Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, Ma/ft, Fa/Fa, Fa/ft, Teenagers, Consensual, Romantic, NonConsensual, Drunk/Drugged, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Humor, Tear Jerker, Group Sex, Harem, Polygamy/Polyamory, First, Oral Sex, Petting, Pregnancy, Size, .
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - I heard an old favourite song on the car radio and this is what transpired. It is what happens when two unusual people meet and are the perfect match. The third odd bod was a complete surprise to improve on perfection. This is a story of true unbreakable love. All in perfect Australian English as usual.
Songwriter: Ewan MacColl written for Peggy Seeger, London, England, 1957.
Hit song for Roberta Flack, 1972
♫The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and the stars
were gifts you gave
to the dark and the endless skies
The first time ever I kissed your mouth
I felt the earth move in my hands
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That is then at my command
The first time ever I lay with you
I felt your heart so close to mine
And I knew our joy would fill the earth
And last til the end of time
The first time ever I saw your face
This pub is always crowded on a Friday night. I remember one Christmas Eve I got in here, it was a Friday night, (in my circle that would be pronounced, "tits Frydi night," their education can be somewhat lacking) and two thirds of the packed crowd were bloody women making it impossible to move. I hate trying to have a quiet drink with a gaggle of drunken women! They're not civilised!
Today's Friday and we finished work about three. The five of us are working on a demolition job in Rutherford, part of the old knitting factory. We all work for Eziemploy Day Labour, a fairly long-term company compared to most of its ilk, which have a tendency to be fly-by-night. We all pile into my current model black V8 Holden ute * and head straight to our normal watering hole in Maitland. Four of us, Chris, Billy and Mitchy and I, went to school together, but Midge is a University student earning spending money to go on to his final year and make repayments on an expensive purchase he had made a short while ago. There's certainly nothing Uni-student-like about the rest of us. We were never given that opportunity, all our families short on dosh, if we've got any family left at all, that is.
*It's been pointed out to me that none of the poorly educated amongst you'll know what a ute is so, presuming you know how to use the modern invention of a computer and the internet, go here –
(and may the good lord have mercy on your souls). It's known as the ultimate hoon car, designed for overpaid twenty your old males without obligations to show off in, until they write it off completely, a status symbol par excellence for the immature.
Chris, Billy and Mitchy have some family, the few Billy and Chris have are on the dole though Chris's mum works casual at the Night and Day Pub in Cessnock, thirty minutes from here (which most of us call 'Nicknock' to the in-bred's disgust). Billy's dad was hit by a truck while he was leaving Mitchy's place fifteen years ago, late at night. It killed him cold. They never found the truck or the driver. Mitchy's mum finished the job she herself started on and drank herself to death in the next six months after that. We all saw that coming. They were both always smashed, as was Mitchy's old man - their main drinking mate, but he just held it better. Nobody knows why the bloke was there so late at night. Maybe looking for her old man who was supposedly deep in the west of the state at the time; most likely not, though. We were only kids then, ten, almost eleven, but we were not all that innocent even then. We grew up very fast, what with the adults we had as parents.
I'm Graham, Graham Guilford. Everyone calls me the Shortarse, as I'm not. Even my teachers at school, from primary up, called me that. I'm twenty-five, the same as the rest of my mates; except for Midge, he's something like twenty. I'm sort of largish, but I try to not make a thing of it. My old lady shot through with Chris' old man when we were sixteen, which I guess makes us sort of related. About as distantly related as you can get, by our estimation. We haven't heard from either of them since.
Dad hung himself soon after. Everyone knew about them screwing each other, except Dad and Chris' mum. She handled it well, where Dad fell to pieces. I think she knew, but was ignoring it hoping it would just go away. It did and it didn't. Dad just didn't have a clue. Dad couldn't understand why I wouldn't talk to her or have anything to do with the bitch for the previous two years before she split. I was neither subtle nor silent about it, but he was in complete denial.
By eight o'clock Midge Hannigan is well on the road to becoming paralytic. At some time or other we all get that need, but he's having girl problems. That bitch fiancée of his dropped him during the week. She rubbed his nose in it by putting their diamond engagement ring out on E-Bay. That went down a treat, as that's how he found out the cow had dropped him. Harry, the site clerk for the job we're on, found it when he should've been working. The bitch even used her own name. That auction, or whatever they call it, is finishing tomorrow night.
