He brought me flowers when he came to see me on Valentine’s Day. I insisted upon cutting them myself before putting them in water. When I was younger, one of my close relatives was a florist and I absolutely relished taking the time to cut the flowers the way I had been taught: with scissors, on an angle.

He sat down at my desk while I stood, working at cutting each end smoothly. As I picked up maybe the fourth flower, I felt his hand trace up the inside of one of my thighs, barely even grazing the skin. I looked over my shoulder at him, but he just nodded for me to keep going. 

I continued to cut the flowers, having to pause every few seconds as his hands continued to wander over my body to give a light shiver. I felt my trembles building as he went down my arms, up my legs, over my stomach, never once touching anything remotely erogenous but getting me fired up all the same.

He started to remove my clothing, causing me to pause between flowers to lift my arms and my feet. Now nude save for my panties, my body was even more receptive to his touch. I slammed my hands down on the desk when his finger traced over the line of my slit through my panties, gasping audibly. I couldn’t remember a time I had been this worked up from just having my skin touched, but there was something about the quality of his hands that made just one sweep over my sex near electric, practically orgasmic.

“Hm?” I could hear his smirk, “what’s wrong?” He pulled the panties to one side and ran his finger over my slit once more. I probably died about six times. “You’re soaked. Now how is that?” He spread my lips with his fingers and chuckled, “I haven’t even touched you here much until now. And still you’re wet. Explain to me why that is.”

My cheeks reddened and I shook my head, “I…I don’t know.” I practically screamed when he flicked his thumb over my clit. He just laughed.

“Finish the flowers,” he ordered and went back to running his hands over my legs. I pouted and picked the scissors back up. The back and forth continued for a few more minutes. I would get too overwhelmed and drop everything, he’d tease me and make me pick it back up. 

I finally filled the vase and went to put the scissors away when he started to rub my clit. I froze before setting the scissors back on the table, dipping my head back and letting out a gratified moan. He pulled me into him, tracing slow circles over my clit. “Look at you,” he teased, “all I have to do is rub your clit and everything else just fades away. That’s all that matters to your little one-track mind. What a simple little whore.”

I cried out as he sped up the circles and he just laughed. “Can’t even argue, can you? Thoughtless little girl.” Suddenly, he stopped and pushed me forward. I stumbled toward the middle of the room and looked back to him. My legs were threatening to give way. I could feel my thighs soaked with myself. My hands were shaking.

“Take off my shoes,” he ordered. “Take off my shoes and set them aside.” I sank to my knees and crawled over to him. I untied one after the other, tugging them off and setting them down side by side before looking up at him expectantly. It was always shocking to me how docile I could become from being reduced to some moaning, bucking creature. 

We continued on this way. I removed his shirt, his pants, everything before I was brought over to the bed. I was his simple little whore. I had that one-track mind. I was focused only on pleasing him. And in this way, I was undeniably content.