Things Happen at Weddings Ch. 06

I showed up at Alex's door at 7:30 p.m. on Tuesday, just as she had suggested; freshly showered and shaved, and trying not to tremble with anticipation and arousal.

I had never spent 72 straight hours in a chastity cage before. Let alone done so through all the adventures that this young woman had provided, and encouraged me to pursue since Saturday afternoon.

She opened the door with a bright-eyed and typically wicked smile, and I quickly slipped in. I still felt self-conscious about going into her apartment. We had never really spoken about it, and I had certainly been there often enough that some of her neighbors might see me as a familiar face. And I knew all too well that, if Alex had busybodies next door, well ... I'm sure I wasn't the only male they ever saw entering her place.

The others probably didn't all leave after an hour or two. The others weren't fifty-three years old, or the father of the young woman's best friend.

The others didn't go exclusively to kneel between her legs and perform unreciprocated oral sex.

"Hey there," she greeted me, kissing my cheek and putting her forearms on my shoulder, leaning into me just enough for me to feel her warmth and softness through her t-shirt, her breasts against my ribcage.

"Hello, Alex."

She lingered in position for a moment. This was often the point at which she was already shimmying out of her jeans, laying back on the sofa with her legs open, silently indicating that I get to work fulfilling my purpose here. And I have to admit, there's something nauseatingly thrilling about agreeing to that dynamic, being on my knees with my face between her thighs within thirty seconds of arriving, giving her pleasure, resigned to merely squirming in my cock cage for the next two hours.

Of course, usually I had been in the cage for fifteen minutes at this point, having only locked myself up just before heading over. This time, it had been more than three days.

"So how have you been?" she asked, teasingly, still leaning into me.

"I'm ... managing," I replied.

I may be pathetic, but I don't beg. I figured that tonight she would let me out of my cage, but I was prepared to have to work for it. Instead, she stepped back from me, linked the fingers of her right hand through those of my left, and led me toward the kitchen.

"So, I picked up a nice bottle of Sauvignon Blanc," she said. "Why don't you open it, and then tell me about your week."

"All right," I agreed, and distractedly recounted two days' worth of lectures and faculty meetings while I worked the corkscrew and drank in the sight of my 26-year-old temptress, looking relaxed and casual in cut-off jean shorts and a t-shirt that revealed her navel and her firm tummy.

I poured two glasses and she led me back into the living/dining room, and gestured for me to take a seat on the sofa that I had come to think of as her cunnilingus throne. Then she sat beside me, feet tucked up under her, coy but demure, as seemingly oblivious to her sexuality as she had been ten years ago.

"And how was your day?" I asked. She laughed and offered me a couple of anecdotes from the world of social media marketing. Her second story ended with a punchline. We both laughed. Then we both sighed.

"Well," she said. "I think you've been a very good boy."

I didn't say anything. I'm not sure she would have said that if she knew how I spent Sunday afternoon, but I knew we were talking about my acquiescence, my surrender of my orgasms to her.

"Are you ready for a reward?" she asked.

I nodded, trying to avoid looking puppy-like.

"Take off your pants," she instructed. I stood up to comply, realizing that that would require removing my shoes, first. Inside my boxers, I could feel myself swelling uncomfortably in my cage.

That condition only got worse when Alex pulled her t-shirt over her head, revealing her mesmerizing, slightly wall-eyed breasts, nipples slightly stiffening as they pointed up at me from the middle of her oval areola. Between those breasts hung a fine silver chain, and a tiny, familiar key.

She toyed with the key for a moment as I stepped out of my slacks and stood in my boxers, still unable to tent them as proudly as she deserved. "I've been wearing this under my shirt for three days," she informed me. "Close to my heart."

She stood again, facing me, pressed her naked flesh up against me, and placed her full, crimson-hued lips near my ear.

"A reminder that I've got such a handsome, accomplished man, under my control."

I didn't feel very accomplished at the moment. I felt helpless.

She stepped back and cupped the hard plastic case around my package. "You really did look so nice in your tux on Saturday," she assured me. "Powerful, even. And it was so hot, watching everyone congratulate you and thank you for the party, treating you like the Man in Charge, knowing that I owned you."

