Wedding Day No 06

What is it about a wedding?

It all went off without a hitch. I did the 10-hour straight-through drive, arrived in time for the rehearsal, and then ate surprisingly good stuff at the rehearsal dinner, showed up promptly for my son's wedding, walked down the aisle, second in line, behind the mother of the bride, escorted by my wildly overweight but still fucking beautiful niece, said my few words, stood when the bride walked in looking absolutely stunning, and then stood again as they finished and walked back down the aisle, now husband and wife.

A very nice wedding in a very nice venue. The view across the outdoor scene was spectacular. And it worked out well because I liked my new daughter-in-law.

I had even gotten along pretty well with my ex-wife although her family, with a couple of exceptions, remained stand-offish and, in a couple of cases actively hostile. I understood although, to be honest, there was plenty of blame to go around when that marriage broke up.

I enjoyed an hour with my daughter and her brood of feral kids, four at last count and I was happy to see her belly wasn't swelling again. Well, not yet anyway although her new boyfriend seemed nice and she is ridiculously fertile.

"So," the voice said. I liked the voice. I always had. Whiskey coarse but when she sang it was a clear soprano. I recognized it. My ex-wife's aunt and I had always got along but when we split up, suddenly she was downright hostile to me.

"Where's the redhead?" she asked.

I chuckled. Fiona is a tiny woman, not quite five feet tall and certainly no more than about 90 pounds, with hair the red that women strive for but rarely achieve. I knew it was natural from a wardrobe malfunction back when the ex and I were married and had been boating with the family. She was asking about my present wife, another redhead.

"She's home, nursing her arthritis," I said.

She looked up at me speculatively and then took my hand. "Come on, you look like you could use a friend."

Which was true. The wedding party, well, the after-wedding party, the reception I guess you call it, was mostly Stephen and Meg's families which meant, given that I had driven overnight to get here, mostly my ex's family, many of whom weren't happy with me, and other folks I didn't know. I had talked some to the members of the ex's family who didn't blame me for the breakup, flirted shamelessly with the niece who had been through two husbands and put on about a hundred pounds, and was now about at that point where you start looking for ways to get away without being too obvious or rude.

So I followed Fiona onto the small dance floor and we settled into a nice, classic slow dance as the DJ played another of his wedding collection, this time Julie London's

Cry Me A River

. We started in the classic slow dance position, my left arm crooked at the elbow, my palm up accepting her right hand, her left hand on my shoulder, forcing her to reach up quite a bit, and my right hand on her hip. It took us a few moments to pick up each other's moves, but pretty soon we were doing a passable dance, not yet a full-on waltz, but something beyond a basic box step.

She held my hand between songs and when Jerry Lee's

Great Balls of Fire

blasted out she let out a laugh, took my hand, spun away, and we did a not-too-bad jive. Slightly winded, I started off as Jerry Lee's final piano riff tailed off but she held my hand, and when Elvis Presley started crooning

The Hawaiin Wedding Song

she was back in my arms, this time both of her arms around my neck like we were teenagers at the prom. I had a moment of panic, imagining the hundred or so cellphone cameras that were in the room and how easy it would be for one of them to get back to my wife.

I was already thinking up excuses as I laid my hands on her hips. When she moaned softly, though, and closed the difference between us until we were touching, I quit worrying and started enjoying.

And I mean, touching a lot.

She's one of those women who understand just how to move, to arch her back, to make sure as much contact is made as possible.

Her effect on me was immediate and my sudden, and unexpected, erection pressed against her belly, the difference in our heights ensured that was where we would touch.

The smile as I looked down at her was a purely happy smile.

"Ever been fucked stupid by a redhead?" she asked and it was so conversational that I had to laugh.

"Umm, no," I managed after I had the laughter under control.

"Wanna?" she asked, doing that thing only a woman can pull off, her sinuous movement almost spineless as her body rippled and the touch moved from my groin to my chest where her cheek lay.

"Would that be wise?" I asked.

"Fuck no," she said and there was that smile again, peeling at least two decades off of her face, "So, wanna?"

Okay, there was alcohol involved. And it was a wedding. The air was thick with wedding pheromones. All of that is true.

But in the end, it was that smile and the way she said, "So, wanna?" that got to me.

I grinned. Hell, I couldn't have stopped that grin, and said, "Absolutely."

