All stories start with “What if?” the Weaver’s most powerful tool.
What if, for instance, the Weaver decided to host a writing contest for lovers on Valentine’s Day. A contest wherein the prize is completely decided by the writing… and everyone is a winner.
My wife Zoey treats me so well. My high school sweetheart, I’m still quite sweet on her. She’s been a great wife and mother, despite what everyone thought when we were married (and pregnant) at nineteen. Her strength has kept our family afloat, even in the toughest times. I lost my job about two years ago and have had a hard time finding a replacement beyond part-time and freelance work. My wife stepped up, working hard, skyrocketing up her organization. Unfortunately, that work has taken a toll. You know how presidents age significantly during their time in office? These past two years have been that rough on Zoey.
With Zac and Sara, our twins, finally off to college this past September, it’s been just the two of us, but mostly me with Zoey’s late hours. She basically comes home, eats what I’ve made for us (and reheated for us), and falls asleep watching whatever show we have saved on the DVR.
I want to do something special for her for the holiday, but I can’t spend money because she’d know. And I’d feel guilty because I see it as “her money” since she earned it. I look up “special Valentine’s,” “surprise,” and “free” on the internet and I’m directed to a simple website with the following text:
No one celebrates love like The Weaver. As such, this St. Valentine’s Day, I want you to write me a story about your significant other. Tell me who you are and who they are. The story aspect though is for you to tell me who you want them to be. Unleash your fantasies onto the page and you could win a truly memorable prize to share this holiday. Send your stories to firstname.lastname@example.org
Wow. If I could win us something, especially a vacation, that would be perfect. A vacation would constitute quite the memorable prize. I want whoever reads this to understand our situation and why we’d be ideal to award a prize. I take the time to consider how to set the scene and write:
My name is Jack Walker. My wife is Zoey. Our kids are Zac and Sara. The world has always worked against our family, but we’ve survived. Teenage parents, but we still managed to raise two wonderful kids and get them successfully off to college and with some academic scholarships at that. I faced a lay off from the tech startup I’d been with for half a decade, but Zoey managed to climb up the corporate ladder at her job. Despite the lack of time that leaves us, with her extremely busy schedule, we still somehow manage to keep the love and spark alive.
But help, in any form, would be appreciated. I wish I could ease the workplace tension that she constantly faces doing something that some people feel isn’t “a woman’s place.” If she could get a break from that grind, something that wouldn’t require her to be constantly stressed, it would help our marriage immensely, especially if it freed her up for more time and intimacy with her loving husband. I know it’s pretty much impossible to remove all the stress from her career, but to make her happy with who she is and what’s she’s doing would be the ultimate blessing.
I nod at what I’ve written. I read it and re-read it, looking for any places for improvement or to load the deck in our favor, but finding none, I send it off into the void.
It’s weird when the void immediately responds:
You are a winner!
I really hope it’s a vacation.
God, let it be a vacation…
After a particularly rough morning of meetings, I treat myself to a salad at a place not too far from our building. It’s nice to get a little air in my lungs that isn’t the sad recycled air from the high rise. It’s also nice to get actual sunlight to replace the fluorescents I spend far too much time under. The salad isn’t so much of a treat as a punishment for not finding time to work out more.
You’d think the universe would reward me for opting to eat a salad, but instead, I get a bit of the blue cheese dressing on the lapel of my sports coat. I look down and see that a little even landed on my matching slacks. I go and get some soda water from the dispenser and think that I’ve gotten rid of the dripping and hope that the walk back up the hill to my office will provide enough sun and heat to get rid of the two wet spots. The last thing I want is for Chris Druthers, my direct supervisor, to have anything to indicate that I’m, in any way, inferior to him. He’s a filthy pig. He’s a closed-minded chauvinist that I can’t stand sharing any room with. He’s an absolute bastard and though I don’t wish ill on anyone, I wouldn’t mind if he were immediately fired for any number of reasons.
I make it through the heat and up the hill with no problem, but when I’m in the elevator, I’m suddenly light-headed.
When the elevator doors open, my head is clear.
I love the rush of gigs like this. I feel like I’m playing dress up in my short skirt and silky blouse. It’s these little touches that make me successful. You can’t just show up in a professional work environment in a tube top. You’d stick out like a sore thumb. Anyone paying attention to footwear would feel like the high heels and makeup aren’t quite office appropriate, but hey, a girl’s gotta look good on the job. Also, a “professional” would probably wear a bra and not let her tits jiggle as she walks with her nipples on view for anyone with decent eyesight.
I follow my instructions and walk to the office labeled Chris Druthers.
“Who are you?” The man in the office, who I assume to be Chris Druthers, asks.
“I’m the consultant you asked to come in and advise you… thoroughly.” I say with a wink and watch as his brain processes the message.
“Oh. OH! Right. Please. Come in.”
He loops around me to shut the door and lock it. I watch as his eyes size me up, judging if I’m good enough for his purposes. I interrupt these unnecessary thoughts. “So, Chris,” I say, hopping up on his desk and quite possibly giving him a good look up my skirt to my thong, “what kind of ‘consulting’ are we in for?”
“First, it’s Mr. Druthers to you. Second, you can drop the pretense. You’re here to fuck me.”
