The Engagement Pt. 03

As the wedding date approached I became, like every prospective bride-to-be, progressively more frantic. There were so many details to be attended. Each locked-down detail spawned a whole new set of priorities. Kevon and Beatrice tried to calm me by saying: "Everything's going to be alright". But they weren't the one's going to be blamed when something fucked up. I was losing sleep.

Did Mrs. Hotbox give one flying fuck about my plight? No. She did not. She flared up regularly like a scorching case of herpes. And to make matters worse, I'd unilaterally decided to forego sex for the last month before my wedding night. Women do this under the idea that we can regain some measure of our virginity for that special evening. That was my thought, anyway.

Mrs. Hotbox had other ideas.

So I explained my plan to Kevon. I told him that we could still have sex. But my mouth, my pussy and my doodihole were off limits. He was a little confused at first. I explained that I wanted our marital bed to be undefiled. By my account, six weeks of celibacy would clean things up nicely. He kinda frowned, you know, in that way men do when they think a woman has lost her mutherfucking mind. But he went along with it.

So we're at my apartment on that first Wednesday night of celibacy. I cooked dinner, but I did not meet him at the door with his standard double helping of skull. We popped on Game of Thrones, too, but I did not hop up in his lap and offer his standard double helping of hole. Instead, we covered the couch with a beach towel and masturbated. I watched him. He watched me.

Ladies, if you ever get the chance to watch a guy pound his pud, it's an enlightening experience. Men don't do it the way we think they do. Whereas we'd just give the dick a squeeze and a tug over and over while holding the balls in place, men tend to finish the tug with a little twist at the top, there, while they are lovingly caressing their puds. And they regulate the pressure as their fists travel over that sensitive area. It's this twist that makes all the difference in the world, according to Kevon. I was so fascinated with his technique that I forgot all about Mrs. Hotbox. I got right up close to watch. So he's pounding along. He gets to breathing hard. His eyes roll back in his head. The next thing I know, my whole face is covered in jizz. I could've killed him. But he said I hadn't excluded facials, and he was right. I made him get down and watch me twiddle, faster and faster, as Mrs. Hotbox ballooned between my fingers. But I couldn't reciprocate. No jizz splurted from her genetic non-opening. This frustrated me.

We did this for two weeks. I learned to appreciate getting facialed. I even sneaked some of Kevon's jizz into my mouth as I was washing up. A lot of women don't like the taste of jizz. But I'd kinda gotten used to it. I missed it, even.

At the end of the first two weeks Mrs. Hotbox was gasping for dick. ANY dick. She was like that drowning girl who goes underwater and comes up hollering "Detroit!!". She goes back down and comes up hollering "VEGAS!!". She never came up hollering for Seattle. My Seattle lover was a nice guy. Of all my lovers he was the only one who specialized in analingus. He sucked ass like a champ. But that didn't do much for Mrs Hotbox. I had to rub her maniacally as Seattle sucked my behind. Where's the advantage in that? I was already masturbating to beat the band.

I couldn't see how I was going to make these final few weeks.

About this time my mom and I finally settled on a wedding dress. It was beautiful, all white to signify marital purity, with a nice train and lace all around. It showed just the right amount of cleavage. It accentuated my assets nicely. I didn't tell my mom that I planned to walk the aisle commando. This was Kevon's suggestion. He had some plans for that first post-marital coital encounter since, he said, my dress would never be worn again.

Also, we picked out these beautiful pink gowns for my bridal party. They had these nice flowers clustered all about the bodice, before sweeping downward towards the hips and trailing away into a swirl. All of my bride's maids were 'hippy', that is, blessed about the derriere. These dresses made sure every crack and crevice of those badonkadonks sang. (I didn't need my dress to sing. I already had my man.)

The groomsmen would wear black tuxedos. Kevon arranged for all the groomsmen to get measured in their hometowns. They'd email their measurements in to the local tux rental place. I sneaked behind to double-check his work. Kevon also arranged flights for everyone coming in from out of town. They paid their own way, of course, but he and I made sure they got the best prices. Everyone was expected to be in Pittsburgh three days early so that we could practice and get to know each other before the wedding. I double-checked these reservations, too.

Four weeks to go. Mrs. Hotbox is SIZZLIN'. Monday nights I would sit on my couch alone and watch videos of Kevon and I fucking. I'd masturbate. Tuesday night it's the same. Wednesday night Kevon comes over expecting to watch Game of Thrones and masturbate. Nope. It's classic video of Kevon and Cynthia fucking. He whips his dick out and chimes in. Only Mrs. Hotbox has already been rubbed to death. Mrs. Hotbox needs what Kevon has in his fist. She doesn't need another session with Cynthia's hand.

I'm so torn. FOUR MORE WEEKS!!! And my fiancé's dick is three feet from my face!! I want it SO bad!!

OK, it's moments like this that let me know that I've chosen the right man. Kevon senses my torment. He also knows that I want to hold fast to my celibacy. He stands me up. He bends me over the couch. AND HE GIVES ME A BACK LICK!!!

