PUCKED

by Helena Hunting

  “Mouth or boobs?” She gently peels the googly eye stickers off the head. Thank God she didn’t use glue.

  “Both.” I’m feeling selfish.

  “Okay.” Violet kisses the tip, looking me in the eye before she engulfs the head. She pops off for a second. “But I want you to finish inside me, if that’s all right with you.”

  “I guess I can do that.” That’s me being generous.

  In homage to the near fatal choking of my dick, Violet makes her own Play-Doh so she can fashion a replica. We make a trip to Bracebridge so she can buy craft supplies and fix the cape. This time she uses Velcro to secure the tie. She dresses up the penis replica as Super MC. It’s the centerpiece on the kitchen table, so we can look at it whenever we’re eating. It’s bizarre and something Violet would totally do.

  And I still love her. In fact, for some crazy reason, I love her even more than I did before this whacked out vacation. I’ve got the ring tucked safely away in the nightstand drawer. Now, I need to put it on her finger. Over the past couple of days, I’ve come up with what I think is a good plan for a proposal. Violet isn’t flashy; she’ll appreciate something less ostentatious than, say, a public profession of unending love. Besides, I’ve already done that. Tomorrow is our last day here, and then it’s back to reality. I need to bite the bullet tonight.

  No problem. Dinner is covered; there’s a salad in the fridge, and all I have to do is put the steak and potatoes on the barbecue. Afterward, we can have dessert on the dock. I’ll ask her to be my wife while we watch the sun go down. The mosquitos better keep the fuck away.

  After a day of dock hopping, Violet is tired. She stretches and yawns. This is perfect. I’ll be able to set everything up while she’s having a nap.

  “Maybe you should lie down for a while before dinner,” I suggest.

  “Mmm. That sounds nice.” Violet takes a few steps toward the bedroom. When I don’t follow. she stops. “Aren’t you coming?” She pulls her shirt over her head and drops it on the floor.

  “Maybe for a few minutes.” A little pre-nap sex wouldn’t hurt. I can get dinner started after she falls asleep.

  As soon as I’m on the bed she straddles me and pulls the tie on her bikini top, setting her boobs free.

  She usually lets me take the lead. Occasionally she doesn’t. This is one of those times. Violet pushes on my chest to keep me down and then brings her fingers to her lips. “I think I want you here first.” She goes lower, running her index finger between her luscious breasts. She lowers her voice to a sultry whisper. “Or maybe you’d prefer here.” Skimming past her tanned stomach, she cups her pussy. “And we can finish here.”

  “I’m game for whatever you have planned, baby.” I grip her hips and restrain myself from flipping her onto her back to get things started.

  Violet leans over to the nightstand where we keep the lube for such occasions. Which are admittedly frequent. The curtains are drawn, making it difficult to see. She rummages around in the drawer for a few seconds.

  “Dammit. This isn’t lube.” She sits up, turning the package in her hands. “What is this?”

  It’s at that very moment I realize what it is: the engagement ring. This isn’t part of the plan. I don’t intend to ask her to be my wife prior to a tit fuck.

  “It’s nothing, give it to me,” I order, reaching for it as she holds it above her head.

  “Did you buy me a sex toy? Is it a set of those weird ball things you shove up your beaver?”

  “Weird ba—give me the box, Violet.”

  Ignoring me, she flips the lid open. Inside is a second, smaller box covered in black velvet. The pale blue box drops to the bed. Violet is still topless. Still straddling me. I’m still sporting a hard-on.

  “Alex?” She blinks in confusion.

  “Give me the box, baby.” I need to fix this, stat. I don’t want this to be the way I propose to her, half-naked in bed. I want a story we can tell people. Not one we have to censor.

  “What’s in here?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

  “I’ll show you later.” My fingers close around her wrist.

  “Why can’t you show me now?” She strokes the velvet. She knows. I can tell by the way her eyes widen. “Alex?”

  “Let’s have dinner first.” It’s a plea.

  “Is this—are you?” Her gaze lifts, her smile soft as she clutches the box tightly in her hand. “It’s not a pair of earrings, is it?”

  “Nope.”

  All my careful last-minute planning will go to shit if she opens the box. Or I could go with the flow. I sit up in a rush, and Violet finally let’s go of the box. Lifting her from my lap, I scan the bed for a shirt. One of mine is hanging on the footboard.

  “Give me your arms,” I say, holding it out so she can put it on.

  “But I thought—”

  “We need to talk first.”

  She blinks nervously but complies. I slip her hands through the sleeves and pull it over her head. Then I drop to one knee and flip the lid open.

  “I love you, Violet Hall. You make every day an adventure. Marry me.”

  Violet bites her lip and stares at the ring. “Are you sure?”

  “One hundred and ten percent.”

  “We’ve only been together for six months.”

  My hand is starting to shake from the anxiety. Is this how rejection feels? If so, it sucks. “We can have a long engagement.”

  “I don’t like big weddings.” Her panic is clear. “All those people make me nervous. I’ll mess up the vows and say something inappropriate.”

