My entry for the 2021 Valentine's Day contest.
This is a new type of story for me, at least in terms of the subject matter. A second chapter is certainly possible -- you'll see I leave things very open -- but it depends on whether people think it works for them. Sometimes experiments in new areas pay off. Sometimes... not so much. Votes and comments will decide. Thanks.
When she looked back, she thought it was probably the flowers that made up her mind.
Maybe it would have happened anyway. That's certainly what Steven said. He said it with a total, complete confidence that was one of the things she loved about him.
**
It had started -- properly started -- three months ago.
It had been Valentine's Day. For once all the kids were home. Rachel, just turned eighteen. Amy, her older sister, nearly twenty now. And her darling boy Blake, so good looking at twenty-two. He must be driving the college girls crazy, she'd thought, watching him in his tight t-shirt as he got himself a drink from the fridge.
Was it her imagination, or had he been checking out his sisters discreetly that night? They'd certainly been wearing eye-catching outfits, Rachel in a tight green dress that was low cut and pushed her breasts upwards and outwards; Amy, always a little more diffident, was wearing jeans and a loose top that kept falling open around the neck and arms. Maybe he was. Or maybe it was just the way she seemed to think about everything now. Every room she was in, every person she saw, it was if she had to consider every sexual possibility and combination.
The girls were beautiful, no question. She'd certainly been complimented on them all more than once. Friends of her husband had been checking out Rachel and Amy for years, and she'd never minded that. For that matter, she'd had more than a few discreet overtures from those same men as well. One of them had tiresomely insisted on turning up at inconvenient times for a few weeks to "borrow some tools", knowing full well that Lewis wouldn't be home. But she'd simply smiled and said to help himself from the shed and then shut the door firmly on his hopeful face.
Lewis always made a special effort on Valentine's Day, and she'd always kissed him and hugged him and her eyes would well up at the elaborate, thoughtful message he'd write in the card for her. He always made a special effort, and she always hated it. He was so goddamned... reverent about her. Praising her, telling her how lucky he was to have her, that she made him the happiest man in the world. It made her want to scream sometimes.
That night, after the kids had gone their separate ways to various friends' houses and parties and mysterious assignations known only as "going out", she and Lewis had made love. In the early years of their marriage, like most young couples, they'd screwed pretty much all the time. She'd gotten pregnant early with Blake when she was aged just twenty, and she was glad now they'd had their kids young. For forty-two she thought she still looked pretty damned good. After twenty plus years of marriage, she still made Lewis hard, that was for sure. But they only fucked occasionally now. Perhaps a few times a month, if that.
She'd lain there underneath him, staring at the ceiling and occasionally remembering to stir and make a noise and act enthused. She wasn't completely indifferent, having a cock in you was always a good thing, right? But she was restless. It was like she was watching herself, lying there, the years passing, the same old routine, forever and ever... it made her want to cry out with fury.
Lewis was getting close now, she could feel it, and she sighed and murmured encouragingly. From her vantage point under her straining husband she could just see the flowers he'd bought sitting on the bedroom table. As she watched a petal fell from one of them and settled onto the floor. Dying already, she thought. They're damn well dying already.
Just a few more moments and Lewis would be done. She wasn't close herself, but perhaps there was still time. Unlikely though. The only way she could get herself off now was if she reached right back into the darkest corners of her mind, that place she only dared to go sometimes. Memories of when she was the same age that Rachel was now. Coming home and curling up on the couch... but not alone. His hands snaking around her. The pressure of him against her ass. Her nipples hardening... and then everything that followed...
God, it was such a good, dirty memory, one she'd never told anybody... she was always appalled but it always worked for her. She could feel herself starting to tingle and tighten. Hell yes. Maybe not such a bad Valentine's Day fuck after all.
Then Lewis came heavily inside her, crying out, the same noises he always made, and she could have shouted in frustration. Already she could feel the prospects of her own orgasm scuttling away, taunting her as they retreated. All that was left was that wet, slippery, aching emptiness as Lewis pulled himself out of her, kissing her softly and thanking her.
Don't fucking thank me, she wanted to snap at him. Don't you fucking dare thank me.
Then he was padding off to the bathroom to clean himself up. He would return with some wet sponges and would clean her gently. He always did, it was part of their ritual. He thought she liked it. He had no idea she wanted to tell him to just leave his cum there, leave it dribbling out of her and drying on the inside of her thighs. Treat me like a fucking slut, she wanted to tell him. Just once. I want to be a dirty whore who sleeps with dried cum on her legs. But she knew she'd never say that.
As she listened to Lewis in the bathroom she glanced over again at the flowers. Half a dozen more petals were on the floor.