“Oh, so Mr. Druthers likes to get down to business with a little dirty talking?”
“Talk is cheap —“ he says.
“I’m not.” I finish for him. As much as he’d like to just “fuck me,” there’s the matter of price.
He pulls out his money clip. I knew a guy like this one would have a money clip. Just like I know there’s a picture of his family sitting on his desk for appearances. He’ll have no qualms fucking me in close proximity to a picture of his loving, perfect family. This is what makes me happy to take his money. If the sex is good, if the sex is bad — it doesn’t matter. The more money I take from him, the happier I’ll be. Money isn’t everything, but it’s sure helpful in paying bills and buying shit. I pull the clip off the money and put it all into my tiny metal clutch.
His jaw drops, but I use that as an opportunity to grab his cock through his pants. Time to shift the blood away from his brain so that I can really get to work.
“Mr. Druthers!” I proclaim. “I believe your cock is suffocating under these pants.” I tug on the pants a bit for effect. “I think we need to let him out so that I can perform some CPR.”
His dropped jaw becomes a self-satisfied smirk. Guess that lovely wife in the picture isn’t prone to provide Chris with blowjobs. Guess that’s why he had to call in a professional’s services.
After dropping his pants to the floor, I’m quickly on my knees and fishing out his dick from his boxers.
“Mr. Druthers. You’re so big.”
He’s average, but I’ve never met a man who doesn’t want to be told how big he is. And when that phrase comes from the mouth of someone they think is an authority on the subject, they appreciate it all the more.
I tease him a bit with tentative licks, knowing he’s the kind of impatient guy who’ll decide he has to “take control.”
“Stop teasing, bitch. Deep throat the motherfucker.”
I take him all in and look up to watch his eyeballs roll back. I pull gently on his balls to keep him hard and stop him from cumming immediately. I’ve had that happen and even though it’s never my fault, the men always seem to think that warrants a discount.
When I start to work with my tongue, mouth, and fist, I know he’s getting close. He shoves me off his dick and down to the ground.
He’s breathing heavy, trying to keep himself from cumming.
Yeah. He’s such the sweet talker. A good thing I enjoy fingering myself so there’s no hesitation there. I get up on the corner of his desk, hike my skirt up, push my panties to the side, and start to rub my clit.
He likes what he sees. I can tell because he’s slowly stroking his cock as he watches.
“Lose the blouse.”
I lose the blouse as commanded, freeing my breasts to full view.
Like a hungry baby, he leans down and suckles needfully at my left nipple, somehow managing to squish my right breast in his hand. He pulls away to say, “You like that, don’t you? You like my mouth on your titty. You like my hand on your titty.”
I moan in response. I feel like if I actually spoke, the truth would shine through no matter how good I am at faking it. Thankfully, I know my way around my pussy and I know how to really make me feel good. He doesn’t need to know that none of my pleasure comes from him.
He doesn’t say anything else, just shoves his dick towards my pussy. I shift enough for him to miss, saying, “Condom.”
“Don’t need one. I’m clean,” he says with another attempted thrust. “And you’re probably on the pill.”
I realize now he’s going to be one of “those guys.” A pain in the ass. Might as well make it literal.
“You know you want to fuck me in my ass,” I say, flipping over to give him a good view. All of the time and commitment to the gym make it a fine, fine ass, indeed.
He grunts and tears off my panties, so I know he’s okay with the alternative entry.
I relax to let him in, but squeeze once he is, nearly trapping him in place.
“Bet you’ve never had something so big back here.”
I’m glad he can’t see me roll my eyes.
I stutter out a “no” to set the scene.
I feel him clench.
I feel him pull out.
I hear him grunt and cum and I’m pretty sure some of it, if not all of it, got on my skirt.
“You got some on my skirt, didn’t you, you naughty boy?”
He slaps my ass and says, “You’ll thank me later.”
“You have something to maybe clean it up so —“
“You’ve got my money. Walk of shame your ass out of here.”
Classy dude. If I ever come back, I’ll have to remember to sneak a hickey onto his body for his wife to find.
I haven’t even left the study to start dinner when I hear the door open. My first thought is — there’s no way that could be Zoey already done with work for the day.
Sure enough, though, it’s Zoey who pops her head into where I’m situated.
“Do you want me to shower before we fuck or do you want to take me dirty?” Zoey asks me.
In all of our time together, I can count the number of times Zoey’s said “fuck” on one hand and those were all in response to a stubbed toe or paper cut, never to sex. We have sex regularly, but generally, the stuff is vanilla — missionary and polite.
She sees me pause and says, “My ass is a little sore right now, so I’d prefer you take my pussy… or mouth.”
I look up at my wife as if seeing her for the first time. She looks better… sexier… like she’s had a makeover or something.
She shifts and I notice the high heels making her calves look fantastic. Her makeup is a lot less plain and a helluva lot more sultry. “I have to go back to work, but you have me for the next few hours to do whatever you want to me, lover.”
She strips out of her skirt, shorter than anything I’ve ever seen her wear. She’s not wearing panties or a bra. She’s naked in seconds, wearing just her heels and a loving look on her face.
I smile, feeling like I’ve just won something.
She must’ve had a good day at the office and now I’m in for a very happy Valentine’s Day indeed.