The Wedding Crasher

Weddings, John decided as he propped himself up on the bar at the country club reception and surveyed the gathering, were enjoyed only by those under twenty-five or over seventy years of age. Those two distinctly different demographic groups shared two common interests at events celebrating inevitably short-lived matrimonial harmony, free booze and immunity from being ridiculed by their embarrassing exploits on the dance floor.

For the majority of guests who were in between the life stages of young adulthood and septuagenarians, most had already unsuccessfully ventured in and out of the black hole of the supposedly sacrosanct institution of marriage, at least if one were to believe national statistics. Accordingly, the occasion provided only one viable reason to attend, at least in John's admittedly sometimes cynical perspective. A chance to get laid.

John watched his beaming bridegroom buddy Pete, approaching his fiftieth birthday, dancing with somebody's chunky old aunt in the taffeta dress that was two sizes too small for her, and reminisced at the distant memory of having been in Pete's initial wedding party almost thirty years ago. That was three marriages and two wives ago. Yep, Pete had married the same woman twice in the eighties and nineties, and John had won the pool that garnered him a few hundred dollars when the sequel between Pete and Alison had lasted less than two years. It was small payback indeed for the various wedding gifts that he had bestowed over the decades.

But, this was the first time that Petey's new wife had dipped her toes in the marriage pool, so a few of Pete's grudgingly loyal remaining friends had to make the trek to Dallas for his fourth throw at the brass ring and try to suppress giggles and guffaws as he had the chutzpah to say to the minister, with unfettered temerity, "I do." And, no doubt, in Pete's mind was the delusional thought, "And this time, I really, really mean it."

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the alluring guest for the first time while nursing his third beer. She must have been a late arrival to the festivities because he surely would not have missed this vision of little-black-dress loveliness. He absorbed the vision, his trousers noticeably tightening in the seam for the first time tonight. Her ample full breasts virtually strained to be released through the sheer material, and the dress stopped just above the knee to display a pair of sexily stockinged legs. She licked her bright, ruby red lips and displayed a wickedly seductive grin as her own dark, smoldering eyes caught his own gaze and their eyes locked.

John made a mental summary in an instant. She was a handful, a tease, an intelligent, successful, confident woman in perhaps her late thirties who would not be easy to woo, no pushover this one.

John's kind of woman exactly.

Not one to waste time nor opportunity when it knocked, especially in the form of nice knockers, John sidled over to her without taking time to rummage through the inventory of opening lines that eh had stored up through the decades, so as he approached her, he made a split-second decision to stick with old reliable.

"Hi," he said cheerily, as she eyed him warily, unsmiling.

She replied quickly, raising her wine glass to those, oh, so suckable lips. "That's all you've got as a pick-up line? 'Hi?' What kind of pick-up line is that? Lame."

John recoiled a bit. This was going to be more difficult than he though, especially at a wedding. Geez, weren't people all supposed to be cordial at a celebration of mutual friends' matrimonial bliss, even if it was the fourth toss at it for at least one of the participants?

John offered meekly, "What makes you think I was trying to pick you up?"

She took a long gulp of her chardonnay. "Why else would you approach me?" John pondered that very legitimate question for a second, and she took advantage of his hesitation. "Try again," she demanded.

"Try what again?"

"Try to pick me up again." She folded her arms across those magnificent tits, her cleavage spilling more liberally from her dress, and tapped her stiletto on the hardwood floor.

John stared at her blankly, the index cards of witty, charming lines that were usually stored in his brain and normally readily accessible for just such an occasion apparently on momentary freeze. He cleared his throat and extended his hand. "I'm John, what's your name?"

She shook her head vehemently, her brow frowning in disdain. "No names, what is this, fifth grade? Strike two." Her toe tapped more impatiently on the floor, while her arms folded more tightly across her tits. John liked the second reaction better, his eyes now riveted on her chest.

John realized that this was a pitcher's count, to use a baseball analogy, he was down oh-two to this crafty pro. So, he decided to go with a fastball down the middle.

"Think of a number between seven-and-a-half and seven-and-three-quarters."

This got her attention like a high, hard one under the chin. She cocked an eyebrow up while he continued.

"Inches, that is."

Her arms dropped to her side and her countenance lightened considerably. Hell, she damn near chuckled.

"Now, that's better, much better." She clapped her hands softly together, applauding the start of the game. "That's a lucky number. Now, we can play." She wagged a finger at him. "But can you back up such a claim, slugger?"

John felt the blood rush from his flushed face directly to his groin, his embarrassment temporarily abated and replaced with the more comfortable rush of hormonal adrenalin. "Fortunately, yes, I can. One should not make such a statement without being ready and able to back it up." This did indeed evoke the first hint of a smile from her.

He glanced down again to her fantastic chest. "Besides, there's something wrong with your tits."

She looked down at her own cleavage, turning slightly red herself, disbelieving his words. "My tits? What could possibly be wrong with these tits?" She pushed her chest out towards him, allowing him a closer view to see if perhaps he would change his assessment.

He looked up at her face. "My cock isn't between them yet, that's what's wrong."

