An hour later, as I curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine, Aaron on one side and Dylan on the other, I couldn’t help but think that perhaps Valentine’s Day wasn’t so bad after all. I mean, it might still be a bit of a marketing swizz, sometimes … but I’ll bet those card manufacturers certainly hadn’t planned on a Valentine’s present anything like mine.
Dr Charm
by J. Manx
I’m a bit of a romantic by nature. I blame this on my mother. Well educated and considered sophisticated, she had a secret vice. She was a Mills and Boon addict. While other women responded to their vices by dieting, exercising and therapy, Mother fed hers with a diet of romance fiction. Once a week, she would take me shopping to a local parade of shops which included a second-hand book store. Mother would never normally take me shopping; she was usually far too busy. However, she allowed me on these local jaunts so that I could help her lug back carrier bags full of pulp fiction. My father would pick up the books and snort with laughter at the improbable names of the heroes: ‘The honourable James Salle de Bain, Sheik Rafiq al a Mein, Count Rocco Castellane, and Raphael Montaigne.’
Between the ages of 12 and 14, these books added spice to a dull reading regime of set school texts. The romance and the sexual tension gave me what I thought was a useful insight into the adult world and encouraged my developing sexual awareness.
There were various categories of romance: Wild West, historical, spy thriller, old-fashioned, intrigue, regency, enchanted, the list went on. My favourite of the genre were the ‘Medical’ series. In these, doctors or surgeons with names like Nathan Dauphin or James Raphael du Perignon, would be the stars of rollercoaster romances. The plots were basic and varied little, but I was amazed at the range of those subtle variations. A brilliant, young surgeon is ignorant of the pretty, conscientious ward nurse. However, when he sees the way she helps his mother recover from an operation for Alzheimer’s (using a technique he has developed) he falls in love with her. The handsome but arrogant doctor, who works hard and lives fast, falls in love with the demure practice secretary, when, having been blinded while acting foolishly with a model in his Porsche, is led back to health and learns to appreciate that looks aren’t everything. Or, the handsome doctor with the speech impediment who finds it difficult to ask out his stunning, but sensitive, practice midwife who is bored with the attentions of playboy millionaires … Anyway, you get the picture. I eventually cast the books aside in favour of other adolescent pursuits but the stories had left a faint print on my subconscious.
Have you ever heard the expression what the mind expects tends to happen? Years later, when I was twenty-two and during my final year at university, I went, with my closest friend Miranda, to a ‘psychic fair’ exhibition in London. At the exhibition there was a tarot reader. We went in for a laugh but I came out with a mission.
I had seated myself, a little nervously, in front of a pleasant, middle-aged man who passed me a pack of cards and asked me to shuffle them well. As I did so, he made polite conversation. Where did I live? What did I do? That type of thing. After a while, he told me to stop and I handed back the cards.
‘Do you read much?’ he asked as he began laying out the cards.
‘Not much, I used to,’ I said, raising my eyebrows.
‘Why the raised eyebrows?’ he said, smiling.
‘Oh, I used to read Mills and Boon, not something I’d admit to at university.
The man smiled. ‘We all have our vices.’ He finished distributing the cards and looked at them solemnly. ‘You’re unmarried …’ he began.
When I came out of the tent, I was trying to remember everything he’d told me. We discussed what he’d said to each of us but truthfully I wasn’t really listening when Miranda told me her future; I was secretly thrilling over mine. Apparently, I was to have a fairly decent job, no major health problems and I would be financially secure. My mother would die of a heart attack in fifteen years time and my father would follow shortly afterwards. But listen to this. I would meet and marry a doctor, have three children and a very happy marriage. Through the doctor, I would find the confidence to develop my own business which would be extremely successful. I’d asked quite a few questions about the doctor. When would I meet him? What would he look like? How would I know he was the one? Apparently, I wouldn’t meet him for a few years. He would be about 10-12 years older than me. I would meet him when I least expected it. I remembered the clairvoyant’s parting words:
‘Just go out and enjoy life, things will happen when they happen. Whatever will be will be.’
