The Goth and the Geek
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2013 by Tedbiker

Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A widower has about given up on finding a new partner when the Goth called Lilac turns up on his doorstep... The path of love is not smooth; some tears are involved, too.

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

Helen died two days before my fortieth birthday, a shadow of the plump, extrovert, delightful, vigorous, life-filled woman I married. It was one of those obscure, aggressive cancers that doctors don't see very often and for which there's as yet no cure, so most of the last couple of weeks I spent at her bedside at Saint Luke's Hospice, holding her hand and doing what I could to help the nurses to look after her.

"Promise me," she whispered, just before she drifted into her final coma, "I know you'll grieve ... I know you ... but promise me you'll find someone else to love. Promise me, Gerry."

"I can't promise that, but I promise I'll try, Sweetheart." I don't think she saw the tears trickling down my cheeks, as her eyes were closed; they stayed closed, in fact, until the end.

You know the 'my word is my bond' thing? If she hadn't made me promise, I think I'd have retreated into depression.

We'd bought a house, Victorian, with a large garden, fifteen minutes' walk from the centre of the city, just one of a number of similar properties which had once housed the better-off, upper-middle or professional classes, but now a little run down. The house was my responsibility, the garden Helen's. We'd both been employed, professionals; the house was paid for and the children we'd planned for never came along. In order to be with Helen at the last, I'd left my position, taking with me a substantial 'golden handshake'. With occasional fees from consultancy, I was ... okay, financially.

I soon found that the garden, which appeared to be in a state of careless disorder (I really did know better), actually needed a fair amount of attention, along with feeders and bird-boxes. Also, of course, I had to try to keep the house fairly tidy. Like most men, I guess, I wasn't much bothered about dusting, and only put the vac over the rooms I actually used maybe once a week.

Helen and I had a very active physical relationship, at least, up to the last couple of months, then after she died I didn't really want sex for a few months. However, after those few months the ... pressure ... began to build, and I remembered my promise.

With not being in regular employment, I didn't have to worry about possible conflicts inherent in an office romance, but on the other hand, I didn't get the contact with potential partners. I had no intention of picking up a prospect in a bar either, but I did seriously consider taking up ballroom dancing. In the end, I decided to try evening classes, starting with a life-drawing one. That might have worked; I had one date which was quite enjoyable, but I just couldn't bring myself to pursue a relationship. I kissed her goodnight and politely declined her invitation to go in to her flat 'for a coffee to round off the evening'.

I've never had a problem striking up a conversation with people ... in a queue, or while travelling ... and that netted me a couple of possibles. Again, I ran up against an obstacle in my ... subconscious, I suppose ... and neither came to anything.

What was wrong with me? I was looking for ... what (or who)? Well, a woman, certainly. Of a similar age to myself, I thought. Was I bothered about appearance? Not really, as long as she wasn't grossly over or under weight. Beauty? Give me character any time. Of course, I'd thought Helen as lovely as the famous one, though she always thought that funny. She'd have to be interested in the same sort of things as me, and have similar standards. In fact, the willingness of my previous dates to, potentially, end up in bed with me on our first date was, I thought, part of what put me off.

Georgia Taggart came close to fitting the bill; she was a senior manager for one of the companies I did some consultation for. We made it through three dates and a moderately successful bedroom encounter. Very good ... until, as we lay, post-orgasmic, she started suggesting ways of capitalising on my skills and experience. That seemed to indicate, shall we say, a substantial difference in our approach to life. I certainly didn't want to be thinking about my career (or lack of it) in bed after making love to my partner.

I hang my head as I admit I tried internet dating. At least, I signed up and swapped a few messages. At least I had some chance of seeing what the lady in question was after ... assuming, of course, that she was being up-front and honest about it. Myself, I was open to a range of options including but not solely marriage. I didn't set age or shape limits, either, because I really didn't mind as long as the lady I settled on had a mind and a personality that fitted with mine.

Well ... I got no-where. I probably don't need to go into the pitfalls involved in online dating if you've ever tried it, and if you haven't you probably wouldn't believe some of them. I think I experienced most of them, and after six months or so I'd about given up. Not only on the online thing, either.

Then I got one of those ... I call them 'scatter-gun' ... messages. Usually they just annoy me, especially when my reply is blocked. But this one was intriguing.

"I know this is cheeky, but is anyone interested in some housework during the summer holiday?"

