What Do You Do?
Chapter 1

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Reluctant, Heterosexual, Tear Jerker, Paranormal, First, Slow,

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - What do you do when your partner can't have intercourse with you any more? Bill's wife Susan has her own solution to their problem; how does he handle it? A motorbike, a 2CV and three lovely women.


What do you do (I speak generally, here) when your partner in life, the person you've loved for thirty-five years (or however long it is) loses interest in sex ... and you don't? I don't mean, you fall out of love, or begin to hate the person, or even that they don't want any intimacy. Let's get down to specifics, here. We'd been married over thirty years. I still thought Susan was possibly (if not definitely) the most beautiful person I knew. She was still in good shape; a bit of sag, stretch marks from two pregnancies, a few grey hairs, nice legs, lovely eyes. It was her eyes I noticed first when we met. No, seriously. I mean, she was so covered up with shapeless ... stuff, you could hardly have told that she had a figure at all, but those eyes, sapphire blue, but warm, not cold and hard like a jewel. Then, I noticed her face – oval; what they call a 'generous' mouth, some laughter-lines, neat ears, wavy auburn hair. It was only when I picked her up for our first date that I realised she was, as the saying is, 'built like a brick shithouse'. I've never understood how that expression came about, but, wow, what a bod.

Anyway, we dated for a few months before we got hitched, and got started on owning our own house before starting a family. Two lovely daughters, Tamara and Phoebe, the image of their mother. They say daughters are God's judgement on their fathers for being men, that fathers go through trauma expecting their daughters to meet someone ... like you were at that age. Well, I can't say I didn't worry, but, though I had no doubt of the passionate nature of my offspring, they were at least careful, of themselves and who they dated. They found two decent, hard-working men and married, in due course making us grandparents, very, very happy and proud grandparents. I anticipated a long, happy and satisfying retirement.

It took me some time to realise Susan had lost interest in sex. She'd had various problems around 'the Change' and I didn't press her, but when one day I realised we hadn't made love for months – that I couldn't remember the last time we'd had intercourse – that I'd been masturbating regularly (and with less than great satisfaction) I felt I had to tackle the issue. I wasn't ready for celibacy ... not at all, no way.

We went for a walk through the park one evening. There were few enough people around I could broach the ... sensitive ... issue. I was absolutely horrified when she broke down completely and wept as if the world was ending ... We found a bench by one of the ponds. It took some time before she calmed down.

"Hush sweetheart. You know I love you, okay?" That was not the right thing to say; it just started her crying again. However, eventually,

"I'm sorry, Bill ... I ought to have said something before, but ... It hurts too much, Bill. I can't take you inside me ... you know I started using lubricants when we made love, right? Well, even with those, it hurt too much. The doctor was no help..."

"Okay, sweetheart, it's okay. We can still cuddle and stuff, right?"

"Bill, intercourse hurts physically. Not being able to ... proceed ... when you touch me ... it hurts me here," she pressed her hand against her chest. I held her close as she sobbed.

We walked, hand in hand, along the path, listening to the wind in the trees. I think that is one of the loveliest, most calming and serene sounds in the world.

Two days later, I was spending the day at church with some friends. There was food and a couple of longish committee meetings, a drink or two. I managed to forget what Susan had said, for an hour or so, anyway.

I arrived home and breezed into the kitchen. "I'm home!" Have you ever walked into a house and just known there's no-one there? The house felt empty. The sort of feeling that says that it's not just that there's no-one there, but ... something more.

I looked in the lobby, the sitting-room ... went upstairs, the master bedroom and guest-room, the bathroom. Puzzled, I checked the garage (though why I thought she might be there, I don't know). Returning to the kitchen, I eventually noticed a card propped against a tea-pot on the middle of the table.

