Prom Night

In Prom Night Josie Luker tells us about her did-not-go-exactly-as-planned senior prom. In the course of her story we'll meet Cherokee Canseco, Josie's best friend, Josie and Cherokee's fathers, Eric Luker and Robert Canseco, their dates for the prom Tim and Tom Oxley, and a certain limousine driver.

It's been awhile since I posted a story. There are number of reasons, but the primary problem has been my health. At the moment things have plateaued. I enjoy writing these stories and have a few ideas in mind. I hope I can continue to write and post.

I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to write me and comment on my stories over the past few years and look forward to your thoughts on this tale. And to give credit where due, the kernel of the idea for this story was found in the Daughter.Swap video series.

As always, all story characters are eighteen years of age or older.

* * * * *

Studying her reflection in the mirror, Cherokee adjusted, re-adjusted, then re-re-adjusted her gown. "Do men have any idea how hard we women work to give them what they think is a fortuitous glance at a slice of cleavage or bit of side-boob?"

"Not any guy we know. Heck, when any of them gets a peek at your girls whatever bit of brain he has shuts down."

Still looking in the mirror, turning to the left, then the right, Cherokee ran her thumbs along on the hem of her halter top, revealing a hint of the outer swell of her magnificent breasts, and with a sparkle in her hazel eyes said, "Well, whatta you think?"

What did I think? I thought my best friend was stunning, gorgeous, sexy, and classy. Her gem gown (for you guys, that's a dark green) accented the smooth muscles of her shoulders and arms, her perfectly formed "D" breasts, and 36-26-38 figure. And while her gown hung loosely to her ankles, its slit was long enough to let dance all night long. She loved being the center of attention and in that dress she would be.

Stepping towards her I said, "You and that dress will be the hottest things at the Prom," then squeezed my best friend's full round breasts. My sex spasmed; Cherokee let out a sharp breath of air.

We'd been waiting for this night for months.

* * * * *

Senior Prom promised to be the perfect end to a perfect day. That morning our dads successfully defended their city/county doubles tennis championship. Afterwards, as we congratulated them with a hug and a kiss, they'd sprung a surprise: we had reservations at Violet's, the most exclusive spa in town. After several hours of preening-- manicure, pedicure, massage, the works -- our dads took us to our favorite restaurant where, obsessed with how we'd look in our gowns, we'd only picked at our salads.

I'm of Scandinavian descent, a fair-skinned blue-eyed blonde whose 126 pounds are spread over a slender five foot eight inch body and 31-23-33 figure. The contrast with Cherokee is striking. She, of Cambodian, French, and Native American ancestry, has thick brown hair that hangs to the middle of her back and a creamy skin several shades darker than mine. And while she's not that much bigger then me -- an inch taller and a few pounds heavier -- she managed to turn it into a curvy figure with breasts impossible to ignore. Despite my purple floor length column dress's spaghetti straps and V-neck, my small B's would be no match for her girls.

Our looks reflect our personalities. Cherokee, big eyes and big mouth, is always the first to laugh, to cry, or take a dare. When something has to be done she's always ready, literally and figuratively, to get her hands dirty. Me? I'm more detached, stand-offish. People say I let Cherokee charge ahead, then follow in her wake. There is some truth there.

Tonight, however, Cherokee and I were on the same page.

I checked my phone. Forty-five minutes to the Oxleys arrived. Time to show our dads.

* * * * *

Cherokee shouted down the stairs. "You guys ready?"

"Yes, we're ready. We can't wait to see our little girls."

"Not so little, and worth waiting for. Now close your eyes, and no cheating."

,

"Is that necessary...."

"Yes, Daddy, it is, and you too Mr. Luker."

With a groan of mock displeasure: "Okay, eyes closed."

"Swear?"

"Swear."

* * * * *

Eyes closed, our dads were waiting in the living room. Suddenly nervous -- would daddy approve -- I reached for Cherokee's hand and we started giggling like twelve year olds until, getting a grip on herself -- we were, after all, young women -- Cherokee said, "Whatta ya' think?"

I'm not sure what I was expecting. I mean, what's the big deal, Daddy sees me a thousand times a day, but when he opened his eyes his focus was intense, almost tactile. Starting with my eyes, which filled with tears, then the rest of my face, his gaze flowed down my body. It took only took only a second, but felt much longer. When finished his eyes returned to my face and in a voice full of pride and love he said, "Josie, the dress, it's perfect, like you."