She pulled down my boxers, momentarily on her knees in front of me, my desperate swollen member bulging through the gaps in the plastic cage. "The pater familias, except his penis belongs to me now."

She inserted the key in the lock and released it. The cage portion instantly surged forward, but my glans was trapped.

"Oh, don't get so hard yet. Now it's not going to come off!" she teased, standing up and pretending to put her shirt back on. I broke down and whimpered.

"Just kidding," she said, and with a few gentle twists, she freed me. My 53-year-old erection immediately bounced up to a 45-degree angle, deep indentations in the angry purple head.

"Take off your shirt," she ordered, "And sit down. It's your turn to be on the receiving end for a change." I eagerly complied, and by the time I was seated, she had slipped off her cut-offs and panties, and was standing before me, completely naked.

She was breathtaking, all sleek, inviting curves. I had seen her ski-slope, bottom-heavy breasts before, and of course I had spent plenty of time up close and personal below her neatly trimmed landing strip of pubic hair, between her full shapely thighs. She had never made such a *presentation* of herself to me, though. Her skin was dark to begin with, but she still sported faint bikini tan lines that pronounced the private nature of what she was showing me. She had the hips and thighs of a somewhat more mature woman; a gorgeous mature woman, to be sure. Breeding hips. I shuddered, trying not to think of my daughter's friend that way; but my cock disagreed.

Then she was kneeling between my open legs, her hands flat on my thighs. She leaned forward, her breath moist and warm, her painted lips inches from my cock, which was up against my belly, but still making eye contact.

"Would you like me to take you in my mouth?" she asked. I nodded vigorously.

"Hmmm," she paused. "No, I did that for Colin."

I groaned as she giggled at me. Then she continued, "Would you like me to straddle you and let you slip up inside me?"

"Oh, Alex," I moaned, anticipating her next move.

"No," she said, shaking her head slowly.

"Colin, again," I sighed.

"Uh huh," she affirmed. "But ... I didn't give Colin a handjob."

Well, I thought, thank God for small mercies. And I certainly wasn't going to object.

She had hidden a little pump bottle of lubricant under an arm cushion, and she got it out and applied a liberal dose to her left palm. Then she wrapped her hands around me.

She began to stroke, slowly and firmly, up and down my shaft, avoiding my head, but often pausing to rub a thumb in circles over the sensitive skin right below it. Never breaking eye contact.

All I could hear was my breathing, and the squish squish squish of her hands on my manhood.

"I need you to tell me when you're getting ready to cum," she suddenly said, matter of factly. And I knew with certainty that she wasn't just being careful about not staining the upholstery. I may be an old man, but I know what a ruined orgasm is. And the realization that that was what she planned to give me was about to bring it on.

"Alex ..." I blurted out, and she removed her hands, leaving me bobbing and twitching in front of her. But not cumming, and not yet ejaculating.

"Nope," she said, "Too soon. Let it get a little closer."

I whimpered, but gave her my agreement. She went back to work.

"It's a nice cock," she told me. "Do you know how long I thought about this cock?"

I gulped. I didn't want to hear the answer. But I think she understood the limits of my depravity.

"Remember, I told you that you were my schoolgirl crush?" I nodded.

"I would have fucked you in college," she said. That was seven or eight years ago. That was acceptable. That was excruciating to contemplate.

"I mean, I'd still fuck you now..." she said, her voice trailing off. I surged in her hands, and she noticed. Then added, "But this is so much more fun."

She stopped stroking and let my twitching subside. Then she started back up again. "All you would have had to have done is touch me.

"You wouldn't even have had to say anything. I would have peeled off my bikini and let you bend me over the sofa ... with Maddie outside in the pool."

The image slammed into my brain, imprinting itself there. For all time, no doubt. I felt the tingle below my stomach, in my prostate, exploding up through my body with alarming speed. My testicles drew up against my perineum and I felt my spermatic cords throbbing. "Alex..."

But she already knew, and she pulled her hands away, breaking off eye contact and staring at my bouncing cock with excited fascination. I was a second away from feeling the incredible surge of my orgasm bursting through the tight, slippery grip of her hands, but suddenly the friction was gone. My orgasm died with it. But not my ejaculation. I looked down with morbid amazement as my glans flared on my stomach and a thick pool of translucent semen oozed, rather than exploded, out of me.

