Wedding Day No. 01

[Author's note: I'm starting this at 4:30 in the morning the day after my son's wedding. I expect there to be five of these stories that start with the same line. One is true, the others are fiction. I leave that to you, Gentle Reader, to determine which is which.]

What Is It About A Wedding?

So here I was. A two-day slog over 800 miles, my days of straight through driving those distances about a quarter century behind me, but I was in time. I called my daughter from the outskirts of town.

"Franny," I said when she answered with her cheerful, "Hi, Dad," "I made it. Now, can I follow you to this shindig?"

"Sure," she said, "we're at the Holiday Inn downtown."

I punched Holiday Inn near me on Doctor Google's map program and got one within seven miles and the next nearest 112 miles away. I figured the one at seven was the right one so I glanced at the screen and said, "Be there in nine minutes."

She giggled, said, "We're in room 418," yelled, "Jason, STOP THAT," said a quick, "I love you, Dad," and was gone.

I chuckled.

My daughter is a bright girl, she really is. But she has her mother's love of dick and if she gets within 50 yards of an erection she gets knocked up. I started running through my grandchildren's names, hoping I could keep them straight. She was up to four, each with a different man, never married, and I hoped I wouldn't find her belly sticking out.

I found the Holiday Inn, one of those new-wave hotels that were repurposing old buildings. This one was in the historic district of the small town where my kids had grown up, never mind where, in which refrigerators had once been produced if I remembered my local history correctly. It was an imposing brick building built, as so many industrial buildings used to be built in the 1800s, near the river, the highway of commerce in those days.

I followed the paved lane and found the parking lot in the back of the building, parked my 4Runner, and went to the wayback to get my travel duffel and hanging bag. I would be wearing a suit for my son's wedding, something I had done only twice since I retired.

As I turned, loaded, and started toward the entrance I heard a little beep, looked up, and saw my ex pulling in. I waved back and she stopped in front of me, her window going down.

"Where's Paula?" she asked, referring to my current wife, number three if you care.

"Home with the dogs, the garden, and her arthritis," I said, "and where's Walter."

She rolled her eyes at that.

"William got called in on some sort of emergency," she said.

She looked at me for a moment, and I could see the speculation in her eyes. You don't stay married to someone for 22 years and not know their looks.

"Come on," she said, "help me."

So I stood back as she pulled her little pickup truck next to the 4Runner, got out, and turned to me.

And DAMN, she looked good.

Rene' was never what you'd call petite. At 5'6" she was a bit taller than average for a woman, after our daughter was born, at 38EE she was much bustier than most. She's cute rather than pretty, with a round face, button nose, generous mouth, and tiny ears. She always had a great mane of hair, and I saw that in the intervening decade since I saw her last it had gone grey, and the good grey at that.

As I was looking her up and down she was returning my look, just as openly.

She took the step to close the distance between us, met my eyes, and said, "Share a room?"

"Is that a good idea?" I asked, even as I felt a stirring low in my belly.

She laughed then, that good laugh from the belly, full of mirth.

"Fuck no," she said, the laughter down to chuckles, "but it should be fun."

So I kissed her, an easy kiss, we knew where the noses went, we had plenty of practice, and said, "It should at that."

She said, "Be a lamb," and that made me laugh, it was one of those code phrases married couples develop over time. Between us, "Be a lamb," meant, "If you don't do exactly what I tell you to do I'll have you over my knee the first time we're alone."

"And get a cart," she finished.

I hooked my hanging bag over my shoulder, walked through the front entrance, found one of those roll-around carts hotels provide, hung my bag, set my duffel on it, and trundled it back to the truck.

Rene' was never one to travel light, and this trip was no exception. She had three stairstep-size suitcases, a hanging bag, and a pillow that I dutifully loaded onto the cart.

The reservation was in her name so she checked us in.

As I followed I saw for the first time how long that mane was now. She wore it in a thick braid that ran well down her back.

I also noticed that age was starting to show. Her gait was off when she walked and she was clearly favoring one leg. Since Paula's arthritis became one of the centerpieces of my life I recognized it when I saw it.

In the room she said nothing, just turned, put her arms around my neck, and kissed me.