I smiled -- my teeth had cost him a fortune -- stepped into his arms, hugged him, whispered, "Oh Daddy, I love you." Then, remembering how long I'd spent getting my dress just right, I stepped back and looked at Cherokee. I hadn't heard what Mr. Canseco said to her, but watching her wipe a tear from her cheek I knew it was the right thing. It always was.

It was Mr. Canseco who brought us back to earth. "Your fellows are lucky, they'll have the prettiest dates at the Prom. Eric and I have been thinking how to commemorate this special night. After much consideration we decided we couldn't improve on tradition. We also didn't want to waste an opportunity to toast our beautiful daughters."

It was only then that I noticed the bottle of champagne sitting in a crystal bowl on a side table. Next to it was a row of tall slender glasses and a towel. Mr. Canseco theatrically covered the bottle with the towel, picked it up by its neck, and with a twist of his wrist -- I heard the muffled pop -- opened it.

"This is Dom Pérignon, the champagne for special occasions. Now ladies, this is the good stuff. If you really want to appreciate it, and I promise you do, there are a few simple rules to follow.

"First, hold the glass, which is called a flute, by the stem, never the bowl. The heat of your hand will effect the champagne, and not in good way. When pouring minimize the foam by holding your flute at a forty-five degree angle, letting the champagne flow down the side of the glass. Do not fill your glass to the brim, stop when it's a less than half full. You can always go back for seconds. Also, always recap the bottle. If you don't, the bubbles, and with them much of the flavor and bouquet, will escape. What is left is flat and tasteless."

Carefully following his own instructions, Mr. Canseco poured a glass for each of us, passed it around, then held his up in the air. I did the same. The light accentuated the champagne's golden color and tiny dancing bubbles. I also noticed the intricate elegant patterns cut into the glass.

"Daddy, I don't remember these glasses, or bowl. They're beautiful: are they new?"

"No, Josie, just the opposite: a family heirloom. Waterford Crystal, hand made in Ireland. They were my great grandmother's, then my grandmother's, then Mom's. Mom only brought them out for special occasions, maybe once a year. Otherwise they were kept in her closet; only she was allowed to unpack, clean, and re-pack them. Whenever you touched one you felt her eyes on you, making sure you were careful."

I remembered my formidable grandmother's formidable look. She could be scary.

"I'd forgotten about them. Then, a few months ago, I was cleaning out her storage unit and there they were. I figured tonight was perfect for bringing them out of hibernation."

"They're, it's all so beautiful. Thank you Daddy. You know how to make me feel special."

"You are special Josie. Now maestro, please continue."

Taking his cue, Mr. Canseco said, "Ladies, never gulp champagne -- it ain't Red Bull. Start by smelling the champagne; it's a wonderful experience and will help you appreciate the taste. Take a deep whiff, hold it, let the scent wash over you. There will be multiple odors. Try picking one out."

Tilting his glass forward, Mr. Canseco brought it to his nose and inhaled. Cherokee and I did the same. At first all I noticed were bubbles tickling my nose -- it felt silly -- but remembering what Mr. Canseco said, I focused. After a few seconds I saw he was right; there were a bunch of smells. I tried separating them, found one, concentrated.

"I see what you mean Mr. Canseco. What I'm smelling is sweet, like... like... like flowers in bloom."

"Very good Josie. How 'bout you babe?"

Cherokee said, "What I noticed Daddy was a fresh citrusy smell."

"Excellent, and you're both right. Now the final step, drinking it. Start with a sip, just enough to cover your tongue; inhale as you drink, make sure to capture the aroma. Let the champagne roll over your palate. The taste is complex, take the time to enjoy all of it."

Holding up his glass Daddy said, "Robert if you keep this up our daughters may yet develop sophisticated palettes. I just hope they can afford it. A toast, to Josie, my beloved daughter, and Cherokee, whom I've known from the moment she came into the world. Ladies, I marvel at the women you've become. Beautiful, strong, intelligent, often wise, kind, and decent. You're beautiful women; you're beautiful souls. To Josie and Cherokee."

For the second time that night my eyes welled with tears. I brought my glass to my lips, took a quick sip, swallowed. I barely tasted it. Telling myself to chill, I took another sip, closed my eyes. The champagne flowed through my mouth like liquid velvet, coating my tongue in pure goodness. There were a kaleidoscope of flavors. I focused... not sweet like I expected, but... fruity. What fruit? Grapefruit, apple, a berry of some kind? No, more like all of them.

