Fiction
The Perfect Sin
Plucking the Cherry II
Desire
Verona
The Valet of Vicksburg
Art Feature
Plucking the Cherry…
by Probitionate
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The Revelation

I have to pull the car over.

If we’d been on a bus, I’d have yanked on the cord and led him off, however short we were of our destination. If we’d been in an elevator, I’d have exited regardless of how not-our-floor it was. Maybe a restaurant would have changed things slightly, as we'd already have been stationary. But being in motion when he said what he said, my compulsion was to regain control...by stopping. So I pulled over.

“Repeat that. Please.” “Yeah,” he sighed, staring off into the half-completed subdivision, caught midway between muddy field and gated community. “I know. I’ve been thinking maybe I need to work on a presentation. Something YouTubish. More user-friendly.”

“How long?”

The Proposition

“You do realize that if we were driving...if I even had a car to drive...I’d be pulling over about now.”

I'm a big enough girl to know when to let a man run. Especially when either sex or emotions are involved. So I wait.

“You can't be serious!” he maintains, waiting for me to deliver the punch line, the retraction, the stinging smack of remonstrative fury.

Waiting just a few more heartbeats...timing is everything, after all...I take his face in my hands and kiss him. Not a ‘This is your first notice that I’m hot and I want to go to bed with you’ kiss, it’s a distinct ‘I love you and I want to make things right’’ kiss. “I am. Entirely serious,” I add, swimming about in the knowledge that if he's been out of practice for as long as he maintains...and he's still a good kisser...no, I mean a great kisser, a fantastic kisser...then once he's properly back in the saddle... Then I consider that if he makes love with the same amount of instinct, of adventure, of oomph...and I have to look away for a second. And I shiver. Because then, if that's true (and really, there's no doubt in my mind about it), then nothing I've proposed to him is preposterous at all. In fact, it all makes perfect sense. “Trust me?”

“Trust you!? You, I trust implicitly. What I don't trust-”

“Are my friends?”

Up go his hands. The Human Stop Sign, doubled. “I appreciate that you're all close. Impossibly close friends.

“Baker's Half Dozen. That's us.”

“Does 'witchy-coven' rhyme with 'half-dozen'?”

“Are you calling us witches?”

“I am.”

“Goody. More bonus points for you.”

“I...” Shaking his head...shrugging his shoulders...dashing off a series of facial expressions that I'm going to have to indulge myself and believe are the manly-man's equivalent of the fairer sex's 'weak at the knees'...he finally manages to get something out. “My mouth is dry...my mind feels like it's made of round building blocks, I can't put thoughts together...”

“And this...?” I decide that grasping his crotch is the best way to punctuate my question. No surprise there; I do pride myself on being a communicator. I gaze down at what I’m knurling between thumb and fingers. Admittedly, here I go all goofy. “So the shock aside, the notion clearly appeals.”

A roll of the eyes, then he responds. “You're asking a man who may as well have taken an actual vow of celibacy whether he wants to be re-initiated into the world of prurience, of salacious endeavors, to be given a tour of the multi-chambered mansion known as 'Every Carnal Desire House' by a statistically-impossible retinue of gorgeous, beguiling, scintillating women, each to guide me through a separate room in this building, with your blessing, the very week of wedding-”

Again, I kiss. I've a lot of faith in The Kiss. Perhaps all my faith springs from it. I kiss him and I feel both his ease and his erection increase. ”Actually, I'm asking if you'd like to have your 'bachelor party', your 'stag-night' spread out over six evenings. And have it be a lot more engaging and interactive than just about any ever thrown...”

“My fiancée choreographing it all, live-and-in-person.”

“Darlin'... I never promised you conventionality.”

Night One: Dillain

It was agreed that this 'progressive deflowering' take place at each of my friends' abodes. Even with the undeniably piquant aspect of it all, from a practical point of view, keeping the marriage bed sacred seemed wise. I would be giving my soon-to-be husband to my closest friends before I'd received him myself, even if this was a one-off deal. We weren't embarking on a swinger's lifestyle, so best to set out clear boundaries. 'Locale' was the first.

Dillain's place suits her lifestyle. It's a high-rise lakefront condo: sharp lines, chrome, and white. A minimalist's playground. She's a quiet player in the world of 'investments' (No, I've never understood what she does and really, she's never been one to share.), so there's something especially befitting about a residence that doesn't reveal all that much about its owner.

Cal and I ride up the elevator. Its speed, its motion, the burr vibrating up through the soles of our feet, everything about the brief trip reflects tonight. This is proven by his confession as the doors close. “I feel beyond nervous.”

“Yeah? Good!”

I'm not expecting a frown in response.

“Come on! This isn't supposed to be stressful! It's going to be fun! Blowjobs are always fun!” I stare back at the bright illumination migrating across the numbers above the door. “At least they have been in my world.”

“Hmm...”
“You are not going to get all jealous on me now! I'm the one who's going to watch you with another woman!”

“First off, it would be envy. Jealousy is insecurity within a situation where you already have something. Your sex-life occurred before we became 'us'. So 'envious' would be more appropriate. Secondly...should you ever want to have me watch you with another woman...”

A sonorous 'bing!' rings out, and we're no longer in motion. I kiss him on the cheek as I hook my arm in his. “Darlin'... Surely you understood that part of the closeness of my 'coven'...”

Truth be told, I'm not sure who's more nervous.

Dillain waits for us outside her apartment, reminiscent of what she was like in high school: Big Woman On Campus. Leaning up against the door-jamb. Back straight. One foot flat against that wall. Arms crossed. Looking for all the world like some conquering hero. (Which she always was.) “Hey,” she finally says as we arrive in front of her. “I need to consult the form book before we begin.”

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