SEX, LOVE & VALENTINES
A collection of twenty erotic stories
Edited by Miranda Forbes
Published by Accent Press Ltd
Copyright © Accent Press Ltd 2010
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY
Cover design by Red Dot Design
Digital Edition converted and published by Andrews UK Ltd 2010
The Heart-Shaped Box
by Justine Elyot
I tend to ignore the advance of Valentine’s Day: the steady pink-and-fluffying of the shop windows and card racks; the helium balloons and expensive chocolates and bottles of fizz everywhere; the perfume promotions and special restaurant menus and adverts for The Twenty Most Vomit-Inducing Ballads in the World, Ever, Part 38. It all leaves me a bit cold, this commercialisation of love. Not even love. Romance. Whatever that is.
So when Spiro told me he had a Valentine’s surprise for me, I was unenthusiastic. ‘I don’t do Valentine’s Day,’ I told him.
‘You will do this one,’ he told me, undaunted. ‘You will do. And you will be done to.’
Ah, now that sounded more like something I could get on board with. And I began to feel optimistic. Spiro understood me. He would not be like the last boyfriend I had over a Valentine’s Day, who gave me a fuchsia-coloured teddy bear wearing a T-shirt bearing the legend “I Wuv U”. That was doomed right from the start. The power of wuv was definitely not enough.
With Spiro though, at the age of twenty-eight, I had finally started to explore aspects of my sexual identity that had long lain dormant. I had always known I had a kinky side, but I assumed it was something I ought to hide or suppress, for fear of … I don’t really know. But fear kept it in the background, at any rate, while I played at being vanilla and wondered why I couldn’t get properly involved in my relationships.
The lovers thought I was cold and self-absorbed, and I probably was. Until Spiro came along.
It was like a lightning flash; he did everything right, the way I fantasised. He watched me for a while first – all the eyes-meeting-and-snatching-away stuff that makes the pit of your stomach bubble and boil fit to burst. Then there were knowing looks and smirks and somehow always being in the elevator at the same time, brushing up, nudging shoulders. Then he deviated from the vanilla script and walked straight into my dreams by following me to the tube station one evening after work and saying, ‘You should come out with me. I think I’d be good for you.’
Like any self-respecting noughties woman, I played up the independent schtick and scorned his advance. ‘Yeah? Good for me? Right.’
‘Because I’ve seen the type you go for, and I think I know where you’re going wrong.’
‘Oh, pray do tell.’ Heavy on the sarcasm, but my heart was pitter-pattering like a captive bird’s.
‘You go for these sensitive guys you can walk all over. They don’t challenge you, so you get bored and move on. You need someone that challenges you. I’d challenge you.’
The crowds at the ticket barrier blurred away for a moment – I actually felt faint. I mean, it was hardly a revelation – at some level I’d always known this. But … for somebody else to see it … it felt significant. And momentous. And a bit like falling in love, not that I’d ever done that.
I went out with him, and he was right. He challenged me. He interested me. He kept me on my toes. It was weird, because he was two years younger than me, and I’d always fantasised about an older man, but he had a natural authority that went beyond youthful cockiness and self-assurance – though he had those in spades too. It didn’t hurt that he was gorgeous either, in that broad-shouldered olive-skinned Italian way, with a shock of inky hair and sumptuous lips you could kiss all day and night.
The sex got very exciting very quickly. There was none of that pussy-foot dance, shall-we-or-shan’t-we, ‘oh look, I’ve missed all the buses and I can’t afford a taxi’ type thing. No, I cooked him a meal and after we’d spooned up the last of the tiramisu, he pushed my wine glass aside and said, ‘If we’re out of food, it must be time for bed.’ A grin that could be interpreted as cheeky or wicked accompanied the words. ‘I think you must agree.’
‘You’re awful,’ I said.
‘That’s for you to find out. Though I don’t think you’ll be saying so tomorrow morning.’
He wasn’t awful. He was amazing. He did all the things I’d longed for other lovers to do – he held me down by the wrists, he talked dirty, he encouraged me to change position by slapping me on the bum, and, most of all, he made me come like the Japanese bullet train, hard and fast and over and over again. He was like a rough, bluff pirate king of sex and I couldn’t get enough of him.
So it was just as well he had plenty to give. He was still giving, six months later, in mid-February, just as the celebration of St Valentine hit the cash registers of the post-Christian world.
‘You know,’ I said to Spiro during coffee break while we watched various colleagues sighing and squealing over bouquets and whatnot, ‘it isn’t even clear that there was a St Valentine. And if there was, he was just some priest that got executed by the Romans. Not a great lover or anything. I don’t get how all this has built up around him. I bet he’d be embarrassed.’
‘You’re so anti-romantic,’ said Spiro, linking his ankle with mine and wrenching it back under the chair, one of those little signs of affection that are his signature. ‘I think that’s why I love you. Anyway, wait till you get home. There’s a big surprise for my kinky little kitten.’
‘Don’t call me a kitten. And I hate surprises.’
‘I know. Did anyone ever tell you I’m a sadist?’
