Sue’s After Dark Diaries Ep 32 – Valentine’s
Sue’s After Dark Diaries Ep 32 – Valentine’s
Valentine’s Day: Hope Arrives Loudly and Uninvited
Valentine’s Day arrives like it always does… uninvited, overconfident, and convinced it’s doing me a favour.
It’s Saturday. I’m still in bed. Benji is pressed against my calf like a warm, judgmental loaf. I have plans to do absolutely nothing beyond coffee and mild avoidance of romance-based marketing.
Naturally, this is when Sharon knocks.
Not knocks – attacks the door.
I open it mid-second assault and immediately regret everything.
She barrels in wearing brand-new platform heels, the sort that promise height but deliver chaos. She trips over Benji within three steps, windmills her arms, and announces, “I’M FINE,” while absolutely not being fine.
Benji growls at the shoes.
“Don’t be jealous,” Sharon tells him, righting herself. “They make my legs look longer.”
Benji bares one tooth. He has doubts.
Sharon straightens up, grinning, clutching four Valentine’s cards like evidence. “Look.”
“All from different people?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Any restraining orders pending?”
“Not yet,” she says cheerfully.
She spots my kitchen counter and freezes.
“Oh.”
Because there they are.
Twelve long-stemmed red roses. Proper ones. No supermarket cellophane shame. And beside them stood a bottle of champagne. Chilled. Smug. Definitely not from Sharon.
“There was a card,” I say, calmly. “It said, You might need help drinking this later x.”
Sharon screams.
This is how the day starts.
Speculation, Accusations, and the Art of Knowing Everything
Sharon circles the roses like a detective who’s watched too much daytime television.
“Mark,” she says immediately.
“Possibly.”
“Or mystery man.”
“Also possible.”
“Or someone you forgot you flirted with online.”
“Unlikely,” I reply. “I remember my flirting. It’s efficient.”
She squints. “Did Dan send them?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “He doesn’t have thumbs.”
Sharon collapses onto the sofa, platforms abandoned, cards spread across her lap. She reads them aloud, narrating dramatically.
“This one’s boring. This one’s hopeful. This one’s absolutely lying.”
“And the fourth?” I ask.
She snorts. “Married.”
“Of course.”
“They always are. It’s practically a hobby.”
Meanwhile, Benji has decided the roses are suspicious and sits guarding them like they might explode.
Sharon claps her hands suddenly. “RIGHT. Tonight.”
“Yes,” I say carefully, “about that.”
“The Valentine’s Bash,” she announces. “Community hall. Same one as Christmas Eve.”
“Which ended with the fire alarm and your ex crying in the coat cupboard.”
“Memories,” she sighs.
She explains, again, that she’s been advertising it everywhere. Social media. Flyers. Group chats. Former lovers.
“What if they all turn up?” I say, “There won’t be room for oxygen.”
“That’s what makes it exciting.”
Tickets are £20. Includes Sharon’s punch. The local pub is running the bar. Outside catering is happening. Someone she “used to know intimately” is DJing.
“I need your help,” she says, eyes shining. “Decorations. Set-up. Moral support.”
I look at the roses. The champagne. Benji. The day ahead.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m supervising.”
She beams. Chaos has permission.
The Community Hall: Glitter, Ambition, and Structural Integrity
By late morning, we’re at the community hall, the same one Sharon conquered at Christmas.
Boxes everywhere. Fairy lights. Silver streamers. Heart-shaped things that shed glitter like emotional dandruff.
Sharon takes charge instantly.
There’s always a battle between middle-aged romance and fairy lights. Sharon insists they’re the same thing.
“No, higher. No, more sparkle. No, I said romantic, not children’s disco.”
I watch, arms folded, sipping coffee, impressed despite myself.
Sharon has an eye for things that twinkle. She also has no concept of moderation.
We hang hearts. We untangle lights. Benji supervises from a chair he’s claimed illegally.
Pizza arrives halfway through.
We eat standing up, arguing about whether love songs peaked in the 90s (they did), and whether Sharon’s punch should legally come with a warning label – that stuff has caused many lapses in judgment and several walks of shame.
By the time we’re done, the hall looks… good.