We're watching him tonight as he could do something really rash, and getting drunk is probably the best way for him to handle it. I'm off the turps, as me and my pseudo half-brother are going to her place to get the ring back tonight. Neither Midge nor she knows that yet. She'll learn it the hard way. Billy and Mitchy are ours and Midge's alibi, as they are going to be at my place to attest I'm there after we leave the pub. It's all Billy's idea as he's our self-accredited ideas man, and, personally, I think the cops will see right through the story, but this is what mates do for each other, and the kid is in need.
The reason why me is because I can handle myself and I don't like women much. They don't like me much, either; as I been told often enough. It seems I frighten them with my size, and I won't kowtow to them (I won't treat them like a lady. I don't know many ladies ... though I knew one at school, she eventually became a lady of the night. At least she was honest with why she was screwing you, and, in the long run, she would cost a bloke less. She just made her hobby into a full time profession). 'Princesses' give me the shits. I'd a few girlfriends during high school because girls like football heroes, but they fucked around and tried to use me; thinking the big bloke was a fool. I wasn't, and I'm not. After Mum I lost all faith. I don't trust the bitches, much, anymore.
I sat on one beer all night and my mates drank steadily, just pacing themselves, and we ate a substantial counter-meal. Except Midge, of course, as all he's 'pacing' on is how quickly he can get smashed. We don't blame him, or try to match him one on one, we just look after him. That's what mates do, you see.
About nine we pile into my ute then crowd into my place carrying a carton of piss each, while I carry Midge over my spare shoulder with a carton of piss dangling from my spare hand. I plonk him onto the bed I slept in when I was a kid (after Dad's death I moved to his bedroom). All these blokes have slept in the spare bedroom at one time or another. Once I'm not in it there's room for three or more, easy. Even as a kid I needed a double bed, until I turned ten or eleven and had a growth spurt.
We've two pedal bikes waiting in the backyard that faces onto the rear dunny cart lane. That unlit, and rarely used lane, is slowly disappearing as the neighbouring yards all expand to fill the wasted space. It'll probably end up the width of a footpath then seal over like a mending wound, as long as the city council doesn't get wind of it.
The target house is in Lorn, the next suburb, which is just over the Hunter River Bridge. She lives there with her parents and little brother. We just can't let them see us. Well, that's the plan, anyway.
It takes us most of half an hour to ride the bikes there, because we keep off the road and don't use the dinky little handlebar light. The road is good in my car, but using the bike you can see and feel every little hole and ridge; even if it's a distinctly shorter distance with all the one-way streets you don't have to wend around like a maze. Maitland is one of the country's older towns, now small city, and the roads were designed with horse and foot traffic in mind.
When we return, instead of riding back to where we began I'm taking the bikes back to a house three doors up from mine which has been vacant for a month during major renovations. I've worked a few wet days off casually there as a carpenter, and have my own way in. That house's rear safety fences are half way across the back lane, so I can see the first of the rot setting in. None of his neighbours have said a word to council, but we've all had-a-chat and it won't last long after that house is complete.
The house lights are on, the place is lit up like a Christmas tree and there's shouting coming from inside. We don't have to creep onto the veranda, I think we could have marched a twenty one piece marching band up there and no one would've noticed.
I peek through the open front vertical blinds, and suddenly the plan changes. Yeah, there's a girl about Midge's style; a dyed blonde with too much make-up. Without the make-up she'd have been plain as the wall I'm leaning against. A woman, who looks simply like an older version of the girl proving the girl won't mature to have a distinguished appearance either, is holding the kid, the kid's face in her shoulder - crying. Mum has a look on her dial which, if aimed at me, would've made me duck for cover.
Beside them, shouting and him holding a diamond ring between his bony fingers, is our boss from the last job we all worked on ... or rather, the foreman. He's a fair man, and an honest man. He was a mate we all drank with at the pub whilst working together on the job we finished four months ago; still do, on the occasions our timings match up. We worked together for six months on a particularly nasty, uncomfortable smelly job at the local sewerage works relining a vat. We hadn't known Michael (Midge) Hannigan then.
I point at Chris and we agree, wordlessly, it'll have to be Chris who knocks. If I did it I'd give one of the women a heart attack when the door's answered. It'll have to be me who talks though, as Chris'll stand on his own tongue at the slightest pressure. Handling pressure is not one of Chris' strong points, even if he's good as my backup man in a fight. I haven't had many fights, and the very few I'd been forced to have were extremely short and to the point. Chris knocks and he'd be lucky to be heard over the shouting. Through the window Adam Richie stops his racket and walks to the door, sharply yanking it open.
