Loading...Bethany hated Valentines day with a passion. As a child, plain and unpopular, she had resented this awful holiday which seemed to involve immature boys chasing girls with chocolates, cards and posies… every girl but her, anyway. She had grown up, and in college the guys had begun to notice her occasionally, but even then she hated Valentine’s day – she saw it as a pathetic excuse for losers to try to use corny one-liners on the assumption that “the season” would make her respond. Fat chance.
By the time she met and Peter, her prejudice against the most tender of holidays was completely set. Sure, he had tried, the first few years. On the 14th of February, a bottle of wine, or a bunch of flowers, would emerge when he returned home, but her response was cold, and in time he just gave up. Valentine’s simply wasn’t her thing.
Now, nearly ten years into their marriage, Peter was working longer and longer hours at work and Bethany, to her surprise, found that she actually missed him. She had never been passionate, exactly… dutiful, and enthusiastic in her own way… but denying Peter’s advances had only been fun when he so obviously wanted her. Now that he wasn’t around, she wanted him. Or, at least, she wanted him to want her. Worse, she knew as Valentine’s day approached, that she had foregone his attentions on the one day when all men paid attention to the women in their lives. Damn.
She had come full circle, she reflected, mid-way through the afternoon of Valentine’s Day. Again, she was the plain little girl, secretly hoping someone would give her a Valentine, and hating the ceremony because she knew it wasn’t going to happen.
Peter, on the other hand, had always adored Valentine’s Day. Somewhat shy as a youth, he had usually been reluctant to try to attract the attention of girls. But on Valentine’s Day, it was somehow OK. So he had nursed his crushes through the year, and set them into action on the one day when being romantic was the rule, not the exception. Marriage to Bethany had changed all of that, of course. Nowadays he customarily stayed away from home on Valentines Day. If he was there, at home, he knew he wouldn’t be able to help making some sort of an effort – and why put himself through the rejection?
The first hint Bethany got that this Valentines Day might somehow be different, was the chime of her doorbell. Puzzled, she opened the front door to find a courier smiling at her.
“A delivery, Ma’am.” He presented her a single rose in a cylinder, with a card pinned to the outside. She opened the card, and read its message in a soft voice.
Tonight, my Valentine, tonight.
Let go, sigh as a lover; Respond
Cupid is calling.
There was no signature. It sure didn’t sound like Peter. “Do you know who sent this?” she asked the courier.
“No, Ma’am. Someone sure likes you though.”
She smiled in response and tipped him, then walked into her living room, tapping the card against her chin, setting the rose just so on her bookshelf. She called Peter’s office, and was answered by his receptionist.
“Melissa, it’s Bethany. Is Peter in?”
“Hi Bethany. I’m afraid he’s been with clients all day, downtown. Do you want me to get him to contact you?”
“No, it’s OK.”
She hung up, still puzzled, then suddenly realised something startling and quite beautiful – she was happy. The anonymous card and flower, apparently for her, arriving in mystery, had made her as giggly and happy as a schoolgirl. She propped the card up by the flower and sat back to contemplate this new feeling. Perhaps, she mused, this is what that long-ago little girl might have felt if one of the boys had actually offered her a Valentine. She smiled and shook her head. Futile speculation.
She had not stopped speculating, though, an hour later, when the doorbell rang again. Rushing to open it, she found a different courier this time, with a small velvet box and a card. This time, she did not bother asking if he knew who had sent the package, she just signed, tipped him, and closed the door quickly. The card, first. Were her fingers actually shaking? Licking her lips, she read:
Is this the scent of love?
Luxuriate in idle bliss
Then dress to dine
Less poetic, this time, she mused, but still a very polite way of telling someone to have a wash and dress for dinner. So what was in the box? Flicking open the catch with her fingernail, she saw two beautifully scented bath pearls nestling on a bed of cotton wool. She sniffed delicately and let the aroma of the oils within the pearls wash over her. It was sweet; floral. Subtle yet insistent. And whether these messages were coming from Peter or not, she suddenly realised, she was going to obey the instructions on the card.
She poured herself a half-glass of wine, went to her cupboard for a short, cute, silken bathrobe – one which Peter had bought but she had never worn – and drew a bath in their ensuite. Warm, but not too warm. Just that perfect temperature which allows one to sink happily and drift. She carefully removed the pearls from their box, and tossed them in, then she returned the box and its card to her bookshelf, next to the rose she had received earlier.
