Her Ex's Wedding

You had made a lot of bad choices in moments of extreme emotion, but this one was shaping up to be one of your worst.

When the invitation came in the mail for Paul's wedding, it wounded you. He wasn't supposed to find someone before you did, let alone marry them. Your split had been amicable, even if the relationship nowadays was largely the occasional phone call and the oft-promised-rarely-delivered in-person meet up for coffee and catch-up.

You had met Paul's girlfriend — check that, fiancee — a few times. She was tall, pretty, had a good job, good teeth, a perfectly fine body that looked as though it occasionally found itself inside a gym. If you were being petty, she was a poor man's version of you.

You couldn't help but make judgments. Paul and Aimee — yes, with two ees — had only been dating nine months. You and Paul had broken up six or so months prior to that after being together for two years. How the fuck was this chick worth marrying?

Had you given yourself a night's rest, you may have decided against attending. But Paul always said you lacked impulse control. (He didn't seem to mind when that side of you came out in the bedroom.)

"Yes, I will attend," you said to no one in particular. "And give me the fucking fish."

You crammed the reply card into the too-cutesy envelope and sealed it shut. You pinned it to your mailbox and forgot about it.

Until this Monday. The wedding, which seemed far away when you RSVP'd, was now right around the corner. Friday, to be exact. Who the fuck gets married on a Friday? Paul, that's who. He always was a stingy bastard. It annoyed the crap out of you when you were dating, although that relationship was doomed for other, bigger reasons.

The only thing you had done to even acknowledge this wedding — besides RSVP — was to buy a dress. It was a little outside your budget, but damn it flattered you in all the right places. It was black — classic — with a plunging neckline that highlighted your best feature. (Just in case people were unsure, the long vertical necklace you bought to accompany the dress should draw their eyes toward your beautiful, round breasts.) The dress was tight along your ass, so tight that you briefly wondered if dancing was going to be an issue.

You were going to make a statement with that dress, one that would have Paul's friends whispering, "I can't believe he passed on that fine piece of ass. Aimee's fine. But God damn, look at Janet."

Paul had not given you a plus one to this wedding — no surprise there — so you were going to the nuptials solo.

You had no plans of ending the night unaccompanied.

The ceremony was pleasant enough — tying the knot in a bucolic Adirondack area amidst the backdrop of a glimmering lake and some lushy green mountain tops. The reception area had that typical woodsy charm — lots of Eastern white pine, mounted game and furniture that was a reasonable facsimile of the Stickley stuff.

You checked out the dance floor before heading to the bar. That's where you encountered me, someone who looked at first blush your age and did not seem accompanied by any sort of significant other. I wasn't exactly your type, but this may not be the event to be too choosy.

I seemed to anticipate what you were there for.

"I hate when these floors are just kind of thrown in the middle of a rug, so it's nice to see a dancing space that's actually part of the floor plan," I said, turning toward you.

"Mmmhmm," you murmured, unsure how to continue this conversation -- or even if you wanted to.

"Look, I was just about to hit the bar. If you know Paul as well as I do, you know this is going to be a cash-only affair. Can I buy you a drink?" I asked.

"Sure. How do you know Paul?" you asked, as you trailed me to the bar. He's got kind of a cute butt, you thought. I may be able to work with this.

"Oh, we're cousins. I live near here, and he's from Massachusetts, so we don't hang out," I said. "But we're about the same age, so I've known him my whole life. Frankly, he's obligated to invite me and I'm obligated to say yes. What's your story?"

You cracked a smile. "Oh, Paul and I used to date."

Now it was my turn to smile. "You make a habit of attending a lot of exes' weddings? Is this some sort of closure thing?"

"No, uh, it's not like that. It's just...actually, I don't exactly know why I'm here."

"I know why you're here."

You raised an eyebrow and frowned a bit. "Oh really?"

"Yeah, totally."

"Ok, stranger. Since you know me so well, why don't you tell me why I'm here?"

"I'm sorry. That was a little presumptive of me. I've got a theory, that's all."

"Well, spit it out."

"Well, OK. You're dressed to the nines in an outfit that would make any man with a pulse take a second -- and third and fourth -- look. I think you want Paul to notice you and think, even for just a second, 'Did I blow it big time by not locking down that girl?'"

I hadn't hit the exact truth, but I had definitely brushed by it.