Dear Bill,

I'm truly sorry I'm taking this coward's way out. I cannot bear to stay with you, knowing I can no longer give or receive that ultimate pleasure. I cannot bear to think that you are deprived of the ... outlet you need. The cowardice is on not being able to tell you this to your face, running away while you're out for the day. I truly believe it is for the best that we separate and leave you free to find someone with whom you can have a whole relationship. Bill, you've been everything a husband should be, honest, loyal, hard-working and faithful; a wonderful, loving husband, and father. I count myself very lucky to have had you to myself for thirty-five years. Please, Bill, accept this gift which is all I have left to offer. I've talked to the girls, and they know and understand what I'm doing and why. I will keep in touch with them, but for now, please don't try to contact me or persuade me differently. Bill, it would hurt too much to hear your voice again. Perhaps in time I could bear to meet you, talk to you, be your friend. I just can't be your wife anymore.

I am, as always, your loving


I slumped at the table, rested my head on my arms, and wept.

They say there is no time in eternity; not that it lasts for ever, but there's no time at all – that time has no meaning. So, perhaps it was an eternity that I wept; I have no idea how long it was. But someone came in, a warm arm wrapped around my shoulder.

"Come on, Dad. I know it's a shock. If she'd told you what she intended,, you'd have talked her out of it, I know. She knew it, that's why she did it this way. I've brought something for your supper, but you can come home with me if you like." It was Tamara, the older of our two daughters.

I shook my head. This was home and this was my only link with Susan. I later found she'd removed nearly everything thing that was specifically hers – nothing that was 'ours', but she'd left a few photos – one of her just after we married, one of us with a cup for winning a dinghy race, several with the girls at various ages.

Tamara got me to sit in the front room; she put on a CD of 'Orfeo and Euridice' – didn't she know what that would do to me? 'What is life without Euridice'? What was life without Susan? She put a generous glass of neat single-malt in my hand. One sip told me it was some of my cask-strength Glen Grant – fifty six percent alcohol. I never, but never, drank that much Glen Grant in one sitting, but that is what I did that evening. Tammy got me to eat, steered me upstairs and got me undressed, washed and toileted like some poor old thing; tucked me in and sat holding my hand until I faded out.

She was in the kitchen when I went downstairs in the morning, having slept in the guest-room. She made coffee and put muesli in front of me. While I was eating, Phoebe came in, embraced her sister and came and kissed my cheek.

"Off you go to your family, Tams," she said, hugging me. "See you tonight."

"Okay, Fee. See you later."

I finished the cereal and sipped my coffee.

"Fifteen minutes, Dad."


"You've got fifteen minutes to go to the toilet, dress for walking, get hiking boots on and be out of the door, so we can catch the bus to Fox House."

My resistance was low enough that I did, in fact, obey orders and we were at the bus-stop with five minutes to spare. We spent a pleasant day in Derbyshire, walking down Padley Gorge, having a hikers' meal in the Station Café, walking to Padley Chapel, and walking back up. The girls – well, all of us, really, loved the little abandoned millstone quarry at the top of the gorge and Phoebe steered me in there. We perched on a stone, her arm round me, holding my head to her breast as I wept some more. She – both girls – were so much like my Susan it was painful.

We ate sandwiches for tea – Phoebe baked some buns – and we sat, Phoebe with Earl Grey tea – me, without the option, sipping some more of my precious Glen Grant. She chose Grieg's A minor piano concerto ... another favourite, of course. Tamara arrived and 'relieved' Phoebe when the concerto finished; she found the Elgar cello concerto and put that on, holding me as, once again I wept, swept along emotionally by the music. When it finished, she held my head and turned my face to hers, and kissed me; not as a daughter, but as a lover. I could believe I was holding my wife – I did say they were much alike – as she placed my hand on the swell of her breast, but I pulled away.

"No, Tammy, please. Don't do this to me. Don't do it to David."

"David knows, understands, agrees. I want to do this, Daddy."

"No, Tammy, please."

She slumped. "Okay, Daddy. I'm sorry. I really did want to help you. So does Fee, you know. Haven't you noticed how much like you David and Steve are?"