She giggled and said, "Okay, Lover, let's make our manners." Yes, she actually said, "Make our manners." She was, after all, a Southern girl, and no matter how long she had lived in Chicago that's something you never really lose.

We tracked down the bride and groom and waited patiently while they received another batch of congratulations.

Stephen saw us, grabbed Meg's hand, and came to us.

"Congratulations again, great-nephew-o-mine," Fiona said, "you be good to her now, understand? Don't make me come and teach you a lesson."

Stephen grinned and said, "No problem."

They embraced.

While Fiona was saying something girly to Meg, Stephen wrapped me in one of those bearhugs of his. "Thanks for coming, Dad," he said, "It wouldn't have been the same without you."

I grinned and said, "You done good, boy," and hugged him again.

"Now, Nephew and Nephew-bride," Fiona said, "Phillip has offered to drive me back to my room so we're going now. You youngsters have fun but don't drink too much. That can make the wedding night a disappointment." She grinned and patted Stephen on the cheek. "Trust me, I know," she added.

Manners made, we left.

"Your place or mine?" she asked as we started out of the parking lot.

"Well," I said, "I've got a whole house from the AirBnB people and that gives you more rooms to fuck me stupid in."

She laughed, patted my crotch, and said, "Done."

When we got to the little rental house she waited, primly, while I opened the door for her and then we walked, hand in hand, up to the front door. I entered the four-digit code and we walked in.

As soon as the door swung shut she turned and was in my arms. She was tiny and all hungry lips and oddly strong fingers as the fingers tangled in my hair and the lips found mine, pulling me down for the kiss.

My own hands, running up and down the back of her classic little black dress, quickly discovered that there was no bra or panties.

She broke the kiss as quickly as she had initiated it.

"First things first," she said, her grin infectious on her freckled pixie face.

She dug into the ridiculously oversized purse she carried and came out with one of those little amber pill bottles you get from the drugstore.

"Take two," she said, shaking out two bright yellow capsules.

"Ummmmmmmm," I said, "and what are these?"

She smiled, not a grin but a very nice smile, and said, "Stan calls them Cialis with a Kick or, sometimes, Levitra Living Large."

I chuckled, "What, not Viagra with Vigor?"

She threw back her head and laughed, a loud, hearty sound from her tiny body.

"I'll take that to him," she said, "He'll like it."

"So," I said, not yet taking the capsules, "What would Stan say if he found out about this?" I asked, waving my arm around the room. Stan, as I recalled, was the precise opposite of Fiona. He was well over six feet tall, and well over 250 pounds, and I had the impression he was one of those guys who liked to fight.

"Welllllllll," she said, doing the two hands, palms flat on my chest thing that some women pull off so well, "I don't intend for him to find out and if he did, I don't see how that would matter since I doubt, very sincerely, we'll ever see each other again."

I held her eyes for a few seconds, grinned, and popped the pills.

"Mmmmmmmmm" she hummed, her fingers going to my tie.

I figured this was her show so I stood still as she eased the suit coat off and laid it across the back of a chair, untied the tie, unbuttoned my shirt, peeled the shirt off of me, and then eased adroitly to her knees and started on my shoes. I wear loafers, even with a suit, so that part was easy. She did my socks and then my belt, button, and zipper to ease the suit pants past my butt and let them drop to the floor.

I waited for her to either take me into her mouth or to stand and let me start undressing her.

What I didn't expect was for her to say, "Let's get this out of the way," and take me in her hand and masturbate me, quickly and efficiently. Her skills were so good, the touch and pressure and rhythm so perfect, I had no hope of stopping what happened.

As she looked up at me I came.

As my semen, thick and white, spattered across the neckline of her dress the image of Monica Lewinsky's famous blue dress crossed my mind, and the smile I gave her was more than just for the pleasure she had just given.

She held me as I softened, and she held my eyes as well.

I felt foolish, standing there, spent, smiling like an idiot.

She looked happy, smiling up at me.

When I was soft she bent, kissed the tip of my dick, and then stood. When she kissed me, the wet, sticky line of my semen felt oddly good low on my chest.

"Now undress me," she said, smiling, "and we can get down to some serious fucking."

I chuckled.

