Jim and Petra
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, First, Slow,
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - This is the conclusion of the story of the relationship between Jim, the Son of Martha, and Petra, the young woman who loved him and drew him out of 'nerd-dom'
What do you do when the bottom drops out of your world? Do you fall, and keep on falling? Conjure a sky-hook out of nowhere? Commit suicide before you hit bottom?
Okay, let's not push the analogy too far.
I had been sure I was in love with Petra, but when she was immobilised in plaster-of-Paris following a serious accident, she encouraged me to date other girls. In fact, pushed me at a friend of hers, Susheela. She knew, I didn't, that Su had a form of Leukaemia. While it was in remission when I started dating her, it was possible. Which it did, about the time we graduated. I was with her as she fought and lost, the battle to live. When she died I dreamt she'd come to me to say goodbye. Su and I, in the few months we had together, formed an intense physical, emotional and spiritual connection. Her parents, and mine, colluded, without telling me why, to enable us — really to enable Su — to have the opportunity to experience some of the life and joy which her condition was likely to steal from her. And we did, indeed, know joy. But the cost ... oh, the cost. Someone once said that you can have life as a monochrome, with neither the heights of joy, nor the depths of pain, or you can use a prism and break it into a rainbow; but the price of knowing the heights of joy, is also knowing the depths of pain. The price of the intense, incredible pleasure I knew with Su, was having part of my soul ripped out when she left me to go where-ever beautiful spirits go after this life. I was quite certain Su was somewhere better than here, but I was still here and healthy. I was still alive, but the centre and focus of my life was gone.
I didn't consciously blame Petra. It happened because she wanted to make sure she didn't trap me into a false relationship with her. I wouldn't have had any sort of relationship without her, either, at least for quite a few years; it was Petra that pulled me out of my shell and gave me social functioning lessons. We remained friends during my relationship with Su. I noticed that boyfriends didn't last long with her, except my friend Steve, and I didn't realise that Steve knew he was just, well, not exactly a stop-gap, but ... he never expected to have a long-term relationship with Petra. He benefited from having an attractive, intelligent and congenial companion and, like me, was helped to learn how to function socially.
When Su ... died, Petra was there. When we returned to Uni for our post-grad courses, she was there; but I couldn't just go back to the way we were before Su.
I'd had a few weeks at my placement; that occupied me so I didn't brood. I didn't really examine my feelings at all. I got up, had breakfast, went to work, learned what I was expected to know and do, went home, studied ... and fell into bed. Alone. I found that the later I went to bed, the quicker I went to sleep, but I always woke early. From at least eight hours a night, I was now existing on maybe four. The work was no problem; it was sort of compartmentalised.
When Petra was hurt and I was apparently single, I got hit on by girls who a few months previously wouldn't have given me the time of day. That petered out when they eventually accepted that Su and I were an item. It started again when I turned up without Su, but I didn't really notice; much later Petra told me about it; I was living on autopilot.
From time to time Mum or Dad would ask why they didn't see Petra any more. I had a couple of visits from Su's mother, who told me Su would be distressed to see me so lost. None of it made much of an impact.
February came round, and the anniversary of our outing to London. It was about six months after Su's death. I'm told six months is about the average time for the numbness to wear off after a bereavement. That makes sense to me now. All I know is, one year after the night Su and I spent the whole night together for the first time, I remembered that night in crystal-clear detail, and I wept for my loss. I couldn't stop for several hours. I managed to focus for lectures and seminars, for time spent at the company, but almost as soon as I got home, I'd start again. My parents rang Petra, who came and held me while I soaked her blouse with my tears. I couldn't hold her at arm's length; I had neither the strength nor the will to push her away.
She'd made plans and organised things, again. One Sunday morning, she rolled up in the Morris, but parked it. Dad was in on it; he drove the two of us into town, to Carver Street and stopped outside a church. The stonework of the building was black with years of atmospheric pollution. She used command voice to get me out of the car and up the steps into the church.