"Oh, high Chris. What are you doing here?" Chris immediately starts stuttering, so I nudge him on the shoulder to clear the way and fill the doorway, "Shortarse, you too? For what do we owe this undoubted pleasure?"
I bend my head down and enter the door, "Sorry for dropping in so late, Adam. Good evening, ladies, sorry for intruding. Mate, we've got a problem, which we think you can fix. On this job we're currently working we've got a mate named Midge Hannigan. He's asleep at my place at the moment. Frankly, he's passed out because his fiancée dropped him two days ago. He only found out when he saw the engagement ring he'd bought her going up for auction on E-Bay. He's badly upset as he didn't even know they'd broken up. They'd gone out together only last weekend, and she hadn't said a word.
He'd like the ring back as it was very expensive. He's still paying for it, so it isn't hers to sell. He'd have come himself, but I put Mitchy and Billy to keep him in line as he would've probably done something he shouldn't. I didn't know she was your daughter Mate, otherwise I'd have been a little hard on the girl. But you've always been fair, so I thought I'd ask you, instead."
Adam looks at me for a moment, and then the two of us. Of all people, Adam wasn't afraid of me, so he looks over to the girl who'd gone as white as a sheet.
"Well, Gloria? These two blokes are looking after their mate who's been completely broken up by what you did. What are you going to do about it? Come on! Say something!"
His voice is rising again. Gloria presses her face into her mother's chest. Her mum's face is also white, but she's looking at me. Like I said, women are afraid of me. I don't know if I'm really all that ugly.
Adam shakes his head and drops the ring into my open hand as he says, "Sorry, Shortarse. I really am sorry about how my daughter acted. Can you apologise to Michael for me, please? When I see him next I'll apologise directly. I don't know what came over the little ... witch ... but if she's picked up another boy she's not going to see him for a few weeks, not 'til she comes off her grounding. She said to her mother Michael was getting too serious. I don't know what she expects 'serious' is, not when a bloke gives her a diamond ring and she's accepted it."
He just shakes his head again. Chris and I shake his hand, wish them all goodnight, and leave them to their fight.
We leave the bikes on my back porch to find Mitchy and Billy most of the way through a carton of twist tops. The empties are scattered all around them on the polished boards and they're still watching TV. I look in at Midge, and he's out for the night. Billy remarks Midge is expected to be home, tonight. His folks'll be worried.
"Did you get the ring?"
I show it to him, and put it back in my pocket.
I just shake my head.
"So we don't have to worry about the cops, then?"
I shake my head again and walk into my old bedroom. Midge'd vomited on the quilt. I clean his face up with a clean part of the quilt and tell Mitchy and Billy (who were supposed to have been watching him) to clean up the mess.
I pick Midge up and throw him over my shoulder to carry him to my wheels. I toss him into the bed of the ute, which I'd lined with a coal conveyor belt offcut to stop the duco from scratching.
Mitchy says, "We'll clean up and head home. See ya tomorrow."
Chris stays with me and Midge as he doesn't live far from Midge's place and he'll walk home if I'm held up. It's another house with every light on. This time an extremely worried looking woman is peering through the lounge room window. An older version of Midge is sitting on the veranda steps. I've never met them before. I pick him up for work too early for their timetable, but Midge is a mate. They both look worried sick. I tell Chris to stay or walk home as I'll fix Midge up.
"She'll be right, Mate," he replies laconically.
I throw Midge over my shoulder, hoping he doesn't chuck up again - only down my back this time.
The expression on the older man's face is one of relief where the woman only looks more worried as she sees me first, then her son over my shoulder.
The bloke asks, "Is he alright?"
I nod and reply, "Yeah, but he won't be tomorrow, believe me! We thought it better to keep him drunk rather than for him to keep thinking over that girl."
The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and the stars
were gifts you gave
to the dark and the endless skies
I'm not really worried about Michael, or not as worried as Mum and Dad are, anyway. He's gone to the pub after work and he's told me he trusts these blokes as much he trusts me. A gullible sod for a big brother I've got, but I guess I do love him, and we've never let each other down. What I'm worried about is what he'll do to that slag of a fiancée of his. Her dropping him without telling him is one thing, but selling the ring he'd gone into hock for ... If he gets some beer into his belly he may go berserk over at her place. Nobody wants that.