Abandoning the bathrobe, she sank happily into the bath, breathing in the oiled scent which now permeated the ensuite and hung heavily in the air, riding the steam which rose from the bath. After a time, and to her great surprise, Bethany found her fingers tracing gently over the lips of her pussy. Masturbation was not something she had done in years, but the gentle stroke of her fingertips felt so good… and when she brushed them over her clit, she simply moaned softly and abandoned herself to her moment.
Up and down her lips, her fingers gently moved, tracing the outside of her labia, pausing to circle her clit then ever-so-gently pinch, before descending for another lap. Her legs floated apart, as far apart as the bath would let them, allowing her unfettered access to her own sex. Eventually, when her breathing had deepened and her body hung limp, she used two fingers to gently tease apart the lips of her pussy, snaking their way down, gently rubbing her inner lips, teasing herself with the thought of entry but holding back for the moment. With every stroke, she continued to tease her clit.
By now, she was rising from relaxation towards excitement. muscles which had relaxed under the spell of the hot water and scented oils were now tensing with sexual excitement. Finally, she dipped two fingers into her pussy. They penetrated her easily, deeply, and she used them to caress herself inside, finding every spot which made her melt, using one hand to tease herself inside, and the other hand to tease herself outside. Before long, she was shuddering slightly at every stroke, her breath becoming laboured, and her knees working as though humping an imaginary cock. She closed her eyes and squealed as both hands brought their targets to fever pitch, then pushed her over the edge into an explosive orgasm, a screaming, sinking, oh-my-god orgasm which left her half-floating, moaning, and sinking into happy relaxation.
It took a while, but she eventually recovered her wits somewhat and pulled the plug on her bath, standing and wrapping herself in a towel, drying herself, and slipping into her bathrobe for the ten-pace journey to her closet. She opened the far door of her closet, the one which contained the clothes she rarely wore, and drew out a daring black dress. It was tight, satiny, and much too short, with a neckline that made her feel as though her breasts were fully displayed. It was backless, save for a narrow felt cord which criss-crossed her back and seemed somehow to emphasise the bareness of her skin beneath. She paired the outfit with sheer black stockings and suspenders, a brief black thong, and strappy, delicate shoes with just enough of a heel to show off her calves. She looked great – and what was more, she felt great.
Bethany took a moment to remind herself that she hated Valentine’s Day, and laughed. She didn’t believe herself any more. Instead, she took baby sips from her wine, and settled to wait for whatever was to come next.
She didn’t have too long to wait, until another knock announced the next phase of her Valentine’s mystery. She was met at the door by a tall, uniformed man who bowed as she opened the door. He handed her yet another card.
Are you ready, Valentine?
Come to me. Come now.
I await you.
By the roadside she saw a sleek white limousine, tinted windows betraying only the most faint hint of the luxury within. Yet again, any thought of not complying melted, and she fumbled her key in the lock, then followed the chauffer out to the car. He closed the door behind her, and she settled onto the leather seats, heart pounding in her chest. She was on the way to meet… someone.
Peter, surely? But what if it wasn’t? For the hundredth time she ran her mind through a catalogue of other men – and women – who might be responsible. Anyone who had ever shown the slightest interest. The list was regrettably short. She also reflected on her compliance with this mysterious valentine’s instructions. Most unlike her. And if it wasn’t Peter? She realized with a shock that she would still comply. Even if it meant cheating on Peter, this mysterious valentine was going to receive what he had worked so hard for.
Lost in thought, she had hardly noticed the trip, so she was taken somewhat by surprise when the chauffer opened her door. They were outside the Royal Jonquil hotel, easily the most impressive hotel in town… with easily the most impressive rooms upstairs. She swallowed softly, and made her way from the car to the restaurant, where the door opened as she reached for the handle. The Maitre d’ smiled and beckoned her inside. “Welcome, Madam,” he said. “Your host is expecting you.”
He turned as if to lead her away, but she stopped. “Tell me, who is my host, exactly?”
He smiled in return. “Why, he is the man who tipped me generously so that I would decline to answer that question, Madam. Perhaps, though, if you were to come this way?”
Resigned, but somehow pleased at her valentine’s attention to detail, she followed the Maitre d’ to a private dining room on the mezzanine floor. She took a deep breath as he knocked, turned the handle and ushered her in. Was it Peter?