Somehow I'd forgotten this permutation, Seattle notwithstanding. Kevon had never given me a back lick before. Previously, when he'd sucked my pussy, I was always on my back with my legs scissored open, or I was mounted over his face, humping away, or we were going sixty-nine with our noses in each other's assholes. Now he's got my buttocks pried open...AND HE'S MOTOR BOATING ME!!!

Mrs. Hotbox doesn't know what to do. Kevon reaches up and gives her the double finger whammy. She explodes. Does he stop motor boating? No. He does not. He's blowing bubbles in my ass and making these deep, rumbling sounds. I loved it!! Technically, it was a breach of my celibacy edict. But his tongue didn't violate my anus. He just licked it. He licked my pussy, too. That was a breach, too, but not so much. It was masturbation, not intrusion. It was petting. The point is, he knew what I needed at that moment. He didn't ask me to reciprocate. When he was ready to ejaculate he stood up and twittered his cockhead up and down between my butt cheeks as he jacked off. Soon enough Mrs. Hotbox was warm and wet, fairly dripping with globules of hot, creamy cum. She liked it. It was manna from heaven. I thought it was enough to get me through to the wedding. It was the right sexual permutation at the right moment.

I told Kevon that we'd have to do this again....on video. He laughed. But I was serious. The following week I set up the video equipment and taped us as we motorboated each other, complete with reacharounds. I left purple hickies in his crack, as close to his hole as possible. This was my man. I was marking my territory.

I sent a copy of this latest video to Lisa and Nicole. They replied immediately, asking if I might be willing to arrange a "sample" when they arrived for the wedding.

"A 'SAMPLE'?!?" I snorted. "Detroit is a 'sample'. Las Vegas is a 'sample'. Kevon is definitely NOT a 'sample'."

I sent them an emoji of an upside down extended middle finger laced with the caption: "Can you hear this? Do you want me to turn it UP?"

It was all in good fun. I knew they were teasing. Fucking for the sake of PGAD was one thing. Fucking my man was quite another. Kevon was off limits. I told them about Kevon's crew.

"Maybe one of his boys is available. I'll introduce you when you get here."

Nicole replied with an image of Detroit's monstrously erect penis.

"Are any of them anything like this?"

"I doubt it," I replied.

"Then I'm not coming," she sniffed.

I didn't bother to reply. I knew she'd be here. But I wondered after Kevon's crew. I couldn't very well ask him about his friends' dick sizes. But I was curious, you know? Kevon has a serviceable nine-incher. It's a nice suck. It's a nice fuck. A girl is always just a little bit curious about her man's friends, you know? It can't be helped.

So one night I sat down and asked him about them. Nothing specific, you understand, and certainly nothing sexual. If he went there, that was on him.

He, of course, starts telling about these men in glowing terms:

"There's DeSean Phillips. You met him in New York. He's a securities broker. Works fourteen hours a day six days a week and nine hours on Sundays. Unattached. The fact that he agreed to spend five days in our wedding tells you how close we are. D is my boy. I don't think he'd take five days off to spend time with Beyonce. He's intense. Driven. Very smart. You might think he's in it for the money. He's not. His dad rolled on him early on. He works to prove his dad wrong.

"There's Eddie. Eddie Gallison. He's from Boston, some little town outside of Boston, I think, but I can never remember the name. He's a network engineer. Works freelance for DoD companies. He's always on his laptop dicking around with routers and switches and shit. You don't want to get him into a conversation about hacking networks. You'll be there all day and won't understand a word he says. Also unattached. He's something of a hater. If you're not within ten points of his IQ, you probably don't want to engage him. He's a great guy, but he's also something of a misogynist. He's in it for the pussy. There's not a romantic bone in his body. Can't keep a woman for long.

"And finally there's Artie Jay. He's from Atlanta. Great ball player. He's got killer handle and a serious mid-range game. He's a sportswriter. Just broke up with his girlfriend of two years. We met on the ball court outside the dorm freshman year. He challenged me to play one-on-one. We ended up playing each other till well past midnight. Ultimately we gave up trying to beat each other and put together a great intramurals team. I think both of us should have tried to walk on to the school team. We used to kill those guys in the gym.

"Anyway, all three of these guys are serious poon hounds. Eddie pledged Kappa. Desean is a Q-dog. Artie and I pledged None Phi None."

I interrupted Kevon at this point.

"You say your friends are poon hounds? And just how does that relate to YOU?" I asked.

He laughed.

"I used to be a poon hound. I still am, as a matter of fact. I just found the poon I couldn't do without."

I smiled, but I still punched him in the shoulder.

"Don't call me 'poon'," I said.

Then something else occurred to me.

"What about the women? This Teralynn, this Jennifer. The two women you bullied onto my bridal party. Are they poon hounds, too?"

"No. They are not. Not to my knowledge anyway. They are like sisters to us. None of us have ever been with them."