"Ummmm," I said, my fingers finding the tab of her zipper and starting it down, "maybe 30 years ago, and certainly 50, but Fiona, I

do

have three-quarters of a century on my clock."

She lowered her arms, not saying anything, and the dress fell to the floor.

"You're going to pass on this?" she asked, doing a slow turn.

She was tiny but utterly female. I didn't ask her age but given the difference between me and my ex, I guessed that she had her Medicare card. The red hair was her most memorable feature and it fit her elfin features. Blue eyes were striking and the tracery of tiny wrinkles around her eyes gave her face character. A short straight nose was centered on her oval face and her generous mouth with thin lips was smiling showing off ivory teeth. I was happy she hadn't gone for the bleaching thing that seemed to leave so many women with teeth that looked like the last stage in the production line was a quick airbrushing with appliance white.

Her breasts were small and fallen in the way of small-breasted women who have breastfed their children. Her areolas were very dark, almost red, and tightened into small wrinkled cones with small red nipples looking like pencil erasers pointing at me as I watched. She was slender, almost skinny, with hips that flared and a belly button that was a deep slot of an innie. The children she had borne showed in the little bit of a deeply stretch-marked pot belly.

I had known, from that long-ago wardrobe malfunction, that she was a natural redhead and as she stood before me I stared, openly, at her closely trimmed pubic hair, her labia were smooth, the hair above a small triangle with the point terminating at the top of the slit of her pussy.

Her legs, like the rest of her, were slender, not quite skinny but not far from it, with a clear thigh gap. Her knees showed a bit of age with wrinkles at the outside of the joint. Spider veins showed on her calves and her feet fascinated me with the longest toes I had ever seen, and carefully done with red nails.

She stood, very still, as my inventory progressed, not quite posing, holding the perfectly natural position like a model, carefully trained to look like that.

When my eyes made it back to hers she smiled and then turned, showing me her back.

From behind, as long as I didn't look below her ass, she could pass for 18. In part, it was her size, of course, but in part, it was her trim figure. From the back, there were no wrinkles to distract. Her thighs did show her age, soft, with stretch marks and some wrinkles.

I closed the distance between us, slowly moved my hands to lightly cover her belly, and said, very softly into her ear, "Yes, Fiona, you're stunning but I'm still 75."

She turned quickly, lithe as a lemur, threw her arms around my neck and kissed me.

"Put on your suit jacket," she said, the

non sequitur

surprising me.

When I didn't move she tangled her fingers in my hair and twisted, not hard enough to hurt but controlling me.

"Put. On. Your. Suit. Jacket," she said again, this time the emphasis on each word making it a separate sentence.

I turned and found the suit jacket where she had laid it across the back of one of the chairs in the front room. I put it on and went back to her.

She was smiling that pixie smile as she said, "On your knees, Phillip."

I got to my knees, not nearly as gracefully as she had.

"I call this," she said, almost conversationally, her fingers in my hair pulling me to where she obviously wanted me, "the Reverse Lewinsky."

That triangle of her closely trimmed pubic hair was almost scratchy on my nose as I kissed the smooth skin of her bare lips. Her fingers twisted, pulling me harder against where she wanted me. I liked it, and kissed her, my tongue probing, tasting the thick salty Ambrosia of her arousal.

"That's right, Phillip," she said softly, fingers twisting, hurting a little as her hips started rocking, thrusting against me.

It was one of those timeless moments. I might have been doing that for a few seconds or a few minutes. Regardless, I could feel the tension building in her body in the way the rocking of her hips sped up.

I cried out when she came, her fingers twisting so hard I thought she might be pulling some hair out. She pulled, no, she

jerked

me to her as she came, and then jerked me away as a sudden gush of her thick white natural lubricant spattered against the lapels of my suit coat.

Her body was absolutely rigid for a few seconds, as she shuddered and gasped. My hands on her ass helped support her as the wave of ecstasy passed. Finally, she took a deep breath and I could feel her weight lift from my hands as her legs straightened and she could stand again.

"Whew," she said, giggling.

She smiled down at me.

"Pretty good technique, Phillip," she said with a smile.

I stood and she eased the suit coat off of my shoulders.

"Now we'll both need to go to the dry cleaners before we go home," she said, a smirk marring her pixie face.

She kissed me, a good kiss, one of those kisses full of promise but not demanding. I suppose at that point we were both pretty much past demanding.