It was Peter. He smiled, somewhat hesitantly, and held his arms out to her. For the first time in years, she did not hesitate to respond, and flew across the room to him. He held her tightly, noting with satisfaction the faint aroma of the bath pearls, and the oh-so-sexy way she had chosen to dress. She kissed him, her mouth opening against his and allowing his tongue to gently probe its way inside as his fingers played across her all-but-bare back, keeping her close but enjoying the smooth touch of her skin. Eventually, though, they were disturbed by a knock at the door as their entrees arrived.
Ordinarily, Bethany would have been furious had Peter ordered for her at a restaurant, but this was somehow not the Peter she knew. Confident, self-assured, in control. She liked it – for tonight, anyway. Dinner was perfect. An entree of prawn cocktails, followed by whole baby rainbow trout on a bed of jasmine rice. Dessert – chocolate profiteroles, her favourite – arrived, and Peter dismissed the waiter with a twenty dollar bill and instructions that they were not to be disturbed.
Now, Bethany decided, was the time for her to seize some of the initiative – and pay him back for the efforts her had made on her behalf. Peter returned to his seat, intent on further small-talk until dessert was gone. To his surprise, however, Bethany smiled at him, a knowing, naughty, nasty smile, and she slowly slid beneath the table. Moments later, looking down, he felt her crawling between his legs. Urgent fingers found his belt buckle, took down his fly, and tucked the tails of his shirt out of the way. Was she going to blow him? Bethany, who had not performed oral sex on him in nearly two years? The evening was going better than he could have hoped for.
She drew his penis from the gap in his boxer shorts, and slowly, tenderly, licked it from its base to its tip, diverting occasionally to run her tongue over his balls. Little by little she felt the cock grow, inside her mouth and against her face, until with one last long, happy lick she found him standing fully erect. Now, she took the head of his dick into her mouth, and swirled her tongue gently against the head, tickling its underside with the very tip of her tongue, guiding herself by his reactions.
He reached down and ran his fingers through her hair, half-caressing and half-restraining. He need not have worried – she wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. Having teased the head of his cock sufficiently she now began to dip her head up and down on his cock, mouth-fucking him, taking in a little more and a little more with each stroke until she had taken all she could. Her lips sealed beautifully around his cock, and her constantly-moving tongue caressed and inflamed any tiny part of his dick which her lips missed.
Finally, nearing the point of no return, he whispered, “Baby, it’s going to be soon. Real soon.” He released his grip on her hair to allow her to move of his cock – she had never swallowed, and he was so delighted by the blowjob that he wasn’t going to push her – but to his surprise, she kept right on working his cock, if anything increasing her intensity slightly. He took a shallow, rasping breath, moaned, and bucked his hips slightly, fucking up into her mouth as he came, pumping cum into her mouth. She continued sucking as hard as she could, swallowing his load down, and not stopping until the sensations became too much for him to bear.
She grinned impishly, then disappeared back under the table for a few seconds, finally popping back up in her place. Elbows on the table, chin resting in her hands, she licked her lips an a very slutty – and completely out of character – manner and murmured, “Well, Peter, I’ve had my dessert. Do we have a room upstairs?”
He smiled and stood, moving around the table to offer her his arm. Suddenly switching from her slutty persona to her ladylike one, she laid her fingers on his arm and allowed him to support her with one hand as he drew out her chair with the other. She stood, and left her arm on his as they left the room and made their way out of the restaurant. The elevator took them most of the way to the top: not the presidential suite, but a very good room nonetheless. Peter opened the door and ushered her inside, where she took in the expensive, tasteful furnishings, then smiled back at him. He had done well.
He crossed to an ice-bucket wherein a just-opened bottle of champagne lay chilling. His instructions, that it should be opened when the staff saw him leave the restaurant, had been complied with nicely. Peter poured out two glasses, and offered one to Bethany.
“Thanks,” she said. “I have a feeling I’m going to need this.”
That was not what he’d expected to hear. “Why, darling? Is something wrong? I thought things were going rather well, myself.”
She crossed the room and lay a finger on his lips to silence him. “Things are going wonderfully, darling. So wonderfully, that I am going to thank you with something you’ve always wanted, but never obtained.” She took a deep breath and whispered. “My ass. You can take my ass.”