Soft lighting. Warm corners. Enough sparkle to suggest romance without blinding anyone.
Sharon steps back, hands on hips. “See?”
“I hate that you’re right,” I tell her.
She grins. “Wait until tonight.”
I have a bad feeling.
Afternoon Calm Before the Storm (Also Known as False Security)
Back home, the afternoon stretches out deceptively calm.
I water the roses. Benji naps. The champagne waits.
My phone stays mercifully quiet, which is suspicious.
I sit with a book, but my brain keeps wandering – to the hall, the night ahead, the note on the card.
You might need help drinking this later x.
I absolutely will.
By five, Sharon messages: GET READY. WE GO BIG.
I sigh, that’s so Sharon…, and head for the wardrobe.
This is happening.
Sophistication Attempts and Underwear Negotiations
I stand in front of the wardrobe like it’s about to give evidence.
This is not my first Valentine’s. I know the traps. I know the lies clothes tell. I also know that whatever I choose will be judged later… by Sharon, by mirrors, and by me.
I pull out the new dress first. Cream. Soft. Sweetheart neckline. A touch of glitz on the cuffs. Classy. Elegant. Sensible.
Which is deeply suspicious.
I step into it and turn sideways.
“Oh,” I say aloud. “We’re pretending to be composed.”
It skims in a way that suggests good intentions and plausible deniability. I nod. This will do. This says I’m here for romance, and not that I planned this with a spreadsheet.
Now underwear.
This is where honesty lives.
I open the drawer and immediately regret several past purchases. Lace that requires commitment. Something red that screams optimism. Something beige. Nope. Too sensible. Too surrendering.
“No,” I tell the beige firmly.
Ah. The Bridget Jones knickers. The architectural ones. The ones that promise to pull and tuck like I haven’t lived a full, carb-inclusive life.
Honestly, no one’s getting in there. Not even me when I need a wee. That’s another story. We don’t revisit it.
I pick up a lacy set, hold it up, then laugh. “Ouch. I remember the chafing. I couldn’t sit for days.” swiftly putting them back. “Let’s not make promises we can’t keep.”
Eventually, I settle on something that says prepared but realistic. Not Bridget Jones. Not delusional. Just… cooperative.
Dan sits on the dresser, bright pink and observant.
“Later,” I tell him. “Behave.”
He gives the faintest hum, like he’s filing a note.
I shower quickly, mostly to reset my attitude. I apply lipstick – bold but controlled, and give myself a final look.
“Yes, not too shabby,” I nod. “Responsible chaos.”
That’s when Sharon bursts in.
“Taxi’s here.”
Of course it is.
Valentine’s Bash Begins
The hall is packed.
I count at least eight of Sharon’s exes within the first ten minutes.
They orbit her. Compliment her. Buy her drinks. Compete subtly.
Sharon is in her glory.
The punch flows. The DJ warms up. Sharon gossips instantly.
“Did you see who came with whom?”
“Did you hear about the roses?”
“Apparently someone’s already cried in the toilets.”
I sip my drink, amused, observant, unbothered.
And then the doors open.
Mark walks in.
Suit. Confident. Annoyingly handsome, timed perfectly, because of course he does.
He catches my eye. Smiles. Signals the DJ.
The music softens.
He crosses the room, takes my hand, spins me gently, and says, “Happy Valentine’s.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“You always make an entrance.
”Mark’s hand settles at my waist…” like it belongs there, which – irritatingly – it does. Familiar. Confident. Dangerous in a way that makes you forget your drink exists.
Mark smells good. Clean. Expensive. Like someone who owns proper hangers.
“You look…” he pauses, choosing wisely, “…prepared.”
“I always am.”
He leans in. “I thought you might need help popping the cork tonight.”
I laugh.
Sharon clocks us immediately and grins, puts her fingers to her mouth, and then this shrieking whistle errupts followed by go on sue.
Another fine moment from Sharon.
This night just escalated.
Sharon Unleashed: Gossip, Glitter, and Strategic Interruptions
Sharon appears beside us like a sequined apparition.
“SORRY,” she lies. “Just checking you’re hydrated.”
She hands me a drink I absolutely did not request.