It was from a twenty-something art student, Lilac (who calls their daughter Lilac?) Lawrence. Not that I had the full name at the time. I thought about it, then thought, 'What the Hell, she can only turn me down.' My reply was as follows;

"Hi, Lilac. Perhaps cheeky, but certainly enterprising. I can't really afford to pay you, but if you're willing to do a few hours work a week you can have board and lodging (your own room), and perhaps some friends and neighbours might be glad of a few hours work."

I didn't expect a response, but what I got was, "Yes, please. Perhaps you'll show me something of the countryside while I'm there."

I need to put in here that there was no photo, just a brief description of the young lady concerned. But we made arrangements and I was in to greet her on the day she was expected. I would have met her at the station, but she insisted she would make her way to my house.


The door-bell rang and I went to answer it. To be greeted by the sight of...

A very pale ... Goth ... female ... with black hair swept up in spikes in a row front to back, dark purple lipstick, ditto eye-shadow, black sweat-shirt with the legend in white, 'Goths Do It', and artistically ripped black jeans. Oh, and Doc Martens, of course.

Not what I had expected.

You understand, I didn't have any specific expectations, but if I had, what I saw would not have appeared in the list.

I was gobsmacked. As we say here in Yorkshire.

"Um..." a very feminine, very tentative voice broke my stasis. "Er, hi? I'm ... Lilac?

"Oh! Er ... yes. Come in ... Lilac..." She did as she was told and stood looking round the kitchen, with its stone floor, Aga stove, and scruffy, though large, table. "Cup of tea? Coffee? Soft drink?"

"I, um ... don't suppose you have redbush, do you?"

"I do ... I also have chamomile, and a selection of other fruit and herbal teas."

"Oh ... then some redbush would be good, thanks."

"While the kettle's boiling, I'll show you your room."

"My room?" I wondered why the surprise in her voice.

"You didn't think I was going to put you on the settee, or in a tent in the garden, did you?"

After a lengthy pause, she hesitantly said, "Well, no..."

"There you go then." I finished filling the kettle; it would take a while to boil on the Aga, but I didn't think there was a hurry. I led the way upstairs, pointing out the bathroom, w.c., and airing cupboard, and opened the door into the small guest-room. "Have you got a laptop? Anything like that?"

"Just a Kindle."

"Okay ... I was going to say there's an Ethernet port ... there ... and there's WI-FI if you want to use that – I'll give you an access key."

"Oh..." she spoke again, seeming puzzled. "Thanks..."

Back in the kitchen as I made her Rooibos tea and my coffee she was silent until I put the mug in front of her.

"You aren't what I expected," she said.

"It's mutual, then," I chuckled.

She sipped her tea. "So what am I to do, then?"

"Well ... we need to agree how much time you need to work in return for your bed and food. Then I have a list of things to do; spring-cleaning types of things. Do you like gardening?"

Her face lit up. "I love plants and gardens. I don't know a lot about them, but I'd love to learn. Apart from that, I'll clean, cook, if you like. I'd work for seven pounds an hour, normally. What do you think the bed and food is worth?"

"I'm not a commercial Bed and Breakfast," I shrugged, "and this whole idea is new to me. Suppose we say, an hour a day?"

"I think you're being too generous. Let's see if you think I'm worth it after a day or two."

I nodded. Looking at her. Triangular face – know what I mean? Pointed chin and nose; brilliant blue eyes. She only needed pointed ears to be an elf, or a pixie. I wondered what the rest of her would look like...

We did supper, she helped me prepare vegetables and dice chicken for a stir-fry, and a frozen home-made apple pie went in the oven.

"I need a shower – is that okay?"

"Sure – help yourself."

"And I'm pretty washed out, so I'll go straight to bed after."

She had an odd expression that I didn't understand, but I just smiled and said, "That's fine. I'll see you in the morning."

In the morning, a rather different Lilac appeared. The black hair was just brushed back and lips and eyes were unenhanced; her face did not appear quite so pale. I didn't comment.

Over the next few days, she made a start on the things I usually didn't have time for; dusting, and cleaning out cupboards (not all day, she went out for walks or into town, too). One morning she wanted to do some work in the garden, but I stopped her. "I think you've built up some credit, Lilac. Why don't you take the day off?"

"Oh, okay. I think you said something about showing me some of the country round about?"