There's the increasing sound of a big V8 engine's deep throaty burbling coming down our quiet dead end street. Both Mum and Dad stand and look outside, Dad goes out front while I stay pat, reading my chemistry textbook on the big lounge. I'm crap at chemistry and have to really work at it. What my teacher is telling us on this part of it doesn't seem to make sense compared to the text book. It leaves me wondering if our teacher understands the problem himself.
The grumbling engine noise stops out front and the brilliant headlights suddenly stop illuminating the front of the house. The lights are so bright they'd been making shadows behind the furniture in our brightly lit lounge room. A car door opens and heavily closes. A minute later I can hear the heavy sandy tread of feet on the concrete front footpath.
Dad's voice, "Is he alright?"
A voice replies, "Yeah, but he won't be tomorrow, believe me. We thought it better to keep him drunk rather than for him to keep thinking over that girl."
That voice! It so laid back and sounds like it's coming out of his boots. I don't remember him, and I think I would've by that beautiful voice alone, as he sounds like Pee Wee from Mum's Deltones old records. I put my Chemistry text down, which, by its size alone, always leaves me thinking of Michael's weight lifting weights. My idiot brother doesn't have sexy sounding mates. Even his idiot ex-fiancée resembles a brick wall, and is of much similar intelligence. She sounds like fingernails down a blackboard.
"Can you take him into his bedroom, please?"
"Just point the way, Mrs Hannigan."
That voice! My knees have gone weak!
Mum walks in the door, and something follows behind her filling the door space completely. He bends to enter, then bends even further to get a body dangling on his shoulder through. He's carrying my two-metre tall weightlifter brother like a little girl carries a doll! He looks up and I think, I think - I don't think thinking has anything to do with it at all. I'm sure my heart stops then goes into overdrive. Him being huge has nothing to do with it. His eyes, oh those eyes. His face is ... can a man have such a beautiful face?
Mum was saying, "It's a pity we couldn't get that ring back. I might have to get Dad out there to see them." His massive right hand dives into his cement caked work jeans fob pocket and, instantly, the beautiful creature hands the ring to Mum.
"How did you get that?"
"The silly bitch's dad is a mate of mine. He was tearing strips off her when we got there. Midge is better off without her, he's too nice a kid for the likes of her. Women aren't worth this kind of disruption."
Mum turns my way, leading HIM to Michael's bedroom; and that's when our eyes meet. Meet? Wrong word: meet. I physically feel them as we look into each other's eyes, and we more like impact each other, physically. He's just finishing the sentence and his full mouth with those kissable lips which are partially open, and they remain open as we stare into each other's soul. He stops stone still, and I feel like I'm paralysed.
I've never had a boyfriend. Boys don't like me much. My mate Margret reckons I'm too strong for them. They've told me to my face I'm a leso. I don't want to go to bed with Margret, though it's possible she wants to go to bed with me. I'd look at a boy and dare him to be a man! But, they're only ... boys. This creature is not a boy!
He... he... HE'S beautiful!
Mum turns to see what's holding him up, as she asks HIM for his name. He doesn't reply; I feel the same. His mouth is opening and closing, but not uttering a word.
Mum looks at him and looks at me, and, for the first time in my eighteen years, I hear her say a swearword, she whispers, "Oh shit!"
I reach out and take his hand. It engulfs mine as I draw him into Michael's room. The door must be a little small as his shoulders hit both sides, but HE ignores the petty annoyances, even when HE has to almost bend double to get Mitch through. HE drops Michael's boneless body none-too-gently onto the bed and turns to hold my other hand. Our eyes can't leave each other's. It could've been a minute or a second, or a lifetime. Mum later said she began calling me after twenty minutes. We're just standing here. HE isn't thinking I'm a lesbian. HE loves me. All one point four six metres, or four foot nine, of me. HE'S got to love me because I've fallen in love with HIM, instantly.
Mum thinks Dad looks sort of bemused. His nondescript appearing daughter and this giant hunk of a beautiful man seem to have taken root on his son's bedroom floor.
He whispers, "I'm Graham."
I think I make a sound when I reply, "I'm Deborah. Hello, Graham."
'God, she's beautiful ... God, she's beautiful!'
My brain's done a bunk and run for it.
'God, she's beautiful.'
I'm doing a 'Chris', and I can't talk without standing on my tongue. I hope she hasn't got a boyfriend, but she's holding my hands, if that means anything. She's touching me. As long as she's touching me my legs won't work.
Her name's Deborah. I've got to say something, or did I answer? Maybe I did.
"Have you got a boyfriend, Deborah?"
"Yes. You, if you'll have me."
'God, she's beautiful!'