"The whole time you were in college you never tapped dat ass?"

A look came over Kevon's face. It was a look of shock and disgust. I'd stepped over a boundary. He really did look at these women as sisters.

"No. I never did," he said frostily.

I dropped the issue. Obviously, this crew had some intangible quality that bound them together as friends. By insinuating something else, I'd created a rift. Kevon was telling the truth. I just had to accept these women into my circle and leave it at that.

Besides, I had other things to worry about. The custom made bride's maid's dresses came in and they looked like shit. The flowers looked cheap and tawdry. Bea tried her dress on and it fit OK, but it didn't sing the way I'd envisioned. There was something wrong about the dress. I couldn't put my finger on it.

Do you know how you want something to be and what you get is close to it, but not quite it? That's how I felt about the bride's maid's dresses. It was maddening. The flowers were an easy fix. Even so, the dresses just seemed subpar.

Also, we'd arranged to have the wedding reception at the local Sheraton. Most of the wedding party coming in from out of town would be staying at the Sheraton, except for Artie Jay. We got Artie a room at the Hilton because the Sheraton was fully booked. The issue at hand was the food. I wanted to cater my own reception, that is, I wanted my family to cook the food and bring it in. The Sheraton's management said no. If we used their facilities, we had to use their catering service, they said. This meant that the food would be inauthentic. Hotels cannot cook macaroni and cheese like black people can. Their potato salad is, to put it bluntly, cobbled together in mayonnaise to suit white people's tastes. No olives. No eggs. No mustard. No onions. No paprika. Don't even mention their jerk chicken or their lima beans. All these things were specialty foods that my grandmothers and my aunties served up in batches. There was no way I was going to pay the Sheraton for inauthentic food at $30 per plate.

We looked elsewhere for a venue. I couldn't see me serving up tasteless mayonnaise-paste Wegmans potato salad or macaroni and cheese straight out of the box. The problem, of course, was that most of the wedding party was already booked at the Sheraton. Even if we found another venue, it would be a general inconvenience for everyone. I hadn't anticipated this catering wrinkle until after the venue had been booked.

My grandmothers and my aunties were determined to cook. We decided to buck the hotel. We determined that we would commit to a limited seating for the hotel's catering service. Then we would sneak trays of home cooked food into the reception and have a self-serve line. The hotel's catering service would feed the wedding party up front. After they left we'd bring out the real food and toss the catered food into the trash.

As the bride-to-be, this worried me. What if the hotel management planted their caterers in the room just as we were unveiling our home cooked food? Would they cause a scene when our outside food was being rolled in? Wouldn't that be embarrassing!!! But my grandmothers and my aunties told me to find a way to serve our family recipes. I couldn't tell them no.

Suppose we were caught. Would the bride's tears be enough to force the hotel to back down? They'd been very clear that no outside food would be allowed. I wondered how they planned to enforce this edict. Could I have my cousins stand at the door and make sure that no hotel staff be allowed in? Add this worry to the thousands of other things a prospective bride keeps in the back of her head.

Mrs. Hotbox wasn't helping. She was acting the muh'fuckin' FOOL. I had to change my panties every few hours or so. I've got all these things to organize. I've got a bunch of people I don't really know in my wedding party. There's the wedding step to choreograph. Did all these people have rhythm? Could I teach them the wedding steps in three days? The stress of bringing all these facets of my wedding together left me wound tightly. I needed to fuck in the worst way. At least, that's what Mrs. Hotbox kept whispering in my ear. Two weeks to go and Kevon's motorboating was losing its soothing effect. I needed some dick.

"Tell me about this Teralynn, this Jennifer," I said to Kevon one night. "It's two weeks until our wedding and I have yet to meet two of my bride's maids."

Predictably, Kevon's first descriptions about these women went to their looks. Teralynn is tall. Jennifer is shorter. Teralynn is light skinned, athletically built. Jennifer is darker, shorter and more femininely built, with a bigger butt and larger breasts.

"But what are they like as PEOPLE?" I wondered.

"Oh, they're great!!" was all he could say.

But what does that mean? I pressed him. All he could say it that they get along with men well without having to be sexual. They are able to talk shit without being "bitchy". They can hold their own in an all male setting.

What the fuck does that mean? All the women I know who do that are secretly ho's. They're fucking somebody in the crew, maybe several of the members. And, too, these types of women get along with men but they don't seem to get along with women. I was concerned that these women would come into my wedding party and disrupt things. Kevon assured me that wouldn't be the case. Somehow I wasn't convinced.

I knew Kevon wasn't fucking either one of them. The look he'd given me when I'd suggested it told me volumes. I might as well have suggested he was fucking a man.

I dunno. Something told me Teralynn and Jennifer were going to be trouble. I pulled my panties down and tooted my ass up for Kevon's purview. Mrs. Hotbox was tingling like a mutherfucker. Ho-hum. Another motorboat. Two weeks to go.