 'O dark thirty' as they say, so we made tea, and ate pasties, and apples, and dark chocolate fudge cake. She caught my eye as she was forking up a mouthful of the very sticky cake, and grinned;
"I like your idea of suitable provisions for a picnic!"
Anne was keen to get on the water, so as soon as we finished eating, we manhandled the Kestrel down to the edge of the lake, and emptied the clutter out of her.
"What's this?" she asked, pointing to a bundle of brown canvas.
"That? It's a boom-tent," I said. When she raised her eyebrows, I added, "You hold the boom up with the main halliard as a topping lift, hook the tent to the underside and to the sides of the boat, and you've got a tent." I pointed to a couple of blue lumps of fabric, "there's a couple of narrow air-beds that fit each side of the centre-plate casing, and two people can sleep in the boat. It is not very comfortable, though"
Her eyes gleamed. "Could we do that? Could we take some food and visit Peel Island, like the Swallows?"
"Why, yes, if you like. It'll be a beat down the lake against this Southerly breeze, but..."
We got the mast stepped, and the sails bent on, filled a flask with boiling water and packed food (and a couple of bottles of nice wine) in the boat along with sleeping bags and a picnic blanket and spare clothes in water-proof bags, donned buoyancy aids, and set off.
She was a very good crew. There was a decent breeze, though not enough to get the boat planing, but she worked quite hard, and very effectively. After an hour, I asked her if she'd like to take the helm, which she did, proving to be as good at the tiller as she was as crew. How had I not noticed this girl before?
I suppose it's about four miles from the camp site to Peel Island. It was a beat all the way, so we probably covered more like six miles, of course. When we got there, there were some children clambering about on the rocks, and kayaks in the 'Secret Harbour', so we kept going, returning at nearly six o'clock, by which time they were gone. With the southerly wind, I dropped the mainsail, and we sailed into harbour under foresail alone, furling it just before the fore-foot crunched on the gravel of the landing.
Always leave a tidy boat! We stowed the mainsail on the boom with reefing lines as tiers, and rigged the boom tent, before mooring her fore-and-aft, facing out and floating, not aground on the landing, before unloading food, picnic blanket, and wine. I watched her as we worked, as I had watched her as we sailed. The best word I could think of to describe the way she moved was 'graceful'; she moved like a dancer, or a gymnast; purposefully, precisely, neatly, economically ... and gracefully. How could I not have noticed her before?
Peel Island is quite small. Ransome enthusiasts would know it as one of the settings for his children's stories, though it's not really big enough for all the things that happen in his books on 'Wild Cat Island'. It's about thirty yards long, and fifteen wide, with steep, rocky sides, and just two places where it's easy to land from a boat. Clamber up the rocks, and you find a clearing, covered with leaf mould from the surrounding small trees. There, we laid out our picnic blanket. The cloud cover, with a southerly breeze, meant it was a pleasantly mild evening. The cloud cover meant it was dark by the time we were eating (we were glad of the little, hissing gas lantern), being outdoors, having spent the afternoon sailing, and the company, meant that a simple meal of bread, cheese and pickle, washed down with red wine and followed by shortbread and tea ... felt, at least to me, like a feast. We tidied the food into the plastic box and set it aside, then, somehow, I was on my back on the blanket, with my left arm wrapped around her shoulders. She was on her side, with her left arm on my chest and the hand cupping my shoulder.
Do you know that tone of voice? Sort of pensive? Because the person who's speaking isn't at all sure that what they want to say is going to be well received? And, usually, it's the last thing you want to hear?
"Do you like me?"
There you go, as I said. At least, in this instance, I could be honest.
"Yes, Anne, I do. Very much. In fact, I've been kicking myself, wondering how I could have worked with you for three years and not noticed you."
"Good, because there's something I want to do."
"Er, right..." what's coming now?
"I, er, brought the sleeping bags up from the boat ... would you get them out?" She pointed behind me.