We laughed long and low, then kissed, to the amused indulgence of our workmates, who have built up an entire false mythology around our relationship and expect to be asked to crack open the posh hatboxes before summer comes.
At least I’m expecting a surprise, I mused to myself on the tube home. I was alone, Spiro having some mysterious business in the West End, all of which was presumably a cover for some nefarious plan or other. All the same I was tense and strung tight with anticipation all the way back along the Metropolitan Line and then all the way along the scruffy road of once-imposing houses where I live in my poorly-converted first-floor flat.
The February chill penetrated my bones, so the first thing I did once I’d hung up my coat and scarf was crank up the heating. I looked warily around me while I punched buttons, half-expecting some ninja assassin to jump out of the wall, but all was quiet, save for the creaky pipes.
The living room yielded no clue as to the nature of my surprise, so I walked on through the bedroom. Aha. There on the bed, a huge red heart-shaped box, almost the width of the duvet, and about half the length. Beneath the ribbon that crossed its surface was a note, which I plucked out and read.
“Dearest Horny Hayley
Inside this box are treats for you and for me. Those for you are wrapped up in tissue paper – those for me are in boxes. You MUST NOT LOOK at the things inside boxes – I will unwrap them and show them to you when I get back. But you are very welcome to open your own presents – I expect you to be wearing/playing with them by the time I arrive, which should be in about one hour. Don’t let yourself come before I do though, and, most of all …
DON’T OPEN THE BOXES!
Spiro.”
Things to wear and things to play with … I suspected he didn’t mean a necklace and a game of Scrabble. Greedily, I whipped off the lid and cast my eye over pale tissue and intriguing boxes of leather and satin-covered card.
The first thing I reached for was soft and squashy – one of the somethings to wear, I surmised, and I found I was right when it turned out to be unexpectedly heavy, falling on to the bed in a liquid pool of blackness. What was it? So shiny and sheeny – oh! Latex underwear! We had discussed this once, in a pre-sex conversation about how we would like to see each other dressed, but it had remained in the realms of fantasy, until now.
Eagerly, I undressed out of my work clothes and struggled into the new acquisitions. It really was a struggle – they were tighter than elastic bands; I had to dust my skin with talcum powder before the shorts would go anywhere near my thighs. And there was something else about them that was special. The bra had little cutaway heart-shapes where the nipples should go, giving a peek-a-boo effect. The cut outs were trimmed with marabou, drawing the eye straight to my chill-hardened nubs. The short shorts were even more scandalous. Crotchless, they sheared away from my bottom, exposing most of it in a similar heart-shaped fur-trimmed frame. They were no more than a plasticised sign shrieking ‘LOOK! RUDE BITS HERE!’ I looked utterly and ravishingly whorish. I loved them.
What else? A small package revealed a pair of pale-pink rubber hearts, nubbed on the inside. I wasn’t sure what they were for, until a glance at the instructions informed me that they were Breast Stimulators. Batteries, I was relieved to see, were included. Frowning a little, unsure of how they worked, I popped one on to a nipple. The soft jelly moulded itself to my skin, the nubs feeling deliciously bumpy. I pressed the button on the control unit and it began a soft vibration, clinging and clamping and massaging so that jolts of pleasure-pain travelled diagonally down to my centre. I cupped the breast with my hand, encouraging further friction and watching myself in the mirror. If one felt good, I reasoned, two had to be even better, so I applied the second and spent a pleasant five minutes letting them do the thing they did best – stimulate me.
They were so effective that I had to switch them off before Spiro’s instruction not to come before he did became impossible to obey. What was next? A long, slender item captured my attention, next to a shorter, fatter one. They went together, I sensed. The shorter, fatter one proved to be a bottle of rose-scented lubricant. Which gave me a clue about the other … ah. Anal beads in the shape of tiny red rubbery hearts, threaded together on a flexible string that ended with a heart-shaped flange. I had to snort. Some people’s idea of romance … Well, it was pretty much the same as mine. Did Spiro expect me to insert these on my own? We had played with plugs and beads before, but he had always put them inside me while I bent submissively, parting my cheeks for him while he clicked and clucked sounds of encouragement, amid stern injunctions against trying to stop him.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and six months with Spiro had fired my adventurous spirit, so I unscrewed the cap of the lube and poured some into an oil burner on the mantel. I coated the beads until they smelled like a flower garden in June, then reached around behind me, prodding at my bum cheeks until I was able to locate the right spot. It was too difficult standing, though, so I spread my feet and bent as far as I could without losing my footing, trying once more to spear my back passage with the soft but unyielding tip of the beads. It was not uncomfortably large, and it edged in without too much trouble, slipping past the gate of my sphincter and advancing along the dark and private recesses of my behind, pulling its companions along in its wake. It took a little while, and I almost cricked my neck reaching around, but eventually all five beads were snugly ensconced and the heart-shaped flange peeked bawdily out between my rounded and welcoming cheeks.
There was no chance of forgetting they were in there, so I had to walk a little delicately back over to the bed to investigate further.