I'd nothing else planned. "Got shoes for walking? Can you climb a hill?"

"Yes, and yes."

We rode the bus out to Castleton and walked up to Hollins Cross, then along the ridge, climbing still, to Mam Tor. We stood there and she gazed out at the country round about as I watched her; there was a ... softness ... about her at odds with the image she presented on day one. But then we had to make our way back to the village. We did that by continuing along the path, descending to the car-park by the pass bisecting the ridge, then a trek along footpaths and the steep descent through Winnats Pass.

I don't know how far we walked; perhaps three or four miles at the most, with a climb of maybe a thousand feet, on visible footpaths. With conversation and pauses to look around, it took us almost three hours. In that time we ate a couple of cereal bars and drank water, so by the time we got back to the village, mid afternoon, we were hungry and the sight of the Rose Cottage Café was welcome; a hot meal and a pot of tea made a perfect end to the walk. Lilac seemed to enjoy the ride back, too – looking out at the countryside from a seat at the front of the top deck of the bus we had a good view.

We ended the day with sandwiches and tea, while she trounced me soundly at chess, then, as I was about to make my way to bed she surprised me with a soft kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for a lovely day, Gerry," she said. "I'll see you in the morning." I sat thinking for quite a while, and was late to bed.

In the morning I overslept, not that I really needed to be up at any particular time. When I got to the kitchen, Lilac was already there, eating cereal with one hand and holding a book in the other. "Morning, Lilac ... what-cha got there?"

She held up the book. "Hope you don't mind – I raided your shelves." It was a Robert Heinlein – 'Friday'. "I haven't read this one before."

"No ... feel free. That one ... I don't think it's one of his better-known books."

"I like the others I've read. You've got a lot of sci-fi..."

"Yes, I have. But then, I've got a lot of books."

"I looked at some of the others, too. History? You like history?"

"Those who forget the lessons of the past are doomed to repeat them."

She thought about that as I collected my breakfast and started the coffee machine. "We do, don't we? That's pretty profound."

"Sadly, it wasn't me that said that originally. A guy ... philosopher, of course ... Santayana. Probably been said by others, too. But yes, it's true. Mankind has been repeating our mistakes for millennia."

"Can we be a little more cheerful? How about telling me what you want done in the garden?"

So we talked as I ate my breakfast and had my first morning fix of the elixir of life. Then we went out to have a look at what needed doing. She wore slacks of a thin material, a blouse that from time to time with the light in the right position was almost transparent, and a broad-brimmed hat. I couldn't help noticing, from time to time, the outline of smallish breasts; no bra was apparent. I surreptitiously adjusted myself for comfort.

Time passed; the house was cleaner and tidier than it had been and the more vigorous shrubs and plants were tamed somewhat. To my surprise, the only time Lilac went anywhere was with me, so we visited museums and art galleries, and explored the country round about.

I mentioned art galleries. I like art, but I like art that's recognisably ... something. So Lilac and I had vigorous discussions about abstraction, surrealism, cubism and all the other 'isms' that meant something to her. We'd stand in front of a square of canvas, solid colour, and she'd try to explain to me how that meant something. We stood and gazed at some of the more artistic graffiti, and she tried to explain why (a) it was art and (b) the artist did it that way without expectation of monetary reward.

The two weeks I'd expected her to stay came and passed and there was no suggestion of her leaving. I certainly wasn't going to bring it up. I reflected that we had a very comfortable relationship, considering the twenty years, give or take, between us.

We didn't even kiss, though I was very conscious of little touches from time to time. She started that, a touch on my forearm or hand to emphasise a point, or to commiserate when I spoke briefly of Helen's illness and death, controlling my emotion with difficulty. I found myself touching her hand, or the small of her back as I paused to let her pass through a door first, that sort of thing.

But September came around. She'd been with me nearly two months, but it was time for her to return to her studies. Again, she wouldn't let me accompany her to the station. I stood at the door and she hesitated, then kissed my cheek.

"Thanks, Gerry. It's been a lovely summer..." she hesitated again, then touched her lips to mine, just for a moment.

"I've enjoyed your company, Lilac. I hope you'll come again..."

"In that case, I will."

The house felt very empty without her.

I was surprised to get an email that very evening. "Did you mean what you said? That you would like me to come again? I'm missing you already."