I don't go to church. We used to go as a family to a Methodist church; I don't know why Mum and Dad stopped going, but when they didn't take me, I didn't see any point in going on my own. I certainly wouldn't have gone to a church like St. Matthew's. There were statues all over the place, and racks for candles in front of the statues. There was a large crucifix hanging in front of the sanctuary and candles on the altar. There was a robed choir, and the priest wore an embroidered garment like a sort of poncho. There was another guy in a white robe swinging ... I'd call it a censer, but I'm told it's properly called a thurible. Whatever, there were clouds of smelly smoke coming out of it. I didn't know any of the hymns, and the words made no sense at all. The sermon had quite a lot about the Virgin Mary in it.
Despite all that, for the first time in months, I was aware of peace. Let me tell you, those pews are uncomfortable. I believe they were deliberately made that way to stop the congregation nodding off during the sermon ... but the combination of the feeling of peace and months of sleep deprivation meant that I wasn't entirely conscious for most of the service. I was aware when Petra went up to the communion rail, because a little of the feeling of peace left with her.
The service came to an end and the choir, priest and assistants filed out. After a few minutes, so did the congregation. I was in no particular hurry to go; I was enjoying feeling almost human. Various people emerged from the vestry to follow the congregation through a side door. I later found out they were going for coffee after the service; but then the Vicar emerged, still in a cassock but without the poncho affair, just a sort of scarf round his neck. He came right over to us, and slid into the pew next to me.
"One of our congregation who knows Petra asked if I would pray for you. May I? I don't really know anything about you except that you've been deeply distressed, but God knows all your trouble."
I didn't see much point in it, but on the other hand, what did I have to lose? I nodded.
He rested one hand lightly on my shoulder and began to speak quietly. I couldn't make out what he was saying, and after a few moments I didn't care. First I was aware of a feeling of heat radiating from my shoulder and gradually reaching every part of me. I felt as if I was a small child, sitting in an adult's lap, with strong arms folded around me. The sense of peace I felt when I entered the church was intensified. I drifted, revelling in the sense of tranquillity. I was in a bright place; there were others there, but only one meant anything to me ... Susheela, wearing that smile, the one that would light any room, which warmed my heart. She laid a hand on my chest, and something snapped inside me. Her lips touched mine ... and she was gone.
I slowly returned to consciousness. I was leaning against Petra and her arms were round me ... but, oh, my word, that pew was uncomfortable. I looked at her.
She smiled slightly. "There's someone I want you to meet," she said and led me through the side door.
She indicated a youngish couple — thirties, I guess, not far away from us. Approaching them, she introduced us. "Charles, I'd like you to meet my friend Jim Price, who fixed my Morris for me. Jim, this is Charles Newton and his wife Natalie. Charles has a Model 18 Norton and Natalie rides a Matchless G2S."
"How d'you do, Jim," he said. "I've seen you at rallies, I think, with Petra and that Morris."
"Pleased to meet you, Charles. I've noticed the Norton, but I'm afraid I'm not good at noticing people. But to answer your polite inquiry, I think I'm 'doing' better than when I arrived."
"Ah, Father Henry, I suppose. Remarkable chap, isn't he, Browneyes?"
"Now, Chas," she smiled. "I think Jim will be more interested in your history than mine."
"Yes, perhaps. Jim, six years ago, my wife died; a sort of cancer related to a miscarriage. I couldn't form a real relationship until I met Natalie. Somehow, she released whatever was blocking my emotions. After we married, when she became pregnant I was terrified I'd lose her in the same way as Laura. But Father Henry prayed for us, and not only was everything okay, but I wasn't nearly as scared; just ... normally scared."
"I'm not usually a church-goer," I commented.
"Neither was I," laughed Charles, looking fondly at his wife. "It's been good meeting you, Jim. Perhaps we'll meet again ... here, or at a rally. We need to get back to the twins, I'm afraid. My parents are baby-sitting and I'm sure they'll be okay, but ... Goodbye, Petra, Jim."
"If we leave now," Petra told me, "we should be home by one. Your Mum's expecting us home for lunch. I'm not turning down your mother's cooking!"
"I should say not," I said, "and, Petra ... thanks."