Lady Behind The Wall

"I love you too, Deirdre. I am proud you are mine; my wife, my mistress, my slut, my slave, my private dancer and partner in and out of bed. You take this bathroom and I'll just step into the dressing room. Be sure to remove your accessories, but don't lose them. I'm going to want to do this to you again some day."

"Some day soon, please," she agreed, a purr in her voice. "It's such exquisite torment! But oh, what a way for me to ready myself for my beloved's cock!"

Half an hour later, we sent a bellman to cue the leader of the band we had hired in the Gold Room. Although it's located on the first floor down the hall from the Longhorn Bar, it has an interior staircase that sweeps in a curve from the mezzanine level down to the floor. The bellman opened the double doors at the top of the stairs, the keyboardist played a fanfare while the drummer rolled on his snare and crashed a cymbal. The keyboardist-leader said into his microphone, "Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time, may I present Mr. and Mrs. John and Deirdre Middleton."

We were applauded as the band struck up a tune and we processed regally down the staircase. We were met at the bottom by Ronnie, Joey, Johnny and Aunt Cloud. The gals exchanged kisses and the guys shook my hand, juggling their drinks as they did. Ronnie fixed us with a look.

"So, you two, why are you so tardy in arriving to greet your guests, hmm?"

Deirdre said, "Well, Ronnie, let's just say we don't have to worry about the wedding blanket touching the ground any more." Johnny nearly choked on his drink and Aunt Cloud laughed, and the party began in earnest.

As have grooms since the beginning of time, I put up with the wedding folderol that is as stylized as the steps in any minuet: the interminable picture-taking by the professional photographer of the bride, the groom and the members of the wedding party in a variety of combinations; the First Dance of the new couple (we scandalized Deirdre's family by performing a tango instead of the usual foxtrot or waltz); dancing with the 'parents,' William, Cynthia, Aunt Cloud and Johnny filling in; dinner with us on the dais, eating a wild game feast in three courses courtesy in part of Deirdre's and my skills with rifle and shotgun; the toasts by the best man and the maid of honor (soon to be matron of honor, because when Ronnie stood up to offer hers, I noticed her ring finger bore a diamond that hadn't been there at the start of the day); the cutting and eating of the first slice of wedding cake, which neither Deirdre nor I smeared on each other's face; the tossing of the bridal bouquet and the garter, and the inevitable hilarity as the guy who caught the garter has to put it on the gal who caught the bouquet; and a couple of my young second cousins (or is it first cousins once removed? I can never keep that straight) slipping outside with a couple of hers as night fell. When the after-dinner dance music started, we were at last freed of obligation and could go table-hopping in between forays onto the floor.

We eventually ended up at a table containing Johnny in his Army Blue uniform, Billy Porter in his Marine dress blues, Richard, Joey in Class A Army greens, Ronnie and William, all with beers in their hands and completely at ease despite their differences in age and social station. Johnny and Joey were in the National Guard, Billy of course was on active duty in the Corps, Richard had done time as a Navy JAG in return for their paying for him to go to law school, and William had done a tour in Vietnam as a Marine lieutenant and had retired from the Reserve as a major. Somehow it seems ex-service types always find each other at social functions. As we pulled up chairs, I felt right at home.

We swapped tales from three different eras, mostly funny ones but a few more serious. William told the story of how he'd earned the decoration he and Billy shared, the Silver Star. They both had received them for cold-bloodedly advancing under fire to recover wounded men pinned down by enemy machine guns, William with an M-79 'elephant gun' and Billy with an M-60 he'd taken off a dead machine-gunner. I shared my story of converting a Ma Deuce .50 caliber machine gun into a sniper rifle in Panama by rigging a scope mount on it and then using it to disable the Mercedes a Panamanian colonel had hoped to use in his getaway by putting six aimed rounds into the engine from 2,000 meters, and the look on his face when he'd come out of the building to see smoke seeping out of the holes in the hood and a puddle of oil under the car. Richard regaled us with a courtroom tale of getting a Navy lieutenant off on an insubordination charge brought by an admiral who had spent his whole career in destroyers, who had been sent to demonstrate proper shiphandling to carrier deck officers that would have resulted in the USSNimitzrunning over one of her escorts had the lieutenant not taken charge and issued helm and engine orders to avert the collision; and afterwards telling the admiral that destroyerman or not, he didn't know what the fuck he was doing. Joey and Ronnie told the story of the wild bulldozer ride at the Grand Canyon fire where they had first met; and Johnny told about the time he'd had to arrest a visiting brigadier general for drunk driving and Grand Theft Tank when he'd been stationed at Fort Knox. It was Deirdre who finally put an end to the storytelling.