That got me. I'm told many daughters have an Electra complex – a desire for their father - but it had never occurred to me my daughters were among them.

"Tammy, please, as you love me, don't push me on this ... and ask Fee, too."

She nodded, and embraced me – a loving, caring, daughter's embrace.

The pattern went on like that for almost a fortnight, then one day Tamara produced another shock.

"Daddy, I don't think you should be on your own in the house, but obviously, Fee and I can't continue to neglect our families to the extent we have been doing. There are hundreds of students who would be glad of a comfortable place to live while studying and would be willing to do some housework and keep you company in lieu of rent. As it happens, we know someone who desperately needs somewhere. I think you'll like her. She'll be here mid-morning for interview."

Well, there was a thing. Just what I needed ... a young, nubile woman in skimpy clothes sharing my house. Mind you ... not all students these days are young – or nubile, for that matter, and perhaps she'd dress conservatively to respect my feelings ... Perhaps she'd actually be older? I relaxed a little. My girls loved me, after all. I forgot Tammy's attempted seduction.

The door-bell sounded and Tammy answered it; ushering the visitor through into the room with me; I stood as she came in ... and managed to stifle a gasp. She was tiny, very blonde, the hair cropped short, slim, but clearly with curves in the right places. Wearing a miniskirt that might have made a useful pelmet for a very small window. A pointed face – the word 'pixie' came immediately to mind.

"Dad, this is Jasmine Gracie. Jazz, meet my father, William Wilkins."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilkins."

"My pleasure, Miss Gracie."

"Please, call me Jazz – or Jasmine."

"Okay, Jasmine, in that case, I'm Bill. Won't you sit? I suspect Tammy has drinks already organised, right, Tammy?"

"Of course, Daddy. Black coffee?"

"Yes, please, dear."


"The same, please."

As Tammy went to sort out beverages for the three of us, I looked Jasmine over. It was not a hardship, not at all. But how could I live here – it's a small house – in close proximity to this very attractive and desirable young woman?

"Would you like to tell me about yourself, Jasmine? In particular, why you're willing to live with a man – I'm guessing – old enough to be your grandfather, let alone your father?"

"Well, Bill ... my father is a controlling sort. He wanted me to study economics in London, near home. I wanted to study English and be a teacher, and I wanted to escape and have a life. When I refused to do what he wanted, he refused to support me. I've been living with a friend, but she can't afford to keep me and I don't want to build up an enormous debt or damage my ability to study by working all hours. Carol introduced me to Tammy, who suggested you might be the answer."

"I'm guessing you've left a bit out of that."
"Yes, but ... there's things I'm not happy to talk about."


"Well, how're you two getting on?" Tamara reappeared with a tray.

"Apart from a strong feeling you're manipulating me ... very well. Jazz, if you really want to live here, you're welcome to the guest room. I'd suggest we talk again in a month to see how we both feel and if one of us isn't comfortable, then it'll be goodbye. Is that okay?"

"When can I move in?"

"Whenever you like. Do you need any help?"

"That's okay, thanks. Carol's boyfriend has a car and will be only too pleased to have me out of the way..."

What could I say? I could hardly say straight out that any young man must be odd not to want Jasmine around, even if that's what I thought. Perhaps he just got embarrassed?

"I'll give you a key; but I'll be around anyway, I don't go out much. Tomorrow, if you like."


Tamara bent and gave me a kiss and an approving smile.

We sat and finished our drinks, Jasmine and I chatting inconsequently – she liked a wide range of music including classical – a plus. She drank black coffee and commented favourably on my favourite beans – also a plus. No big dislikes in the food line and could cook if I would like her to sometimes; excellent. No, she didn't stay up late, a point of contention with her friend Carol. I liked this girl.

She and Tammy left ... oh, I suppose just after nine; I had a nightcap and took myself off to bed. What would you do? Well, I masturbated ... and the images in my mind were of a five-foot, petite, curvy blonde pixie. I dropped off, despite feelings of guilt.

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