tagText With AudioDollhouse Wedding

Dollhouse Wedding

byfiremaker8888©

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Click Here to listen. (22 min/mp3)

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Getting ready for a wedding is no fun for me. I don't like it, especially now that I am getting older. I didn't like it on that hot and muggy Saturday last June when I couldn't seem to find the right shoes, and I couldn't get a shirt to fit me just right. I don't like weddings, and yet, why do I want to look just right? I have a lot of fans in my extended family. They expect a lot of me. They think I am a lecherous old man. They expect me to live out the role of the old lecher. That is why I had to find a nice shirt and make sure my beard was trimmed. I don't like weddings, and I don't like the way my sons and their wives stereotype me, saying, he is a wonderful old guy, but watch out, he has an eye for the ladies. You see, the fact is, I do have an eye for the ladies. Not just the ladies. The girls.

After some frustration, I finally found a good-looking shirt. Then I gathered up gifts and flowers. I helped my wife load the car, and we were on our way.

"You always have a good time," she said. She can depend on my complaining, and I can depend on her saying I always have a good time. It is true that I have a good time. I am outgoing and gracious. I talk to everyone. And I am sincere and very personal. I repeat the myths and stories. I spend time with children and young people. I remember whose husband had what job and lived where and what his former wife majored in. I remember our collective histories, and I help carry on the legend. It is true that I have a good time. My wife is tolerant; she doesn't mind that the ladies make a fuss about me. But underneath it all I seem to have dark thoughts about some of the younger women at these weddings.

We arrived a little late, but still in time for the ceremony. We were taken to seats in the reserved section near the front of the musty, old Presbyterian church. I am always curious about what I might find in the little trays in the front of the pews. I always think I will get some clue about what goes on with church-goers. I found a program folded in the pages of a hymnal. I started reading the announcements: "Youth Fellowship meets on Wednesday night." Thoughts go through my head. If I were a church-goer, at this Presbyterian church, could I be a youth-fellowship leader? It might be worth it, just to be near all that milky-white flesh. I had all these wandering thoughts, and then finally came the wedding march.

During the ceremony God's man, the reverend minister declared: what God hath joined together let no man put asunder. He made it clear that the bride was to keep herself pure for her groom. Pure meaning clean. Particularly up under her wedding gown. And only the groom has the right to look up under there. Except God's man seemed to be so captivated by the whole thing that I got the feeling he might also have the right to look. A duty, perhaps, to look for himself and make sure everything was okay.

I had all these convoluted thoughts while I sat quietly listening to the serious vows. It was only at the end when my wife stood up, when the recessional played -- it was only then that I began to think about my forthcoming duties, my obligations. I will have a central part to play at the reception. I have to greet people, introduce people, and repeat family stories, adding a twist and a turn here and there to keep it fresh for those who relish the repetition more than the source event. I will sip champagne, but not enough to thicken my tongue. I will have to be on my toes. I will dance with the ladies. They will flatter me, some drawing me close to whisper a shared memory.

As we were preparing to leave the church and drive the short distance to the wedding reception, my thoughts were suddenly drawn away from my duties again. My wife and I and my oldest son were putting on our coats in the vestibule. We were exchanging greetings with guests. A beautiful and fragrant young woman walked up to me, and without warning, put her arms around me, giving me a hug, her hands touching the back of my head. She called me by name and said something about balloons that I didn't understand. I struggled to remember who she was, or even how we were connected. How could I not know who she was? She drew back and went on to other things. The brief moment was thrilling. She was feminine, wearing a light clinging blouse. Her abundant presence drew me back, for a moment, to those wandering lecherous thoughts I was having during the quiet of the wedding ceremony.

Later, on the way to the reception, I asked my wife who she was. "That was Lois, Edmund's little girl. Didn't you know who she was? You can't remember anything, Roger." My wife was, of course, making a point of the fact that my memory isn't what it used to be. It galls me to have it pointed out.

My son said, "Dad, don't you remember her at the reception for your parents? Remember you were doing the balloon trick with her."

And then it came to me. It had been a fiftieth anniversary for my parents. Edmund was there with his children. It is true, Lois was a little girl then, a lovely little girl about eight or nine. That was fifteen years ago. It all came back to me. I remembered all about the balloon trick. The surprise party, for my parents, was at our camp in Maine. There were festive balloons. There was a hot fireplace with burning logs. You can talk kids into doing things. Kids love to make trouble. I found that by putting the balloons up the hot chimney, they would pop on the way up. I talked Lois into doing it. She was delighted. She and I put up a half a dozen. Each one popped; it was great fun. Edmund got after her, telling her not to do it again. I drew her aside and convinced her to do one more. I told her it was my chimney, not her father's. She put up another balloon, but for some reason it didn't pop. It just stuck there in the top of the chimney. Within a minute or two the room began to fill with smoke. We opened all the windows. My parents and all the guests had to evacuate the smoke-filled room. Edmund figured out that Lois did it by putting up a balloon after he had instructed her not to. He was upset with her. He sent her out to sit in the car for a half-hour punishment. She took it like a trooper. I was going to intervene, and save her hide by taking some of the responsibility, but then I thought better of it. Later, at a moment when no one was paying attention to me, I went out to Edmund's car in order to console Lois. She laughed and threw her arms around me. She thought it was great fun.

