It's a Man Thing
Chapter 9

Copyright© 2010 by Tedbiker

Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 9 - He's asked for advice and gives it, and finds himself involved more deeply than he expected.

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

I occupied myself as well as I could – finished the Freya North – even wrote a few pages ... I think the term is 'desultorily' (I had to look it up in the dictionary), did some washing, swept the patio, cleaned the bath ... get the picture? At bed-time, I even took a sleeping tablet ... which sort of worked, meaning I slept until five am, then woke with a slight hangover, a nasty metallic taste in my mouth – and dried tears on my cheeks. Friday was more of the same.

Saturday, with more hope than expectation, I took the bus out to Fox House, had coffee at Longshaw, hiked down to Padley Gorge, and picnicked in the abandoned millstone quarry. It's a quiet, peaceful, sad little place, grassy now, and I sat there – I suppose the best description was numb – for quite a while. Somehow, though, the atmosphere affected me and some of my disquiet evaporated away. I read a little, and wrote a little, and packed up before I got too chilled.

That outing changed something for me. I won't say I was more positive, but I was less focussed on my loss. I was able to regain, at least to some extent, my old routine. The house still felt empty; the piano still mocked me, but I got some writing done. Indeed, I think I wrote some of my better work, and the week passed ... slowly.

Saturday came round ... I was almost surprised, but time does pass. The bus got me to Fox House for half-past ten, time for coffee. I was glad of the coffee, it was a gloomy day, threatening rain ... or at least drizzle, and chilly. Not a very likely prospect for an outing.

I walked down to the quarry anyway, found a suitable spot and huddled there to chew my sandwiches and drink coffee from a flask. Not wanting to try to think too much, I dug out a book to read. That passed some time, but when the drizzle started, I put the book away and just sat. I couldn't hear the Derwent flowing in its bed in the valley, there were no birds singing, just the sound of the wind picking up. I stood and walked about, stroking the stones, thinking about the long-gone labourers. The rain strengthened, and I thought I might as well be heading back, when I became aware I was not alone - Helen had, indeed, come.

I opened my arms wide, and she walked towards me, slowly; and then she was wrapping her arms around me, I was holding her, and I wasn't sure how much of the wet on my face was rain.

"I love you," I whispered in her ear.

"I know," she replied, nearly as quietly. "I don't deserve you."

My heart sank at her words; had she come just to say 'it's over'?

"Let's walk back," she suggested, freeing herself from my arms. She set off, and for a few yards went ahead as the path was too narrow for two people to walk comfortably. Once the path opened out, though, I caught her up and walked alongside her.

"I went to see Greg Saunders," (that was the name of the curate... ) "Actually, Philippa went first. I ... couldn't think straight. All I could think of was the humiliation and disappointment. You know, I buried it all until I met you? When I thumped you, I was trying to hurt him. Philippa went to see him. She came back ... and said she liked him, that I ought to go and talk to him, hear what he had to say, that I needed to do that." She fumbled in her pockets; I handed her a handkerchief and she blew her nose noisily. "It took several days before I would even leave my bedroom. Philippa, bless the girl, went with me. She literally held my hand."

She walked on, silent for several minutes. "Do you know, he knelt in front of me and begged forgiveness? Said what he'd done to me had weighed on his conscience for nearly twenty years; and was there anything he could do to make amends? Even partially?"

She stopped, turned, and looked up at me. "He said ... he said he'd looked for me, that he would gladly have married me." Pausing, she looked me straight in the eyes and went on, "Ted, you said you loved me, and I believe you. Do you love me enough to let me go? Let me marry another?"

'Here it comes' I thought. My heart was like lead. I looked away, then looked back and met her eyes. "I think it will break my heart," I said quietly, "but if that is what you really want, then..." I swallowed hard and looked away again for a moment before looked back at her. "Helen, you are free to go with my blessing, and my wishes for your happiness."

Her face lit up with that smile. "That's what he said you'd say! I really don't deserve you! If you really want me to be happy, you'll marry me, four weeks from today. If you can forgive me teasing and straining your patience and your love. I've pushed and pulled you, hit you..." she burst into tears and flung herself against me.

I'm a bit old for roller-coasters – physical or emotional – and it took a while for me to process what she'd said, and longer for me to accept it.

"You ... still ... want ... to marry me?"

"No-one else. Absolutely no-one else. I was never in love with Greg, he was never in love with me, just guilty. You cared for me, cared for Phil. You healed me, accepted and loved me ... for me. What I made you put up with! I want to live with you, married or not, cook for you, play for you, make love to you ... please?"

I went from gloom and despondency to elation in moments, but I couldn't get any words out; I just held her close, tears mingling with the rain still from the emotional turmoil.

"Let me do this properly, then," I said once I had my vocal chords under control. I released her, dropped onto one knee in the wet grass, took her right hand in both of mine. "Helen Abbott, I love you dearly. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

"Yes!" She pulled me to my feet, wrapped both arms round my neck and pulled me to her to kiss me. That was so intense we stood locked together, in the rain, for ... quite a long while. Then I couldn't resist picking her up and twirling her round ... and kissing her again.

We walked together back to Longshaw Lodge, holding hands once more, and had Earl Grey tea and Longshaw Tart ... don't ask me for the recipe which is a local secret, but it's rather like Bakewell tart to taste.

We left in time to catch the bus back to Sheffield; called in at Rossington Road and collected Helen's case again, but this time we walked back, hand in hand. We did have a hot shower when we got in, though, and ate our supper in pyjamas.

When we got to bed, I stretched out my right arm for her. Instead of facing me, though, she backed up so we were spooned together, took my hand and placed it to cup her left breast, reached back for my left arm, and placed it across her, my hand on her right breast, so I was embracing her, but also holding a breast in each hand. It was ... rather nice. She wriggled her bottom, and pressed against my growing erection, then reached between her legs and positioned me between her legs, flat against her, not pushing for penetration. It meant that when I moved I was rubbing her – she held me there with one hand. Her leg sort of hooked behind mine. I moved against her gently – she was very wet - and squeezed her breasts, rubbing her nipples which got very hard. She came, hard, then arched her back, pressed on me, and I was deep inside her.

"Wow!" I breathed in her ear, "I'm in heaven!"

"No," she disagreed, "you're where you ought to be, in me."

"Like I said, I'm in heaven," I chuckled. "Mind you, there's one thing that would make this quite perfect."

 
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