**
On the train to work the following morning she thought about the day ahead. Particularly the project meeting at 11, when Steven would be there. She'd made a special effort that day, an extra low-cut top that was right on the borderline for what was considered acceptable at work but she didn't care. Let them look at my tits, she thought. Even now, I have the best tits in my family. Rachel's might be the firm, perky C cups that the luckiest teens were blessed with, and poor Amy didn't yet know that the smaller, boyish A/B cups that she hated so much were actually just what lots of men preferred -- but Alison's own, classic, full, heavy D sized beauties-- she wouldn't swap those with anybody.
I want Steven to look at my tits today, she thought. As much as he wants. I hope he goes home and jerks off about them.
The idea pleased her. She and Steven had been flirting for a while now, very discreet, always careful that nobody else could overhear. He was a gentleman, very smart, so smart she could sense he held the rest of them in a quietly amused contempt. But she liked that. Occasionally she would catch him looking at her appraisingly. He would never take his eyes away hurriedly and nervously, as so many other men did. He would hold her gaze for a few moments, smile that enigmatic smile of his, then turn his attention elsewhere. And she'd find she'd been holding her breath that whole time.
He was older than her, by about ten years. He wasn't classically handsome, but he was in good shape for a man of that age and he carried himself with a confidence that made everybody on the team defer to him. She'd lost count of the number of times that they'd had long, drawn-out rambling discussions as to whether the best way to resolve a problem was to do A, B or C, and then Steven would quietly interrupt, clearly state which option was the best and why, and it would all somehow magically be agreed. Even the younger, brasher men on the team, normally those who might be difficult, would fall in line once Steven had passed judgement.
The project team met once a week, usually finishing just before lunch. Several months previously Steven had somehow appeared beside her as she'd gathered up her things and asked her if she was free for lunch. She hadn't been, as it happened, and said so, and he smiled and said of course.
"Perhaps another time?" she'd stammered. God, it was just lunch. Why did she feel herself blushing?
"Perhaps," he'd agreed. "I do think lunch with you would be... very enjoyable."
God, how did anybody manage to get so much subtext into the word "lunch"?
But perhaps that was just her fevered imagination. It probably was just lunch. People who worked together had lunch all the time. No big deal.
But....
"I do think lunch with you would be very enjoyable."
That was what his mouth was saying.
"I do think fucking you would be very enjoyable."
That's what his eyes were saying. She was sure of it.
No harm in a bit of office flirting, she told herself as the train approached the station. It makes us all feel alive. It's not like I'm actually going to do anything about it.
The next week she'd waited for him to ask her again, and had been strangely crushed when he'd just sauntered out without a backward glance at her. Well, he was probably busy.
The week after that he'd ignored her as well, which annoyed her.
The week after that she'd manoeuvred herself beside him on the way out.
"We never did have that lunch, did we?" she'd said brightly.
He'd paused, looked at her. "No. We never did." He waited for a few moments for a few straggling colleagues to pass them, leaving them alone.
"Lunch is a big commitment, Alison. You have to be sure about it."
Then he'd smiled, and walked off.
God, he was so ARROGANT, she'd thought angrily. There was no question what he was talking about now. Fuck him and his fucking "lunch".
But that night, finding herself with half an hour alone, she'd taken a long shower and brought herself to orgasm. Thinking about the way he looked at her when he'd said that. Thinking about being on her knees, looking up at him, as he ordered her to take his cock in her mouth.
**
The meeting was cancelled. Some of the project team had gone away on a client visit and some bad weather had delayed their return journey. So, no project meeting. No opportunities to resume their flirting. Or whatever it was. She stared at her computer screen, going through the motions of work but feeling desolate.
"Ready Alison?"
She looked up, startled. Steven was standing by her desk.
"No meeting today," she said. "It was cancelled."
"I know. But we should meet," he said. "Just us. I'm sure it would be beneficial."
"Oh... yes, OK."
"I've booked a room."
For a moment she thought he meant a hotel room, and her heart jolted. Yes, she thought. Take me to a hotel and fuck me.
"Let's go."
She realised he meant a meeting room, and was surprised by how disappointed she felt. She trailed after him, feeling rather pathetic in her short skirt and her ridiculous top.
The meeting room was of one the smaller ones, a simple round table with four seats at the corner of the building. There was a noisy meeting going on next door, separated from them by glass which was frosted in the centre but clear at the top and bottom, something Alison had never understood. Who wanted to see people's feet and the tops of their heads from the next room?
Steven went in ahead of her -- some men would have held the door for her and let her go in first, but it felt entirely right that she should follow behind him. She trailed in, and shut the door.
Steven took a seat on the far side of the room and she pulled out the chair opposite him.