“Mark,” she adds brightly, “you’re looking… resolved.”
He chuckles. “You’re glowing.”
“I KNOW,” she says. “It’s validation.”
She leans in, whispering loudly, “Eight exes. One DJ who still texts me. Two people crying. One suspicious bouquet.”
I nod. “Busy night.”
She eyes Mark. “You staying?”
“For now.”
She grins. “Good.”
Then she’s gone, intercepted by a man who once borrowed her charger and never returned it. Drama ensues.
Mark watches her retreat. “She’s… impressive.”
“She’s a force,” I agree. “You don’t resist her. You survive.”
The DJ changes track. Faster now. Louder.
Mark leans closer. “Fancy getting some air?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Outside the Hall: Cold Air and Familiar Heat
Outside, the night is crisp. Quiet by comparison.
We stand under a flickering light, laughter drifting faintly from inside.
Mark slips his jacket over my shoulders without asking. I let him. I’m not proud.
“Still seeing chaos professionally?” he asks.
“Exclusively.”
He studies me for a moment. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I say. Then, because honesty happens at night, “Dangerously.”
He smiles. Steps closer.
“I missed you,” he says softly.
I inhale. Let it land. Decide not to pretend.
“I know.”
Inside, Sharon screams — unclear why, but probably justified.
Mark’s fingers brush mine. Slow. Intentional.
“We should walk you home,” he says.
“That sounds like a decision.”
“I make those.”
“So do I.”
We head off, the hall shrinking behind us, glitter and noise fading into memory.
The Walk Home: Innuendo, Memory, and Poor Self-Control
The streets are quiet. Our steps fall into rhythm.
“You always walk like you’re considering escape routes,” Mark observes.
“I like options.”
He laughs. “Still prepared.”
“Always.”
We pass shop windows, reflections catching us mid-conversation. Comfortable. Easy. Loaded with history.
“You still keep…” he hesitates, “…everything?”
“Yes.”
He smirks. “Good.”
We stop outside my building.
I fish for my keys. Drop them. Swear quietly.
Mark leans against the wall, watching like he’s got nowhere else to be.
“Coming in?” I ask lightly.
“I thought you might need help popping that cork.”
I unlock the door.
Inside Again: Walls, Whispers, and Familiar Territory
The door closes behind us with a soft, final click.
The flat is quiet. Warm. Expectant.
Benji appears from the hallway, tail wagging like a metronome set to “optimistic,” then freezes when he clocks Mark. He assesses. Sniffs once. Decides this is acceptable. Sits.
“Hey,” Mark says to the dog, as though Benji is the one who needs greeting first.
Benji tilts his head, then apparently gives permission.
I kick off my shoes. One lands neatly by the mat. The other cartwheels into the living room like it’s auditioning for a circus. Consistency matters, obviously.
Mark steps closer. Don’t rush.
“You sure?” he asks, voice low, eyes on mine.
“Yes,” I say.
Simple.
True.
That’s all it takes.
The kiss is familiar – warm, confident, just reckless enough. His hands find my waist; mine slide up to his collar, tugging him closer. We bump into the wall – laugh into each other’s mouths – adjust – kiss again.
Benji sighs loudly, the sound of a dog who has seen this episode before, and retreats to his bed like he’s clocking off for the night.
Escalation, Interruption, and Canine Trophy Collection
Things escalate slowly, deliberately… no frantic tearing, just the quiet unravelling of layers we both know by heart.
His coat hits the floor first.
Then my dress, unzipped with careful fingers, sliding down my arms, pooling at my feet like spilled ink.
He steps back to look… just a second, eyes dark, appreciative.
I feel the heat rise under his gaze, in the best way.
My hands find the hem of his shirt.
Lift.
He raises his arms.
The fabric comes away, revealing skin I remember too well – the faint scar under his ribs from that stupid motorbike fall, the line of hair that trails down and disappears under his belt.
I trace it with my fingertips.
He shivers.
Trousers next.
His belt buckle clinks softly.
Underwear last.
Slow.
His thumbs hook under the lace at my hips; I slide his boxers down, feeling him hard and ready against my palm. He’s always ready for me.
We stand there for a while – naked, smiling, a little breathless, before he pulls me through to the bedroom.
