Each time she looked at the flowers through the afternoon, the butterflies woke up, her nerves increasing; but the tickle down lower woke too and her excitement rose. By the time she left work she was a bundle of nervous expectation, staring at the flowers in her lap on the bus all the way home was almost too much for her.She got off at her stop, barely containing the urge to run home to her little apartment. She noticed a couple of the older women on the bus smiling at her and some of the men openly leering - a pretty young woman with a big bunch of roses, the colour high in her cheeks, eyes sparkling, obviously excited at meeting up with her man. This was what Valentine's Day was about.Melissa had cleaned, tidied, lit candles and set the music. She had showered, shaved, styled, powdered and perfumed. She had dressed in the special outfit and was standing in a fever of doubt, desire and mild dread in the middle of the room. Her fingers fluttered at each other and her eyes kept. We did make to the bedroom that time.And it all became a habit. I'd go out, usually alone, have a few drinks, and drag an unsuspecting man home, and one of us would ravish the other. Ideally he would take the lead, and drive me to distraction with his technique, but I wasn't above taking control myself if necessary. It was always swift precise action though. No romantic stuff. As I said, fucking. There were no shortage of times that I had to take care of the final arrangements myself though, frantically flicking my fingers in and out of myself as the spent stranger looked on, not terribly interested any longer.I saw more cocks in three months than the entire preceding twenty seven years, and had sex in more places and positions than I could possibly have imagined. If there was any time that I fucked the same guy twice it was by accident. I had become a sex machine. My whole body lived to process erections. Fucking, right?Then, inevitably, I brought home a man who was a completely.
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