And I remembered just HOW good we were together. Her lips were soft with just that perfect amount of pressure while her tongue was a darting thing, touching and then daring mine to chase it. It was a VERY good kiss.

We held it, both enjoying the sensations of love remembered.

Finally, she broke the kiss and whispered, "Time for a quickie?"

I laughed and said, "When did I ever say no to you?"

"Call Franny," she said, so I did.

"I'm checked in," I said by way of greeting, "But I stink. About a half hour and we head up?"

"Sure," she said, and then, "DAMMIT BETH! QUIT THAT!"

And she was gone.

Rene' sat on the edge of the bed and I knew what she wanted. So I got to my knees and held her foot in my lap as I untied and took her shoe off and then the white gym sock she wore. I did the other foot and she stood then.

She always did like having her man on his knees, and as I started on the belt and button and zipper of the jeans she wore she called our daughter and delivered the same message I had. They chatted for a minute or so, long enough for me to get the jeans down and off, the panties down and off, and lean back and admire her hips and thighs, heavier than when we were married but still the waist-down body of a mature woman who has given birth and keeps herself well maintained.

And I kissed where she was perfectly smooth, wondering if the missing pubic hair was her new look or something prepared just for me.

While her phone call wound down, and I have never really understood why a woman is incapable of completing a call without a few minutes of silliness, I kicked off my own shoes and socks, unzipped and dropped my cargo pants and boxers, and moved behind her, my not-yet-erect but not-quite-soft dick nestled against her big soft ass, and nuzzled her neck.

"Okay, Franny," she said, "I'm gonna shower and see you in a few."

She bent over, laying the phone on that little table all hotel rooms have and, in the process, offering her ass and pussy to me.

We had always enjoyed our "quickies" dressed from the waist up. Something about that seemed to get to both of us. For me, it's that hint of being a teenager again. For her, it was keeping her boobs out of it and being able to concentrate on what was going on between her legs. Yes, we had talked about it during a two-decade marriage. Hell, there wasn't much we hadn't talked about.

"Come on, Phil," she said, pulling me toward the bed, "We're expected."

She laid me on my back and straddled me.

"You still want to be on top, don't you?" I asked.

She smiled and said, "A woman's natural position."

She reached down and felt me, not quite hard, and smiled.

"And you still like a little encouragement, don't you?" she asked.

"A woman's natural role," I said, chuckling.

She bent, took me into her mouth, and sucked gently. This wasn't a blow job or lingering oral sex. It was a technique she had learned before she met me that simply drew blood and got a man hard. She was, effectively, using her mouth as one of those vacuum pumps you see sometimes in porno videos.

It worked, as it always did with me, and in a few seconds, she lifted her hips, scooted forward, and took me into her body.

Her hips rocked in that way I recognized, adjusting to get just the angle and pressure she wanted on her clitoris, and in under a minute I felt that sudden tension and gush of wetness that told me she had made it.

She pulled off and rolled out of bed.

"Hey, what about me?" I asked, putting a whine in my voice.

She laughed and said, "You ain't got two in a night in you, Phillip, we both know that."

She leaned over and kissed me.

"And I have plans for later," she added, starting to unbutton her blouse.

I laughed and slapped her hand to take over where she left off. I unbuttoned her blouse and eased it off of her shoulders before letting it drop to the floor.

And I laughed again as I reached over and tugged on the tuft of hair peeking out from her armpit.

"What IS it with you and body hair," I asked, laughing. She had always been one to shave or wax or leave untouched as the spirit moved her.

She giggled and said, "You know me, I like keeping my men guessing. Now get this corset off of me and let's clean up before our daughter sends out a search party."

She turned and I started on the six hooks of her bra.

Rene' had been one of those pear-shaped, small-breasted women when we met. Her bra, and of course I peeked, was a 36B, and she didn't fill the cups. But when she got pregnant, in spite of carefully taking her pill every morning, her breasts started filling out.

And they didn't stop.

By the time Francis was born, Rene' wore a 38EE and overflowed it. Her nipples, always large and centered on oversized areolas, were like inch-long bratwurst ends centered on dark cones the size of Cosmopolitan glasses. And she produced like a Guernsey.

The boobs were still there and as I watched, a white drop formed.

I smiled.

"You always were a good cow," I said.