We both stood, and I shook the bags out of their stuff-bags onto the blanket. I looked round, just in time to see her unhook her bra and slip out of her knickers. She began to dance in the weak gleam of the lantern; there was no music, but that hardly mattered. I couldn't call her sylph-like, she was too solid. I was wrong about something else, too — there wasn't an ounce of excess fat anywhere. I'd always thought of dryads as being slim, too ... but never again. Here was a true dryad, wholly in tune with the place; but also wholly feminine. To my eyes, suddenly the epitome of perfect womanhood. I don't know how long she danced; I just know that long before she finished, I was captivated, hooked, completely lost in love, with a woman I'd hardly noticed two days previously.
She finished her dance and I began to come round somewhat, but I hadn't completely recovered when she pressed her lips against mine before saying...
"Your choice, Sam ... would you like me to dress, and we'll go and sleep in the boat? Or shall you undress while I zip these bags together, and we'll sleep together here? I've had a fantasy for years, of dancing naked in a clearing in some woods; I still have a fantasy of camping on Wildcat Island, and, now, of sleeping with you..."
What would you do? I really hate to disappoint, and here was a gorgeous, naked, young woman practically begging me to sleep with her. I began, rapidly, to strip out of my clothes. Both of us collected our things and stuffed them in the sleeping bags at each side, sliding in together. (It wouldn't do to wake up in the morning and have to dress in dew-soaked clothing).
Words are inadequate ... but I must try. We kissed; and I felt as though I'd never been kissed before, and that I never wanted to stop. Our hands glided over each other, caressing, stroking, squeezing, raising goose-flesh. My hands palmed those lovely, neat, firm breasts, the nipples hard against me; her hand enclosing my manhood, then she was pulling me on top of her, guiding me into her, and we were together, one flesh; it was how we were meant to be. We were moving together on a rising tide of passion; my whole world was her body and mine, and the connection ... physical, emotional and spiritual, between us. She cried out, and her vagina squeezed and spasmed around my penis, triggering my own orgasm ... She wrapped herself around me, refusing to let me withdraw. I rolled so that she was on top of me, we kissed some more...
"I love you..." she whispered.
We slept, still joined.
What can I say? Sex with Julie was fantastic, exciting, maybe even passionate ... but it was just sex. This was absolutely the most... overwhelming experience of my life; all-encompassing, totally engrossing ... it was making love, and I realised that I had never made love before.
We woke early, need I say? In the half-light of the pre-dawn, the ground, despite the leaf-mould was hard and unforgiving; we had no pillows except our arms, and we were definitely cool, if not actually cold, and hot drinks were about four miles away. Our arms were still wrapped round each other, one of mine certainly numb and cold; I expect hers the same.
I looked into a pair of deep, blue, solemn eyes, experiencing the sort of vertigo I feel when looking over a precipice (I am not good with heights).
"I love you," I whispered.
Those eyes lit up with joy, and she giggled.
"I'm glad ... but I really need to wee!" (so romantic!)
She wriggled out of the bag; I couldn't resist watching her walk, but wriggled out of the bag and turned away to dress. There was, in the early morning chill, no incentive to linger over dressing.
"I don't mind you looking at me," she said, rummaging in the sleeping bags for her own clothes.
"That's good, because I have to say, you're possibly the loveliest creature I ever laid eyes on." I said as I looked at her.
"Only possibly?" she frowned, though I could see a smile trying to escape at the corners of her mouth and eyes.
"I beg pardon, I mean, definitely the loveliest creature I ever laid eyes on."
She laughed, and shivered, and started clambering into her clothes.
We loaded everything in the Kestrel; there wasn't a breath of wind in the dawn, but I poled her out with an oar, and once clear of the rocks, began to row north. No boat meant for sailing is good to row, and a dinghy with a planing hull and centre-plate is worse than most; but taking it fairly easily we made a mile or two (munching on bread and cheese, and sipping water) before a breath stirred the mirror surface of the lake. Shortly, there was sufficient wind to move us faster than the oars, and I hoisted the sails. We began to 'run' (sail down wind) as what wind there was was still southerly. (Running is actually not a very fast way of sailing; you can't go faster than the wind. Reaching, that is, sailing across the wind, you can actually move a lot faster). It took us two hours to travel the four miles back to the camp site, where we unloaded the sleeping bags, laying one out in the back of my old Sierra estate, and the other in the tent.