To which I replied, "Of course. Whenever you like for as long as you like."

I suppose ... after a couple of weeks ... I got used to being alone again. Emails helped, as Lilac shared the trials and tribulations of her Art degree course. She didn't mention boyfriends, anything like that. I gave up on trying to find a partner to share my life; it just didn't seem worth the trouble. But I did think, once or twice, about a slight, twenty-something Goth who could hold a conversation and who was softer and more feminine than you'd expect on first encounter.

Then, in December, I got a phone call. "Gerry, you said I could come..." Lilac's voice was full of emotion, though I couldn't identify what.

"Yes, and I meant it."

"Can I come for the Christmas vac?"

"Sure, Sweetie. Of course you can. Don't you want to go home?"

"I am home. That's why I want to come and see you."

"What's the matter?"

"I ... I'll tell you when I get there, okay?"

It was almost eleven that night when the door-bell rang. I opened it and saw ... not exactly the same person I'd seen in July. I saw a slim young woman with medium-length fair hair, just a shade darker than blonde. Pink face, lips a natural, slightly darker pink. "Well, come in, Lilac."

She did, and suddenly I had my arms full of sobbing girl, jaw pressed against my collar-bone. "Hey, hey ... come on, lass..." I let go with one arm long enough to close the door, then wrapped her up again and just held her. I don't know how long we stood there like that; it might have been as much as ten minutes. But then she relaxed a little and I thought I could release her safely. "How about some cocoa?" I suggested.

"Perfect!" she replied.

I made cocoa, with hot milk, and we sat and sipped at it in the kitchen, nibbling chocolate biscuits with it. She didn't say why she'd been so upset, instead telling me about her last term and a project she'd been involved in, which had been very rewarding and had attracted a lot of attention. Around midnight, she retired to bed, to the room she'd had in the summer, which I'd prepared for her.

The next morning, I was up at my usual time, but feeling rather rough from lack of sleep. I was on my second cup of coffee when Lilac shuffled in, head down and subdued.

"Hi, Lilac – coffee?"

"Thanks, Gerry."

I made fresh, thinking I would probably want another cup anyway. I placed a mugful in front of her with a jug of milk. I remembered that she didn't take sugar, but that the milk was on again, off again. She glanced up at me. "Thanks, Gerry."


"Not right hungry, Gerry, thanks."

I drank my own coffee. "Wanna tell me about it?"

"I suppose..."

I didn't push, and I think the subsequent silence was comfortable. Her cup was empty and I held up the jug with a raised eyebrow and she nodded for me to refill the cup.

"Gerry..." she held the cup in both hands as if warming them. "I went home at the end of term and it was World War Three. I had both parents trying to recruit me to support them and I couldn't see that either of them had any excuse for their behaviour. You know, I knew their marriage wasn't of the best, but really..." She trailed off and I saw that tears were tracking down her cheeks. "Gerry, do you mind... ? I mean, I don't want to spoil your Christmas."

"You won't," I assured her. "I'm very happy to have your company."

"I just didn't want to face that. I mean ... peace and goodwill? An' I thought of you, an' this house, an' Derbyshire, an' all the rest ... can I stay, please?"

"Of course! I told you; I'm happy ... delighted ... to have you here. But how about a toasted muffin?"

She snorted, then giggled. "Yeah! Why not. You know, I feel better already."

"That's good."

I extracted a muffin from the freezer, separated the halves, previously split, and stuck them in the toaster. A glance out of the window told me there would be no going out; I don't see the point in being cold, wet and miserable if it can be avoided. The toaster clicked and I placed the muffin on a plate and put it in front of her. "Plenty of butter," I instructed.

"You'll have me the size of a blimp," she grinned.

"I'll maybe give you a bit of flesh to wrap round those bones," I corrected, but then saw her expression. "Sorry, Lilac. That was uncalled for, unfair and wrong..."

"'S okay," she shrugged, taking a bite of muffin, "I know I'm no glamour model."

"You could be. But you'd be wasted doing that."

"Yeah, right!"

"Seriously. There are porn websites specialising in slim women, and you are very attractive."

"Which is why you've been all over me since we first met," and there was bitterness in her tone.

That pulled me up short. "Did you really want me all over you?"

"Duh! You met me on an 'no strings attached' sex dating site? What do you think I was expecting?"