My wife and my son, the three of us, drove the short distance to the wedding reception, which was held at a country home, the pride of some relative on the bride's side of the family. When we got there, I learned that the reception was to be one of those disc-jockey affairs -- you know, the disc jockey coerces the couple through some silly antics that nobody wants to do, and nobody wants to watch. I decided to cut straight for the scotch and not wait for the champagne. I couldn't stand the disc jockey; I migrated to a pleasant den in the back part of the house. Among the number gathered there was my nephew, Richard. Richard and I talked about some adventures we'd had. I had fished him out of a river one time, when he almost drowned. He asked me about my life in Panama where I was an engineer on the canal. By way of bonding, he asked me if I had noticed Lois in her sheer blouse. Yes, I had noticed Lois. I held her in my arms, I told him. I held her for one mad moment.

There was a bay window in the den overlooking a well-kept back yard.

"Look out there," Richard said. "It looks like a dollhouse." In a stand of tall pines, at the far corner of the property, we could see what looked like a children's playhouse. But it looked almost full scale with a second story. A heavy pine limb had fallen onto the playhouse, perhaps during a storm. We could see where it had punctured a hole in the roof.

Lois came into the den and sat down. I mixed a light scotch to steady my nerves. She was lovely. You could see the outline of her bra through her blouse. More than the outline. It was a simple bra, not lacy but sheer, like her blouse. In the fading afternoon light you could see the hint of dark circles through both the blouse and the bra. I took a sip of scotch and began the first polite strokes of a protocol.

"What did you major in, Lois?"

"Political Science," she said, as she shifted around and focused attention on me. She asked me about my life in Panama. Would that be a good place for a woman to find a job, she wanted to know. How do they treat women down there. As we talked, it became evident that she knew quite a bit about Central America. Her behavior was simple and genuine without flirting, and yet, from moment to moment she seemed to engage me, asking more questions, and giving details about herself. As I think back now, I'm sure that she told me she would soon marry, but it didn't register at the time. After a minute or two she recalled the balloon story.

"Remember when we put the balloons up the chimney?" she said, now reaching and touching my arm. "You were so sweet, Roger. If I ever have children I hope I can be like that with them."

Relaxing more with her now, I let my eyes wander. I soaked her in. A small button had come undone at the front of her blouse. As she moved about, the blouse would pull open showing some of her girlish bra underneath. Somehow it seemed okay for me to let my eyes drop down there as I talked with her. And why is that? I know it's bad form. Why was I willing to look at her there? She made me relax, that's why. She was familiar and engaging. And so I looked. As she turned to face me, the white skin at the neck of her blouse grew taut around her collar bone. One could give a gentle kiss there, I thought. One could give a kiss, and draw that delicate skin into one's mouth.

I was trying not to let my own thoughts distract me. What was real? Was she paying a lot of attention to me, or was this just her natural way? Was she enjoying me? It was so hard for me to tell. It was hard for me to keep my imagination under control. And then, as the moments gathered into minutes, I began to realize that it was not my imagination. She was doing what she wanted to do. When that reality came onto me, my throat went dry. I got up from the couch to get a drink of water. She followed me out to the kitchen.

My wife was out there, chatting with some of the wedding dignitaries. When she saw me with Lois close behind, she gave me one of those looks -- like, I know what you're up to. In fact, it was sort of a go-for-it look. She doesn't disapprove. She gives me a lot of freedom, as I give her.

How shall I describe the strange events that happened in the next few moments, there in that country kitchen, with people standing all around? I had the empty scotch glass in my right hand. I reached into the sink to get a drink of fresh water for my dry throat. As I turned on the faucet, the glass slipped out of my hand splashing water onto the front of Lois's delicate blouse. For a moment she stood in silence looking down at the wet splash on her rising and falling bosom. I don't know how to describe the dark look in her eyes when she turned her face back up to me. I stood there like a stone.

In a serious voice, as soft as the wind in a cave, she said, "My blouse is unbuttoned."

"Yes," I said softly, moving not a muscle.

"Could you see my bra?" she said, casting her eyes down.

"Yes," I said, again softly.

"Do you think I'm a tramp?"

I waited, not saying anything for a moment. And then I said, "Yes," ever so quietly.