"Come on," she said, breaking the kiss, and taking my hand, "Where's the bedroom in this joint?"

I chuckled and said, "Second door on the left."

She laughed, a gay, tinkling sound. Hearing her, and watching her tiny body, I couldn't help but think of the word "nymph."

"Come along, old folks," she said over her shoulder, pulling me in her wake, "Learn a thing."

She hopped onto the bed, as graceful as the teenager she looked like right then. Stretching, making it a pose, she turned to me and said, "Come on, old folks, or do you need a hand?"

I smiled and crawled, more sedately of course, onto the bed to join her.

"Now," she said, kissing me, "just relax and enjoy some better living through chemistry."

I laughed at the old reference from some old commercial, DuPont perhaps.

"The magic yellow pills?" I asked.

"Yep," she said, giggling and kissing me. It was a good kiss. Oh, hell, it was a world-class kiss. It was one of those kisses you experience a few times in your life. For a while, there, I was 18 again in the back seat of a 1965 Chevrolet Impala with my high school sweetheart.

And yes, there was a stirring in my groin.

We nuzzled and kissed and explored in the way of two mature adults, experienced and no longer shy. The kisses ranged from light brushes to hard, almost bruising hard contact. I captured her wrists and pulled them up until her arms were straight up over her head on the pillow, and started at her wrists, doing first the left and then the right, working my way down her arms with little nips of my teeth, each one drawing a sharp little intake of breath from her.

At her armpits, so perfectly smooth I suspected lasers and chemicals rather than razors or wax, I licked and she squealed, twisting, almost writhing as I found a particularly ticklish spot with my tongue.

She wasn't the only one in this room with, well, let's call it, extensive experience.

Keeping her arms pinned I worked my way around until I was on my knees, smiling down at her.

I waited until her eyes focused.

"I'm going to release your wrists now," I said, bending down to kiss her, a soft kiss, "and pay attention to your body."

She grinned and moved in that sinuous way only a woman can pull off.

"But," I said, kissing her again and moving a little further so that my lips were brushing her ear as I went on, "if you move, I'll stop."

"Oh, myyyyy," she said, the vowel lingering as she moved again, her body seeming to almost flow.

I released her hands and she stayed still.

Her control was impressive. I nuzzled her breasts and then suckled at her nipples, not just sucking the nipple but drawing the areola and a little tissue into my mouth and massaging the nipple against the roof of my mouth like a hungry baby feeding. She stayed still although her lips did move as she whispered things like, "That's nice, Baby."

Back on my knees, I drew my fingernail slowly down her ribs, making her breath catch, but she stayed still.

I probed that slot of her navel with my tongue, making her giggle, but she stayed still.

I moved to the end of the bed and then, on my knees on the floor, made love to her feet. I played with those amazingly long toes, making her giggle when I did "piggies to market" on them, and then gently sucked each one separately before running my tongue between each pair. Her control failed and she kicked a little as my tongue ran up the instep of her left foot.

I stood, quickly, and said, trying for a stern voice but I'm pretty sure failing to pull it off, "I told you to stay still," and walked out of the bedroom.

"Philllllip," her voice followed me.

"Stay still," I called over my shoulder.

I got a beer from the refrigerator, opened it, and went into the front room where I turned on the television. I wanted her to hear it and wonder if I'd be back. As I said, she wasn't the only one in the house with experience.

As I sat, a rerun of

Bonanza

in the background, I realized that the little yellow pill was working. Oh, I wasn't fully erect, but I wasn't completely soft either.

I smiled, took another drink, checked the clock, and saw that five minutes had passed. I knew it would seem much longer than that to Fiona.

I took another drink, stood, and went back into the bedroom.

It looked like she hadn't moved.

"Are you going to be a good girl?" I asked.

She giggled and said, "Yes, Baby, and it's going to cost you."

I smiled, walked to the bed, grabbed her ankles, and spread her legs apart.

Christ, she was sexy. The triangle of pubic hair pointed to the slit her labia formed, and the labia were shiny with her excitement.

I began at her ankles, slowly kissing my way up her inner legs, moving between them as I kissed ankles and then low on her calves and shins and up, slowly, each kiss a separate thing, not hurrying, indeed, deliberately taking my time.