"mmmMMMOOOO00000OOOOooooo," she said, smiling and using her thumb and forefinger to express tiny streams of milk, "I HAVE to pump, Honey, but if you'd like some you're always welcome."

"You know how much I like to watch," I said.

"I know how much you like to nurse," she said and opened one of those suitcases. She took out a breast pump, something I recognized from fatherhood, sat on the couch, and I heard the buzz and then the whoosh-whoosh as the pump started working. I watched, as fascinated as if it was my first time, as the pump drew her big nipple in and her milk started flowing.

And as she knew I would, I laid my head in her lap and took the other nipple in my mouth, drawing in nipple and areola and a little more tissue before massaging it against the roof of my mouth and feeling her flowing. Her milk was warm and delicious as it always was.

She pumped and I nursed until she was satisfied and then we took that shower we both needed.

We were late so the shower was quick and efficient although I couldn't resist being thorough where she was so smooth between her legs.

We dressed and headed for the rehearsal. That was straightforward and we had it straight, soon enough. Mother of the bride, escorted by her son. Mother and father of the groom - us. Bridesmaids and groomsmen arm in arm. Flower girls. Ring bearers. Bride and father-of-the-bride. I do. I do. March out.

For all the pomp and circumstance, weddings aren't really very complex.

Then it was dinner, mother, and father of the groom seated next to each other and playing footsies before begging off tired as the young folks drank more. Leaving separately, Rene' a few minutes before me as I shared a final toast with the men in the corner.

At the room, she greeted me naked and that great mass of braid down. It was even longer than I had imagined, hanging well down her back, almost to the swell of her ass. Her hair was thick and coarse and the silver/grey that can never be achieved with chemicals. Speckles of dark remained, just enough to give it interest. She looked stunning.

So I looked, slowly working my way down her body, inventorying her. She struck a pose, one arm up the thick hair of her armpit on display, the added size of her hips and ass and thighs showing to good advantage, and, of course, those breasts, heavy and sagging, drawing my eyes.

She came to me and kissed me, one of those light kisses so full of promise that she had always been good at.

"Come to bed, Phillip," she said, turning and walking toward the bed, deliberately swinging her big ass, "you know what I like."

I watched her crawl up onto the bed, her back arched, her ass on display with her smooth pussy peeking out between heavy thighs, her breasts hanging and swaying, before fluffing one of the pillows and laying back to smile at me across her breasts and belly.

And DAMN if she didn't get to me just like she had that first time, way back when I was 30-something and she didn't quite have three decades on her clock.

I unbuttoned my shirt carefully, one of the dozen or so times I had worn a shirt with a collar since I retired at 70, tossed it, artfully I thought, onto the chair in the corner, and started kicking off my shoes.

Now look, I don't care how many hours you've spent in karate dojos or swimming pools, no man takes off his pants gracefully. So I kicked off my shoes, did the awkward one-foot-at-a-time dance to shed my sock, and then repeated on the other foot before unbuttoning, unzipping, and dropping my pants to pool at my feet. Then I pushed down my boxers and let them fall too, showing her how she got to me.

And she did get to me.

Well, the two Viagra pills I took after brushing my teeth helped, but it was mostly her that had me so hard I ached.

She smiled and said, "Nice. See anything you like?"

As she said that she moved her hands down as she parted her legs, and then parted her labia and lifted her clitoral hood.

She used her index finger to gently roll her clitoris, a prominent pink bud, and almost instantly I could see the thick white nectar of her readiness start to fill and then overflow where she held herself open. I moved up, got up on the bed, my knees between her ankles, and watched her fingers work.

"Don't stop on my account," I said as my fingers explored a scar along her knee, suggesting a replacement joint in her past.

I watched, as fascinated as I had been the first time, 40 years ago, as she played with her clitoris, the sweet honey of her arousal, the natural lubricant that made it easy for her, filled that tunnel between her legs and then overflowed, thick giant raindrops of slick, white, pheromone laden womanhoney disappearing into the crack of her ass, filling each cellulite dimple as it flowed.

"Help me, Baby," she said and I bent forward, inhaling her womanscent like the best perfume, taking it deep in my lungs like a hit of good marijuana before tasting her with just the tip of my tongue at first.

