«What time is it?» I asked, waking from our slumber and reaching for my phone.

The smile she gave me told me it wasn’t important what time it was; all that mattered was where we were, and how we were. Tangled in sheets, sweat, and a mix of vanilla lube, berry-scented oil, and the shared fluids of our bodies.

“I fell asleep,” I muttered.

“Yeah, sleepyhead,” she laughed. “Like all men.”

I muttered an excuse, which she ate out of my mouth.

“Hush,” she giggled. “You’re such a donkey~”

I grabbed a handful of tit, and she let me have it, let me suck it, if only for a brief taste.

“Mmhmm…I need a shower.”

And I let her. I let her slide off me, I let her tease with her curves, I let her walk off to the bathroom. I know I should have followed. I know I should have joined her. I’ve always been like that, in need of a fucking written invitation. I’ve cursed myself many times since.

Why didn’t I join you?

Well, now you know better, babe.

I stretched and listened to the hiss of water from the other side of the wall. She’s an indulgent creature, and her winter showers are long and warm. If not to say hot. I scolded myself more than once, stepping into the shower after her, and that afternoon was no exception.

Our morning replayed itself as I shampooed, and my cock twitched by thought alone.

“Easy, boy,” I murmured. “Later.”

I’m a combination-showerer. I brushed my teeth, shaved, and checked downstairs for the state of ball-stubble. Drying off, I caught a glimpse of myself in the steamed-up mirror. Not sharp, not shaped, but not bad for fifty-three.

“You smell so good,” she groaned when I stepped back into the room. “And looking sharp, too!”

I rarely wear a shirt; I don’t enjoy the slow strangulation of a collar, and I don’t enjoy the scrape of a stiff collar against my skin. It doesn’t really look as sharp as you’re made to believe, either. It’s pretentious, uncomfortable, and utterly impractical.

She looked good enough to eat, even while dressed up and ready for dinner. We’d spent so much time naked the last few days, skin had started to feel more natural than clothes. When she walked over and kissed me, I caught her scent again. Not the showered clean one, not her perfume, but the one that always lingers underneath. Her smell.

We like to think we’re above them, the animals we smile at as they smell each other’s asses, and sniff each other’s marks, the way the males pick out a female’s need on the wind. But it’s still there, within us. It’s why our instinct is to smell our partner. It’s why your chosen partner’s sweat turns you on. It’s why we recognize each other through the distinct smell of our skin. Our sweat and musk.

Our arousal.

“You ready for dinner?” I asked, a little proud that I’d actually made reservations.

She smiled slyly, kissed me again, then whispered: “Not really.”

There’s something about the certainty in two people who know they’re getting fucked, who want to get fucked, and yet choose to stick to the game plan. To follow the order of things. Lovers who let every part of the day become foreplay. I felt it in the way she brushed my hand, in the way she smiled at me waiting for the elevator, the way her heat sought me when the doors glided shut.

“I’m…thankful,” she whispered. “That you’re my Valentine.”

I pulled her closer and kissed her again.

“I’m happy that you’re mine.”

Romance isn’t about stiff-lipped Maître d’s, immaculate waiters, impersonal and spotless white tablecloths, or an ambiance so stuck up you need to cut it with a knife just to get conversation in. A good time isn’t about minuscule dishes with names you can’t pronounce or ingredients you wouldn’t stock in your own kitchen. No, romance is in knowing what your partner likes, what they want. And if you’re doing it right, they want your company more than anything. I’d rather be there, with her, eating something simple, than sitting in some fancy place paying eighty bucks for a mouthful of seaweed and grains just because it sounds impressive.

I also love eating medium-rare steak while being horny. There’s something carnal about red meat, lust, and the act of performing restraint in front of a woman whose eyes alone ruin you.

I had beer instead of wine, mostly because I felt like keeping her company in her choice.

Norwegians know their beer, she later remarked.

Uh, that’s actually a French beer, someone ignorantly replied.

Honey~  The origin of the beer was never the point, but the way he understands me.

Our conversation weaved itself through the meal, the same way it weaves itself through our day. Her internal system is built like mine, where words trigger memories, thoughts, and ideas. We may not always answer each other’s questions, but come up with new ones, or disclose truths about ourselves the other never asked for. She has a way of stringing words and thoughts together, unlike anyone else.

I finished my beer.

She smiled.

“You want dessert?” I asked her.

“Not really…”

I looked at her. “Well…I do.”

“Oh…” she said, pushing the menu over. “What are you thinking?”

