Would you look at this, Publius wrote a one-off! It's been a while.
The inciting incident for this story is 100% real. A complete stranger told me the story a few days ago at a bar, and in seconds, this the entire ridiculous, over the top story you are about to read blossomed to full flower in my mind.
Again, only the inciting incident is real. But since the woman who pulled the oopsie in real life is a quite elderly South Florida retiree, rather than the hot young newlywed I envision, that is probably for the best.
I think with this one, it is especially important to warn the reader that I am always uninterested in gritty reality, hurt feelings, or likely consequences. My work is designed to be ridiculously plausible. I think I pushed the ridiculous button a little extra hard here, to be fair.
It's just a romp, boys and girls. Enjoy.
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Game Day
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"Will you make up the ranch, honey?" Jess asked over her shoulder as I returned to the kitchen with a case of Coors from the garage. She smiled at me idly before turning back to pay attention as she ran zucchini over the mandolin, creating perfect slices for the crudité tray.
"Sure," I replied. "Just let me get these beers chilling. I should have done this an hour ago." She only nodded.
And so I shortly found myself getting out the buttermilk, sour cream, and mayonnaise from the fridge.
Among the things I would not have suspected three years ago that I would be doing with some regularity, count making from-scratch ranch dressing right atop the list. But I glanced back up at Jess's back (and backside) as I got started, and she smiled back over her shoulder at me once more. I had found that there was little I would not amiably do when requested by my wife of nearly a year now.
And since she pre-made huge batches of the spice mix for ranch dressing, all I had to do was mince the fresh garlic and assemble.
Jess would even try to give me the credit for the ranch, when our guests arrived for the Falcons playoff game. It was sweet of her. But they all knew us well enough, two had started out as my friends, not hers, after all, to know that I was just her pair of extra robot hands when it came to things in the kitchen.
When I finished, I wrapped the bowl and slipped it back into the fridge, along with the unused dairy, and stepped up to her from behind. I waited until she finished slicing the carrot she was working on at the moment, so her hands were free of the wicked sharp blade, and I slid my arms around her, proving that my 'robot hands' could function autonomously as well. I slid them up over her belly to grasp her breasts happily. We had only gotten up a few hours earlier, and she was not yet dressed for company.
That meant that she was just in gray, knit-cotton shorts and a teeshirt. No bra yet. Not that she needed one ever, I often told her. She never bought that line, even though it was true. I squeezed her firm, generous flesh through the thin fabric of the shirt, and murmured in her ear, "Your white, creamy goodness is delivered."
Jess snorted and pushed her sweet, curvy ass back against my dick for a moment, making it twitch idly. "I'm sure it tastes marvelous," she said slyly, but then brandished another carrot. "But we are behind as it is because of creamy goodness delivery already this morning," she said sternly. "I still have the mushrooms to slice."
"Want me to do that?" I asked equably, not quite ready to let go, but also aware that our libidos had indeed been satisfied thoroughly, just an hour earlier.
"No. I want you to go vacuum the living room like you were supposed to do last evening," she said tartly.
"Oh, all right," I grumbled. I hate vacuuming, and I would have whined much more than I did, but it is hard to work up a good evasive whinge when my hands are full of those tits. By the time I gave them a last, good grope and reluctantly released them, I was well and truly committed to getting out the fucking Shark and vacuuming all the crumbs off the floor.
We were all only going to scatter three times as much fresh detritus during the game. I could have just vacuumed it all up in just the one pass after everybody left. Right?
Once I was done vacuuming the second time, because Jess decided I had half-assed the first pass, she found task after task for me to follow up with.
I had to admit, the house looked great, but it had been a lot of work.
Back in the day, just a few years ago, when Falcons Football Festivities were simply bachelor me and my two similarly unattached buddies, Tom and James, things were much simpler: Cool the beer, open the chips, make sure the toilet wasn't disgusting, turn on the big screen.
Last year, while Jess and I were engaged, I had missed a few Sundays to be with her, but it had been no big deal. Besides, the team sucked that season.
I had been uneasy when the start of this NFL season, Jess's and my first as husband and wife, rolled around. Among her few but manifest faults, Jess knows nothing about football, and has yet to show much interest in learning. I had been worried that my Sunday Game Day ritual with my boys would be pushed into the rear-view mirror.