Despite herself, she threw her head back and chortled merrily. "Oh, god, that's funny. Good one. You're not just a big dicked dummy, after all, are you?" John didn't know how to plead to this charge, so he did the right thing and remained silent, letting the growing bulge now tenting in his shorts do his talking for him. She licked her lips once more, eyeing the impressive rise in his suit pants. "Come on, let's check our coats."

"I didn't bring a coat."

"Neither did I, sport, Neither did I." She winked and took him by the hand and led him from the reception hall and out the doors to the hallway corridor, a walk that did not go unnoticed by the bride and groom.

Alison grabbed her new hubby's arm and whispered in his ear as they watched the couple depart,"Looks like your buddy John is going to get lucky. Who is that broad anyway?"

Pete looked at his wife open-mouthed, and then at the door as they left. "You mean she's not one of your friends?"

Alison shook her head. "I have no idea who she is. I thought she was with one of your buddies until I saw her just now with John."

Petey and Alison gaped at each other. Pete spoke first, whimsically, "Well, I'll be. God damn." He whistled softly.

When John reached the coatroom, being hastily pulled down the hallway by his 'date', mystery woman ordered him to tip the young teenage boy for a few minutes of 'privacy', as she called it, sticking her tits out to entice the youngster's cooperation. He eagerly grabbed the twenty from John's hand while ogling her, and scurried outside to catch a smoke, as she called to him, "One dollar for each minute, honey, don't come back early, we need to perform inventory in here."

She pushed the door shut behind John, reached around him, snapped the deadbolt shut, and dropped to her knees in front of John, yanking his zipper open and nearly splitting his pants in two at the seam as she tugged them down to his ankles in mere seconds. She rubber her perfectly manicured fingers over his boxer briefs and cooed, "You cum as advertised, baby, very nice." She pulled his shorts down and exposed his rock-hard cock, taking the purple, swollen head and coating it with her lipsticked mouth. "Ummm, very fucking nice indeed." She wasted no time in pushing him roughly back against the door and performed oral homage on John's twitching cock, thought they had met no more than ten minutes before.

John made a mental note to himself that perhaps his cynical view on weddings was a bit too harsh, after all. He watched, mesmerized, as the strange but incredibly seductive creature gobbled his cock, then lifted his heavy balls up to her lips and began alternating sucking on each while fervently stroking his shaft to full length. Her free hand slid down to her dress, and she pulled the straps from her shoulders and unsnapped the front hook on her lacy bra in one swift motion, as her enormous breasts tumbled into freedom.

She cupped both big orbs in her small hands, and raised them to John's engorged member, and slapped the pretty monsters onto his cock with the same velocity as windshield wipers in a downstorm.

"There," she said, looking up at him, her eyes smoldering. "Does that take care of that silly problem with my tits?" Before waiting for a reply, and not wanting one, she spit a long strand of saliva onto her collarbone and watched it snake down into her cleavage and onto his cock head.

She rubbed his cock vigorously, now standing up, and she pulled him by his large dick and leaned over a counter in the back of the small room. She raised the hem of her cocktail dress to show that she was 'sans panties' today, and he stared at her gleaming, bare, clean, waiting slit. "There's something wrong with my pussy now, too. Your cock isn't in it."

She bent over the counter and lewdly raised her ass and stuffed John's cock into her muff in one swift motion, impaling her deeply. She peered over her shoulder and made her next demand. "Give it to me fast, hard, and rough, give me all you have, I want it hard and deep."

He complied, his balls slapping against her round ass as he plunged into her urgently, over and over, the sounds echoing across the walls of the tiny room, her grunting exhortations urging him on. "Fuck me, that's it, fuck me good, harder, deeper, ooooh, that's such a nice, big dick, give it to me, split me open, fuck me, fuck me, f...AAAAAAHHH, Fuuuuuuuuccccckkkkkkkkkk."

Her vaginal walls contracted on him and John felt a warm stream of liquid spurt from her tunnel just before he came himself, shooting his warm, hot cum deep inside of the anonymous woman's dripping cunt, feeling the mixture of their juices ooze out of her hole and streaming onto his still mahogany-hard shaft.

Still shaking from the after-shocks of her orgasm, she turned around and lowered her hemline and bunched her floppy tits back into her dress. John watched, amazed, almost wanting to search for the hidden cameras, fully expecting his buddies to be waiting for him outside of the door, laughing as they celebrated their 'punking' of him.

After all, this just didn't happen, not even to him. They hadn't even kissed, he didn't know her name, and yet his cum was dripping down her thighs. His curiosity peaked, all he could offer in the way of conversation as he pulled up his won trousers was, "So, whose friend are you, anyway, Pete's or Alison's?"

She raised one finger to his lips as she opened the door and glanced out into the deserted corridor. "I'd love to chit-chat with you, stud, but I have another wedding to go to now." She leaned over, brushing her firm tits against him for the last time, and kissed him on the cheek. "It was fun, thank you, you've got a great cock."

She hesitated just a second before reaching into her tiny purse, the kind that women routinely bring to weddings and then try to stuff cosmetic items into them that wouldn't fit inside of a duffle bag, and extracted a business card before disappearing like the wind.

John gazed at the card while tucking in his shirt, pulling up his zipper and twisting his cock back into his pants. He read the bold letters, surrounded by the sketching of the silhouette of a woman licking the tip of a huge wedding cake.

"Wendy Walker, Wedding Crasher."

There was no number.