I didn’t pay notice to the menu, but took her hand before she had the chance to pull it back. I rarely touch hands with anyone. It’s stressful to even shake someone’s hand, so stressful I tend to forget what name they present themselves with. But her hands feel natural in mine, like they belong.

“You,” I said.

She blushed. “Oh…”

Then her eyes found mine, and something else built itself under her voice. Something confident and certain: “Oh!”

Romance is also awkwardly retreating to your room, trying to avoid being seen as you steal kisses and touches that we deem inappropriate in our quest to be civilized. We didn’t really care, though; we just didn’t want to get arrested. And after all, it was St. Valentine’s Day. We weren’t the only ones to get fucked.

She didn’t pull me into the room and kiss me; she slid inside, and before I could close the door behind me, she was undressing by the bed. I watched her. I’ll always watch her get naked.

She left her panties on as she slid on top of the bed and looked at me, as if asking: What are you waiting for?

I kind of regretted not having spent a fortune on flowers, not having ordered a billion rose petals for her to swim in, not having her bask in chocolate, pink ribbons, and getting high on Champagne.

What the fuck was I actually waiting for?

I undressed, clearly with less grace than her, obviously with less tease, and guaranteed less sexy. She didn’t seem to mind, though—not when I slid on top of her, not when I kissed her, not when I pressed against her so she knew exactly what she did to me. I think she wanted me there, positioned right between her legs, cock pulsing against the softness of her.

I didn’t kiss her; I ate her mouth. My lips might have left a trail of drool down her chin before I licked the length of her throat. I don’t know if her hands found the back of my head to keep me there or if it was to keep herself afloat, but the gasp that left her throat as I filled my palms with her tits told me she enjoyed my dessert as much as I was about to.

I squeezed a little harder than I should—hard enough for her to arch into it—and let half her breast fill my mouth, sucking her in. It still tasted a little raw from the day before, but I couldn’t contain myself. Not even when she whimpered a little and dug her nails into my scalp.

“Easy,” she begged, but my answer was twisting the pin in her other nipple hard enough for her back to lift off the sheets, her legs to fall wider, and have her curse the name of Christ twice.

I pinched hard before letting the pin go, and hunger took me as she perked stubbornly from the abuse. I let go, lifted off her, and found her eyes.

I think she read it from the look I gave her. I was going to feast on her.

I filled my hands with her anew, squeezed her tits together, and swallowed both her stiff peaks in one, wet mouthful. Her answer was in how she lifted her hips and ground the warm softness of her crotch into my cock.

“Oh my fucking God.”

Her groan was as filthy as my hunger. I chewed—my mouth watering and slobbering—coating her tits in drool and need. I love the shape of her, the size of her, how perfectly nature has sculpted her—They used to be firmer, she’s argued. You should have seen me in my twenties. —the weight of her, and how beautifully her breasts settle when I release her and gravity compliments her. I watched them find the shape against her chest; slightly swollen, slick with drool, and utterly mine to ruin. Again, and again.

My eyes stayed steady on hers as I dragged my fingers down her sides, feeling the soft swell of her ribs. Each rise and dip under my fingers felt like a slow countdown, catching the rhythm of my pulse. The first time I saw her eyes, I told her they could tell a story of their own. Now they were urging me on, asking me to find the buttons hidden under her skin.

I’m compulsively inquisitive.

What does this button do?

The swell of her belly is her at her most sensual. Feminine, soft, utterly inviting. No sharp edges, no hard abs, and offering enough flesh to sink teeth into. Her breath was an invitation to explore that soft landscape, the intimate geography of her. There’s a button in the dip where her thighs join her hips. I pulled the waistband of her panties down to reveal it—kissed it, licked it, sucked it—but I’m not entirely sure if it turns her on more, or me.

I followed her line.

Cotton and cunt.

The fabric was damp with heat, infused with musk, and molded perfectly to her. I licked the shape of her, sniffed her like a dog. Sucked her scent through the annoying layer still separating my mouth from her hunger.

“Fuck,” she groaned.

I grinned.

“Not yet.”

I didn’t mean to bite her, chew her clit, or literally eat her cunt the way I did, but it was also an impossibility not to. She had been clutching the sheets, but now her hips jerked downward, pressing the entire shape of her into my mouth as her hands found the back of my skull again.

She was fingers and nails, scraping me raw.

“Please…” she urged.

She didn’t specify what.

I pulled the fabric to the side, exposing her smooth skin, glistening with her own arousal, my spit, and the swollen need of her perfect cunt. I didn’t drag my tongue through her, didn’t suck her clit into my mouth.

