“Happy Valentine’s Day, Daddy!” Lo said, as she handed me a cute little card.  She was wearing her silky, shiny black dress, black heels, and nothing else.  She then sat on the chair, lifted up her legs high in the air, spread them, and said, “Do you want a little appetizer before dinner?”

I took in the sight and said, “Come to think of it, I could use a little snack.”

I got on my knees before her like a supplicant before his god, opened my mouth and put my tongue to her smooth, newly shaved, glistening pussy lips.  I heard her moan on contact.  I then dove in with an enthusiastic and concerted cunnilingal revery.  I could feel her body convulsing and her lower lips salivating.  At one point, I looked up from my coveted corner at the apex of her love and saw that she had pulled out her phone and was looking at something on it as I worshipped her womanhood.  What could it be, I thought.

I continued a little while longer lashing her labia with my tongue before I could stand it no more.  I backed off and stood up.

“Lola,” I said sternly, “what are you so preoccupied with?”

“Don’t stop, Daddio,” she said.  “I’m just reading the Valentine’s cards I got from my fans.”

“Let me see,” I demanded.

She turned her phone around and scrolled through page after page of cumtributes from various men and women.

I wiped my mouth of her juices and said, “I think it’s time we get going.  Our dinner reservations are for eight.”

She pulled down her black dress and stood up.  I could see on the inside of her knees a few streams flowing down her inner thighs.

She grabbed a hand-towel from the kitchen and wiped up her legs from her calf to her crotch.  “I don’t want to make puddles in my shoes,” she said as she performed the slightly indecorous task.

“No, we can’t have that,” I said.

At the restaurant, we sat at a candlelit table for two with a romantic candle lit, illuminating our faces in the dim light of the room.

I passed Lo my Valentine’s Day card.  I had made it myself.  Instead of “Happy Valentine’s Day,” it read, “Felix Lupercalia!”

“What is this?” she asked.

“Latin.”

“OK.  Why?”

“The origins of Valentine’s Day go back to Roman times.  It was a holiday, much like a Bacchanalia, called Lupercalia.  The priests of the festival would fun through the city naked, carrying small whips known as februa, from which the month gets its name, and they would whip the young women who came out into the streets for exactly that purpose.”

“Why did they do that?”

“It was supposedly part of a fertility ritual.  The women thought that if they were whipped, the purification ritual would increase their chances of getting pregnant.”

“I imagine that if a lot of young women flooded the streets of Rome, bared their asses to have them whipped, that by the end of the day a lot of them would get pregnant, but not because of the whip.”

“You’re probably right,” I said.

“Will you ‘purify’ me when we get home?” she asked.

“Have you been corrupted?”

“So much,” she said, stars in her eyes.

“Then I’ll have to purify you with quite a bit.”

She bit her lower lip.  “I’m having impure thoughts right now.”