"John, my love, as much as I am enjoying Old Home Week, we do have reservations. But how can we slip out of here without everyone seeing?"

"Leave it to me," announced William. "Come with me, Corporal." The pair marched up to the bandleader and spoke to him for a moment. When the dance number ended, the band struck up "The Marines Hymn." William grabbed the mike and he and Billy began to sing. As every eye in the house turned to stare at them, we slipped through the door into the kitchen and up the service elevator to the mezzanine. We got away clean, unseen by anyone except maybe my second cousin Eileen and Deirdre's cousin Lance, who were so intertwined with each other in the foyer of the Gold Room's staircase I didn't think they'd notice a brass band parading by.

Packing up in the suite didn't take long because we had already packed up everything but our traveling clothes – Deirdre's cherished Balenciaga dress plus a pair of three inch heel pumps and my favorite blue blazer, khaki slacks, white shirt and Stetson – so all we had to do was change out of our wedding clothes into them. While I used the in-house computer checkout to settle our bill and arrange for a bellman, my new wife folded her gown and my tux into a suitcase that would be sent back home, as we had already arranged with the hotel. I had checked our honeymoon luggage at the airport the previous day, so all we had were our carry-ons. The bellman arrived, and after turning the suitcase over to him we called down for our limousine and got on the elevator.

I had hoped to avoid the shower of rice that is the traditional farewell to the bride and groom, as well as the transformation of the couple's car into a lewd, rude and crude wedding float. I'd managed the latter by hiding our car in plain sight in long term parking at the airport under a car cover and renting a limo for the duration of our stay; and I'd thought we could evade the revelers by getting off at the mezzanine, walking down the stairs to the lobby, and then straight out the front door. Perhaps one of the wedding party bribed the concierge or the bell captain. Or maybe our exit from the ballroom wasn't as unobtrusive as I'd believed. The how didn't really matter, because I'd been outsmarted. Our guests were standing in the lobby and on the sidewalk under the canopy, cheering and holding little bags of rice.

Deirdre laughed and I shook my head with a rueful smile. When you're caught clean, the best you can do is brazen it out. The rice fell on us like summer rain starting six steps from the bottom of the stairs and didn't stop until the limo pulled away. I took off my Paladin-style riverboat gambler's hat and shook about a boil-in-bag's-worth of rice onto the floor, while Deirdre removed her tiara and shook her glorious sable hair, scattering half a cup or so across the passenger compartment. I carefully set the tiara back onto her head and she cuddled into my chest, staying that way content as a cat in a lap for the rest of the trip to the airport.

Thanking our driver for his efforts on our behalf all week, I tipped him well and we went through first class express check-in. We'd picked this late flight on purpose. No one flies to Las Vegas on a Monday; vacationers all leave on Friday night or early Saturday morning, and all the gamblers are coming the other way. The airplane was sparsely populated, and we were the only passengers in first class. After takeoff, the flight attendant congratulated us on our marriage (cued by the tiara and a few grains of rice that we'd missed), left us with pillows and blankets, two splits of champagne, a plate of crackers and spreadable cheeses, and retreated to the galley. Flipping up the armrest that transformed our two seats into a couch, we assumed the same position we'd used at our first meeting, Deirdre nestled between my legs leaning against my chest and my arms holding her beneath her breasts. The cabin lights were set on low and the curtains that divided first class from steerage were drawn. The only sound was the hum of the engines and the hiss of air along the fuselage.

She turned in my arms and kissed me. "You know something, John?"

"What, baby?"

"We have this compartment to ourselves. Even the stewardess isn't up here. And I've always wanted to join the Mile High Club. It would be a shame to waste the opportunity."

She twisted in my arms, her mouth hot and seeking. My hands slipped under her dress and squeezed her cheeks and she undid my belt. There was the sound of a zipper and I felt her hands at my waistband, undoing the snap and pushing my pants down. I raised myself up and my trousers and underwear were shoved down to my knees. Deirdre sighed eagerly and we repositioned ourselves so her knees were outside my hips, kneeling on the seat. She grabbed my erection and guided it to her sweet spot, rubbing it along labia already wet with her womanly oils. She smiled down at me with eager eyes and pressed down with her hips. Her pussy lips parted and my cock sank into her dripping quim.