I whimpered and she laughed, with a touch of cruelty just adding to the eroticism.

"Colin came much harder than that," she informed me.

I was quivering all over, making the pool of wasted semen on my belly shake like jello.

"Especially Sunday afternoon," she continued. "I was wearing your key by then."

She noted the alarm in my eyes, and assured me. "Don't worry. He knows I have a cuckold, but he doesn't know who it is."

Jesus. My balls were satisfied, but my body and my cock were still desperate. "He doesn't know who you are, but he likes knowing you exist."

She scooped up some of my cum and took my erection back into her hands again. This time she massaged my glans. It was so intense I almost cried. Then she went back to work on my shaft.

"So tell me about your Sunday afternoon."

I had to squeeze my eyes shut. She had spent Saturday teasing me, pushing me to go be a chastised, caged pussy-licker, with someone else. To humiliate myself. With my ex-wife. She was so transgressive, so diabolical. And I couldn't deny her. Her fantasies became my directives.

"Did you go down on Maddie's mom?" she asked, her hands working in tandem, twisting me left and right.

"Ye ... yes ..." I gasped.

"Ooh, so bad," she grinned. "How did that feel?"

I could only moan, in excitement and shame.

"What did she think?"

I would have been speechless, even if I could catch my breath. "You're such a good submissive," she continued.

I felt another spasm building up in my tortured genitals. Already. I gripped the seat cushion with my white-knuckled hands and let out a sob. Again, Alex knew right when to stop. Again, for the second time in minutes, she jerked her hands away and watched me quake and drool out another load, unsatisfied, helpless.

We were silent for long moments as I slowly recovered my breath. This time, blessedly, my erection began to recede.

"Two's not bad," she said. "Four is my record, but he was eighteen."

I lay there, spent and defeated, wondering how much older or younger she had been than the boy to whom she gave four straight ruined orgasms. Meanwhile she got up, magnificent in her nakedness and her victory, and walked off to the bathroom to get me a washcloth, her perfect ass swaying in triumph.

She came back and curled up beside me again, washing me off. I finally came down to the point where I could offer up a weak chuckle.

"So, your daughter isn't the only one having lots of hot sex this week," she told me, reminding me that we were only three crazy days removed from my daughter's wedding.

"I wonder what Maddie is doing right now?"

***

At that moment, Maddie Tolliver McRae was on her back in her honeymoon suite, moving languidly, legs spread around the gently-thrusting torso of her new husband.

She adored Graham, and she adored making love with him. He was handsome, and fit. Tall and blonde. Strong, toned arms, and a body that was, if not exactly "sculpted," trim and nicely shaped.

He was easy to be with, attentive without being cloying; effortlessly masculine without being presumptously domineering. He was smart, and already successful professionally.

And he had the self-confidence that all of that would justify. Except for that one little chink in his armor, which she loved picking at. And he seemed to love that, too.

She was thinking about it now, his face momentarily buried in her neck instead of looking down into her eyes, his hands moving down to cup her buttocks as he began to accelerate.

He was Good in Bed. He knew how to change positions and pace and angles, to read her body, to keep her close to the edge and then back away, but also how to maintain his rhythm when her pending orgasm was beginning to snowball. She often came from penetration alone, and he was generous with his oral ministrations whether she came on his cock or not.

And his cock was perfect. It was nicely shaped and always pleasingly rigid when called into action, and plenty big enough, able to make her feel pleasantly full without ever hurting, except for those one or two times when they got rambunctious and he pinned her ankles behind her ears and he had punched her cervix.

"Pleasantly full." The wicked thoughts were creeping into her brain, even as her loving husband approached his own orgasm. She was fine, she had already had a satisfying one, tonight, her fourth or fifth in the course of their three couplings today. She had no need to push for another climax, but she was still aroused, and she couldn't help thinking ...

What would sex be like if she was more than pleasantly full? Stretched, maybe overwhelmed? Of course, she fantasized about big cocks all the time. But now she had a new, real, and illicit image to attach to that fantasy.

