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.