Page 57 of Valentine's Slave

Due to her angle, my cum should go straight down her throat. As soon as I finish, I pull out of her mouth, and she sits up in the swing, her legs still spread out wide in front of her.

I lean down and hug her from behind. “How was that for you?” I ask. I know oral isn’t her favourite.

She takes a second to think. “It actually wasn’t that bad.” A devilish grin comes into her eyes. “I like when you played with me at the same time.”

I can imagine it makes her feel more mine, both dirty and used in the best possible way. It awakens her inner submissive siren.

“And swallowing?” I ask.

“I hardly tasted it because of the angle,” she says. “But I would like some water.”

I chuckle as I duck out from under the swing. “At your service.”

* * *

On Tuesday, we cook together, pausing for sex sessions before, during, and after the cooking. I spoon her in bed, my cock buried deep in her ass while I squeeze her breasts, and she moans and rolls against me.

When it’s time to eat, I put Ava back in the collar and make her eat chocolate pudding out of a bowl on her hands and knees. She laps at it with her tongue while I slap her ass, fingering her from behind, telling her that if she stops eating, I’ll stop pleasuring her. She nearly chokes on her chocolate, moaning and pulsing against me, and then she loses her balance, and one of her breasts dips into the chocolate bowl. I lick it off her before getting over the edge, and then I fuck her as she lies naked over the kitchen table.

I wasn’t going to kiss her again, but I do: during sex, on the table, at night, when she’s wrapped in my arms, clinging to me as if I’m her lifesaver. It makes the sex deeper. It doesn’t mean anything else.

After kissing and fucking for hours on end, no alcohol needed, she gets into a hazy state, pulling me close. She tells me all about her ex and how her family hated him and how she was always afraid she wouldn’t find anyone better. She was comfortable in her discomfort, so she stayed for five years. That’s the real answer. What she said before about love was a copout. What she really meant by ‘love’ was comforting and familiar, even if it was harmful.

Something rages inside me. I want to protect her.

She tells me about her parents, that they did the best they could, but like all parents, they made their mistakes. Her dad didn’t know how to listen or make her feel seen. Her mom was scared of everything, especially of having two young-adult daughters out free in the world.

“Did you know that most relationship problems we have stem from attachment issues in childhood?” I ask her softly as we lie in bed at 10 p.m. after a sexathon.

“So, what happened to you?” she asks with a mocking smile.

I hesitate. I don’t like to delve inside myself. Accept myself, I can do that, and I have. But analyze myself, pick myself apart to see the flaws and the hurt that I carry, it’s something I’ve specifically avoided, at least in some areas. I’ve also never been in a healthy relationship. Emilia and I were together for a little while, but it was rocky at best. We misunderstood each other the majority of the time, and despite our passion, we were complete opposites in many aspects.

“I grew up as an only child with a poor single mother,” I say. “She gave me everything she could before dying of cancer when I was sixteen, and I was always thankful to her. But she needed me almost more than I needed her. She depended on me like one would on a partner, and she often told me things that were much too mature for my years, especially when she became sick. I grewup too fast, and that’s most likely why I value my independence so highly.”

“Is that the real reason you’re only with women once per year?” Ava asks. There’s no judgement in her tone, and her blue eyes are deep and sad as she lies on my chest, running her hands through my hair. She told me she’d like to braid it, and at this rate, I just might let her—only because she’s been such a good girl.

“I’m only with women once a year because that’s what I’ve decided,” I say. “I’m a lone wolf, Ava. I’ve always been, even when I had a woman. And she suffered for it.”

Ava closes her mouth as if biting back what she was about to say. I still haven’t told her the details of how they died and how my ritual started, that during the week that Emilia was still alive in the hospital, in a coma, when I still had hope, from the 8thof February to the 14th. That was when she woke up, when she looked into my eyes, her gaze too confused to fill with pain or disappointment, how she simply said, “It’s you,” before she took her final breath.

It was seven days of tortured hope, seven days of fleeting life. And now, what’s left are seven days of rubbing souls with strangers—seven days of sex.

“I’m the exact opposite,” Ava says softly. “I’ve always needed to have somebody.” She chuckles weakly. “What a mess.”

I put my finger under her chin and turn her face to mine. “You’re not a mess,” I tell her. “You’re on a journey, and this is all part of the learning process.”

“Hailey and I always used to joke that we had the shittiest taste in guys,” she adds. “Malcolm’s dad is a dick. Thankfully Hailey got full custody, but only because we were able to prove that his father is an alcoholic. Had to go to court and everything.”

“What was your relationship like with your father?” I don’t mean to be a psychologist, but I’ve analyzed others, and the father is often a common denominator.

“It was good.” Ava speaks too fast. “I mean, we never really fought about stuff. We did sometimes, but he was pretty chill about most things. He liked having family traditions, like when we would go to a restaurant together, just the four of us, a week before Christmas.

“Were you close with him, though?” I press. “Could you tell him about what boys you liked?”

“Of course not! He would have killed us.”

“Did he know your favourite colour or your favourite food?”

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