Reunion Of The St Valentines Harem

Author' Note:

This tale was conceived as a Valentine's Day story for the romance category. Alas, as sometimes happens, the characters commandeered the plot and embellished much of the story with what should be categorized as group sex. A group of disillusioned college women form The St. Valentine's Harem and seduce a young man to become their sultan; he is to provide romantic cheer and sex for his harem of lady friends. As the author, I was eventually able to wrest the plot back from this group of brash, lonely ladies and return this tale of group sex back to one of romance.

The timeline used in 'The Reunion of the St. Valentine Harem' does weave around a bit, which I believe enhances the narrative. The tale begins with this year's Valentine's Day; Randall Vinificatore is rereading a Valentine card he received seven years after leaving college, stirring up fond memories of the day he opened this mysterious pink envelope.

The tale then fades further back in time as Randall reflects on his college days and the events which led to the formation of his St. Valentine's Harem during an informal Valentine's dinner, prepared for four girls who did not have a better offer on that night of romance.

After reliving Randall's college experience with his St. Valentine's Harem, the story moves ahead seven years, returning to the day he got his surprise Valentine from an unexpected source, asking "Will You Be My Valentine?" Randall responds to this invitation and is surprised by what he finds. Following Randall's response to the invitation, the story progresses, looping back and reconnecting with this year's Valentine's Day - back where the tale began in the opening paragraphs; finishing on a romantic note, as was my initial intention. - Sandy

~ * ~ ** ~ *** ~ ** ~ * ~

She slipped around behind me, unnoticed, as I sat next to the fire, lost in thought. "Mr. Randall Vinificatore, what's in your hand?"

I kept my eyes on the hypnotic dance of the flames as I answered her. "Oh, just an old card I got in the mail a few years ago. I enjoy pulling it out and taking a look at it around this time of year. It brings back some fond memories."

She set a wine glass on the stand next to me, taking a seat in the chair on the other side of the hearth, holding her own glass of Riesling. "Sounds like that old card might have a story to tell; and I love a good story. Mr. Vinificatore, If you don't mind, I'd love to listen as you tell me the story behind that old card."

I took a sip, letting the complexity of the aged vintage wash across the back of my tongue. I lowered the glass from my lips, letting them part in a secret smile. I gathered my memories and began to tell her of this old card; "This story of romance -- or perhaps I should say, this story of sex and then romance, begins like this..."

...It was unexpected.

I guess it was easy to see how it had escaped my notice, buried among the matted mare's-nest of advertising circulars which had accumulated inside my mailbox over the last week to ten days. I didn't give any thought to this ritual cleansing of my mailbox; in fact, I didn't bother to look at the commercial crap stuffed inside. I didn't need aluminum siding or teeth whitening treatments. I walked across the kitchen with a fist full of junk mail destined for the recycle bin.

In hindsight, I guess I could say that the reason I noticed it was because the envelope was heavier and thicker than the surrounding wad of slick newsprint. Its heft caused it to separate from the pile, making it fall into the bin ahead of the rest, hitting the bottom with an audible, dull rap.

Or in hindsight, I guess I could say there's another possibility; the only reason I noticed it was fate. One of life's moments of singular good fortune.

Whether by differential sorting or by fate, the thud of the pale pink envelope landing at the bottom of the plastic bin made me turn around to take a second look at what I'd just dumped into the trash.

I dug it out, turning it over in my hand, it was unusual. Unusual for several reasons; first, it was an oddity, it looked like personal mail. I don't get personal mail. Who does in the 21st Century? I thought it odd that some real person would try and communicate with me through the US Postal service. Why would someone spend the effort to write a message on paper and then address an envelope and then spend the money to buy a stamp and put in the mail to be delivered to me days - yes, days later? Arcane and unusual. Second, it was addressed to me by hand. My name and address were not printed but written in a looping, curving feminine form. What woman would send me something in such an old-fashioned manner? Rather mysterious. Third, the envelope had the faint scent of perfume. I smiled inwardly at this fun and fanciful dimension added to a paper envelope as I lifted it to my nostrils. Intrigued, I had to admit none of my phone's messages ever came with the scent of a woman. There is no app to deliver that kind of pleasantly scented subtlety.

