Lucrezia Magazine

“What's it to be tonight?” I repeat Cal's question as I ring the doorbell.

Before I can answer him, Jo's greeting us. Without saying a word, she leans against the door, one arm high, grasping the top edge, while her other arm is akimbo, hand on a jutted hip.

“Welcome, y'all!”

I smile so broadly I risk cracking my face, I'm sure. I have no shame, so I actually squeal. (I think I manage not to jump up and down. A girl's gotta have some decorum, right?) Cal? Well, he has more pride than me. He tends to keep things inside. But his expression still speaks volumes: in the dictionary, there's a photo of it next to the entry for shit eating grin.

"The reasons for our combined response? First off, Jo is decked out in western boots, a denim mini, and rodeo shirt...and what is clearly an authentic hat. She takes in our reactions and licks her lips.

“I am so not aligned with that nasty term 'female superior'. What's the point of such a redundancy, anyway...?”

“Cowgirl.”

Jo grins at Cal, but keeps the volume down.

“I, for one, have no problems with terms such as 'gal' or 'girl'. I save my political energies for more important issues. Besides,” she says, sashaying to him, and applying a kiss on a cheek. “Who wants to be all grown up, anyway...?”

Scrunching him at the lapels, she leans out to me, flicks a saucy tongue across my lips...blinks a quick hello...then plants a proper kiss on me that I'm sure gets my fiancée hard. Because I know it sure kick-starts my seeping.

“Shall we?” she eventually asks, arm around my waist as she marshals us forward. Once inside, she completes her greeting with a blindly executed kick of her heel, slamming the door shut behind us. Her bedroom is probably my most favorite place in the whole world. It's dark, for starters. But not tomb-like. It's comfy. Inviting.The grand four-poster helps. It's monstrous, each of the pillars as big as railway ties. As do its Ebenezer Scrooge wraparound curtains, diaphanous material gathered and puckered with as much attention as a set designer would apply were it part of a film shoot. And the endless piles of pillows and shams and the impossible thickness of the duvet and the luxury of the linen. You get the picture, I'm sure.

“I figured we could deal with the boring stuff like eating at some point later on in the evening,” Jo announces, guiding Cal to the bed, indicating he should sit. “How's it all been going so far?”

“I'm sure you're subscribed to the daily updates.”

“iChat conference calls,” is her rejoinder to him, and the sound of her laughter, unfettered, rejoicing in its own pleasure, initiates a pealed bell inside me...just on the other side of the skin where I'm seeping. “As soon as you two depart, we're online, sharing-and-caring.”

“I'd have expected no less.” Leaning against one of the posts, I take in the sight of Jo standing before my man. She looks...yummy. As if this outfit was her default clothing. Which is absurd, as Jo's British, from Newcastle, and as far as I know, 'the wild west' doesn't refer to anything associated with being a Geordie. This is the second reason for our enthusiastic response; role-playing is notably effective when accents are put into play. Especially when the accent is dead-on.

“It's been quite a week so far,” Cal says, shedding his sports coat, placing it on his lap, and then leaning back on his elbows.

“I know. For more than just you, the groom.”

Shit eating grins clearly the order of the day, we all three proudly parade them.

“Fellatio...missionary...doggie...”

“Uh-huh.”

“And tonight...”

“I get rode hard and put up wet?”

I gaze at Cal's smile and I melt. Maybe most women can't understand why I would be doing this. Allowing my closest friends to take his second virginity on this mad deflowering tour. But for me, it cements how I feel about him. The profound emotions I have for him, and also, for my friends. The combination is this vast expanse of connection that I guess I wanted to make real. And this seemed like the best way to do that, as well as getting him back up to speed in a suitably 'baker’s half-dozen' sort of way. So I take in the sight of his smile and I'm melting and seeping, all at once.

“I'm sure I'll be the one wet' at the end of the evening. Jesca,” she begins, strutting the small distance between them. “Anything goes, as long as I'm on top, yes?”

“Yup.”

“So, facing forwards, facing backwards,” she sighs, at the bed's margent, having split his thighs, pushing them apart, allowing her approach to continue. “Squatting –in any direction my compass can suggest– all the various gymnastic variations including the piked position, straddles, tucks...” Her hands now shift to his crotch, fingers skimming, assaying the lay of the land...even as her ministrations change the landscape, bringing the surface to life.

“Sounds like a lot more than just riding.”

“Babyskin,” she replies, her hips gyrating as her hands increase their activity. “Since when does what I get involved in ever end up being just anything...?”

“Oh, Lord...”

“You a religious man, Cal?” she asks, fingers off him, at her shirt now, unbuttoning it. “Because if you are, maybe we should administer last rites...”

I need to see this. I need to see what he's seeing. So I walk to the head of the bed and clamber up.

“Yeah?”

“You know I'm an endurance athlete, right?” is her next question, button after button undone, and with each one, more bounteous flesh revealed. “When I do a one-day event, I aim for complete and total exhaustion. I don't care how I do, where I place...I just like that feeling of being utterly drained.”

“OK...”

“Which means that this ride I'm about to take might prove to be too much for my mount. Seeing as it's been a while since he's been ridden.”

“Well, I've been a little active this week-”

Jo's laughter begins as she tugs the bottom of her blouse up out of her skirt and tosses it aside, revealing the torso that's always mesmerized. “You don't really think that what you've been doing so far has any relation to what you're about to experience, do you...?”

“Jo has always had a problem putting herself out there,” I muse, shucking my shoes, finding a comfortable notch up here at the now cushioned headboard. “Not one for a strong self-image. A right wallflower. She's always been the one protected by the rest of us. Our fragile little daisy.”

“Venus flytrap is more like it.” Cal's comment is restrained...and yet chock-full of gusto laying in wait. 'Flesh eater.”

“Only one way to find out...”