So, for a good few years, I did enjoy myself; plenty of boyfriends, plenty of fun but always keeping my eye out for the man in the white coat. I moved several times over the years and each time I registered with a new doctor I wondered whether this would be the one. I attended hospital a few times, once with a friend who’d sprained her ankle, once on my own when I’d fractured a wrist. I took the opportunity to visit a work acquaintance in for a hysterectomy on as many occasions as decorum would allow; each time, hoping to bump into Mr Right.
I was twenty-eight when I eventually gave up hope, realising the stupidity of my superstitions. My mother had warned me.
‘You’ll throw your life away on the say so of a man who made a bit of money out of you all those years ago. While you’re looking out for Mr Right, he may have been there all along.’
Then it happened. I was invited to Miranda’s to stay for a weekend. Miranda had married some years ago, divorced and then got married again to a rich accountant. They were loaded. They had an enormous house in the Sussex countryside. She loved entertaining and, I suspect, showing off a little bit. We’d remained firm friends since university and she’d made a number of attempts to pair me up with some of her husband’s rich friends. I didn’t fancy any of them and none of them were doctors.
I’d arrived at the house early, had lunch, an afternoon nap, showered and dressed myself for the evening. I went downstairs and as I entered the kitchen, Miranda, who was up to her neck in preparing food, looked up. ‘Wow, you look gorgeous,’ she said, generously.
‘You certainly do,’ said a voice to my side. I looked around and saw a man sitting at the kitchen table wearing a broad smile. He looked me up and down, quite unselfconsciously and raised his eyebrows. ‘I love the shoes,’ he said.
I’d put on some new red, four-inch stilettos. I’d spotted them several weeks ago. The ankle straps were beautifully designed and I couldn’t resist buying them. It was the first opportunity I’d had to wear them. ‘Thank you,’ I said, a little unnerved by the man’s forthright compliments. He was attractive and there was a mix of humour and lechery in his eyes.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Miranda, ‘Georgina,’ she said, raising her eyebrows at me in a ‘pay attention’ kind of way, ‘this is Dr Luke Daniels. Luke, this is one of my oldest friends, Georgina.’
My heart had missed a beat and I felt myself reddening. Luke got up, took my hand and smiled. The next hour or so, I can’t really recall. We drank wine and chatted, the three of us, while Miranda carried on preparing the evening’s food. I remember laughing and flirting outrageously. He was really good company and, although about ten years older than me, damned attractive. I knew that he was the one.
‘Right,’ said Miranda, ‘hubby will be back soon and the others will be here in an hour or so, I’m going to have to get ready myself. Miranda, would you be a dear and show Luke where his room is? It’s next to yours.’
She gave me a look of encouragement and I could have kissed her.
What a great friend.
‘Come on then, Doctor,’ I said, seductively, ‘let’s show you to your room.’
I led the way, mounting the stairs with Luke behind me. I hoped he was watching me. In fact, I knew he was. I consciously stood straighter and added a little swing to my gait. I could feel his eyes on my legs and b
ottom as I slowly mounted the stairs. Thank God I’d worn the stilettos. If he was half a man, he’d have a raging hard-on seeing my bottom swaying provocatively in front of him. I really laid it on. In fact, I was concentrating so much on arousing him that I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. While climbing several steps separating two landings I slipped and fell over, twisting my ankle. I twisted into a sitting position and began to massage my ankle, a little painful but not as painful as the embarrassment I felt. Luke came to the rescue. He bent down and held my hand.
‘You OK?’
I felt a nervous shiver run through me.
‘Oh, I’m fine, the ankle’s just a little painful.’
‘Here,’ he said, sweeping me into his arms, ‘let’s take a proper look at you.’
I directed him through to my room where he laid me on the large double bed.
