A Civil Union

Title: A Civil Union, chapter 14


I was so pleased with Potter's agreement to marry, that I didn't mind having to face Miriam Destry again. One of the points in our 'victory' decree was that we had to stop avoiding the marriage counselor. CoWW wanted to be sure the marriage was a success. So we needed therapy. Instruction. Humiliation.

Potter had listened to us when he came to the house following Roberts' dispirited call. He'd heard how we'd tried to win the right to tell him about the court order. From the three of us. He never interrupted our garbled explanations and yes, our excuses, as the explanation flew from one of us to the other. The three of us desperate to discover some way to salvage the unsalvagable.

I'd gone over every detail I remembered, every one Alexa covered. I'd explained to the best of my ability. I told him he deserved better. That I would support him in his fight against the court ordered marriage. That I thought he shouldn't be used like this, as a political pawn in service of the Treaty of Peace. We were already in peace time without it and doing just fine.

He'd nodded, his big eyes glowing, his face ethereal in his contemplative beauty as he let us all, me, Roberts and Benjamin have our say. I told him I sincerely hoped that he would continue to visit our home and consider it his own, as I had grown very fond of him during our too short acquaintance.

He listened. Then he'd agreed. We had tried. It wasn't our fault. There was nothing more that could be done. Yes, he would marry me.

I had sat head hanging waiting for him to say it wasn't enough. In fact, all three of us were sitting there, waiting to be scolded. Dejected. Feeling sad, defeated. Then he said, fine. He could see his way to marrying me.

For a minute none of us understood quite what he'd said. Then Benjamin let out a very uncharacteristic whoop of joy. Followed by Roberts' howl, and my own. We all grinned like a pack of idiots. Benjamin swung Potter up into the air, as I wanted to do. Roberts clapped him on the back. I stood back and beamed, waiting for my turn. Waiting until things were a little calmer so I could be sure he was safe when I touched him. I was giddy with joy.

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So we were sitting here in the kitchen after a marathon session with little Miriam. Four grown men, exhausted by the antics of one young woman. Half of the exhaustion stemmed from never being able to brace oneself for what was coming next. She was...unpredictable. I found myself unable to recall much of what she had said after spending most of the morning in fight-or-flight mode.

She had brought with her several new increasingly shocking toys. Lubricant. More dildos. Tiny pincher-like clips. Apparently for use on one's nipples, or on one's partner's nipples. Restraints, ditto the usage. Massage oil. I had shared the couch with Roberts this session. In anticipation of being unable to avoid touching someone this time. I had not used the lubricant on him, or on myself, despite being urged that it was perfectly OK to do so by the leaping, chittering Miriam. Who tried a further encouragement by telling us all it was flavored and quite tasty.

I did manage to massage one of his large hands. His fingers were longer and thicker than my own, I discovered. I had not noted the difference previously. He was a very large man. His palm was strong, smooth, capable, and it was pleasant to touch him. I let myself enjoy the massage and exploration of his hand. I did not nibble on his fingers as the appallingly oral Miriam suggested. The oil, we were informed, was flavored as well. I was surprised to find Roberts discreetly crossing his legs in the middle of it, for the usual reasons. And having to cross my own on that mildly shocking realization. It seemed to be catching. Politely, we both ignored the other's predicament.

It was not over yet. Potter had generously extended an invitation to lunch. So Miriam was in the kitchen with us, ready to sample some of Benjamin's famous creamed potato and bacon soup, with large chunks of lean ham, fresh crusty sourdough bread with just the right 'tang' to it, and piles of fresh fruit to clean the palate, sliced apples and pears, with perfectly perfumed ripeness.

We all took our chairs, all but Benjamin who set about selecting an apron, a particularly white and frilly one, and I engaged in one of my favorite pastimes. Watching him cook. He knew his way around a kitchen, that man did.

Roberts tried to help the petite Miriam with her sturdy chair, pulling it out for her. Offering a cushion. She clambered right up into the seat, and onto the table without a pause. Benjamin nearly dropped the bottles of beer he was carrying back to us at the sight of someone sitting on top of his pristine table. The his eyes dropped lower and I saw his step falter as he came close to stumbling.

Miriam plopped herself on the end of the table, legs crossed, her very short skirt riding up alarmingly. She perched there, while I choked, averting my eyes, and while Potter made a strangled sound, unable to avert his own eyes, as if he was driving past a shockingly gruesome traffic accident.

Benjamin opened a large cloth napkin with a snap and instantly placed it over Miriam's lap, the beer hitting the tabletop with a clatter, Roberts saving the bottles from disaster. He weighed the napkin down with a plate and silverware on top, and one of the bottles of beer, in case she had any designs on moving it. Roberts, lucky man, had been behind her the whole time. But it was clear he'd picked up on what had happened.

Miriam did not, however, have the ability to remain still. The napkin stayed in place for less than a quarter of an hour, as our marriage counselor wiggled and giggled. I was astonished by her honest obliviousness, while she regaled us with stories and her own special advice.

I retained not one word of her sage advice, for very obvious reasons. And lunch was virtually ignored until Benjamin abandoned polite methods, lifted her down from the table top and perched her, wrapped in his smallest half apron, tied firmly in a double knot around her hips and waist, on top the mound of cushions heaped by a helpful Potter on her chair. Lunch proceeded satisfactorily after that.

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