As she bounced up and down on my prick, I supported her buttocks, squeezing to encourage her. Her head was thrown back, eyes shut, as he lost herself in the moment, savoring my penetration to her liquid center. Her breathing deepened and I knew she was doing her best to keep from making noise that might attract unwanted attention from the cabin crew. Her breasts bounced nicely with each stroke, a sight I found erotic as hell even though I couldn't get my hands on them. I shifted my hands and got my left onto her mound, finding and stimulating her clit. Her eyes flew open and a gasp escaped her as she was overcome by a surprise climax. I pulled her head to mine and we kissed deeply, smothering her moans of pleasure as I felt her cunt ripple around my cock and we were saturated by the scent of hot sex. Sensing I was almost there, Deirdre began corkscrewing down onto me as I thrust up into her, until I could take no more. I grabbed her by the hips and forced her down on my cock as it erupted into her, my ivory cum mixing with her nearly clear pussy-oils. She bit my lip, screaming into my mouth as she shook with her own release. When we came back to ourselves, she surprised me by slipping to the floor between my legs and taking my cock into her mouth to lick it clean.

She got up again and kissed me, sharing our commingled juices with me. With a smile, she left for the bathroom just aft of the cockpit and soon returned to find me with my clothes straightened and two flutes of champagne.

"I do love you so," she whispered as she took her glass and we resumed our previous posture, falling asleep in the knowledge we would still be together when we awoke.

The sun had not yet risen when the airport taxi dropped us at the lot of The Vegas Car Trader. Located within walking distance of the Strip, his lot is open around the clock. He deals in used cars of all sorts. He'll sell you a cheap, reliable ride if your luck ran bad and you hocked the one you came in, just as readily as he will an expensive imported midlife-crisis sports car if you've had a good day at the tables. He sells, trades and swaps constantly and the stock on his lot isn't the same two days in a row. We'd put a deposit on a car with a history; a 20 year old army surplus Humvee that had belonged to an old desert rat who'd hit the jackpot on a $2 million dollar slot machine. It was old, battered inside and out and faded by the sun, but 100% up to snuff mechanically. We paid the balance and drove out of town, heading toward a dude ranch in the foothills of the mountains where Deirdre had made reservations for us. We had fishing tackle, camping gear and personal defense guns in our luggage. We were going to spend a few days camping in the hills before coming back to the ranch to unwind, wash up and then spend a week exploring Sin City with Deirdre's house as home base.

I had just finished saddling our horses and attaching the rifle scabbards holding our matching .44 Magnum Henry Big Boy lever actions to them when Deirdre walked out of the loose box where she'd gone to change. She was wearing an outfit instantly familiar to me: daisy dukes and a man's shirt tied under her spectacular boobs. Her hair was in a ponytail with a cowboy hat and she was wearing English riding boots. My cock instantly sprang to attention. Paying the tent in my jeans no mind, she hooked on the saddlebags for me.

"I'll take the lead, John. I know where we're going." We had agreed to try a fishing hole up in the mountains she knew about that could only be reached on horseback. After tossing her carry-on into our Humvee, we set out. I didn't mind trailing her in the slightest. She was easy on the eyes, her every movement inspiring fresh sexual fantasies in my brain.

She set us an easy pace as we climbed into the mountains. The going got steeper and the track she was following narrower and rockier. She let her horse pick his own footing but never lost the trail or her bearings. The sun was well past zenith and sinking toward the western horizon when we made a turn in the mountain ravine we were in and the trail started downward. We came out into a stand of pines and Deirdre stopped.

"What do you think, John?"

We were looking down into an Alpine meadow, a pond fed by two brooks in the middle of it. The place was deserted, with only a patch of bare ground near the pond even hinting that man had ever been here before. A breeze rustled the pine needles. I expected Deirdre to start down the slope, but she didn't. She untied the saddlebags on her horse and lowered them to the ground. She moved her horse so close to mine that our legs touched. She leaned over and kissed me softly, her tongue darting into my mouth as her hand stroked the lump in my pants.

"Darling, close your eyes and slowly count to 100. If you can catch me, you can have me!" With a last peck, she slapped her horse on the rump and took off down the slope into the meadow. I grinned, shut my eyes and started to count, undoing the ties on the saddlebags by touch and dropping them to the ground.

"98, 99, 100." I looked down. Deirdre's horse was drinking from the pond, but she was nowhere to be seen. I grinned and spurred my horse downslope and into the meadow. It was going to be an interesting hunt, for my Deirdre is indeed a trophy worth having!