Not Quite Vanilla

Excerpt From: Not Quite Vanilla

“Were you aware that there’s a three-foot penis in the corner of our showroom?”

Francine Hartley barely glanced at the woman who had eased open the swinging door just enough to poke her head through. Sasha’s words would have shocked Fran at one point in time, but no more. Desperate times. Desperate measures. Cliché, but oh-so-true.

“Is it in video form, or did our local girl-turned-sexpert bring visual aids, as well?” Fran asked, scooping one precise teaspoon of chocolate ganache into the palm of her cotton-gloved hand.

“Projected image. If she’s got oversized dildos, she hasn’t whipped them out yet,” Sasha replied with a snort.

Fran nodded, rolling the dark mass into a nearly perfect ball as she thought about the portable screen that had been set up in the corner of the confectionery shop she owned. Small café tables had been pushed out of the way, and extra folding chairs had been borrowed from the church across the street to accommodate the number of women who were in attendance to view Julia Remsford’s presentation on how to spice up a stagnant relationship. The twenty-two attendees didn’t seem to mind the cramped confines in the least, and unlike Fran, not a single one seemed to be considering how very wrong it might be watching what many could interpret as soft-core porn in the very chairs that had been used for St. Hippolyte’s weekly bingo blast less than twenty-four hours prior.

“The night’s still young. Give Julia time,” Fran said with a small smile. She placed the truffle on a parchment-lined cookie sheet and reached for another scoop, unable to contain the heavy sigh that escaped her lips.

“Hey, want some help?” Sasha asked, walking into the kitchen.

“No way. You’re off duty, woman. Go out there and enjoy the talk. Tell me if you learn anything new.”

“Are you sure you’re all right? You don’t have to do it all, Fran. You know that, don’t you? We’re all here for you in whatever way you need us. Including working a few extra hours so that you can have a life.”

Fran carefully set down the truffle and reined in her urge to snap at her well-meaning employee. Two of her three full-time staff were suddenly treating her as if she were as fragile as a piece of spun sugar. The third one, her business-manager-slash-confectionery-master, was equally aware of Creative Confections’ precarious financial status, but he hadn’t changed his demeanour towards her in the least. If he was overly worried about the fact they had six months of working capital left, no one could tell. Mitchell Stallworth was still his fun-loving, hard-working, way-too-handsome self.

“I’m fine, Sasha. Go on and keep an eye on Julia. Maybe you can step in and offer your personal expertise if she does a segment on backseat blowjobs.”

Fran cast a sidelong glance at the woman and watched her cheeks colour.

“You said you wouldn’t mention that again. I wasn’t in the shop, and I wasn’t on the clock.”

“I know. But it’s the easiest way to get you to drop this current topic and do my bidding,” Fran said, pleased to be firmly in control of the conversation once again.

“Fine. Whatever you want. Just make sure you take a break and have a little listen yourself. We both know there’s definitely someone you could try out all Julia’s suggestions with. Don’t you ever wonder if he has body parts similar to those fingers? Parts that are ridiculously long and able to work other things with great accuracy?”

“Sasha,” Fran said in a warning tone. The woman was pushing the boundary of acceptable chit chat, but Fran could hardly fault her. There were times, like now, when Fran really wished Mitchell possessed the visage of a troll. It would make her life so much easier. There wouldn’t be any lurid daydreams centred on his tall, lean form or his wide, full lips. No, if he were utterly unattractive, her pussy wouldn’t send out a S.O.S. every time he disengaged the paddle of one of their industrial mixers and licked it clean. Watching his precision tongue work shouldn’t bring a sane woman to the point of Led Zeppelin’s ‘til-the-juice-runs-down-my-leg-wetness’. But it did—more often than Fran cared to consider.

She looked up and found Sasha patiently staring her way, mouth twisted in a triumphant ‘I know what you were thinking’ smirk.