We sink onto it together.
Not frantic.
Not clumsy.
Just… right. No chaos. No drama.
His mouth finds my neck, then lower – kisses trailing fire across my collarbone, closing over one nipple, tongue flicking until I arch and gasp. This is happening.
My fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently.
He groans against my skin – low and hungry.
His hand slides between my thighs, fingers parting me, finding me ready. There’s no hiding that my body wants him.
He circles my clit with slow, teasing pressure… Mark remembers how I like it, making my hips lift, chasing the touch.
I reach for Dan on the side table… he’s there, charged, waiting like the loyal third wheel he is.
I switch him on low.
Dan hums with intent, perfect… then, BUZZ BUZZ WHIRL WHIRL BUZZ BUZZ, not now, Dan, Benji gets up and takes himself off as to say, not this again.
Mark chuckles, takes him from me.
Presses Dan between us first – letting the vibrations travel from my clit through both of us.
I gasp at the sudden intensity.
He smiles against my mouth, wicked, knowing.
Then he shifts. Dan’s had his fun!
Lines himself up.
Looks down at me with that look that says he remembers every single time and still wants more.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmurs.
“I won’t,” I whisper back.
He enters me slowly.
Inch by inch. Thinking, Yep, this is what I want.
I moan… low, broken – nails digging into his shoulders as he hits the top.
The rhythm starts gently.
Deep, rolling thrusts that make my toes curl, then I scream. Dan has rolled under me, digging into my back, of course, he has, and then starts buzzing frantically AGAIN.
I arch up to meet him. Mark grabs Dan; he’s glowing and buzzing triumphantly. Not this time, Dan, as my hips start rocking, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
Faster.
Harder.
I clench around him on every upstroke, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.
The build is fast.
Too fast.
I come first. Hard. Sudden. Clenching around him in a pulsing wave.
He follows seconds later, I feel his hips stuttering, burying himself deep as he spills inside me.
We stay like that for a long moment.
Breath ragged.
Bodies glowing.
Dan is still glowing and lets out one final buzz before I switch him off, a loyal sidekick who’s earned a rest.
Benji’s Moment
Then… because my life is 87% slapstick timing… Benji decides the afterglow needs enrichment.
He trots over from his bed, tail wagging like he’s just remembered he has a job to do.
He spots Mark’s discarded boxers on the floor.
Growls sweetly, that soft, happy, possessive rumble he does when he’s found treasure.
Picks them up in his mouth.
Tail wagging so hard his whole back end wobbles.
He trots to the bedroom door, pauses, looks up at us with pure canine pride, then tries to leap onto the bed with the boxers clamped triumphantly between his teeth.
He misses.
Lands half on, half off.
Scrabbles with his front paws.
Boxers flapping like a tiny flag of victory.
Mark looks at me.
I look at him.
We both dissolve into helpless, breathless laughter, our bodies still pressed together, skin still flushed, the moment somehow even hotter for being interrupted by a little dog who thinks he’s just won the lottery.
“Priorities,” Mark says, wiping his eyes.
“He’s got none,” I reply, still giggling. “And now he’s got your underwear as a souvenir, again.”
Benji finally succeeds in dragging himself and his trophy fully onto the bed.
He flops down between us, boxers still in his mouth, tail thumping the mattress like he’s waiting for applause.
I reach over and scratch behind his ears.
“Good boy,” I tell him. “But next time, maybe wait until we’re done.”
He lets out a contented huff, boxers still clamped like a trophy, and settles in.
Mark kisses my temple.
“Still chaotic,” he murmurs.
“Still worth it,” I reply.
And for once, I don’t argue with myself.
The phone buzzes again.
Once.
Twice.
Nonstop.
I glance at it.
The WhatsApp group.
They’ve reconvened.
I mute it without looking.
Valentine’s Day fades.
And me?
Prepared.
Satisfied.
Still completely ready for another round of chaos.
As ever.
Some things can wait.
Let yourself be carried away into the exciting world of sex swings. Give into the enchantment of the romance, passion, and deep sensuality that come with celebrating your love together. Surrender to the unique feeling of deep intimacy through shared peaks of passion.
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