Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Tear Jerker, Slow,
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Amy has been rejected by her parents, dumped by her boyfriend, and lost her job. What will she do?
My name's Barry Conway. I was christened Brian Andrew, but I never liked Brian. I'm sixty-five years old, but I retired several years ago. My wife and I were going to sail round the world, visiting all the exciting places we'd read about through the years. We'd been sailing together every holiday in a succession of small sailing yachts for most of our forty year marriage, promising ourselves that 'voyage of a lifetime' when I retired. We bought a larger, better equipped boat, a ketch, learned its ways and made sure everything was absolutely in tip-top condition. We put off leaving when she started feeling a bit unwell, thinking it was flu, maybe, but she didn't get better ... our G.P. did all the usual tests and took some blood samples; a week later, he told us he was referring Lucy to the hospital in Ipswich. We didn't realise that the doctor she was to see was an oncologist, but we did worry when the appointment came through within a fortnight.
Possibly the one mercy of cancer is that you know your time is limited. We had six months, in which she said goodbye to our friends. We'd never had children of our own, but we had three 'sons' that we'd fostered over the years and they treated us like their real parents, presented their fiancées, and later their children. They made sure they saw us a lot. We visited our favourite places ... but not by boat. We drove up the East side of England, staying in bed-and-breakfasts, stopping at Lindisfarne, and Berwick, into Scotland, we spent a few days in Edinburgh, watched salmon leap near Pitlochry, before calling on Inverness, then driving down the Great Glen. We'd never visited Iona, or Skye, so we did. We walked by the banks of Loch Lomond. Continuing down the West, we spent a couple of weeks in Cumbria, and another couple in Wales.
Despite taking things easily, and taking breaks every time Lucy needed treatment, she got very tired, and we had to stop before we got to the West Country. She died in the Autumn, as the leaves fell, and the year drew to a close. It was like having a part of me cut out. I was numb for months, and I hurt for months more, but eventually I got used to it. Our friends, and the 'boys' and their families kept an eye on me. I realised how run down I'd got, physically, and I started getting out and walking around the town. Felixstowe isn't a large town, but it's got most things you could need, and I could walk from our, I mean my, house to the town centre in half an hour, or I could walk along the seafront to Landguard and back, taking it easily and stopping in tea rooms at intervals, in a day. In the other direction I could walk to Felixstowe Ferry for lunch in the Ferry Café, taking about an hour each way. If the weather was bad, there was the library; oh, yes, there were things to do, and I made myself do them.
I had various places I liked to sit and look at the sea. The sound of the waves breaking, or lapping on the beach is calming, or even soporific. Felixstowe beach, though, is stony. Like a number of other east-coast beaches, it is shingle and it is rare to see any sand; the sound is different because the waves churn the pebbles against each other.
It was one day in Spring, about eighteen months after Lucy died, that I met Mandy. I was sitting on the prom, watching the waves and the big ships entering and leaving Harwich Haven. I saw her, walking along the prom. Sometimes, you can sense a person's aura, especially if they're feeling strong emotions. I thought she had a small black cloud over her head. She radiated sadness. I've always been a sucker for unhappy women, and besides, you know the saying, 'misery loves company'.
Visual impressions were not good. Clearly overweight, with baggy, mismatched clothes; her face puffy, dark shadows under her eyes, lank, stringy hair. Yet something in me wanted to reach out to her. What kind of a fool am I? She was clearly young; late teens, early twenties maybe. I was at least forty years older, and, as I say, she wasn't particularly prepossessing.
As she came up to me, she spoke; "mind if I sit here?"
"Not at all ... help yourself. At a loose end?"
"You could say so..." and burst into tears.
I just sat there trying to radiate sympathy for a few minutes, thinking. Having come to a decision, I stood. "I'll be back in few minutes," I said, and walked a few yards to an ice-cream kiosk, one of several at intervals along the Felixstowe prom. I bought two '99' cones and walking back to the bench, held one out to her.
"What?" she squeaked, looking at it.
"Rules of the country," I said. "No-one is allowed to sit on Felixstowe prom without eating an ice-cream. Even if it's blowing a blizzard and the temperature is below freezing."
She looked at me, almost as though I'd grown an extra head, and an expression that might have been the beginning of a smile crossed her face as she slowly reached out and took it.
We sat and licked our ices, and watched the morning 'Cat' (a high-speed ferry) heading out towards Holland from Harwich.
"Do you sit here a lot?" She asked, looking at me.
"Oh, at least once, most weeks. I like to listen to the waves on the shingle."
"So do I," she responded, and sighed.
After a few more minutes, I stood. "I need to be on my way," I said. Actually, I needed to think. "It's been nice meeting you."
"Has it, really?" she asked, "I've enjoyed meeting you."
I set off to the North along the prom. Fish and chips for lunch seemed like a good idea, and I had quite a long walk ahead of me to the Ferry Café.