‘Now then,’ he said, slipping off his shoes and climbing onto the bed, ‘let’s take a good look at you.’
I felt as though I was in a romance fiction. I’d waited all these years and here it was happening so quickly I was having difficulty keeping up with it all. Luke knelt in front of me and lifted the foot I had twisted. The pain had subsided and it actually felt OK but I had no intention of telling him that. He examined my foot, gently prodding my ankle here and there.
‘Feels OK,’ he announced. ‘Let’s just compare it to the other.’ He held both feet together, by the heels, and looked up and down the length of my legs.
‘You have beautiful legs.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, a little surprised.
He lowered one foot onto the bed then held the other and began to caress the ‘injured’ ankle.
‘This should help the circulation, ease the pain a bit, how does that feel?’
‘You have a wonderful bedside manner,’ I said.
It wasn’t just my ankle that Luke was caressing. His hands were running up and down my calf, over my ankle, caressing the heel and toe of my stiletto before his hand returned to my calf.
You randy, old bastard, I thought, happily, pleased by the fact that my future husband was starting appreciatively from the bottom up. I was thoroughly enjoying the attention. I leant back on my elbows as Luke carefully undid my ankle strap and removed the stiletto. I had been meticulous when painting my toes before setting off, conscious that my feet would be on show. They were soft and very pretty. Luke took my foot in both hands, bent down and kissed it.
‘Is this a new sort of medical treatment?’ I asked, amused and excited, a doctor at my feet.
‘This is my treatment for irresistible feet,’ he said, caressing my foot. He took each toe in his mouth and sucked and licked it in a most professional and attentive manner before moving to the next toe. It was like having a gentle massage but it was arousing as well as relaxing. By the time he’d moved onto the second foot, I was in a state of lazy arousal.
‘Doctor,’ I said, ‘I think the feelings moved from my ankle all the way up to my pussy. Can you do anything about it?’
He grinned, lasciviously, before moving up beside me, running his hand up my thigh as he did so. Luke kissed me, exploring my mouth and neck, whilst gently massaging my pussy.
‘Does this feel better?’
‘Oh yes, Doctor,’ I said, breathlessly. ‘Don’t you think you should take out your thermometer and take my temperature?’
He laughed, jumped off the bed and stripped off.
‘Good idea,’ he said ‘you are, after all, one very hot woman’. He had a lovely body and a beautiful cock. God, it had been worth the wait. I leant over, took hold of his cock and pulled him back onto the bed.
‘You just put this inside me and I’ll show you how hot I really am.’
Luke laughed and pulled off my panties. I spread my legs wide and pointed my toes. He ran his hands up and down my legs and then lowered his head between them. I felt his tongue and mouth and put my hands around his neck and let him enjoy himself. God, he was good, it must have been his medical training. I groaned with pleasure, but after a while, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I needed his cock.
‘Oh, Doctor, Doctor, I’m an impatient patient, I want you to fuck me, pleeeeease!’
Luke raised himself up and entered me. We fucked, roughly, my legs over his shoulders, hands gripping his buttocks. I came quickly, but the orgasm was intense. We lay afterwards, breathing heavily and holding hands. My prince had come.
After several relaxed minutes, I broke the silence.
‘So,’ I said, ‘how long have you been practising medicine?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How long have you been a doctor?’
He looked at me, quizzically and then started laughing.
‘You think I’m a medical doctor? I thought you were role-playing … now I see. No, no, no, I’m not a medical doctor, I have a PHD. I’m a Doctor of Philosophy – I’m a sociology lecturer.’
I must have looked stunned because he cracked up again. He was in fits of laughter. I felt foolish and annoyed, but his laughter was infectious. Suddenly, I saw things with an amazing clarity. ‘You must think I’m really stupid.’
‘I think you’re really attractive,’ he said, seriously. ‘I think you’re beautiful. Here,’ he said, pointing to his cock which had now, to use the medical term, become tumescent, ‘would you like another bit of my PHD … my pleasingly hard dick?’