"What do you think?" I asked, "more sailing, or climb The Old Man?"
She grinned, "I think you mean Kanchenjunga, don't you?"
I smiled, "If you prefer, Kanchenjunga. Ever done it before?"
"Not since I was, oh, twelve, I think, with my parents. I'd like to go again, if you don't mind giving up a day's sailing."
"Not at all," I said, "but I'd like something to eat first!"
That was easily done; we had sausages to fry; and while they were cooking we made up sandwiches, and packed fruit, biscuits and Kendal Mint Cake (absolutely essential for walking and climbing) and boiled water for the flask.
The Old Man of Coniston (Kanchenjunga in 'Swallowdale') is a mountain roughly 2,650 feet high. There are, from Coniston, two ways up; a long, fairly shallow climb with some steep bits, or a shorter, very steep path, much of which is covered with loose fragments of shale and slate, through old slate workings. We opted for the longer route up, which is about three miles ... horizontally, and takes you past a pretty, small lake called Goats Water. Anne was obviously rather fitter than me, because I needed a breather by then, so we stopped for a drink and a biscuit ... and some Kendal Mint Cake.
We ate our sandwiches on the summit, and my phone bleeped. The summit of The Old Man is the only place I know within miles where there's a mobile signal; I had several missed calls. The number was somehow familiar, but it wasn't in my book ... strange.
Anne was gazing across the country laid out below us. The visibility wasn't wonderful, so we couldn't see Blackpool Tower, but we could see Lake Windermere, and our camp site below us.
"Sam ... thank you."
I looked her, meeting her eyes;
"Whatever for? Seems to me you've done more for me than the other way round."
"Well, you've gone out your way to make it a good time for me; I'm really enjoying this."
I took her hand.
"You can't be enjoying it more than I am."
She smiled, and squeezed my hand.
The descent from the summit, the 'short' route is maybe one and a half miles ... horizontally; but it's very steep and in places the footing is, frankly, frightening for me, however often I walk it. And, of course, walking downhill is nearly as hard as going up. There's a small tarn called Low Water below the summit, then the remains of buildings and equipment from the redundant slate works. It's a harsh, hard bit of country until, quite suddenly near the bottom, you're walking among trees, above a fast stream, tumbling over its rocky bed. The path passes a farm or two and a (functioning) slate works, but then you come, oh, mirabilis visu, a pub that does really good beer and food. (The Black Bull, if I remember correctly)
It was late when, tired and footsore (at least, I was) we arrived back at the tent. At least we were well fed, and a little tipsy. I got my sleeping bag out of the car and raised an eyebrow at Anne.
"Not wanting to presume, am I zipping these together again?"
"I should hope so, Sam ... after the way you took advantage of me last night..."
I coughed. "Just a minute, run that by me again?"
She laughed, "just teasing. Of course I want you to zip them together. I want to fall asleep in your arms again."
And that is what we did. Fell asleep in one another's arms, that is; wearing pyjamas, this time. I woke briefly in the wee small hours, to find her holding my hand against her sweet breast inside her pyjama top. I squeezed it lightly and rubbed my thumb against her nipple, producing a happy sigh (I don't think she was awake) and dozed off again.
I don't think I was ever happier than Sunday morning, waking up with Anne in my arms. I felt complete ... though a little stiff. I just lay there, content, holding her. My hand was still inside her pyjamas, though it had slipped a little; I recaptured her breast, stroked it, caressed her side. She hummed, and snuggled closer. Eventually, of course, we had to move ... certain physiological pressures forced a separation; and having relieved those pressures, we had some breakfast.
"You know," she said thoughtfully, having swallowed a mouthful of bacon sandwich, "as it's Easter ... Happy Easter, by the way! I think I'd like to go to church."
"Um," I said, brilliantly. Church was, at that point, about the furthest thing from my mind. "What about clothes? I haven't a thing to wear suitable for church."
"No problem. There's a sign outside the church saying 'come as you are' — they don't expect people on holiday to dress up."