She looked back into my eyes again, her lips trembling. I leaned forward the inch or two that separated us. I covered my lips over hers, drawing her breath into my mouth. We lingered less than a second. We drew back and looked around the kitchen. No one had noticed -- and how could they not notice? I was shaking; my heart was pounding.

She glanced away. "Where can we go? Where can we be alone?" she wanted to know.

"What about tomorrow," I said. "We could meet somewhere."

"No, I can't. I am flying to California tomorrow. I'm getting married. It has to be today."

We stood there for a minute, thinking, not coming up with any good ideas; there were people in every room in the house. And then, remembering the dollhouse, I said, "I know where we could go. There is a children's playhouse..."

"It's fine," she interrupted. "Let's just go."

"Okay, we need to go out to the back yard," I said, collecting my wits. We walked across the kitchen and out through an ell toward the back yard. As she walked just ahead of me through the ell, I reached my hand out to her healthy rump. I touched, and she stopped and stood still for me, facing away, as though in submission. For a lovely moment I explored her gently there, feeling the line of her panties and then carefully down in the hollow between her thighs.

We went from the ell out into the yard and then across to the pines at the back of the lot. As we walked along, I struggled to imagine how we would do whatever we hoped to do in that little playhouse. Faith kept me going. When we came to the playhouse and went in, it was smaller than I expected, but Lois seemed delighted, bless her.

There was a ladder leading up to the second floor. I started to climb up. And then I waited. I let her go ahead of me. I looked up. So much pleasure. I could see her white underpants.

When we got up to the loft everything was soaked from rain that must have come in through the ruptured roof. There were musty leaves and pine needles all over the floor, spoiling what must have been a lovely little room. There was only one piece of furniture up there, a simple straight-back kitchen chair. There was no practical place for us to lie down. We decided that I would be the one to sit in the chair.

Evidently Lois was in no mood to rush things. I was seated in the chair, and she was standing up in front of me. She was in a dark, dramatic mood now.

"Is this what you have been thinking about, Roger?" she asked, as she pulled up her skirt, standing away from me a bit to be sure that I could see. "You have been thinking about what's under here, haven't you?"

Her white panties came into view as she raised her skirt. They were nylon panties, full, not briefs. They were not tight; they were generous and full, with delicate folds where they drew down into the vee between her thighs. She separated her legs as if to satisfy herself that I could see all there was to see.

"I am not going to let you see my pussy, because I'm embarrassed, because it's all wet." So saying, she lifted aside the crotch of her panties. "See what I mean; you can see how wet it is."

The pink meaty folds of her cunt were now completely outside of her panties. My eyes were starved for the sight. She kept it up for quite a while. You can't imagine how cranked up I was by then. Being terribly careful not to interrupt her, I lifted my behind off the chair, and got my pants and my underpants pulled down around my ankles. As soon as I did that, she squatted down and took my semi-erect cock into her hands, wetting it with her mouth, and drawing back the foreskin. She examined it like a doctor, and then looked up at me.

She said, "Old men have old-looking bodies, but they have young-looking cocks -- young and pink, like young men's cocks." I said nothing, taking care not to interrupt her mood.

"Roger," she said, now with a measure of tenderness, "shall I sit on you? Is that what you want?"

"Yes," I said with what little breath I could gather from my lungs. Then she straddled me and guided my cock up into her succulent cunt. All I can say is, it felt wonderful. There is no describing it. I reached around behind her bum and felt her crack through her panties, which she still had on. She started little humping motions, looking into my eyes, I think, to gauge my condition, taking care not to give too much too soon. I started to bring my hand around in front in order to play with her.

"I don't need to come just now, Roger," she said. "I just needed something up inside me. And this is fine. It's delightful riding on you like this." She was still doing the little humping motions. She looked darkly into my eyes again, and she said, "But you might need to come. Is that true, Roger? Answer me, is it true?"

I nodded. Ever so carefully, she stepped up the tempo of the little humping motions. Then, keeping one hand behind my neck, with the other she undid the buttons on her blouse and drew it aside. "Suck me through my bra. See if that makes you come."

That did it. I went off with a groan that sounded like a frozen lake in the middle of winter. I was consumed with a passion. I spilled myself into her with violent spasms. Tears came to my eyes.

After a few mad seconds, my climax went into remission. I rested my face between her breasts, where her mouth-soaked nipple pressed through the now-transparent bra. I drew deep breaths, trying to gain back my strength. We lingered there for a minute or two, not saying a word. She got up quietly and began to straighten her clothing.

I pulled up my pants. We climbed down the ladder. I said I was sorry that she didn't come. I offered to make it up to her -- how generous of me. She laughed and said she would come plenty of times thinking about it. She said she was getting married; maybe that was the last time she would ever do it with anyone besides her husband.

"Will you tell him about it?" I asked.

"Someday maybe I will," she said thoughtfully. Then she looked up at me with her serious look and said, "Maybe you will meet him someday. You'd like him."

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