I swallowed her. All of her. I sucked her entire cunt into my mouth.

Her breath was ragged; her hips rolled frantically, fucking my mouth as if she couldn’t help but chase sensation. She spat out one-syllable words, a perfect chorus to the wet slobber of my mouth on her cunt.

I wanted more of her, pulling the fabric tightly toward her thigh to expose all of her, to ravish her. To make her mine.

“I hope these aren’t your favorite panties,” I breathed.

“What?”

I pulled. The rip was sharp—harsh and sudden—deeply satisfying. The fabric gave way with a loud tear as I yanked her panties apart, a frayed strand of elastic still clinging to her thigh. I pushed her legs toward her chest and stuffed the torn, soaked panties into her mouth.

“Oh, my God!”

It came out muffled and half-gagged. I didn’t care. I didn’t really hear her. I stared at her exposed ass, wet with the leaking need of her cunt.

I didn’t ask, I didn’t care to. I shoved my entire face into her crack and sucked. She was still carrying the scent of morning, and now the lube was rejuvenated with her own juices. I grinned.

“Babe,” I whispered, pulling away enough for my voice to reach her. “Your ass tastes of vanilla.”

It was instantaneous, spitting her panties out. “Jesus fucking Christ! Babe! Babe…”

The last babe caught in her throat as I sucked her entire ass into my mouth. She didn’t tense, didn’t lock, she opened to the filth of it. My tongue didn’t find resistance or reluctance, only a greedy acceptance that her ass was mine, and admission that she wanted me.

I sat up. I watched the mess I’d made of her and found her eyes looking up at me. They weren’t entirely in focus, more a hazy glow in her hazel.

I dragged my fingers down her thigh.

I think she knew it. Something in how her eyes widened. Something in how her breath caught.

I slid through the wet of her, coating my fingers with her spillage.

I don’t know if she meant to say no, yes, or what the fuck are you doing to me?

I pressed two fingers against her butthole.

Let her inhale.

Then pushed inside.

If her hands grabbed her tits and pinched her nipples were a way of grounding herself, or trying to hold on to reality, I’ll never know. I let her have a taste of the first two joints, but she took me so greedily, I decided to give her all of me, pushing all the way in.

When I held her there, she finally exhaled.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” I whispered, never taking my eyes off her stretched hole.

She didn’t answer. Not with words. Her eyes rolled back, her back arched, and her hands abandoned her tits, grabbing for something; the softness of the mattress, the crumpled sheets, anything to ground herself.

She met my fingers as deep as they’d reach and tried to squeeze them in when I pulled out. A whimper left her when I pushed back in, finding the rhythm she was begging for, slow-fucking her ass as gently as my patience allowed.

Her cunt stretched open from the pressure, and a clear flood escaped her, coating my fingers.

“Babe,” I whispered. “You’re wet enough to lube your own ass.”

“Fuck! That’s so…”

I know she meant to say obscene.

“Beautiful,” I reminded her, swallowing her clit.

It was merely a kiss. A Pleco’s kiss—slow, hungry, and greedy. I latched onto her swollen knot pulsing with need, not hard enough to make her cum, but enough to keep her on the edge.

“N…no…” she whimpered when my lips released her.

I pushed myself further down, still slow-fucking her ass, still admiring the way her pussy begged for attention.

Still dry-humping the mattress below me, grinding my cock stupid with want and greed.

I dragged my thumb through her molten, frictionless slit and caught the throb of her clit against the joint. I marveled at how her cunt split open for me—swollen, begging, and bursting with pure want. I slid two fingers through the soaked, drooling lips of her cunt and pushed them deep inside her.

I got lost in it; the sensation of my fingers gliding through her, the ones up her ass pressing the ones in her cunt against the spot inside her she can’t deny. I knew how close she was, and I would never deny her.

I’ve dreamt about it, I’ve wished for it, but since the first time she came for me, I can’t deny her.

It starts deeper than I’ll ever know, but the tremor—the involuntary deep clench of her pussy—gives her away. She turns near silent, her breathing stops, and she did what she always does.

Her hips jerked forward and pressed down to make sure I wasn’t going anywhere, but her body had no previous memory of having an ass full of fingers.

“Ooouffuck!” she groaned.

Her cunt spilled like spring thaw, coating the entirety of my hand, her butt, and the sheets below us. She’s gorgeous when she cums.

I can never deny her that.

I held her there and waited for her cunt to ease the grip on my fingers, for her ass to relax around my joints. Her breath was ragged, and she didn’t really say anything. Nothing meaningful.