Nothing was left except two interesting boxes – one long and narrow, one small and square. I was half-disappointed that there was no vibrator for me, but also relieved, because that would have been certain death to my promise not to come before Spiro was home. I already felt friskier than a barrel of ferrets and the temptation to put my hand between my thighs and bring myself to the inevitable conclusion those nipple stimulators and anal beads were leading me towards was very strong. I shut my eyes, trying to focus for a second, but then all I could think of was what might be in the boxes. Perhaps the long one was a vibrator. The boxes were not ribboned or taped shut in any way – it would be the work of easy seconds to lift the lids and peek …
I bent over the square box and, with the lightest of fingertips, tried to ease it sweetly upwards, thinking for some reason that I would be less likely to be detected if I pretended to be Raffles on the heist of his lifetime. In retrospect, I know that it would have made no difference at all if I had wrenched the thing open and flung its contents to the corners of the room. Because I was being watched.
‘Aha!’ Spiro kicked open the slightly-ajar door with a flourish, beaming evilly all over his handsome face. ‘I knew it! I knew you would try to sneak a peek.’
I wheeled around, pouting, feeling a little absurd in my latex whorewear and rubber nipple hearts, not to mention the anal beads jiggling snugly in my behind.
‘You mean you laid a trap!’
‘Of course I did! Would you expect any less of me?’
He swooped up behind me, patting the bare part of my bottom, making the beads move exquisitely. ‘I’m so pleased you fell into it. It means I get to use this.’
He picked up the long, thin box and lifted the lid, slowly and dramatically, holding it under my nose. I gasped and then giggled as the contents were revealed – a slender, flexible rod, topped with a pink heart-shaped piece of leather.
‘Oh, you swine! You set me up!’
‘I did – and you can’t deny that the punishment fits the crime, can you?’ He swatted me gently on the behind and then lowered me over the bed with a firm hand to my shoulder until I was bent, hands on the duvet, bottom sticking out in invitation.
‘But before we address your misbehaviour,’ he said, taking the final box and rattling its contents intriguingly, ‘we have one more element to put in place.’
I did not see him open this one, but I soon felt him, probing around my spread pussy lips, pressing something against my clit and then sealing it there with a length of what might have been bondage tape, laid from thigh top to thigh top. I must have looked interesting, all shiny and black where I was not nude, but with my rudest parts exposed and on display, ready to accept the kiss of the crop.
‘Are your nipple massagers working?’ he asked lightly.
‘Yes,’ I told him, feeling the bumps against my rock-hard buds, reminded of how very much I would like to come.
‘And how do those beads feel, all the way up your arse, dear Valentine?’
He put a hand against the heart-shaped base of the bead rod and gave it a little pull and push, making me wriggle and squeal.
‘Oh God! Ohhhh.’
‘Just the final touch now,’ he promised, and he must have flicked a switch somewhere, because I came into glowing life – whatever was taped against my clit began to buzz, sending waves of merciless sensation to the swollen, oversensitised nexus of nerve endings. I thought I might come there and then, but I was soon distracted by the sharp smack of the crop on my bottom.
I did not know whether to yelp or sigh or beg for more. The crop stung, but in a way that augmented the sensual pleasure of the other instruments that played on my body. The strokes were hard enough to force the anal beads ever deeper and would have dislodged the clit buzzer if it hadn’t been strapped to my undercarriage, but they made the pleasurable effects of the nipple massagers more intense, and almost ago
nisingly erotic. Stroke after stroke fell; I could not have counted them under pain of … more pain … so distracted and discombobulated was I by the entire smorgasbord of sensation. I think I was still breathing, but you’d have had to check because I wouldn’t have been able to testify. I pushed my bum out for more, loving every zinging swingeing swipe, loving the way it rattled my beads inside me and kept the pressure on my clit just about bearable with its contrapuntal sharpness; I could have let him spank me all night long.
My orgasm put an end to the punishment, though, ripping through me even as Spiro laid on harder and harder strokes until its tide came out and the red-purpleness in front of my eyes receded. I fell forward on the bed, gibbering something like ‘Thank you, Sir,’ over and over again, finally understanding the phrase mindblowing orgasm. It felt as if my bulbs had been snuffed, my circuitry overloaded and exploded.
My Valentine feast was not over yet though, for even as I lay, face flat on the bed, regaining my wits, Spiro began to fuck me with the handle of the crop, pushing it lazily in and out, keeping the clit buzzer on until I came again, at which point he slowly pulled the beads from my bum, making me wonder if it was possible to die of climaxing, and making me also not care either way.
‘So you don’t do Valentine’s Day, eh?’ he asked archly, once I had wobbled to my feet and been taken over to the mirror to inspect my arse, which had a tasteful print of red heart shapes all over it now.
‘I may have changed my mind,’ I said thickly, having to cling on to him to stay upright.
‘Good, good,’ he approved, running hands along the curve of my bum, pressing thumbs into some of the scorched hearts. ‘So what did you get me?’
‘Your favourite,’ I said. ‘My warm wet mouth.’
As I sank to my knees and unbuttoned his trousers, I reflected that St Valentine probably wouldn’t approve of this either.
‘I’ll love you for ever if you swallow,’ hinted Spiro.
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