But among Jess's numerous manifest wonderful qualities, she loves to entertain. And she has two friends of her own who came equipped with football-positive husbands who had turned out to be all-around quality guys. So now Falcons Sundays, instead of three dudes destroying a party-sized bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos and some beers, consisted of eight people feasting on elegantly arranged hors d'oeuvres, and drinking beer and wine. And still demolishing at least two bags of Doritos... And the team didn't suck this year either. To illustrate this, we were ab out to watch a playoff game.
I was sent to the shower first... alone. She was still browning toast points and couldn't leave them. I used to always think that the egregiously large shower in my bathroom had been a stupid waste of square footage, before I met Jess. Now, I hated whenever I had to shower by myself. I attempted to wordlessly convince her to join me, instead of taking turns.
"Dale! Knock it off," Jess told me, pushing me away gently, her hands lingering on my chest. A note of regret ruined her attempt at sternness. "We are late already."
I looked at my watch and grumbled assent. My traditional early-bird, James, would be here at 12:30 on the dot, like always. Jess's Lisa and Harry would be hot on his heels. We had less than 45 minutes until then. Even if Jess started that instant, she'd never get ready in time. She quite justifiably takes her time with her appearance, even though I kind of prefer the disheveled, recently-fucked look she was rocking at that moment.
I liked making her look that way, too.
"Once the Falcons win this game and we throw everybody out, I am going to split your legs so hard," I growled, pulling her back against me.
Jess yelped and kissed me. "You already did that today," she giggled.
"Some things need doing repetitively. You know... to make them stick," I growled in her ear. Then, because she was right that we were running very late, just like she was right about most things, I released her with an affectionate swat of that tasty rump and headed upstairs.
*
I could still hear the shower running upstairs when James rang the doorbell. I had changed into some red shorts and my Steve Bartkowski jersey, and had already finished laying out all the food, so I headed to the door.
I was wrong, Lisa and Harry had actually beaten James for once. I smiled at them both, gave Lisa a hug (never a bad experience) and shook Harry's meaty paw. As I turned to lead them into the living room, Harry asked idly, "Dude, I keep meaning to ask, who the fuck was this Bartkowski dude?"
"QB back in the day," I said idly. "I never saw him play. But I think the name is hilarious, and I got the jersey at a thrift shop for peanuts."
I had not even gotten them seated before the bell rang again. I tossed the remote to Harry, who snatched it easily out of the air. Of all of us, Harry was the only actual football player... in college no less. Division Three admittedly, but still, he'd been a starting wide-receiver. We were all about thirty, but he still looked like he could suit up for his old school.
My buddy James, who was at the door, was the opposite. He was not fat or terribly out of shape, but he was short, and had the muscular figure of the code geek that he was. Jess actually insisted that James was flat out handsome regardless, and I guess I could see it, but combined with the natural shyness of a code geek, he seldom seemed to accomplish much with his alleged handsomeness.
James waved cheerily at Lisa and Harry as we entered, and made himself useful grabbing beers for himself, me, and Harry while I poured Lisa a glass of Pinot Grigio.
Tom entered my house on his own without ringing the bell, as was typical, and sang out, "Go Birds!" as he appeared. He gave me the high sign from across the room, slapped James on the shoulder, then went and fucking knelt before Lisa on one knee. He lifted her left hand and kissed it extravagantly. "My lady," he intoned.
"My hero," Lisa said back sarcastically.
Tom's kiss of her hand was actually very brief, and as he turned with a grin toward Harry, Lisa's husband shoved him playfully. They both laughed and clasped hands. Tom was an incurable flirt. He also knew how to do it without crossing any lines, so most guys just found him entertaining.
He would flirt incessantly with Jess when she appeared, of course. I didn't mind, because he genuinely wasn't trying anything. Moreover, I found Jess to be be a little extra excited about things at bedtime after an evening where somebody besides me paid her attention... I never told Tom, but he tended to make my sex life better whenever he spent time with us.
Ew, but, well... true.
It was almost game time when Gail and Mike finally showed--late as usual.
"Hey, guys," Mike crowed as I ushered them into the Living Room. "Sorry we are late, but Gail was still putting her face together." Both Gail and Mike seemed to actively enjoy throwing each other under the bus, but I was never comfortable hearing Mike do it. Jess has known Gail (and Lisa) since they were all freshmen together at Purdue, and she vehemently insists that the ragging on each other with those two is actually foreplay. To each their own, I guess.
"Her majesty is still getting dressed?" Gail asked me, looking up at the ceiling with a smile.
"She just finished putting together the food," I said, defending my wife's honor perfunctorily, while showing that I don't throw her under the bus. Even when she totally deserves it...
