“Oh, God, right … there … lick, lick it … harder,” she panted and moaned, as my tongue lashed her clit.
It sure wasn’t limited to five minutes. Valerie was aflame with lust. Her breasts, neck, and face had turned rose-red and were deeply flushed. Her fingers dug into the cushions fighting to hold off the emotions building inside. Her mons was awash with cream oozing from within in no time, as my tongue and fingers worked to heighten her urge to come. The first two times were fast and easy, the third was like boiling hot water, and the fourth orgasm, well …
“Faster, yes, yes, yes,” she called out. “Fuck me with that monster tongue!” she bellowed, smashing her cunt into my face. She’d dived into the deep end of lust’s lake, engorged by desire and no longer mindful of her recent treatment of my neck. She bucked, grasped the back of my head, forced it into her slopping wet slit, and came viscerally screaming with wild abandonment.
It was epic. I slid down on my haunches, watching her perspiration-beaded body sag back against the back of the couch. It wouldn’t be too far off to say she just melted like one of those Valentine chocolate hearts into a pool of dissolved womanhood — no signs of muscles or bones — just a melted mons — a sweat-pool of sexual bliss. It took a few moments before her disheveled body began to regain awareness, and her glazed eyes focused again. The couch was totally creamed, as she sat panting in the puddle.
“Damn, Donald, that was fantastic,” she gasped, “I can barely wait until you get back to your old self again.” Smiling, Val reached for two towels from her bag and quickly wiped down my face and her wet places.
“Now, for Ronald,” she grinned.
I laughed at her seemingly singular focus on that other guy. “But you will come back?” I begged, “I may need more range of motion exercises, right?”
“Not signing off on your forms today since you don’t actually have an appointment — with me yet. From all your injuries, I think you will be a candidate for several progressive sessions, if not deep massage therapy as well,” she answered, giving me a passionate kiss as another reward.
Still on my knees, I held her Jeggings as she poured herself back into them. They had come off and gone on more quickly than I had imagined when I first saw her. Although I preferred her without them, that view was much more delightful.
A year without intimacy, had me fawning all over Valerie Jane as she packed her bag and folded her table. It was all I could do not to grasp her by the shoulders and scream, “Forget your job! — stay and just fuck me!”
Knowing that was a preposterous proposition, I did my best to behave like a … gentleman. A beautiful woman, less than half my age, what were the chances? She was young and certainly had goals that didn’t involve an old man’s dreams of bedding a beauty for the rest of his days. In the throes of her passion, I felt as though I’d been struck by Cupid’s arrow. Hell, what were the chances that Cupid would show up and smite one or both of us? After all, it’s still Valentine’s Day for many hours to come.
If nothing else came of this, for sure, the serendipitous appearance of Valerie Jane at my door on St. Valentine’s Day was the high point of it. She seemed willing to return, but that could be an easy out-the-door song forgotten as quickly as it was said later today. Time will tell.
Her gear repacked, the donut-hole table refolded, and back in her form-fitting clothing again, Valerie gave me her business card — for reference. And I tossed it on the coffee table, not looking at it as I walked her to the door and opened it for her. I didn’t want to read something that took my eyes off that drop-dead gorgeous doll inches away from my throbbing … tool.
We stood there looking at one another, unsure what to say beyond the exuberance we had exchanged inside. It seemed to have been a cupid-like moment at the time. Now it was an adult-like moment of parting. Though not the sad moments I felt when Mary Elizabeth’s fingers loosened her grip on my hand, and she slipped away last Valentine’s Day.
And, before you finish your second cup of coffee, let me take just a minute or two to tell you about what happened afterward that absolutely lends credence to the facts I stated in the beginning … about Cupid … being here today. And, I swear he was …
Friend, you remember how I told you at the beginning that Valerie stood on tiptoe outside my front doorway, with her arms around my neck, pulling me downward?
Yeah, I was bare-chested, barefoot, and I was spooned against her agile, lithe therapist-honed body in my briefs. Framed within the open doorway, we were like two giddy lovers for all the world to observe. I didn’t give a damn if my neighbor was watching, nor if Valerie was just twenty-two years old — and half my age or less. Eventually, for lack of air, Valerie released me, landing back on her feet, and looked up with those beautiful, deep-mocha eyes. She smiled impishly, rolled her backpack onto her shoulder, and stared directly into my limpid peepers, then reminded me of the experiences she adroitly demonstrated during my two-hour therapy session.
“Like this, it’s called the pelvic thrust exercise,” that attractive physical therapist demonstrated, undulating her hips as she thrust her pelvis as a reminder. I grinned broadly as she spread her legs, pressed her undulating body firmly against my groin, and twerked the lump in my pants with her pelvic thrusts exercise movements.
“I watch late-night TV, Valerie Jane. They call ‘that’ twerking, and it ain’t called the pelvic thrust exercise in those sexercise DVDs they sell at that hour of the night,” I chuckled.
“Well, Mr. Mallord, in our instructional training, the teachers called it the pelvic thrust exercise, and they said it with a straight face. So, as interns, we went with the flow. But yeah, it’s twerking nearly, just slower,” she beamed, and winked in reply.
With a broad grin, she reminded me, “Remember, it’s all in the hips, Mr. Mallord. Practice those pelvic thrusts to keep that L-5 lumbar limber. It’ll help reduce your sciatica pain.” She winked and added, “I’m free this Saturday afternoon … in case it acts up. … Call me, and I’ll make you whole again. The number is on my business card … sugar baby.”
“Yes, and you remember the tips on reading I gave you. Maybe they’ll keep you out of some future trouble … sugar girl,” I gloated, as I stroked her cheek gently for good measure.
Yep. I had her number. God, how I had her number! It was burned into my mind like the curves of a naked water nymph in some porn movie—one who wades onto shore searching for a big-cocked mate. I had traced and retraced every turn of Val’s flawless body, the highway down her sculptured, rock-hard tummy and well-toned byways between her muscular thighs until my fingers were soaked, her body roiling, and neither of our bodies could move anymore. Yeah. I had her business card on the coffee table, too. I planned on framing that in memory of this serendipitous errant event.
‘Saturday sounded like my sciatic nerve might need pelvic hip thrust exercises again,’ I thought bemusedly as I watched her rear end wiggle down the sidewalk in those tight-fitting, skinny-leg Jeggings pants. The ones with the high-waist-stretchy spandex — obscenely tight and outlining the crack of her cute butt. “Lord, have mercy,” I breathed and slowly closed the door but not before I smiled over at the local gossip peeping through her curtains across the street. I figured she enjoyed that as much, if not more than I did.
I watched as the bubble-butt therapist drove away toward 96 Hannah Street, then realized I didn’t know her name. Sure she said it was ‘Valerie Jane,’ Valerie, or Val for short — but I never got her last name.
Curious, I padded back inside and looked for her business card. It lay face down. The back of the card had a drawing of a winged cupid and a bow with a straight arrow in bright red ink on the back. A logo below the winged figure announced, ‘I’ll make you whole again.” I laughed at that — the line came from Valerie’s lips to me on Valentine’s Day, no less. And she printed it on Cupid’s business card. Flipping the card over, emboldened in red script, was the business-related information with her number. It read …
My jaw dropped — then I smiled, looked up at my Mary Elizabeth’s portrait, and chuckled. “Honey, I believe Valerie Valentine is Cupid, sent by you as a gift. And I thank you for that.”
And that, my friend, is the whole truth, and how I know that Cupid is real and still comes to smite people with the feeling of love even in troubled times. I’m looking forward to this Saturday as I think I feel a bit of pressure building in my bone. That’s my story anyway, and I’m sticking to it!