I opened my eyes. "It's wonderful. What do you think Cherokee?"

Cool and collected, as if posing for a photograph, Cherokee was leaning back, her rump rested on the back edge of the couch, an exquisite leg protruded through her gown's slit. She took a sip and, after a long moment, said, "It is good. What's the name again Daddy?"

"Dom Pérignon."

Now the center of attention, Cherokee, moving effortlessly on her heels, slinked to the table. I knew this, it was her, "I'm about to do something a little bit naughty, but you'll forgive because I'm beautiful," walk. Setting her glass down, she picked up the bottle, studied it, returned it to the bowl.

"I'll have to remember that."

With all eyes on her she turned, and now standing between our fathers, folded her arms into their's.

"Daddy, Mr. Luker, thank you for the champagne, thank you for everything. You guys are the best. And I know all the attention has been on Josie and me, which it should be, but I gotta say you two are lookin' good; those clothes," -- they were wearing neatly pressed slacks and button down shirts -- "do show off those championship physiques. Whatta ya think Josie?"

"Best looking men I know."

"I may be wrong, but I'm also thinking Mr. Luker is wearing a new cologne. I like it. Very much. So you guys have hot dates tonight?"

My dad, who has never quite sure how to handle Cherokee's forwardness, explained the clothes. "Cherokee, your Dad and I dressed for the club. After the match this morning it wanted to take some photographs to hang in the building, for publicity, the usual stuff. After that we bought the Violet sisters a drink to thank them for getting you into the spa."

A smile on her face -- more teasing was on its way -- Cherokee said, "I was wondering how you got us in. For the day of the Prom you need to make reservations a couple of years in advance. Guys would never think to do that and you two are as guy as it gets. Still, last second entry to the spa must be worth more than a couple drinks. I think you guys owe the very attractive Violet sisters dinner at least, and perhaps some additional services."

* * * * *

Growing up Cherokee and I were the center of our dads' universe. They never had girl friends, they never dated, and why would they? They had us. During the last few years however, it's become clear our dads were perhaps not the monks we'd imagined. Nothing definite, but overheard snippets of phone conversations, the smell of perfume on a shirt, the mother of a friend's over-the-top insistence that we say, "Hi," to our dads on her behalf, all indicated that our dads had lady-friends happy to cater to their needs. They never talked about it, said gentlemen never did, but when Cherokee teased her dad about his love life, he took it in stride. Tonight was no exception.

* * * * *

"Additional services? Young lady, I have no idea what you're talking about. The sisters are friends. We made a special request and yes, as a way of saying thank you we may take them to dinner. It's what gentlemen do. But for tonight, you know the Rule. Prom makes no difference."

The Rule: when we were on dates our dads stayed home. If we had a problem they'd be immediately available. We thought they worried to much. They said they were in the security business; they worried just the right amount.

* * * * *

Making our dads swear to be nice to our dates, Cherokee and I returned to my bedroom to primp and wait. We primped; we checked the time. We primped some more, checked the time: where were they? Primp, time: where the fuck were they? More primp, more time. Our dates were seriously late. What was going on?

Cherokee wanted to text them; I said not cool.

We went downstairs. Our dads could always make us feel better.

* * * * *

Cherokee and I had been best friends forever. It came naturally. Our dads were best friends. They met on the high school tennis circuit before teaming up at the University of North Carolina, where they won several Atlantic Coast Conference championships. After a decade in the corporate world and failed marriages they decided to go into business together, opening a security firm in Broomall, Pennsylvania.

Broomall was the perfect place to raise two girls: safe, stable, first rate schools. You knew every kid, mother, and father in town. Even better, while most parents worked in Philadelphia, our self-employed dads were local and available. They made every tee-ball game, every class play, and never grumbled about playing suburban taxicab for us and our friends.

Early in our senior year we were accepted by the University of Pennsylvania and signed up for a Friday afternoon course offered by the university's Young Scholars High School Program. At first we drove to school, went to class, drove home. As we got to know a few people and with our fathers' encouragement, we started spending the afternoon on campus. It was fun. Something was always going on: open-ended bullshit sessions, bands, impromptu parties. And then there were the guys; lots and lots of guys.

