Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Tear Jerker, Slow, .
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Chrissie and Tom, the teenage couple from 'Amy, Terry, Tom... and others' have been separated for eight years but are brought together by the death of Chrissie's adoptive father, Dave Yeomans. Can they overcome their feelings of unworthiness to recapture their love?
Jenni Peters... Doctor Jennifer Peters, Ph.D. (mathematics) wrinkled her nose as she wiped her small son's bottom. "I hate using disposable nappies," she told him, perfectly aware he would not really understand what she was saying, "but on this occasion I'm glad I haven't got to deal with a terry one."
The child gurgled and said... 'Dada..."
"I timed that just right from the smell of it." Marty, her husband, was standing in the doorway when she turned to look.
"Oh, your timing is always impeccable," she commented. "Didn't I hear the phone?"
"You did," he said, his expression suddenly serious. "It was Jessica. She said could you go over."
"Now?" Jenni's expression too turned serious. "I hope Dave's okay..."
"She said not to break your neck but sooner would be better than later."
"Oh dear ... would you mind finishing Davie off? I'll go straight there."
"Oh ... she said 'take a pound coin'."
"Whatever... ?" Jenni shrugged and left. It being a mild spring day in early May, she just put on sandals and walked the short distance to Jessica and Dave Yeoman's home.
Jessica greeted her. Jenni thought she looked unhappy; distraught might be closer.
"Dave not too good?"
"Jenni ... I think ... he's going to die..." She turned away and Jenni followed her upstairs.
Dave Yeomans was propped up in bed, with an oxygen mask over his face. His breathing sounded dreadful, but his eyes lit up when he saw Jenni enter the room.
"Jenni, Precious, thank you for coming," he wheezed, removing the mask briefly.
"You know I'll always come," she said, "what's it about?"
"Have you got a pound?"
"Would you give it to me, please?"
"Yes," she handed the coin over, "but..."
He lifted his hand; it appeared to take considerable effort. He then fumbled for an envelope which he handed to her. "Open it," he said.
It contained a bill of sale, transferring ownership of 'the sailing ketch with auxiliary engine, "Eirene" in exchange for one pound sterling and 'other valuable considerations'.
"Dave ... Dad ... why..."
"I ... Jessica and I ... want you to have her. I won't be needing her, and Jessica doesn't want her if, when I ... leave. Perhaps you'll take Ally sailing sometimes."
"But..." Jenni found herself fighting down tears. After a minute or so she got her emotions under control. "What about these 'valuable considerations'?"
He smiled a little painfully. "Your love ... sweetheart; and the ... new life ... you gave ... me."
Jenni sat on the bed. It was an effort to not just flop, but lower herself and not joggle the bed. She took his hand. "Dad ... don't die..." That time her attempt to control her tears failed and they streamed down her face.
"Don't cry ... darling... " His eyes shut, though he was still gripping her hand. Gradually his grip slackened, but he was still breathing – steadily if noisily – and Jenni fetched an easy chair and placed it next to the bed so she could sit, hold her adoptive father's hand and watch his face in physical comfort. Inside, she was deeply sad. For almost twenty years he'd been her ... well firstly, her saviour, but then her counsellor, support, guide and mentor. He'd loved her and encouraged her. Knowing him, she'd colluded with her advocate, Jessica Barnett. The two had proved to be soul-mates and Jenni had loved Dave (and, indeed, Jessica) enough that she'd suppressed her own desire to have him for herself; she'd sung at their wedding and known joy in their happiness.
Dave would have said Jenni was what she was by her own determination, grit, personality and gifts. Jenni was sure that without Dave she would have achieved little or nothing.
She sat there for some time; when he started coughing, she held him and gave him sips of water and when he drifted off to sleep again, she just held his hand.
It was getting on for midnight when Jessica entered the room.
"Thanks, Jenni, love. I don't like to leave him alone."
"He doesn't need to be alone, Jess, I'll have a word with Marty ... perhaps give Beth or Amy a call ... and I'll sit with him by turns with you, if you like." Her eyes prickled and she knew without looking that Jessica's eyes were bright with tears too.
When Jenni got home, she looked in first on her little boy who was sleeping; he'd kicked his little duvet off and she covered him again before going to her bedroom.
Marty was still awake; sitting up in bed reading Joshua Slocum's book. He looked up as she came in.
"Not so good, Jen?"
"I'm scared, Marty. Jessica thinks he's going to die. I've never seen him so ... reduced."
"Best get some sleep, sweetheart. You'll be wanting to sit with him, I'm sure. I'll call Beth. She'll certainly look after Davie while I'm working."
Beth Robinson was more than happy to take Davie in; her own daughter, Callista, at eleven, loved small children and would immediately shift into 'mother' mode.
So for a couple of days, Jessica and Jenni sat in turn with their loved one; holding his hand, feeding him sips of water or juice, inhalers and medicine. As it happened, Jessica was just about to take over the vigil from Jenni when his breathing altered to a pattern called 'Cheyne-Stokes' breathing; becoming shallower and shallower, stopping altogether for several seconds then starting again. They looked at each other and neither left.
He stopped breathing altogether half an hour later. At least, they would tell each other later, he hadn't been alone.
Formalities, procedures, necessary actions, got them through the next days, as they contacted friends and family with the news. The funeral was to be the following Friday.