The next day found me back at the same bench. That was unusual; I rarely did the same thing two days running. Besides, it wasn't a particularly pleasant day to be sitting; it was cloudy with a biting wind and rain threatening. To say it was almost June, you'd think it was November. I hadn't been there long when she appeared.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asked again.
"Not at all," I replied, looking at her. She'd obviously taken some pains over her appearance; her hair was washed and brushed, her clothes, while still not particularly flattering, at least appeared to match. "You're looking a little better today."
"Thanks, I'm feeling better."
"We didn't introduce ourselves yesterday ... My name's Barry."
"How do you do? I'm Man ... Amanda." She added, "people call me Mandy".
"I'm pleased to meet you, Amanda. That's a lovely name ... do you know what it means?"
"I don't understand."
"Well, we British are a cultural mixture. Names originally meant something, but because of all the different languages different invaders and immigrants have brought to this country, we've lost track of the original meanings. Some still make sense, like Charity, but most are just sounds. Amanda is derived from Latin, and means 'Lovable'"
She snorted, "not really?"
I looked at her, seriously, "really, that's what it means."
"What about your name?"
"Mine? Properly, I'm Brian, and the origins of Brian are uncertain, but the diminutive, Barry, is Irish Gaelic, and means 'spear'"
"Wow! I never really thought about it, it was just what I was called. I don't think I'm lovable, though."
"Do you not? That's a pity. Tell you what, though, it's a bit nippy here like this. Will you walk with me and I'll buy you a coffee?"
She didn't answer immediately, but I noticed her glance drop to my left hand, which still bore the broad gold band Lucy put on my ring finger when we were married. I could never bring myself to take it off, as though that would have been cutting off one of the last links to the woman I loved for all those years.
She looked up again and met my eyes, "OK, I'd like that."
We walked about quarter of a mile to a tea-room at the bottom of South Hill, where I got a large mug of decent coffee, and a pot of tea for Amanda; as an afterthought, I added a couple of scones.
"Why are you being kind to me?"
I sipped my coffee, and buttered my scone (rather more generously than I should, really, but what the hell), trying to think of the right thing to say.
"Well ... I like being kind, and I thought you looked like someone who needed some kindness."
"You got that right."
"You want to tell me about it?"
"Maybe. Are you married?"
"Was, I'm a widower. Lucy ... died eighteen months ago."
"Oh, I'm sorry..." everything; expression, posture, tone of voice, was genuinely sympathetic. I'd been drawn to her ... I was beginning to like her.
"So, you want to tell me? Or just sit and enjoy the tea? I don't mind."
"I'll give you the short form. One day ... I may tell you the rest, if you want me to."
I nodded, and met her eyes.
"My parents didn't like my boyfriend. I refused to give him up; they kicked me out. Once he had sex with me, he got bored and dumped me. I didn't think I could go home, so I got a job in a shop and found a flat I could afford; bed-sit, really. Then everything went tits up, the shop went bust, and I was out of a job. I can't really afford the flat, can't get a job, I'm comfort-eating; and, well, just look at me. I'm behind with the rent and my landlady's getting cranky."
I didn't say anything immediately, concentrating on looking sympathetic. I thought I could see solutions to some, if not all, of her problems, but I didn't think it was a good idea to hand them to her 'on a plate' as it were.
"Have you any qualifications at all?"
"I've got eight G.C.S.E.s, but I left school before taking 'A' levels."
(For the benefit of those who haven't the joy of understanding the English educational system, the General Certificate of Secondary Education is the examination usually taken at fifteen to sixteen years of age, leading to admission to the Advanced Level courses, taken usually at eighteen, qualifying for admission to higher education, like University)
"Can I offer some advice?"
"The library has free internet access. See what you can find out about getting back into a sixth-form college, or somewhere you can get some 'A' levels. Look on the Direct Gov website, see about grants and assistance; you could try the Job-Centre as well. Can you walk? I mean, can you walk, say, three miles without getting blisters, then three miles back?"
"Well, I suppose so..."
"Tomorrow, meet me at Great Eastern Square ... say, ten o'clock, with whatever you've found out. OK?"
We chatted, then, about inconsequentials until we'd finished our snack, and then went our separate ways. I thought I detected a little more energy and bounce in the way she moved...
I had my own research to do.
When the morning came round, I actually caught a bus to Hamilton Road, getting off at Great Eastern Square. I was early, so I walked a little way up the road; there are some really good charity shops on Hamilton Road, and I love rummaging through the bookshelves. When I got back to the rendezvous, I was a minute or two early, but Amanda had beaten me to it; she was carrying a card document wallet.
"Hey, Amanda! Hope you haven't been waiting long."
Her face bore traces of several emotions; anxiety, hope, excitement, and, I think, embarrassment — she was blushing a little.
"I was early," she said.
"Coffee," I said, pointing to the café.