You decided to change the subject.

"So you think I'm worth a second look?"

"I think you're a knockout. But you didn't need a stranger to tell you that. You know it, even if you don't allow yourself to acknowledge it. And while a good look can get anyone's foot in the door, if you're a total bitch people aren't going to stick around."

"Are you saying that's why Paul left?"

"No. I'm saying I'd like to take the chance to find out whether Paul blew it big time."

"OK. You can start by buying me that drink you promised."

"Sure, what's your pleasure?"

We ordered drinks and resumed our "get to know you" chit-chat. At some point, the organizers pushed us toward our assigned tables. Paul and Aimee didn't do us the courtesy of seating us anywhere near each other; frankly, I think there are planets that are more closely aligned.

While I was stuck with my distant relatives and Great Aunt Millie from Aimee's side, you seemed to be enjoying yourself with another man. He appeared to be age-appropriate, maybe younger. And, maybe this is crazy, but he kind of looked like Paul. Whereas I was clean shaven, he had a well manicured beard. I was a tad chubby, especially in the stomach area. But this guy was chubby all around, which gave him a youthful appearance. Although I tried not to fixate on your table, he seemed to have some chemistry with you that I hadn't yet achieved.

At some point, I got sucked into a table story about DNA tests -- it turns out we're all descended from the same black woman, Millie swears -- and didn't notice you creep up to my table. You tapped my shoulder lightly and said, "Do you want to dance?"

I smiled widely and sprang from my seat, and grabbed the hand you extended as you led us both to the floor. My dance moves were subpar, but I was determined to fake confidence to remain in the good graces of easily the hottest woman at this reception. (In my time away from you, I definitely did a survey. There was one other girl -- Meghan, an aspiring painter who makes rent as a barista at a highly-trafficked Starbucks. But I'm pretty sure we're branches sprung from adjoining limbs, so that prospect was dead-on-arrival. Plus, she was a six -- maaaybe seven if I was being charitable. You were easily an eight.)

The DJ was spinning a good mix of danceable songs, until he decided to slow it down for the older demographic. As the ballad began, I gave you a look like, "Are we still doing this?" and you extended your hand to meet mine. I placed my other hand on your hip and we began slowly spinning.

"You know. I got to be honest. I thought I was doomed," I told you in a quieter moment.

"Why's that?" you replied, inquisitively.

"You were talking to that other guy and you seemed to be really hitting it off. I figured you'd be dancing with him by now."

"Well, to be honest...he is more my type..."

I tried not to wince. Your truth bomb felt as though it made maximum impact.

"But you do have one thing he doesn't have..." you continued.

"Oh? What's that?"

"A willingness to dance. Pat is apparently one of those guys who thinks he can say no when a girl asks him to dance."

"Oops. Unforced error," I said, hardly suppressing my glee. Pat was running me out of the building...and now I had a foot back in the door.

After the slow dance, we could both sense that the last couple of dances -- and the insufficient central air cooling system -- had left us glistening. You requested another round, which I was more than happy to fetch.

By this point, the bride and groom had left for what you could only assume was the beginning of a lengthy fuck session. Guests were either starting to really tie one on or slow down considerably, depending on their travel plans for the remainder of the night.

You had reserved a room nearby, and the drinks were relaxing any anxiety you felt earlier about actually attending this wedding. Pat and I were both charming in our ways, and you found yourself attracted to both of us for different reasons.

Confident there would be a drink in hand by time you re-entered the ballroom, you made a beeline to the ladies' room to check your makeup and hair.

As I ordered another round, I caught sight of Pat. He was staring at me, in a little bit of a menacing way. If I were to end the night with you, he was going to be an obstacle. With the reception reaching its inflection point, I decided to address the 800 pound elephant in the room.

"Wow, that Janet is something, isn't she?" I asked Pat, although I was staring at the bartender pouring us another round.

"Yes, I'd say so. I think we have a real connection," he replied.

I turned toward him.

"Oh? Is that right? Are you sure about that? Because I've just spent the last half hour out on the dance floor with her. And I think we've got something going on."

"Well, it looks like we're at an impasse," Pat said to me. "And I'm not sure how we're going to settle this."

"I think I can help you poor boys out," you said.

This was the second time in the past hour you had snuck up on me. My bro-foe seemed equally surprised you had entered out conversation.