I get a little stupid when I cum.

“Babe…”

It was both of us, in unison.

I pulled my fingers from her cunt, a little awestruck at how she’d soaked them, but stayed in her butt a little longer. She hadn’t released me yet.

I was impatient.

Lust burrowed like starvation through my gut; I needed to jump her and fuck her over another beautiful edge. Make her mine.

She wasn’t having it, still clenching around my fingers as if they belonged to her. In her. I pulled slowly and insistently, but her ass chased my hand, refusing to let go.

“No?” I whispered.

“N…no. No.”

I sank deeper into her again, and she accepted me gracefully. My fingers started exploring her, listening to how her body responded to more stretch, deeper thrusts. Harder thrusts.

I curled my fingers upward, but when she gasped, it sounded like discomfort. Pain. I eased the pressure.

“No,” she moaned. “Again. Just like that.”

Her ring pulsed, but didn't tighten; it pulled. Her legs fell wider, and her back arched, pushing my fingers deeper and upward until I fucked her cunt from her ass.

"Don't stop," she begged.

"I wasn't planning to."

I wasn't planning to stop anything. Not with the sounds she made, not with the way her ass fucked against my fingers, not when her fingers sought her clit. I was consumed with lust, but I couldn't stop—I couldn't pull out and fuck her.

She was gorgeous. A temple of pleasure, devoted to reaching the peak of whatever was building inside her. Her ass turned greedy against the push of my fingers, and I curled harder, reaching for the spot inside her cunt that ruins her.

"Fuck...me..." she groaned.

It sounded like she was crying, as if she was falling helplessly into a void, not knowing what was at the bottom or if she even wanted to reach it. Her fingers clawed desperately at her cunt, as if it had become foreign to her. Then they abandoned her, searching for the back of her knees in a failing attempt to hold herself together.

She collapsed, legs falling wide and obscene to the mattress, hands clutching at sheets that no longer had any shape to hold on to.

"Don't...fucking..."

There was another sound escaping her. I think she meant stop, but it could have been anything. A gargle, a half-cough—a throat too tight for sound. It was a surge, all of her tightening from the extremities and inward. Her arms pressed down into the mattress, her shoulders squared to the frame of her, and her abs found hard edges and rough cuts. Her thighs hardened into sculpted stone as all of her locked around her bones. My fingers were frozen in a solid grip inside her; all I could do was hold her there.

And watch her fall into ruin.

Her cunt pulsed around nothing, searching for the shape of my fingers, opening and closing slowly, like a butterfly showing off its wings.

Breath finally escaped her as her body loosened around itself, her lungs trying to find enough space to draw breath again.

"Good girl," I muttered—voice stolen by awe—as my fingers slipped out of her.

I slid on top of her, swallowed entirely by my need for her.

"Mine," I groaned into her mouth, pushed inside her, and refused to let her ride out the last wave still chasing her bloodstream.

She was soaked through, and the next surge caught her almost unaware. When she rides the waves, she takes them on as a perfect surfer—leaning into the next cascade before the last one has even broken, refusing to return to shore.

And every time she dipped between them, she flooded me again, and again.

I sank down on her, kissed her, let her pussy clench around me.

“Babe…” she groaned, as if she’d just returned to the same space as me.

I pulled my soaked cock out of her, bent her legs to her chest, and kissed her. My cock was quicker than my brain, pressing against her butthole.

It gave.

With ease.

I swallowed.

Let myself sink into her.

“Babe…” she gasped. “Are…are you in my ass?”

Where the fuck do you think I am?

It could have ruined everything. I could have heard it as your cock’s so tiny I can’t tell where you’re poking me. But it wasn’t that. One grinned look at her face told me so. Her expression was part shock, part awe of how willingly her body received me.

“Yeah, babe. I am.”

“Oh my fuck! God…it’s so…”

“Obscene, babe?” I grinned, teeth sinking into the flesh of her throat, cock burrowing slowly into her core.

“God…”

It was a grunt. Both of us. Same time, mouth on mouth, when I had no more to feed her. Unable to press deeper, I pressed harder. Held her there. Held me there. Long enough for her ass to clench tight around the base of me.

“You’re perfect,” I whispered.

“Mhhmm?” she whimpered.

“Gorgeous.”

There was no intent left. Only instinct. I never intended to fuck her ass; it was a wild porn fantasy denied so many times I’d labeled it myth. All I wanted to know was if she took me.

We stayed like that, locked, embraced, immovable.

“You’re in my ass,” she whispered.