She was, indeed, excited. She could start at a local sixth-form college, or Ipswich College, in September, she could claim various types of financial assistance. But then her face fell somewhat.
"I can't manage on the money," she commented, despondently.
"OK, you've done a good job," I praised her — she smiled - "but now, we're going for a walk — at least, when we've finished our snack."
It was about a four mile walk to Felixstowe Ferry from Hamilton Road. When we got to the end of the built-up area, we took a footpath through the golf course. I rummaged in my back-pack and produced a couple of pairs of compact binoculars. The foot path runs through an SSSI; a 'Site of Special Scientific Interest', and during the late spring and summer there's plenty to see (if you like nature). Sure enough, we hadn't got far before I pointed out a small, brown bird trilling away in a nearby bush.
"Whitethroat," I said, pointing it out and using my binoculars.
She was obviously not accustomed to using binoculars, and by the time I'd explained how to adjust them, the bird had flown.
"It was a pretty song, though," she said.
In the course of half a mile or so, we saw another whitethroat, two reed buntings, and a sedge warbler and heard several more birds in the reeds.
As we walked along the sea defences, we could see the river and the usual expanse of mud covered with feeding waders.
"I never bothered before."
"What's that?" I asked, looking at her.
"I never bothered to look at the creatures that made all the noise outside my bedroom window. Looking at the differences — how a whitethroat is different from a reed bunting, how to tell a black-headed gull from a herring gull ... that sort of thing. I thought it was boring."
We continued to walk in silence to the café.
While waiting for our orders, Amanda had another cup of tea while sipped a second coffee.
"It seems to me that you're facing several distinct problems," I began.
"Tell me about it!" But she smiled as she said it.
"The first one being that you felt helpless and useless," I said.
She opened her mouth to speak, but shut it and looked thoughtful.
"I think that's changing already, isn't it?"
After a pause, she nodded. "Yes; I feel a lot better already."
"That was affecting your ability to get a job, and not having a job made it difficult for you to respect yourself." I paused. "You could probably get a job now, but it's unlikely to be one where you'd have a hope of improving your life, unless you got seriously stuck into part-time education. Another problem is accommodation; you're going to be struggling for money as long as you have to pay commercial rates in rent. Another problem is family."
She winced; it was almost audible.
"There's a better than even chance your parents regret driving you away. If you went back to them, you'd have your family for emotional support and you'd have somewhere to live."
"I don't know what to say to them."
"How about... 'I'm sorry, you were right. Please forgive me.'" I said.
Her eyes dropped, but after a few moments she nodded.
"You're right," she said quietly.
"There's a chance they won't accept you back," I warned, "but in that case, you're better off without them. I've got something else in mind if that happens, OK?"
Our meals arrived. There're few better meals than fresh fish, only a few hours out of the sea, well cooked, with crisp chips ... When we'd finished...
"Will you come with me?"
"To see your parents?"
Obviously it wasn't going to be instantly. We had to walk back to Old Felixstowe to get a bus to Hamilton Road, then we walked to Walton where her parents lived. Walton is really just a continuation of Felixstowe; it wasn't a big deal. But when the door opened, I could see it wasn't going to be a good meeting. Her mother was a tight-faced woman; it looked as though she hadn't smiled in her life ... ever. Amanda trotted out her 'prodigal daughter' spiel ... her mother was not impressed.
"When you chose that ... person, you ceased to be our daughter. We don't want to see your face again." She looked at me, and her lip curled derisively. "Take up with sugar daddy here."
"Ma'am," I said quietly, "you need to be a little careful trotting out comments like that. I'm only interested in treating your daughter as a person who is worthy of care and respect. Which is why I suggested she come to see you." I looked her straight in the face, trying to convey my contempt for a parent who could reject their child so cavalierly. I looked at Amanda, who looked crushed, but met my eyes, and shrugged.
"Let's go," she said quietly, turned and walked away. I followed. We walked until we came to the church; she turned into the churchyard and when I followed, she turned to me, flung her arms around me, pressed her face against my chest and broke down into racking sobs. I just held her gently as she cried herself out.
"What do I do now?" she asked after a while.
"You could live with me," I said, "I've got a three-bedroom house, that I rattle around in. You're welcome to one of the spare rooms."
"And what would be my place in your home?" It was not an accusation, but a straight-forward question. I answered it in the same manner.
"You'd have a daughter's place in my home, " I replied, "I'd just require the respect and help I'd expect from a daughter; keep your room tidy, help with cleaning, maybe some cooking ... that sort of thing."
She thought for a moment; not long.
"OK, it's a deal."
We went to her bed-sit; she collected her things. She had no case; she stuffed everything into a couple of large black bin-bags. I called a taxi — it was not going to be much fun lugging those about — and we went back to my house.
I gave her the choice of two rooms; she went for the smaller of the two with a single bed. There was just enough room for a desk and a wardrobe.
Just like that, I acquired a daughter...