"Oh, h-how is that exactly?" he stammered, as I searched for words to add.

"Hey look, Janet. We're sorry we were discussing you like some sort of piece of me--" I added.

"Shut up," you interjected.

I threw the brakes on my mouth, determined not to talk myself out of a good situation -- if I hadn't already.

"You want me guys to choose between you, have I got that right?"

Pat and I both nodded our heads.

"What if I don't want either one of you?"

For once, Pat couldn't think of anything to say. I opened my mouth to respond, but my mind was blank.

"Man, you should see both of your faces right now. It's like I just told you I killed your puppy," you said with a devilish smirk.

We tried to relax our faces, but both Pat and I were unsure where this was heading.

"Look, guys. We've had fun, right? I don't think it needs to end here. I'm staying at the White Lodge nearby. There's a full bar in my room. Let's do a nightcap there and we can continue this conversation."

Pat and I were at your mercy. It was clear we would say "yes" to anything you suggested because we both felt so close to sealing this deal. If the other guy had to be sent away before the deed was done, that kind of made it even more fun.

You gave us each a piece of paper. Mine had your room number and a time. It was about 30 minutes from now. I tried to sneak a peek at Pat's. Did his have a time sooner or later?

We split up. Your only other instruction was not to loiter around your room or the lobby of the resort where you were staying. I was staying at Blue Lodge, so I caught a cab there and ran up to my room. I grabbed a fresh shirt, reapplied some cologne and ran another layer of gel through my hair. I quickly packed an overnight bag. Was that too presumptuous?

When I got to White Lodge, I slipped the concierge two $20 bills and asked him if he would hold this bag for me for the next few hours. I reasoned I was either coming back to grab it to spend the night with you, or coming back and sporting an enormous set of blue balls as I recovered the bag before my taxi of sadness back to my hotel.

I took the elevator to the 13th floor, walked to the end of the hallway and checked my watch. It had been exactly 30 minutes. I knocked and I heard shuffling of feet.

"Fuck," I thought. "Pat is already here."

Pat opened the door and said, "Oh, hey. Janet asked me to open the door, since I just walked in myself."

OK, whatever this is, just fucking don't freak out, I thought to myself. I was still feeling the effects of my drinking at the reception and I noticed my sense of balance was a bit off.

"Have a seat, gentlemen," you said, motioning to a couch positioned at the foot of your king sized bed and facing the giant 55 inch television screen.

You were not kidding about your bar. Although all three of us were drinking different cocktails, it had the necessary ingredients to satisfy all of our usual requests.

"OK, boys," you said, as we found our seats and steadied our glasses on our knees. "I'm certain of one thing. I'm going to get fucked tonight. What I'm less certain of is which one of you boys is going to be partnering with me on this. So I'm going to start with you, Pat. Tell me what you want to do to me."

"Uh, well, I -- you mean you want me to spell it out?" Pat said.

"Yes, Jesus. How do you want to fuck me?" you said, a bit impatiently.

"Well, first I guess I would put my hands on your face and kiss you. Gentle at first, but then -- "

You cut him off.

"SNOOZE! Pat, stop talking you. You --" pointing at me -- "go."

"I'd start by ripping that dress off you. I don't care how much it costs. I want those breasts in my mouth and I'm not going to let anything stand in my way. I don't know if you're wearing underwear or not. Frankly, it doesn't matter because those are coming off too. While I'm inhaling your body, my hands are going to spreading your thighs and --- "

"Stop," you said, putting up your hands. You turned to Pat.

"Did you hear what he just said? That's how I want to be fucked." I beamed, while Pat looked despondent.

"Are you man enough to fuck me like that, Pat?" At that moment, it was if Pat had stolen the look off my face and left me with his.

"Wait a goddamn second --" I said, but you cut me off.

"Stop talking or I'm fucking throwing you out of here. You understand? You going to blow this by interrupting me?"

I nodded my head no. You were toying with me, of this I felt certain. You were in control. I was merely a plaything -- and maybe not even that.

You moved Pat to the bed and commanded me to stay on the couch. Oh, Jesus. I thought. She is going to make me watch him fuck her.

I considered leaving. But -- gut check time -- I was turned on by the thought of watching another guy literally cockblock me.