"But ... I'm twenty years older than you! I thought you were just looking for a cheap holiday..."

"That too. But, Gerry, I enjoyed it so much ... even without the sex. In fact ... oh, I don't know..."

I needed time to assimilate this. "Well, it's miserable out. I suggest we spend the morning cooking; how about we make some bread, and start a Christmas pudding?"

Her pensive expression disappeared and her eyes glittered. "Great!"

Cooking, and shopping for two instead of one, diverted Lilac. I was struggling to understand my reluctance to pick up on her revelation that she'd been expecting sex as part of her visit in the summer. Had she really wanted my middle-aged body, or was it just a part of 'earning' her stay? Did she want sex now? Did I want sex now ... with her?

Did I?!

Of course I did! She was a very lovely young woman at the peak of her youthful perfection. When she arrived in the summer, I was taken aback by her get-up, but I might have gone for her anyway, had I realised she was willing, but now? Oh, now ... she was a friend. A friend I didn't want to lose by embarking upon an affair that would inevitably end. A friend I thought of more as a daughter than a potential lover.

We got to Christmas Eve without dealing with the elephant in the room. We managed that by occupying ourselves together and separately. We went shopping, visited galleries, walked in the parks and in Derbyshire. We played chess, and draughts, listened to music and watched DVDs, read books.

I have a solid-fuel stove in the lounge – it will burn wood or smokeless fuel – and I usually light it more as a centrepiece than to heat the room. It heats the room very effectively; too effectively, sometimes ... but the central-heating system is much more convenient. Anyway, Christmas Eve I came downstairs to find Lilac had lit the stove and turned off the radiator in the room. I left her to it and had my breakfast. I'd about finished ... starting my second cup of coffee ... when Lilac came in and asked me to bring my coffee into the lounge. No problem. Until she stopped me sitting in my usual, favourite, armchair. She pointed at the sofa.


I sat.

She dropped, in front of me, into that position some women can manage, sort of half sitting, half kneeling, with her legs sideways ... how do they do that?

"Um..." her eyes were on my face, but dropped. We were silent for some minutes. I was curious, but strangely lacked my usual impatience. Instead of prompting her, I looked at her. She was very pretty; even the frown creasing her face was appealing. "I don't know what to say..." she said eventually.

"How about you just come out with the bits and we'll see if we can fit them together?"

She looked up at me and smiled. "I should have expected something like that from you," she said. "So ... you said I was attractive..."

"I did."

"And I said I was expecting to have sex with you..."

"You did."

"But then you diverted me and we never followed up on the conversation. Don't you want to have sex with me?"

"I do ... and I don't. Lilac, will you do something for me?"


"Come and sit in my lap so I can hold you?"

That surprised her, but she slowly unfolded, standing, then lowered herself into my arms, which I wrapped round her. She fitted there ... it was just ... right.

"This feels good," she mumbled against my neck.

"It does." I agreed. "I hope this shows something of how I feel about you."

She hummed and I could feel the vibrations in my chest. "I thought ... you were on that website looking for someone to have sex with."

"I was, originally, but as I said, I didn't expect sex with you..."

"But, Gerry ... I told you I did... so why won't you? You know I want to..."

"Lilac ... Sweetheart ... I..." I paused and swallowed hard. "It was one thing to arrange to have sex with someone I didn't really know, who could walk away afterwards and it wouldn't matter. You know ... no strings. But you ... you're a friend, a special friend. I'm frightened that if I ... have sex ... that it wouldn't just be sex, it would be making love."

"This matters ... how?"

"Well ... for a start, twenty years difference in our ages. Then, in a few weeks you will be going back to University; of course you are welcome to come back at the end of the term, but surely there are young men, your own age, who you'd rather be with?"

She didn't answer and I held her for several minutes before I realised she was shaking in my arms – and her head was shaking.

I gently lifted her chin with one finger, tilting her face up to mine. I could see streaks of tears on her cheeks and something snapped in me. My reluctance to become intimate with this girl evaporated, and I kissed the tears away ... then her lips met mine – soft, warm and sweet. I was lost.

What can I say? She responded and for ... I don't know ... half an hour? Maybe more? We kissed ... made out ... snogged. Our hands wandered – outside clothes, but even so I was aware of the warmth and the curves of her body, the way we fitted together.

After ... however long it was ... she broke the kiss and sat up slightly.