On Saturday night, her best friend Alex had slept with Graham's younger brother Colin, and then told her that Colin was "skilled," "vigorous," and ... then she had held her forefingers eight inches apart.

Fortunately, thinking about massive penises didn't make her feel guilty, because she knew from pillow talk with her husband that it was all right. That was the chink in his armor. He had cuckold fantasies.

Not about his own brother, though. Not yet, anyway.

Maddie could sense her husband getting close, his body tensing, his breath becoming more ragged. It would be an act of mercy, she smiled, to help him over the top.

"Yes, yes, yes, fuck me," she began to vocalize.

He responded with a grunt, and quickened his pace further.

"Yes. Harder."

She began to match her words to his thrusts, her own gasps genuine.

"Fill ... me ... up ..."

His grunts began to include an element of whimper.

"You're ... so ... big ...

"So ... much ... better ... than my ... husband."

His next grunt was a full-blown whine, and he went rigid and stopped thrusting, planted in her as deep as he could get. With his body still, she could feel his cock pulsing in her and knew that he was letting his orgasm wash over him even as his semen washed over her cervix.

"Jesus," he said, finally, moments later, up now on his elbows with his forehead pressed to hers. "You are such a vixen."

She just kissed his nose, and let him roll off of her, after feeling that sweet moment of disappointment as her body released its grip on his shriveling penis and he slipped out of her.

Then she pictured Colin, post-orgasm, his big spent cock growing softer but still thick, still pendulous, veins still pulsing inside Alex's swollen and freshly-inseminated vagina.

Or her own.

Other men. Cuckolding. She had read enough about their mutual kink to get a sense that usually it was the husband who became obsessed with it, and the wife who only reluctantly played along, at least at first. She wondered whether she and Graham might be the exceptions.

Graham had never pushed or prompted her, in a real conversation, to think about playing with another man outside their relationship. She could get him, in the heat of the moment, in the seconds before orgasm, to blurt out that yes, yes, she should cuckold him. But he never initiated that discussion in the cold light of day, and neither had she.

But. Maddie, on the other hand, was becoming increasingly convinced that at some point, she just had to try this experience out for real. For both of them. Because she understood that jealousy and even humiliation were kinky itches that her husband needed to scratch.

And because she just really, really, really loved sex. And she loved the idea of more. More frequency, more variety, bigger orgasms, bigger cocks. More. She wondered where she got that. Not from her parents, surely. Probably from Alex.

Graham was lying beside her, his breathing returning to normal. "Wow," he said. "I thought maybe we would take a break from this crazy fantasy while on our honeymoon."

"No such luck," Maddie replied. "In fact, being officially married to you just makes me want to do it more."

"Okay," he said, agreeably. "Um, based on what we just did, I'm not complaining."

She turned to him and hugged him to her. Now was not the time to admit how deep her desires were running. But then he surprised her.

"You think you would ever want to try it for real?"

Her eyes shot open, and she forced herself not to respond with "YES! You're god damned right I would!" Instead, she offered a coy, "Maybe."

Graham got up on one elbow, and ran his other hand over her soft, smooth stomach, and then reached up and cupped one of her small breasts.

"Maybe," he repeated.

"Maybe," she confirmed. "Someday. When the time is right."

"When," Graham mused. Not if.

"With the right guy."

She wanted to tell him how much she really did want to make this mutual fantasy a reality, but she was conflicted. She wanted to keep teasing him, edging him, drawing this out. But she also wanted to seize this thing by the throat.

"The right guy," Graham mimicked back to her, without a clue how thin the ice he was treading was.

"Uh huh," she demurred.

"What would the right guy be like?" he pushed.

She bit her lip. "I won't know until I meet him," she lied. But her husband had stuck his head in the noose, and she couldn't resist drawing it tight.

"Maybe he's here at the resort."

She watched her husband's eyes grow wide. She knew he was a sucker for jealousy. She wondered how he would handle humiliation.

"Maybe we should get this marriage off on the right foot, from the get-go."

Graham was breathing heavily.

"Maybe you should go snorkeling tomorrow alone, and let me just hang out by the pool.

"Let me find a man to put you in your place."

Graham gasped out loud at that. But he didn't object. She looked him over, from head to foot. She smiled.

"You're hard again already."