Which brings me to the confession central to this story: Cherokee and I were virgins. I'm not saying we were innocents. There were sex toys in our lingerie drawers, we'd fool around with each other, and in the years since junior high school had a few more make-out sessions with guys than either of us would like to admit, but they ended, at best, with oral sex or a hand job.

It's not that we wanted to be virgins; we just couldn't find the guy we wanted to do it. The boys in our high school? We'd known them forever. It would be like fucking your brother, and not in a good way.

Like every other woman on campus Cherokee and I were invited to the Friday night keg parties on fraternity row. Cherokee asked her dad if we could go. She got an unequivocal, "No." To make their point the next day our dads unfurled a longish list of citations issued to the fraternities for a variety of offenses since the start of the school year: disturbing the peace, public nudity, serving underaged customers alcohol, etc. etc. etc.

No frat parties for us.

Until, that is, a few weeks later. Our fathers were scheduled to present the keynote paper at a weekend conference in San Francisco. Cherokee saw this as our opportunity to hit fraternity row. I, the good girl, objected: what if the party veered out of control, what if something went wrong? What would we do, drive home in the middle of the night, sleep in the car? Cherokee was having none of it. She said drop the bullshit and she was right. I was as eager as her to check out fraternities packed with guys as she.

So, we lied and told our dads we'd hang with friends in Broomall that night. Instead we were pushing our way through a drunken crowd at Delta Sigma Delta, where, I'm afraid, Cherokee and I became cliches: spanking new coeds at their first fraternity party, drunk, and looking to hook up. Fueled by a beer, a shot, more beer, a purple thing called Jungle Juice, a couple more shots of something, a jello thing, Cherokee and I were gyrating on a packed dance floor with an ever changing cast of partners until we latched onto two guys, or they latched onto us. In any case they were cute and said they were seniors, which in our inebriated state seemed worldly. At some point the four of us headed upstairs.

Informed consent? Hardly, but to be fair the guys were as drunk as we were; none of us were capable of making, much less executing, a plan. And to be even fairer, we'd come to the party hoping to finally find a guy we'd want to fuck. Not necessarily that evening, maybe after a date or two, but still a guy we'd want to fuck. Can I blame these guys for picking up on it?

* * * * *

The room stank of stale beer; the morning light played on my eye lids. My arms, my legs, my back, my neck, and, oh god, my head hurt. Something had crawled into my mouth and died. I rolled over, buried my face in my pillow. When was the last time hed washed this thing? I wanted sleep, sweet catatonic sleep, but that wasn't going to happen. The sound of a fraternity waking up -- voices, people moving around the halls, toilets flushing, doors slamming -- filled the air.

My memory was spotty. Cherokee and her guy and me and mine had come upstairs. What was his name? Frank. No..., was it Hank? Tank? Fuck, I didn't know.

I remembered the four of us stumbling into this room. There was kissing, disrobing, groping, more kissing, more disrobing, some caressing, some licking. What's his name played with my breasts. I touched them: crap, they were sore as hell. No, he'd not played with them, he'd mauled them.

I reached between my legs; my panties were on. I touched my vagina, flexed the muscles of my core. I wasn't sore. It seemed I was still a virgin. I took a sigh of relief. Who'd want to carry this wreck of an evening around as the treasured memory of the night she lost her virginity?

"You awake?"

It was Cherokee. I rolled over, reluctantly opened my eyes. She was laying in a bed across the room. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her guy was on the bed behind her, facing the wall, snoring. I reached across my bed, it was empty.

Cherokee said, "He left awhile back, woke me up."

"Do you remember what happened last night? I mean, y'know."

"Last night? Well, these guys ushered into this palatial suite, took their pants off -- no underwear of course -- but couldn't get it up. We used our mouths, got them hard, but never long enough for anything to happen. I guess we all finally passed out. So congrats, we're still virgins."

"Let's get the fuck out of here."

With a herculean effort I sat up. Our clothes were piled atop a desk. Holding onto the bed frame for support, I stood, paused, and took two rocky steps to our clothes, my bare feet crunching on the dirt on the floor. I tossed Cherokee her's, sat down on the bed, pulled mine on.

Downstairs we poured two cups of (god awful) black coffee we found in the fraternity's kitchen. A guy offered to give us a ride to our car. I thought he was nice. Cherokee said he was scared; the look on my face said I was not one to fuck with.