The back of the pink envelope had the imprint of lipstick from two lips, kind of like an emoji, over the initials SWAK. WTF? I knew most of the texting standard initials; but this was a new one for me. I'd have to look SWAK up on my phone. Intrigued and puzzled by this quaint oddity, I flipped back to the front to see if she left a clue as to her identity in the return address corner.

L. Robbins

6116 Bond Boulevard

Apartment 214.

The sender had written her name and street address. The last line on her return address showed that she lived here in town. I had to think, did I know an L. Robbins from around here?

I wasn't sure I could place the name. Not wanting to let the mystery linger, I grabbed a table knife, encrusted with dried peanut butter off the counter and slit open the top of the scented envelope. I was surprised to see it was a card. A handmade card with the sexy figure of a veiled woman dressed as a belly dancer made from a collage of fabric and construction paper. I was surprised to realize it was a Valentine's Day card addressed to me; but who was L. Robbins in Apartment 214?

Opening the card, I read the hand lettered script:

Randall, Will You Be My Valentine?

She had written a note on the back of the card:

It's been a while. Time enough to mull over life's decisions and a few regrets of years gone by. I am hoping you remember me from our Junior year and the fleeting adventures with Cici, Marti and Stacey.

I've been thinking about those times and about you.

Please forgive me for being so forward, but I have changed and grown from the girl you may remember from before. So, if you don't have any plans this Valentine's Day... I was wondering if you would be interested in rekindling some of the adventures of your St. Valentine's Harem?

If a reunion of the St. Valentine's Harem piques your pleasure bone, you need not search for words. If your answer is "Yes"; just untie the small fabric knot on the inside of this card, remove the piece and put it in the enclosed SASE and mail it back to me. That will let me know if you wish to be my Valentine -- or not.

If I get the SASE back indicating your "Yes" to my proposal, then I'll get in touch with you with Valentine's Day details. Otherwise, you can ignore my surprise intrusion into your life.

Randall, if you have moved on with your life, I understand. I send my apologies in advance for this audacious card and any inconvenience or uncomfortable feelings this may have caused. -- Lauren

I had read to the end of her first paragraph and the memories came flooding back to me. Yes, I remembered Lauren Robbins now; she was the shy one in that house with CiCi, Marti and Stacey. Either shy, or quite prudish; my recollection of Lauren was she was unsure and a bit awkward.

The memories of the girls in my Saint Valentine's Harem returned with a vivid vengeance once I opened this pink envelope and read the card. This was one hell of a surprise. Even more of a surprise was getting a Valentine from Lauren; CiCi maybe, Marti I could imagine, even the outside chance that I'd hear from Stacy -- but Lauren? I was gobsmacked. My curiosity was aroused. My pleasure bone was aroused.

I was not ready to commit to any Valentine's Day date, but I was willing to consider the possibilities. I remembered Lauren as the crafty girl in the group, crafty as in artistic. And she could sew. It was Lauren who sewed the harem girl costumes that CiCi, Marti, Stacey and she wore for me, the Sultan, during our few erotic costume play dates at their house.

Lauren outdid herself, using her artistic skills to craft this elaborate card. It was obvious she put a lot of effort, thought and emotional risk in sending me this invitation, asking if I would be her Valentine. I was a bit flummoxed, but I couldn't resist following her instructions to see what happened; I untied the knot at the back of the card's front leaf. Threading the tiny piece of fabric through the slots in the paper, once removed, it revealed the belly dancer's veiled breasts underneath the fabric. Lauren had concealed a pair of tits with tiny red beads glued on for nipples beneath the belly dancer's removable fabric top. Clever girl that Lauren - with a bold attention to detail.

I'll admit, she had me going with this clever Valentine.

I was left wondering. I was also left holding a miniature scrap of cloth between my fingers. Lauren was right, she had changed, this is not the prudish girl trying to fade into the background that I remembered. The new, grown up Lauren had found a way to hit all the right buttons. A mysterious, erotic Valentine card arriving by mail in a perfumed pink envelope with more than a subtle hint at a reunion of the Saint Valentine's Harem? Maybe I could use some rekindled excitement and mystery in my life about now.

What the hell? Why not? I stuffed the scrap into the self-addressed, stamped envelope provided with the card for my RSVP. With her sealed return envelope in hand, I hopped with giddy feet down my front steps to place it in the outgoing mail.