Every woman, I have discovered in a lifetime filled with enjoying women, has a unique scent and taste. Rene' was salty and oily with a hint of spice and a slightly bitter aftertaste as I lapped at her, first just bathing my tongue with her and then covering her with my mouth, sucking gently, and swallowing her desire.

The cunnilingus I gave her lasted. I thought this might be a one-time thing, so I wanted it to be memorable for both of us. I kissed each lip separately and then found the bud of her pleasure and sucked it gently.

She moaned when I did that, her fingers pulling herself even wider and I used my forehead and my cheeks, my entire face to caress where she was so sensitive. I loved doing that. I loved the feel of her on me and loved the way the skin of her labia felt against my face.

Mostly, though, I loved the way she loved it, the way her body reacted.

Her first orgasm of the night was almost like my ejaculation later, and I accepted it, thick and white and hot and sticky on my forehead, feeling it run down my eyes and cheeks.

Her second was in my mouth, and I swallowed her release greedily, thick and hot, almost like an oyster.

I had to coax the third orgasm from her and this time it was hot and watery, salty, bitter, with a hint of urine as she bucked and cried, "YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSssssssssssssssssssssss."

I sat back, sitting on my heels, and smiled.

"Roll over, Rene'," I said.

She smiled, stretched, almost catlike, and rolled onto her belly.

Her ass has spread over the years. She had always been a big girl, and now cellulite dimples covered the roundness I was looking at.

I laid my palms flat on her cheeks, right where she sits, and spread her.

Like scents, each woman's asshole is unique, and hers was as I remembered. She had a tiny puckered orifice with an interesting skin tag right at the bottom, surrounded by a circle of very smooth, shiny skin. It was clean and pink and I suspected she had it bleached every week when she had that hair tended to at a spa.

She giggled and squirmed when I ran my tongue around the smooth border before flicking that little tag.

I drug my finger up her pussy, loading it with her natural lubricant, and slipped my finger into that tight little opening.

She moved her hips slightly, meeting my finger.

I did that a half dozen times until her thick nectar leaked out of her asshole and then, with no more foreplay, I slipped my erection in.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," she sighed softly as my full length entered her.

I worked my fingers into her hair, bringing it to its full length and then twisting it into a rope, not the neat braid she had worn, but a handful of hair wrapped twice around my fist.

And I pulled it.

Not a hard jerk, but steady pressure pulling her head back slowly, knowing what she liked but also enjoying hurting her.

She moaned as I pulled harder and began fucking her hard up the ass. I would pull out, almost all of the way, and then slam back in with an audible smack almost as if I was spanking her with my belly.

I felt her cum and stopped, buried deep, and waited for the wave to pass.

I did that three more times, jerking her hair now, hurting her, making her cry out.

I was, in other words, giving her what I knew she needed and didn't think for a minute her Jesus-freak new husband Walter or William, or whatever the fuck his name is, was giving her.

In the end, we were both exhausted when I pulled out, still not finished, and kind of flopped onto the bed beside her.

"Finish me with that pretty mouth," I said.

She didn't hesitate. She squirmed around and took my shit- and blood-smeared cock (apparently the lubricant had given out and I had ass fucked her raw) into her mouth. She was, as she always had been, good with her mouth. She brought me along slowly and when I came she pulled off and accepted my ejaculation on her forehead and face.

Finished, she crawled around and lay next to me, sharing our pillow, our lips touching, even breathing turning tiny movements into kisses.

"Why did we ever quit this?" she asked, a dreamy, unfocused look in her eyes.

I chuckled and said, softly, "Because you couldn't keep your knees together and I couldn't keep my dick in my pants."

She giggled and said, "Well, there IS that."

We slept in each other's arms that night.

When we woke, well, when she woke me with her mouth, we made love slowly, face to face, in the missionary position. It was slow and gentle and we said, "I love you," a lot.

After she pumped and I nursed again we showered.

I headed down to the hotel restaurant where I found my daughter surrounded by a shrieking flock of children, well, four but it seemed like a flock the way they flitted and shrieked, and her latest boyfriend.

I joined them and we chatted about our lives in the past year or so, and about how surprised we were that it was Stephen getting married first although we laughed then at her brood flitting around.