"All they want is sex. The young men, I mean. I went along with it, and it was mostly okay – not really great, but sort of enjoyable after the first time." She shuddered in my arms, and I assumed she was remembering her first time. "Anyway, I sort of got used to sex as a way of getting what I wanted. Company, being part of the in-crowd. I've been careful," she inserted earnestly, "always used rubbers, and I got checked out at the clinic. But ... last summer, Gerry ... you did everything, treated me as special, without the sex. So ... I saw ... when I went back ... how hollow it all was. How superficial they were, my ... friends. Except most of them weren't really friends. None of them wanted anything to do with me when I wouldn't sleep with them. Oh, some of the girls were okay, but ... all I could think of was how kind you were. And ... and ... I wanted sex. But not with anyone, just with you. Because I think sex with you would be ... different, somehow."

I just held her, warm in my arms.


"Yes, Baby." It just slipped out. Perhaps I should have made sure my brain was in gear.

"Could you ... maybe ... love me?"

I took a deep breath. "Lilac ... Baby ... you hold my heart in your hand. You know that? Shall you break it?"

She twisted, and suddenly was straddling my lap, pressing her jeans-clad mound against me. She took my head in both her hands and stared into my eyes intensely. "You mean that?"

"Baby," I sighed, "I suppose it's too late. You're bright, talented, and very, very beautiful. You made me realise I was lonely ... that there was a hole in my life. But the hole had a very specific shape. It's shaped like you. I love you. That's why I said 'you hold my heart in your hand'."

She leaned forward and pressed her lips to mine; gently, sensually. Then leaned back and in one smooth move whipped her t-shirt and top over her head. Without pausing, she reached behind and unhooked her bra and slipped it off. Perfection in female form.

My hands ... had to follow her curves, from her waist up her sides until my thumbs brushed those neat, firm breasts, then moved in a little and rubbed her nipples, producing a gasp. Her eyes closed and she sighed. "It'd be more comfortable upstairs," she suggested, "if I've convinced you now?"

"Oh, I'm convinced ... just worried I'll wake up and it'll be all a dream."

She slipped off my lap and I followed her upstairs, watching her jeans-clad bottom move in front of me. In my room, she undressed me while I stroked that silky skin – cool now, despite the central-heating. At length I was naked and I unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down, caressing her legs as I did so. Perhaps she was impatient, because her hands were pushing her panties down right behind. I could smell her scent; is there any better aroma than clean, aroused, woman? She stepped out of her jeans and I scooped her up and laid her on the bed, diving in for the source of that wonderful aroma.

She made a half-hearted protest at the first swipe of my tongue and I couldn't tell if her hands were trying to hold me there or push me away, at first. Soon enough, there was no doubt she was pulling me in and her breath was coming in gasps, panting and groaning. Quicker than I would have expected, she orgasmed, bucking up against my mouth and rewarding me with a flow of juices which I lapped up. That resulted in further cresting, groaning and bucking. After the third time, I couldn't wait any longer; I covered her, and entered her easily to the hilt. She was snug, rather than tight, and very well lubricated, so I didn't come immediately. She was well primed too, so when I did reach my peak, she was right there with me and we clung together afterwards; I, for one, deeply satisfied and quite sure she'd enjoyed it too.

There was something special, too, about laying there, holding her; her head on my chest, leg hooked over mine ... aware as I was of a spreading dampness, I could live with it to have the sense of completion I was experiencing. I became aware, then, of another dampness ... tears, trickling on my chest.




Sniff. "I love you, Gerry ... I didn't mean to ... but I love you."

"That's good, because I love you, too, Lilac."

"But ... you don't know me, Gerry..." Sniffle.

"I know everything I need to know, and you can tell me anything else you think I need to know another time."

She clung to me. I suppose we must have slept, because the next thing I was aware of, apart from her slim form in my arms, moulded to me, was the time on my bedside clock. Mid-day.



"Lunch-time, love."

"Mmmm..." she wriggled against me, humming in her throat, then kissed my collar-bone. "Don't want to move."

"I need to pee, and I'm hungry..."

"Oh?" She moved sensuously against me, her neat breasts rubbing against my chest. "Can't I persuade you?"

"You probably can, but I think it'd be a lot more satisfying if we get up, get some fresh air and something to eat, then carry on where we left off..."