“I’m in your ass.”

“It should feel filthier…”

“I like your ass.”

She blushed slightly.

“You…made my ass cum.”

My cock jerked.

“You made my ass cum. I didn’t…how?”

I pulled back, if only slightly, then sank into her again.

Her eyes rolled back, but searched for me each time I pulled out—each time a little further, each return a little deeper.

It should’ve felt different. She should have gasped, her lip should have curled from discomfort, she should have tensed. I should have lost it, gone into a frenzy, fucked her asshole raw.

But we stayed in a slow rhythm, none of us chasing anything.

Her hand sought her clit, but it wasn’t the same frantic desperation of earlier, but a soft caress meant to hold her on the edge. She was stunning.

“Are you…” she began. “Are you going to cum in my ass?”

She bit her lip, rolled her finger over her clit, and nudged her hips to meet me.

And I was going to cum way too soon.

“Fuck…” I muttered, a bead of sweat rolling down my nose.

I had to pull out of her, if only to make it last.

I shifted back against the headboard. “I need to try something.”

She looked at me, didn’t question my intent or where I was going, but crawled on top of me like a feral cat.

“No. Turn around.”

“God,” she said, turning a little awkwardly. “You going to—”

“Just lie on top, babe. I’ll take care of the rest.”

She lowered herself against me, and all I had to do was position my cock just right to let her ass sink down on me, taking the entire length in one, slow descent.

“I’m so full,” she groaned.

I pulled her back against my chest, cupped her tits—let the soft weight of them fill my palms before giving her nipples a gentle squeeze. She turned her head and sought my lips. It wasn’t a kiss, but a collision. A mouth-to-mouth crush, a torrent of desire. A fuck-horny release sparked by the filth of us.

But it never felt filthy.

Not when my hands sought her dripping, insatiable cunt. I dragged my fingers over her throbbing clit—her never-enough button—before sliding a finger inside her.

Tight.

She was so snug, I only dared one finger up her.

“Babe,” I groaned. “You should feel how tight you are.”

“Ooof,” she groaned, part embarrassment, part horny curiosity.

She parted wider, slid a curious finger between her swollen folds, but hesitated slightly.

“Go on,” I whispered. “It’s insane.”

Her one finger caressed my cock through her cunt.

Her reaction was disbelief: “Oh God…my fucking God…”

No. That’s false.

Her reaction was pure animal. She pulled herself off my cock and scrambled forward. It was one fluid motion where she landed on all fours right at the edge of the bed. She arched her back hard, flattening her tits on the mattress, that perfect ass high in the air, presenting herself fully.

She calls me daddy~

The groan was every bit as filthy as the sweat dripping from our bodies suggested: “Fuck me, daddy!”

I was on her like a man starved.

My palms grabbed onto her perfect cheeks, splitting her willingly open. Her butthole pulsed with nothing but invitation as I positioned myself to take her.

It was pure porn-fiction, the way the head of my cock found her instinctively and pushed her open. The stretch—

My fantasies are no different from anyone else's. A tight, wrinkled pink ring forced outward into a tautening circle. A perfect, painful stretch over a rock-hard, veiny cock with more girth than any girl should comfortably take. The once-tiny puckered hole blossoming into an obscene, perfectly round O.

—the stretch was sublime. Perfect.

I sank into her in one slow push. She never objected, but received me like she’d never done anything but have her ass fucked. Each thrust made her whimper like she was losing herself. It wasn’t the racket of cats fucking, or the grunts of dogs. But it felt feral.

“Cum in my ass, daddy.”

Her hand sought her clit.

“Please…”

“Who knew?” I grinned.

“Mmmmph…what?”

“Who knew you were such a little anal slut, babe?”

“God…fuck…I am. I’m your anal slut…”

Her ass clenched hard around me, and I couldn’t hold back. Grabbing on to her hips, I thrust into her. Deep. Dominant. Claiming.

“Cumming…” she growled. “Don’t fucking stop! Don’t fucking stop!”

I came like a torrent. A surge down my spine and up my thighs. A tight cramp in my balls, before the flood broke.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” I gasped.

Finally it was filthy. It was perfectly degenerate.

Cupid grinned from the corner of the room.

I fell back. She fell forward.

Breath was the only sound. It was ruinous; our brains melted into perfect stupidity.

“Still glad I’m your Valentine?” I laughed.

She turned and met my eyes.

“Yes. My perfect Valentine.”

***

Thank you for reading. If you liked it, please hit the like button. If you really liked it, leave a comment. They're always appreciated.