Back inside, I rummaged around in the back of my closet and found the old large manila envelope. I opened it for the first time in a long time. Removing the three pair of panties I had demanded as my Sultan's tribute from CiCi, Marti and Stacey. Lauren had shyly declined to surrender hers, as was her way. These panties were once prized and secret possessions. After the harem broke up, I used their lingerie as a talisman to sexually excite and stimulate myself, thinking of those three girls and their glorious pussies as I masturbated to their memories.

Lauren's sexy Valentine's card and its hint of a lurid invitation had ignited some scorching desires inside me and my trousers. Extracting the forgotten panties from the envelope, I fondled them as my boner strained against my trousers. The red satin pair with black lace trim, those were worn by Marti. CiCi had forfeited her blue panties with a mermaid on the butt and Stacey had offered up a pair of her slinky pinkies. I sniffed them all, the scent of their previous owner had long dissipated, but not the memories. Those memories went straight down between my legs.

Reclining on my bed, I pulled my pants off, allowing my shaft to spring free to excited heights. Wrapping my fingers around my rigid skin pole, the hot blood filling my shaft was evident by the warmth radiating from my cock. I swaddled my prodigious pecker with Marti's red satin fabric, letting her panties glide up and down my throbbing cock. The teasing of the slinky fabric running up and down my pole inflamed my globe, making it hot as a match head. I picked up CiCi's light blue mermaid panties, without missing a stroke. I imagined Mr. Mongo slipping into each of the girl's hot, slippery slit. I swapped one pair of panties for a different pair, each pair brought a different sensation. When I used a different panty to stroke my smoldering branding iron, I imaged I was fucking a different girl in my St. Valentine's Harem.

I kept exchanging my masturbation memory panties, using each dainty pair to rub my cock maybe three or four times. Mr. Mongo was rapidly heating up with steamy, rapid fire recollections of the sex games he once played. I saw titties swinging and jiggling beneath me as I pounded into wet and willing pussies. I was trying to recall hearing their moans, wanting to bring back the unique sex sounds each of my harem girls made as I fucked them.

The memories of my harem and the feel of their cool, forfeited lingerie gliding over my overheated, sensitive shaft brought me to the irresistible point of no return. My balls tightened for action; my ejaculation was imminent. I stroked with one hand while I held Stacey's pink pair over the top of Mr. Mongo's business end. I erupted in a gush of hot, sticky, pearly white jizz. In my fantasy, I had just flooded Stacey's pussy with all the pent-up man juice I could muster. I imagined Stacey collapsing in a quivering, delirious orgasm. Her moans and screams penetrating the walls of her room, making the other girls in the house wet and excited in anticipation of experiencing the same from me, their sultan.

I tossed Stacey's besmirched tribute panties into the laundry pile. I let my breath relax as I cooled down. It was great to indulge my mind and my cock in such a satisfying sexual adventure. No longer seething with the sexual urges brought on by my surprise piece of mail, I collected my thoughts. I wondered about my St. Valentines Harem and I thought about Lauren and the other girls.

It had been five -- no, seven years now; thoughts of 'my harem' used to cross my mind every year around Valentine's Day. Those were good memories of my younger days. My days of wild oats; really my only episode of wild oats. Those wild memories had faded along with my care-free days of a student. Life has a way of crowding out those flirtatious opportunities which seemed so easy back then; back before I had a career, deadlines and the tyranny of life's routines. I knew that if I dwelt on those memories of my St. Valentine's Harem, I would miss those days of a younger man. I guess that's the reason I've let them fade away, avoiding the hollow feeling of these past few years. Now those faded memories were back.

My mind returned to that miserable spring semester. My old girlfriend abruptly dumped me after New Year's. I was in a funk. My friend CiCi had broken up with her boyfriend around Christmas and we found a shared comfort in our broken-hearted misery. We shared beers, tears and pizza in a dark tavern corner as we tried to hide from the gray winter weather and the gray pall of lost love that draped heavy over our empty souls.

CiCi and I wallowed in our misery together through late afternoon bitch-sessions after class and into the night. It was comforting at first to have a woman listen to my grievances and sooth my confused heart. Dwelling on my bitterness came to be unhelpful, even harmful, doing nothing but agitating the bitter, toxic brew I held inside. I told CiCi that I had to stop bathing in this cauldron of pity; it was poisoning me.

