Phoebe’s cough was dry, like wax paper from an eaten egg-salad sandwich rattling the side of a wicker basket after a sea-side picnic, or a distant mongrel dog’s half-growl, half-bark at the hint of a trespassing cat, or the engine of a once-upon-a-time trusty car trying to start up but unable to catch. After nearly a week of it, Phoebe saw the doctor, who said it was nothing—just an irritation, maybe even nerves—and it would go away with time. Three more days went by, and no let up.

Grover had kept his distance. It was her idea; she didn’t want him to catch it, whatever it was. But one morning when she wasn’t even able to eat her toast or a drink her coffee without the cough punctuating bite and sip, Grover had had enough. He took the sloshing coffee cup from her hand, set it on the counter, and kissed her long and hard. She didn’t cough—not all through the kiss. “Are you trying to steal it?” Phoebe asked, when the kiss finally ended. Before Grover could answer, Phoebe was coughing again. The old car chugging up the hill. The angry dog chasing it, biting the hard rubber tires. The wax paper, lifted by a naughty wind, flapping and fluttering and sailing out over the sea.

Grover kissed her again. Again she didn’t cough. The kiss went on and on, and the wax paper soared like a sea gull in the sun, the old car coasted downhill like joyriding teenagers awed to silence by their own over-zealous daring, the dog fell asleep at last, his tail thumping carpet dust before the hearth as he snoozed.

But not long after the kiss stopped, the dog awoke, the car crashed, the wax paper, too near the sun, caught fire and crinkled noisily as it blazed, and the cough came back.

“This calls for stronger measures, more powerful medicine,” Grover informed the doubled-over love of his life, and he hoisted her up onto the kitchen counter, pulled down her Hello Kitty Boyleg panties, and buried his face between her legs. His teeth teased her clit to startling stiffness, his lips nibbled and nipped her succulent little labia wide, wide, wide, and his tongue probed her wet, wet cunt to wildest orgasm, during which, Phoebe’s oohs and ahs smothered, smoothed, and liquefied the burning paper to a shell of nothingness, the car, with a sizzling hiss, sank into the lake, and the yowls of ecstasy turned the yelping dog into a purring pussycat.

“Oh my, oh my, oh my, my, my,” exclaimed Phoebe after a period of quiet recovery. “Oh, my darling lover man, I think you’ve cured me.”

They eyed each other tentatively, hopefully, expectantly.

So far so good, and then ... Phoebe’s nose wrinkled. Her throat tightened. Her lips parted. She was about to...

Spry as a cat, Grover leapt up on the kitchen counter, shucked his pants as if they were less than nothing, and drove his sports car cock full speed into the sleek, buttery sheath of Phoebe’s snug sexual tunnel.

The fuck went on and on, over, under, around, and through mountains of ever-mounting excitement, until at last Grover’s cock coughed a flood of white-hot seed into Phoebe’s gulping cunt. After that, Phoebe, and Grover too, were too spent to cough.

And from that day to this, whenever Phoebe’s cough threatens to return, she and Grover know what to do about it, and do it they do!