She moved over me, straddling me, then rubbed her slippery pussy against my, by then very hard, erection. A further movement and she was enclosing me and groaning as I filled her. But she stopped as I was fully embedded and bent down to kiss me. She held herself like that, her face a few inches from mine. "Gerry, I just wanted to tell you; I've never, ever, known it to be like that. It was ... just ... I don't know ... like another world, a different universe, or something."

"Uh huh. It was," I said. "Special. Really special."

She moved on me, languorously, and I cupped those pretty tits, the hard, rubbery nipples against my palms; she adjusted her angle.

"It's nice to take a little time," she said, "to enjoy the journey rather than rushing to the destination..." her voice was becoming a little laboured toward the end of the sentence and she sped up her movements.

I could feel her pussy clenching on me as she reached for the peak, then she was there and I followed, thrusting up into her.

"There..." she said, satisfaction colouring her voice, "that'll hold me for an hour or so. How about you?"

"Wow..." I hesitated. "I don't know what to say..."

She picked up on the hesitation. "Gerry, I ... have I pushed you too far?"

I smiled, reached and pulled her down to kiss her again. "Maybe, but I'm glad you have. I think we need a shower, don't you?"

It was the perfect way to round off our first intimate encounter, gently washing each other, enjoying the sensuous feel of skin under hands, of hands on our skin, exploring the softnesses and hardnesses, though by the time we were through it was tempting to just go back to bed. We might have, except first my stomach, then Lilac's, let it be known they wanted feeding.

Winter in Yorkshire. No snow that Christmas, but one of those cold snaps; clear skies, bright sun, winds from the North and the temperature rarely rising above freezing point. Icicles transforming waterfalls and the stream only failing to freeze because of the movement of the water. Ducks sliding across the frozen mill-ponds.

We bundled up and walked briskly through the park, holding hands ... our gloves somehow failing to impair the sense of connection I felt from the contact. We ate baked potatoes in a café, somehow content to do so without speech. I ... content to enjoy my pretty companion and suppressing my reservations.

Much later, we took ourselves in the opposite direction, to the midnight service in the cathedral. The big building was impossible to heat properly, of course, so the congregation were warmly dressed, perhaps just opening the top layer. Good singing, colour and movement; candles and incense, words that flowed over me rather than making sense. Then home, to tumble into bed, too sleepy to make love; we dropped off in the middle of our caresses.

We woke, tangled together, mid-morning. Both of us impelled by our bladders to get up to relieve ourselves; then to clean our teeth, and shower together. Somehow neither of us headed back to bed. Whether it was the call of the coffee-pot, hunger or something else, we made our way downstairs to have breakfast, drink coffee, and exchange presents. Mine to Lilac was a simple amber pendant on a gold chain, hers to me a sketch of the two of us; we were in the garden during the summer. I was pointing at something, but she was looking up at me, not where I was pointing, and there was longing in her expression. It was more real and alive than any photograph and it moved me; I kissed her and said, "It's wonderful, and I'll treasure it."

Lilac phoned her parents while I was preparing our lunch. Afterwards she was subdued. "They've separated," she said, but did not elaborate.

There is little to tell of the following days. I was putting off the moment when I had to think of being separated from Lilac – she, I don't know. She spent a lot of time sketching, at least when we weren't cooking, or out walking, or making love. The latter, well, we did a lot of that.

When the time came for her to return to University, I insisted on accompanying her to the station. We'd have taken a taxi, but we'd been treated to one of the city's infrequent heavy snowfalls and the place was at a standstill. That's not so surprising, a couple of inches will do it, and there was a lot more than that ... so we dressed appropriately and set off early to tramp through the pristine layer. In an hour or so, the city centre at least would probably be passable, with the streets ploughed and salted. The pavements would take longer. But we couldn't take a chance on a taxi getting Lilac there in time. At least the trains were running. Not on time, but running.

It was easier to stand and cuddle than to huddle in the metal seats. We sat in the café until the train was due, then stood on the platform to wait. Snow notwithstanding, it wasn't that cold, but I think we were both chilled at the prospect of separation; strange, in view of the way we'd met, I suppose. Anyway, we held each other close – as close as we could, bearing in mind our layers of clothing – until the train finally arrived.

I stood and watched her sitting in the carriage, her eyes on mine, too. Then it was time, and the train began to move. I watched it out of sight then made my way home to an empty house.

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