  “It doesn’t have to be big. It can be just the two of us if you want. We can wait until next summer—or the one after if a year isn’t long enough. We can get married up here by a justice of the peace on the end of the dock at sunset. A damn Rastafarian can perform the ceremony if that’s what you want. I don’t care about the wedding part. All I want to be is connected to you in the most significant way possible. I want you as my wife.”

  She strokes my cheek. “I love you so much.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes. It’s a yes.” Her smile is radiant, like the rising sun reflected on still water. I get to see it every goddamned day of my life.

  I exhale in relief. “That’s good, that’s great. I almost thought you were going to say no.” I slip the ring onto her finger.

  “I couldn’t say no to you from the beginning. Why would that change now?”

  I thread my fingers through hers, kiss the back of her hand, and move to her lips.

  “I’m sorry I ruined your proposal.”

  “You didn’t ruin it.”

  “I sorta did.” Her hands drift down my chest.

  “I have some ideas if you feel like you might need to make up for it.”

  “I bet you do.”

  We make love as the day fades into evening and stay wrapped in each other until the sun disappears below the treeline.

  Violet shudders. At first I think it’s because she’s cold, but then a stifled giggle bursts free.

  “What’s so funny?”

  She giggles again. “I was thinking about Super MC.”

  It looks like Violet has given my dick a superhero name. It’s better than snuffie. “That’s not much of a surprise since he’s been making you come for the past hour.”

  “Fishing for compliments?”

  “Just stating facts.”

  “I’m going to make him a tuxedo.”

  “A tuxedo?”

  “And I’ll make a veil for my beaver. They can have their own private ceremony.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Super MC. He needs a tux, but no tie. That would be dangerous.” Violet’s entire body shakes with pent-up laughter.

  I take her face between my hands. “This ridiculousness right here”—I kiss her—“is why I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  Her hands cover mine, her smile full of tenderness and love. “I’m so glad
you fought for me. You’re the best chance I’ve taken.”

  Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She is the author of Clipped Wings, her debut novel, and Inked Armor.

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  The Clipped Wings Series

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  Between the Cracks

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  Cracks in the Armor

  Standalone Romance

  The Librarian Principle

  If you enjoyed PUCKED, you should read on to experience the hilarity of the first chapter of:

  Copyright © 2015 Debra Anastasia

  All rights reserved

  Published by Debra Anastasia

  Fire Down Below is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author's twisted imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Dove clutched her second prescription in one week to her chest as she approached the pharmacy counter in Save-Mart. She hated getting any embarrassing drug filled. Specifically, medicines required for parts of her body below her belly button and above her knees.

  She even tried ordering personal items online. Her tampons and maxi pads had arrived in a covert brown box on her doorstep. She didn’t even have to look at the UPS deliveryman. Dove had peeked from behind the curtains in her apartment and waited until he was gone before she picked up the package. But her period was unpredictable and she was forgetful, so she had to do the period walk of shame damn near every month. Chocolate, something salty, and a box of hag rags gave her away to any cashier.

  Her first UTI had snuck up on her like a hairy little kitten. She never got urinary tract infections, but when she wound up crying from the burning sensation while peeing, she made an appointment with her decidedly female general practitioner. Dove filled her prescription for antibiotics at her friendly Save-Mart pharmacy, comfortingly staffed by discreet ladies. Dove vaguely remembered commenting on her pharmacist’s large belly. Mrs. Pills should be about eight and a half months pregnant as of right now.

  When Dove found herself battling a yeast infection due to the powerful antibiotics, she had to make a return trip to her doctor and picked up her current prescription. Now, as she got to the Save-Mart Pharmacy counter again, she waited patiently. She didn’t see Mrs. Pills. From the conversation Dove overheard between the woman’s assistants, she was now both a pharmacist and a happy mom to a healthy baby girl.

  Dove didn’t notice the gentleman tucking purple and white bags into uniform alphabetic rows until he noticed her first. She had no time to run with her prescription clearly in view. He unfurled his large frame and his handsome smile at the same time.

  Oh crap, kill me. Someone kill me dead. A lot.

  “Hello. Dropping off?”

  His voice should have been counting down the hits on some radio station. His green eyes flashed with friendliness and maybe a bit of flirtation. Dove swallowed hard and nodded.

  After an awkward pause, Mr. Fitzwell, as his nametag claimed, reached between her breasts to pluck the paper from her clenched hands. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow—possibly at her bizarre behavior—and smoothed the paper on the laminate counter. Dove wanted to crap her pants when he announced the name of her drug way louder than Mrs. Pills would ever mention a lady prescription.

  “Gynazule®?”

  Anything with the sound “gyn” in it would perk up people’s ears. Dove looked over her shoulder. What looked to be an entire football team of boys was gathered around a grandmotherly lady. They were obviously showing her their support in great testosterone-filled numbers. Dove was sure the woman’s problem was a lot more devastating than her own.

  All eyes were trained on Dove. She tried to curl her body into itself and turned back to Mr. Gorgeous McLoudypants.

  Dove whispered quietly, “Yes, that’s it. Thank you.”