Pat did as I had suggested. He ripped that fine looking dress right off of your body. While the dress required you to go braless -- a feat I later learned you accomplished with some impressive tape -- you were wearing a black lace thong. Pat had his mouth all over your breast and was thumbing aside your thong to begin rubbing your pussy.

I watched with my mouth agape as his hands explored seemingly every inch of your magnificent body. Neck, chest, stomach, thighs, outer lips, inner lips, clit, ass, feet, toes, hair. He was all over it. You let out tiny moans of satisfaction as you clawed to remove his belt and unbutton his pants.

I had no desire to see Pat's cock, but I was hard as fuck at the idea of watching him spread you. You pulled his dick free of his pants and I caught my first glimpse of that night's competition. His dick was smaller than mine -- of that I'm sure -- but he seemed to make up for it in girth. Pat had an average sized, fat cock that you were now rubbing vigorously with your right hand.

As Pat continued to explore your wetness with his fingers, you beckoned me with your free hand. I walked over to the side of the bed closest to your mouth and Pat looked up.

"Hey, what the fuck is -- " he started, before you cut him off.

"Pat, use your mouth for something useful, like eating my fucking pussy."

Pat lowered his mouth from your breasts to your stomach and then to your soaking snatch, while you brought me close enough to unbuckle my belt and flick open my pants. My zipper came apart easily in your free hands and you pawed at the waistline of my boxer briefs. I was fully erect and a thin layer of pre-cum had covered the tip of my dick. I stepped out of my pants and underwear. My bulbous head was now hovering above your mouth.

"Fuck my face," you commanded. I threw one leg over your body and straddled your face. I positioned myself so that my cock would plow your throat at a slight downward angle and began thrusting my hips toward your face.

You began to eagerly suck my long hard dick, and I tried my best to make you gag on it. The slurping noises you were making while taking in my entire dick were such a turn on, and I could feel myself pushing harder in response.

You grabbed my ass and kept me somewhat in place. It lessened my thrusts, but your hands on my ass only turned me on more.

Your blowjob was so good, my brain felt as if was going to short-circuit. I soon felt that oh-so-familiar I'm-going-to-cum-soon in my balls and tried to pull out and take a break. Your hands pushed against my ass even more.

"I'm going to cum, baby. I'm going to cum in your mouth," I said. You offered no response except to continue to slobber all over my dick. Your fingers were lightly tracing the inside of my butt cheeks, which drove me insane.

When I came, it felt like a ton. Although you knew it was coming, your mouth still had trouble finding its breath as it inhaled both oxygen and semen. You continued to push on my ass, determined to suck me dry. I let out a major "uhh" as I dropped rope after hot rope into your beautifully shaped mouth.

When it was clear I was finished, you pushed your mouth back off my dick and said, "Good. Sit over in that corner and recharge while Pat fucks me raw."

I lifted my leg over your body and rolled off the bed. I started to grab my boxer briefs when you looked upward, "Did I say I was fucking finished with you?"

"No. I'm sorry, I --"

"Fuck your sorrys. Drop those undies and go sit in the corner."

I dropped the briefs to the floor and made my way over to a nearby seat.

Pat's face had come up from its spot buried deep between your thighs and he began to assume the position for missionary. You quickly flipped over and pointed your ass to the ceiling. Your face was now facing mine.

Holy shit, she's going to look at me while he's taking her from behind, I thought.

Pat was not gentle, but that seemed to make you even wetter. He slid in and out of the pussy he had soaked in his saliva and your grool, and you were enjoying his hot, fat cock so much I briefly saw your eyes roll into the back of your head.

"Fuck me harder," you commanded to him and his pace and thrusts intensified.

Jesus, I thought. That bastard is going to have a heart attack he's pushing so hard.

The smacking off your pelvis against his dick eventually got the best of him and he said, "Where should I cum, babe?"

"Inside of me. Cum in me. Fuck me. I want your load in me."

Pat did exactly as he was told, planting his hot seed inside your willing pussy. After he came, he crumpled into a heap and laid his head against your sweaty back.

"Pat, honey. Get the fuck off of me."

Pat rolled off, his body still leaking cum all over his shaft, nuts and thighs. You shimmied over and turned to face him while placing your ass in my eyeline.

"Get over and here and fuck me," you commanded.

"I mean, do you think that's a good idea? Pat just came in there and -- "