Anh and Terry Knight, both 'Reverend' made arrangements to cover the Seaman's Mission in Portsmouth to head to Suffolk to take the service (with the permission of the Vicar of the parish). Amy and John Shepherd made their own arrangements to be there. Donna McPherson (nee Taylor), no longer a Goth, travelled from Edinburgh to hold her father's hand and weep with her friend Jenni.
In York, Clarissa McKinley got the message to call Jessica as she left the stage after her part of a young musicians' festival, applause ringing in her ears ... but, strangely, unsatisfied. Her agent kept insisting that she could be a superstar; her musicianship and 'crossover' style being perfect for current demand. "You need to look as though you're enjoying it, though," he told her.
"I do," she insisted.
"No," he said, "I could count on one hand the number of times I see you smile. There's emotion there, true enough..."
"There's something missing," she agreed.
"Find it, and you could go far," he told her, "travel the world..."
"I'm not sure I want to," she'd told him.
At twenty-five, she was a very lovely young woman ... but she steadfastly refused any attachments.
She got the message and, despite the time (almost ten o'clock) immediately rang her adoptive mother. The news stunned her. She knew (intellectually) that Dave was quite old (almost eighty, in fact) but somehow the idea of him not being there if she needed him was just unthinkable.
She immediately called her agent and told him to cancel her engagements for the foreseeable future. He was horrified. "You're throwing away your chance of a real career," he told her.
"It doesn't matter. I think I've just realised what does matter, what's missing in my life and I'm going to go and find it."
She was in Felixstowe with Jessica and Jenni by the Wednesday before the funeral.
"Chrissie," Jenni began, "I've sung for family occasions ever since Jessica married Dave. I'd love to sing for Dave one last time, but I don't think I'll be able to control my voice properly. I know it's going to be hard for you too, but, could you sing for us?"
Chrissie thought. "I ... think I can," she said, "I'd like to try..."
"If you can't," Jessica interjected, "everyone will understand and we could have a CD prepared in case, perhaps."
"That's an idea," Chrissie said, "I'll record the CD if you like."
On Thursday at lunch-time, SB Thistle was sailing past the Hythe Quay at Maldon. The skipper was a small, wiry, tough-looking young man, tanned and dressed in jeans and a 'Topsail Charters' sweat-shirt, both of which were somewhat marked with Stockholm Tar. His name was Tom Carmichael and he was about to attempt to berth under sail alone. He needed to have the barge heading in the opposite direction; that was achieved by the strategic use of the anchor to pivot the ship, several of the punters on board keen to assist wound it up again as the ship gained way against the current; Tom ordered the mainsail brailed up and sheets released at just the right moment and Thistle snugged in next to SB Hydrogen with hardly a bump. There was a scattering of applause from onlookers as Tom and his mate went about the process of securing their mooring.
He didn't see the pretty brown-eyed girl with dark brown, curly, glossy hair, on the quay and Chrissie stood there for nearly an hour as the two men went about 'putting to bed' their vessel. She stood aside as their passengers alighted.
Eventually, Tom left his ship, crossing Hydrogen and Xylonite before stepping on the quay. He wasn't looking for Chrissie and would have walked right past her.
He spun round to look at her. "Chrissie?" Unbelieving.
"Any chance of a hug?"
"I'm not very clean..."
"I don't care." She stepped forward and pulled him to her, his arms reflexively closing around her. She was still only an inch or two shorter than he. "Tom," she spoke again after just enjoying his embrace, "Dave Yeomans just died last week. His funeral's tomorrow."
"Oh, poor Jenni. Is there anything I can do?"
"I'd be ... grateful ... if you'd keep me company at the service. They want me to sing and it's ... going to be difficult to control my emotions so I can sing. Will you help me? Jenni would be pleased to see you, as well."
"I'm supposed to be taking Thistle out on the tide tomorrow," Tom said thoughtfully. "Come with me and I'll see if it's possible."
Phil Harper in the Topsail offices looked up as the two entered.
"Hi, Tom ... everything okay? I saw your arrival ... looked impressive."
"Everything came together," Tom said.
"But who's this?" Phil turned his attention to Chrissie. "I know you, lass, don't I? It's been a few years ... You sang! Beautifully, with a guitar; shanties and folk-songs."
"Chrissie McKinley," she said. "That was before I went to Music College, I've been travelling too much since."
"So, what can I do for you, Tom? I hope you're not here just for me to praise your ship-handling?"
"Did you know Dave Yeomans?"
"Name rings a bell..."
"Jenni Peters' adoptive father ... Chrissie's too ... died last week."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, lass ... and sorry for Jenni too. I did meet the chap once or twice; he had a ketch, as I recall ... and a young daughter – younger than you, Chrissie?"
"Yes ... she's about eighteen now. I was hoping Tom could come with me to the funeral."
"You're due out with Thistle tomorrow, Tom?"
"Well ... if only for Jenni, I have to say yes ... but I'm not sure who can take your place, Tom."
"I've an idea about that ... Pete Spurdon? Skipper Pete; used to skipper Emily Jane."
"He'd be getting on a bit, wouldn't he? Retired ... way back."
"Over ten years, yes. But he's always hanging around Emily Jane and if he's a bit stiff these days there's nothing wrong with his mind or his eyes. Might be worth asking."
"Okay ... it's a thought. At a pinch I could take her, especially if you could take over on Saturday evening; we'll be at Mistley."
"I could do that, but I'd like a few days more if possible."
Phil looked from one to the other, nodding to himself thoughtfully.
"I'll do my best for you, lad."