  Mr. Fitzwell leaned closer to hear her. “Okay.” He seemed to want to engage in some more conversation. “Have you ever used it before? Because it’s a little bit different than your regular VAGINAL cream.” His voice just carried; it was like he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

  Dove let her hands grab one another for support. If she didn’t have a wall of teenage meat behind her, she would’ve run. She wasn’t exactly sure because her heart was pumping loudly in her ears, but she thought the supportive boys behind her were snickering.

  “No, I… haven’t used it before.” Dove wondered if she could fit in her own purse.

  He obviously was quite proud of his extensive knowledge of pharmaceutical products. He decided to spout the difference between “traditional” yeast infection creams and GYNAZULE®.

  “You see it’s administered with one dose in an APPLICATOR. It’s unique because it contains adhesive that will stick to your VAGINAL WALLS, as opposed to running DOWN YOUR LEGS. I think it’s called VAGI-GRAB®. But let me check.” Mr. Fitzwell ignored the large crowd and clicked away on his computer.

  Don’t check. Good fucks out loud. DON’T check!

  Dove thought the blush she felt on her cheeks might actually give her sunburn. She tried to be savvy. She wanted to be an empowered woman who tossed tampons around like confetti to just anyone, but she wasn’t. She could always try.

  “Yup. That’s it. VAGI-GRAB®. So, Ms. Glitch, any questions?” He turned his interested, trying-to-be helpful, sexy eyes back to her red, red face.

  Dove’s voice got quieter as she tried to think of something—anything—to ask. “Um. Is it unscented?”

  Mr. Fitzwell squinted as if he could turn up her volume by making his eyes smaller. “I’m not sure. Are you allergic to any types of VAGINAL medicines?”

  Dove’s mouth talking before her head could shut her up. “Uh… I need to use very gentle soaps because I have sensitive… parts.” Her voice was getting higher and higher.

  Mr. Fitzwell looked as professional as a brain surgeon. He clearly wanted her to have the correct information. There were definitely stifled chuckles behind her now. Dove was pretty sure her ass was blushing as well. The crack was sweating all on its own, like it was on a super high diving board about to jump.

  “Okay, Ms. Glitch GYNAZULE® is not a soap. It will not work if you put it in and then rinse it off in the shower.” He patted the prescription paper to emphasize his words.

  Oh God. We’re talking about me being naked, in the shower with cooter cream. Please world, end. Kill me.

  “I know it’s not soap. I just… if it’s scented… I can’t do scented. Flowers and stuff like that. Fruit-flavored soaps make… things… burnish.” She could tell from the peeks at his face Mr. Fitzwell had never stepped foot in a bath and lotion store, wanting to try the array of fun fragrances. Nor had he purchased Peppermint Candy shower gel, foamed up his nether regions, and felt like he had dipped them in lava. Dove crossed and uncrossed her legs at the memory.

  Mr. Fitzwell seemed concerned. “Okay, just a heads-up. It’s definitely not good to put any fruits or plant life near your genitals.” He made a V with his hands and formed his own pretend vagina in front of his pants.

  Dove covered her eyes and tried to defend herself because now she could hear the sickly older woman beating her supporters with a purse.

  Dove’s mumbling got louder with her embarrassment. “I don’t put weird things down… there. Just make sure that the cream’s vagina-scented. Just plain. For vaginas.” She kept her eyes on the counter.

  Stop saying “vagina,” you screaming asshole!

  The assistants were cooing and ogling pi
ctures on the computer. Mrs. Pills had obviously forwarded images of her newborn baby to her coworkers at the perfect time for them not to come to Dove’s aid. Finally, Mr. Fitzwell asked her for her phone number and birth date.

  “You can wait right over there; I’ll have this ready in ten minutes. I’m sure the itching is horrendous.”

  Dove shuffled to the hard purple chairs and grabbed a magazine off the rack to hide behind. From the questions and directions he asked, Mr. Fitzwell was obviously Mrs. Pill’s temporary replacement for her maternity leave. Dove peered over the top of her magazine at him. He was stunning and from the way smiled, he almost knew it. His jaw was like a stiff, hard cliff somewhere in Ireland. The kind on postcards. His Adam’s apple was like his throat’s erection. Dominant. He had the sleeves of his shirt pushed up and his forearms revealed. Veins and muscles. From doing stuff. All kinds of sexy, manly stuff. The assistants fluffed their hair when he wasn’t looking and pretended to pinch his butt.

  After the football team took care of the lovely grandma, Dove was as alone as one could be in a Save-Mart. Mr. Fitzwell looked over the counter while he was working to see if she was still there. Just before Dove could scurry her gaze away, she saw him look at her magazine and raise his eyebrows in surprise. Dove hadn’t thought to check which magazine she was pretending to be reading. She’d just needed a shield to hide behind. She closed it and looked at the cover. It was a copy of Cosmopolitan with large print over most of the cover:

  MAKE YOUR ORGASMS LOUDER, HARDER AND LONGER!

  Dove dropped the magazine like it was a snake that had bitten her.

  Fuck you! Crazy lady magazine!

  Dove wanted to cry. This was the worst twenty minutes in her entire existence. After all her semiclandestine feminine product acquisitions, she was facing everything she worked to protect herself against. And the drop-dead gorgeous pharmacist had witnessed it all.