CiCi understood, acknowledging that she too feared she was being swallowed by the gloom of our conversations and felt she needed a way out. CiCi gripped her half-empty beer mug, leaned across the table, "Okay Randall, let's just spew all of our bitterness out on this table right now and get it over with - What are you doing for Valentine's Day?"

"Ouch!" I said. Then I began to chuckle, "Yep, you lanced that festering boil, didn't you?"

CiCi scrunched her nose as she held my stare, "We've got three days 'til Valentine's, all of those damn ads for couples and lovers make it unavoidable to ignore. Let's swear to each other that we will break out of this morose mood, fit only for blowers of bubbles in mud puddles. We're better than this Randall. Let's swear to do something cheery."

I was laughing at her phrasing of our gloomy therapy sessions. "What, you don't like blowing bubbles in the mud?"

CiCi deadpanned her response, "It was fine in the beginning. But I've grown tired of the taste of mud. Mud may look like Valentine's chocolate, but it don't taste like chocolate. It tastes like shit after a while."

I picked a piece of cold pizza off the platter to counteract the image of eating shit, an image which CiCi has just planted in my mind and mouth. I asked, "Hey, what's going on at your house with your housemates on Valentine's? Any of your housemates got a hot date or something?"

CiCi shook her head, "Absolutely not. All the girls have been kind of whiney at the lack of romantic attention heading into Valentines."

"You said you want something cheery? Here's my idea, I'll come over to your place on Valentines, I'm going to cook lobster ravioli in vodka sauce from scratch with my mama's pasta recipe. And I'll bring the wine too."

CiCi grinned at my idea, "Are you cooking for just us two or for me and my three housemates?"

With an assertive voice I said, "Tell everyone at your house that a good-looking single guy is on his way over to cook up a delicious dinner for all the girls on Valentine's night, unless they get a better offer."

"You sound like you just snapped out of your lonely-hearted funk," was CiCi's observation.

"That's the idea. You're idea actually. It'll be cheery and fun. At least it's a start." I downed the last of my beer, pounded the mug on the table. "Let's go CiCi, I've got some shopping to do in the morning."

***

A beaming Marti answered the door, "Randall, I hear you're making a delicious dinner tonight for anyone who doesn't have a Valentine's date." It felt good to be welcomed with such obvious eagerness.

I stepped through the door carrying two bags of ingredients. "Indeed," I answered, "I've come bearing the makings for a great meal. I'm hoping that my meal and the company of four lovely ladies will dispel any gloomy spirits that might be haunting this day for all of us un-paired types."

"I'm thinking the wine might help with that also," added Marti as she began to help me unpack my bags.

Stacey appeared from out of her room, followed my Lauren. "Hey, you two," I said, addressing Stacey and Lauren, "I've got a pasta machine and three bottles of wine still in my car, would you mind bringing them in for me?"

Stacey headed for the door, "Let's get our big Valentine's Day date started," she said with enthusiasm as Lauren followed her outside in the cold to fetch the remainder of my supplies.

I would not have characterized my cooking for these female friends as a 'date', but I was not here to spoil anybody's Valentine's Day. With no romantic dates on anyone's schedule, I was willing to let Stacey hold to her illusions, romantic or otherwise.

I asked Marti, "Where's CiCi?"

"She had to go turn in an assignment. Said she would shop for some chocolates for everyone, if they weren't too picked over. She also said she might bring back some gelato for our date." Even Marti and CiCi had termed my arrival as a 'date'. I was good with that.

Lauren carried my pasta maker in, Stacey carried in the wine, followed by CiCi with a box of assorted chocolates, a carton of lemon gelato and a bottle of wine. "I got some good stuff!" announced CiCi.

I looked at CiCi as she was putting the gelato in the freezer, "CiCi, what's with the bottle? I told you I'd bring the wine."

CiCi shrugged, "Nothing wrong with a little more than you planned, is there? Unless you're a wine snob and disapproved of my selection." She gave me a playful bump of her hip as she shut the freezer door.

"As a matter of fact, I was born a wine snob. I was born Italian and stamped with the name Vinificatore, which means winemaker. That makes me a wine snob to the third degree. So, what did you bring to pair with your chocolates?"