Somehow – he could never remember how – he managed to wait until she had finished her drink before he moved in and began to ravage her. The dress disappeared into a puddle of fabric in a far corner of the room, and he dropped to his knees, slowly easing her thong from her hips, enjoying the sight of her as she was revealed to him, paying special attention to the forbidden crevasse of her ass… forbidden territory now his to explore.
He left her stockings and shoes on, and led her to the bed. She piled two pillows in the middle and lay across them, ass high and available, as he undressed, and knelt behind her. She felt warm, wet touches running across her asscheeks, down the crease of her ass, and settling upon her asshole. She looked back and suddenly realised her was using his tongue… licking her there… she had never imagined how good the sensations could feel. Soon she was moaning happily, feeling his tongue pressure her ass, and eventually enter it, just by half an inch or so, but enough to signal that the next stage of the process could begin.
Bethany could not help tensing slightly as she felt him move against her, and felt his finger press gently against the rosette of her ass. For the first time ever, she was going to be entered there. Suddenly, the reality of the situation struck her and she very nearly called a halt to the game… and yet, for some reason, something held her tongue. She took a deep breath and tried desperately to relax her ass.
Fortunately, Peter was patient, kissing her back, massaging her asscheeks, dipping his fingers gently into her pussy, occasionally returning to her ass, until eventually her ass opened slightly to the pressure of his finger. A few more moments and his first knuckle had penetrated the ring of muscle inside her. Bethany felt impossibly full. If this is what his finger felt like, how on earth was she going to take his cock?
And yet, as his finger began to gently pump within her, her nerves fell away slightly, replaced by a raw, sexy, lust. Trying unfamiliar language, she told herself a simple truth – she was being fingerfucked in her asshole… and she liked it. Her ass began moving to the rhythm of his finger, and the strokes became longer and more determined, as she opened around him. Peter smiled at her progress, her low, guttural moans, and her obvious desire.
She let out a surprised gasp as he added a second finger, but by now her ass was happily stretching out for more. The second finger renewed that delicious feeling of fullness, and within moments he was stroking her deeply again. There was no longer any question that her ass would take his cock. She wanted it. And Peter knew that – so it was time to take advantage.
The withdrawal of his fingers brought another gasp. Peter leaned in close, over her, and whispered in Bethany’s ear. “What do you want me to do?”
She groaned. “Put it in.”
“Put what in, Bethany?”
She took a deep breath. “Put your cock in. Please, don’t make me ask like this, just do it. Please?”
He just chuckled. “Put my cock in where, Bethany?”
“Oh, fuck. In my ass, Peter. Put your cock in my ass, fuck my ass, I’ll say whatever you like, but just do it now!”
His grin almost split his face as Peter positioned himself behind her, kneeling, his hands on her hips, manipulating her until his asshole was perfectly positioned for his cock. He moved forward slightly and they both moaned at the first contact of his dick against her slightly dilated asshole. Maintaining his hold on her hips, he edged forward and his dick slipped into her.
Peter felt amazing. It was like fucking a virgin again… every part of his cock was compressed slightly by the pressure from her tight ass, and every few seconds she erupted in a wave of muscle contractions which felt as though she was milking his cock inside her. Slowly, but firmly, he pressed until he was entirely inside her, his thighs against he ass cheeks, then he stopped, pausing to enjoy the sensations.
Bethany was much too excited to accept any such delays. There had been pain, at first, on the way in, but she gritted her teeth, thanked heavens her face was away from him, and tried not to let him know he was hurting her. The pain lasted only moments, however, and now she found herself wanting more. She wanted to be assfucked like a wanton slut. She needed this. Rotating her hips slightly, she ground back against him.
Peter needed no more signal and, grabbing her by the hips, he began fucking her firmly, with long, deep, possessive strokes. As his excitement built, his control declined, and he began humping her furiously, pounding her ass hard. By now, he didn’t care if he was hurting her or not, but neither did she. With a semi-coherent wail, he made one climactic thrust into her and came hard, pumping his seed into her. His moans faded only slightly as he continued sliding his cock in and out of her until his erection faded and he withdrew from her, a trickle of cum following from her no-longer-so-tight asshole.
He stretched out to lay beside her, an arm around her, drawing her close. “I love you, my Valentine,” he whispered.