I laughed. As he began kissing my neck, I said, ‘So tell me, Doctor, what is your philosophy?’
Luke turned me over, raised my bottom in the air and entered me again. As I moaned with pleasure, he broke into song, rhythmically moving in time to the tune he was singing;
‘Que sera sera …Whatever will be will be …’
Have you ever laughed while being shagged? It’s a wonderful feeling.
I married the old goat a year ago; it’s been the happiest year of my life.
Shot to the Heart
by Janine Ashbless
‘Hold on,’ I said suddenly, my attention caught by a window display. ‘I’ve got to buy a Valentine’s card.’ Grabbing Oliver by the hand I pulled him into the high street card shop.
‘Um. Hold on.’ Oliver had every right to look bemused. ‘Is this for me? Because if it is, you’re not supposed to buy it in front of me.’
‘Of course not, silly!’
‘And if it’s for someone else then that goes double. Not to mention … Who? And Why?’
I grinned at him as I skipped backwards down the aisles of cards, enjoying being the one to tease him for once. I was in a skipping sort of mood. We’d been going out for two months now and I’d persuaded him to take a day off from his computer and come into town with me. We were going to have lunch and go to the museum – his idea – and then go on to the Cirque Du Soleil show – my idea – in the evening. And I was crazy-in-love with this stocky tousled-haired man with the sharp eyes and the five-o’clock shadow that started at ten in the morning. Not to mention the beautiful big cock and that incorrigible sexual appetite. I wonder if his parents knew, when they named him Oliver, that he would grow up into a boy who was always Asking For More.
Now he grabbed me, behind a display of teddy bears all clutching plush scarlet hearts. We were dressed up against the chill outside but even through our winter clothes I could feel a warning hardness pressing into me. ‘Who is it?’ he growled, nuzzling my ear and making me giggle helplessly. ‘Are you being a naughty girl? Am I going to have to put you over my knee?’
I squealed in protest and pushed him away, blushing because I’d been inadvertently loud and I could see other customers glancing in our direction. ‘Shush!’ I told him, unfairly, even as the blush worked its way right down between my thighs. Was it a serious suggestion, I wondered? I knew he liked to give my bottom the odd smack in passing, just to show
his appreciation of a tight pair of jeans or a short skirt riding up, but that was all. Was he the sort of man who was into spanking girls? I’d always thought of that as sort of freaky, but right now the idea of Oliver laying me over his lap and holding me down, able to do anything he liked to my bottom and to the crack between my cheeks and to my exposed pussy, was so naughty and scary and unexpected that it filled me with a giddy excitement.
He knew that. He could see it in my eyes right at that moment; he knew my sex had suddenly grown all hot and puffy and slick. He caught my wrists. ‘Who’s it for, then?’
Oh, I was so going to disappoint him. ‘My mum,’ I confessed.
‘What? Really?’ He let me go.
‘I always get Mum a Valentine’s card – and she sends me one. And my brothers and sisters. We’ve always done that in our family. Don’t you?’
‘We certainly do not.’ He grinned, mildly amazed, like I’d just announced that we dressed in top hats and prayed before a picture of Queen Victoria.
‘Well I’d have hell to pay if I forgot to send Mum hers.’
‘I’ve always felt Valentines were about the sort of love you don’t share with your family.’
I swatted at him. ‘Help me pick one.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘I think you can probably manage on your own.’
But he stood over my shoulder as I looked through the racks, pulling faces or making comments until I was weak from giggling and thoroughly exasperated. There were a lot of cards to choose from – sparkly or upholstered, musical or cheeky or childish – but most were unsuitable for what I intended. Eventually I brandished one at him that was blank on the inside and just had a red heart on the cover, bordered with elaborate gold and black inkwork. ‘What about this? I like this one.’
‘No way!’
‘Why not? It’s tasteful. I thought you’d like it.’
Sex, Love & Valentines Page 10