So, after a shower, we went to church. It was at once familiar and foreign. The words (most of which went right past me without making any impression) had changed enough that I noticed in the ten or so years since I last entered a church. But mainly I just went with the flow. Easter hymns, familiar enough. I thought about Anne. What should I do? The last time I got serious about someone, they shot me down. This was different, surely? I was sure of my feelings, yes, and she seemed just as keen on me. I really didn't want to lose this one...
The service ended, eventually, and after a cup of coffee in one of the local tea-rooms, we strolled back to the tent.
"Lunch, then sailing?" I looked at Anne, who nodded. I was aware of a tension between us for the first time. Hey, I'm male, we possessors of the Y chromosome can't help being less sensitive ... we do our best. "You OK?" She nodded again, and I left it there.
We were on the water before two o'clock. The breeze had freshened to a solid force four from the south, sometimes gusting to five. The Kestrel was on the plane as soon as we clear of the shore; we made a few boards (tacks) across the lake, progressing slowly to the south; the sailing was the thing, not trying to get somewhere. Sailing with Anne was wonderful. She knew exactly what to do; as crew, she kept the boat balanced and the foresail set just right, as helm she knew just how to get the best out of the boat while I did my best to emulate her performance as crew. Much of the time, our bodies were horizontal, parallel to the water keeping the boat upright. Each tack, we kept her moving perfectly, losing no momentum. It was so satisfying.
After an hour of that my stomach muscles were protesting from the abuse. I looked at Anne;
"I need a rest," I said, "how about a coffee at the Bluebird Café?"
"Sounds good," she said.
That meant a run up the lake, so raising the centre-plate, we turned. Anne, at the helm, didn't keep us at a 'dead run' (directly down wind) but at an angle to the wind; that meant we moved faster ... a lot faster. Had I been helming, I'd have taken the easy way; she had to keep gybing. It did mean we got there a lot quicker, though, as we were planing much of the way. When we got to the public launch site, we rounded up to drop the mainsail and reached in using only the genoa foresail. I was impressed. We touched the shore with barely a crunch, and pulled her up a little way.
The Bluebird Café is named after the vehicles used by Malcolm and Donald Campbell in their record-breaking attempts; the last, a jet-powered boat, flipped during an attempt on the world water speed record, on Coniston Water, and Donald was killed. The wreck was recovered quite recently, some years after the accident. The café is filled with pictures, photos and other memorabilia of the accident and the family. Anne got quite animated as we looked at, and discussed them over coffee and cake.
When we got back to the Kestrel, I took the helm and we carried on up the lake; I pointed out Bank Ground Farm, on the East Shore (Holly Howe in Swallows and Amazons) and was a little surprised she didn't know about it. We saw Gondola, the steam launch, restored some years ago, that plies the lake under the care of the National Trust, before turning back to beat back down the lake to the camp site. It was a hard beat to windward with the breeze now a fairly steady force five, and it was getting gloomy as we reached in to the landing for the site.
I had in mind a leisurely journey home the next day, so we got the Kestrel onto her launching trolley and out of the water before returning to the tent.
Anne seemed very pensive again, but when I asked her if she was OK, merely smiled (I thought it was a little forced, but how would I know?) and nodded.
Supper was stew, potatoes and vegetables out of tins, heated on the camp stove, washed down with the bottle of wine unopened after our first evening.
We slept together, cuddling again; but I woke in the wee small hours, in the dark, to feel a wet patch on my shoulder from her tears. I'm sure she was asleep, and, wondering, I too slept again.
In the morning, over breakfast, I asked her again, if something was the matter.
She shook her head; "I'm sorry, but I can't talk about it."
Rightly or wrongly, I let it be and didn't push any more.
It takes ages to pack the Kestrel up; the mast has to be lowered, the rigging removed and coiled; the sails folded or rolled as appropriate, and all the loose bits secured so they don't bounce around and damage anything. Then we had the tent to deal with, which was much easier, but it was nearly mid day when we finally left the site, so we stopped at the first place we saw offering meals, for lunch. Stops at intervals for a snack, and tea, meant it was evening when we arrived back in Sheffield.
"Come back to mine?" I asked, hopefully.
She shook her head. "Sorry; but, see you tomorrow?".
I drove home reflecting on the sudden gaping emptiness in my life.