Wedding Day No. 02

What is it about a Wedding?

I wasn't surprised that the only people I knew at the wedding rehearsal were my daughter, her boyfriend, and her flock of feral children. I was proud, actually, that I had managed to remember all of their names.

Franny was off doing something with the bride's group and Brandon, the current boyfriend, was running around herding children with about the same level of success as herding cats. I was nodding and exchanging casual chitchat with the others, trying to keep track of names, when I felt a pair of arms come around me from behind.

"I was hoping I'd see my favorite uncle," a voice said.

It was obviously a female voice so I said, "And I was hoping to see my favorite niece," without turning around.

The arms loosened and I turned.

And it took a full five seconds to recognize her.

"Loretta June," I said, smiling and taking her hands in mine, "Still my prettiest niece too."

And she was as long as all you looked at was her face. Her features were even, her nose straight, her mouth generous with thin lips, her hair was black, thick arched eyebrows attesting to its natural color, and pale blue eyes were striking and unexpected with that combination.

But the rest of her was huge. She looked like something that had just stepped out of a low-end trailer court with a skimpy lace top leaving six inches of very white, dimpled belly showing above a pair of too-tight pants of some artificial material that barely held her belly in. Tattoos, some excellent skin art and some not particularly good tats at that, seemed everywhere on her.

She stood very still as I took inventory.

My eyes lingered on the tattoo done in the same military stencil familiar to anyone who has seen reruns of M*A*S*H on the top of her right breast, showing along with several inches of cleavage, script that read, "Hi Nosy."

When my eyes finally made it up to hers she was smiling.

"Rumor has it," she said and I liked her voice, still a Mezzo-Soprano register, a good speaking voice leading you to wonder why she sang so poorly, something I remembered from her childhood, "that you need a plus one for tomorrow."

I chuckled and said, "I suppose I do at that."

She smiled, shook my hand, and said, "I'd be honored."

So she did. We waited, staged behind the mother of the bride and her escort, one of my son's friends, walked down and sat, and watched.

I was surprised when Loretta took my hand as we watched and, mostly waited although once my son arrived on the scene we laughed a lot too. He's a very witty kid. Well, you know how that goes. He's 30 but he'll always be my "kid."

When it was over and the group started breaking up to get ready for the rehearsal dinner she asked me, "Where are you staying?"

"The Holiday Inn," I said.

"Nice coincidence, so am I," she said, "follow me down. I know a better way."

Her car was a little Mazda Miata and I was surprised that she fit in it. It did sag dramatically when she got behind the wheel. I thought she would have been more comfortable in my old Cadillac Escalade EXT, sort of a Chevy Avalanche pickup on steroids, and after a visit to the car beauty parlor.

Where everyone else had turned right off of the property where the wedding would be held, she turned left. So I followed.

I survived the trip down that, well, that hill. It really wasn't a mountain although it felt like that in the big truck on the narrow road. There were a dozen switchbacks, the road was barely one lane, and there wasn't a goddam guardrail on the whole five or six mile run. The little dimples in the seat of the Cadillac were from the way my asshole puckered a dozen times.

I lost sight of her but that didn't matter. It wasn't like she could have turned off.

Eventually, I survived to the bottom of that hill where I found her leaning against her little car, laughing.

"Okay," I said, pulling up next to her and rolling down the window, "You got me."

"Follow," she said, getting into her tiny car again and heading off in a cloud of dust.

We made it to the hotel in due course, unwrecked, and a bit shaky on my part. The last section of the back road into town wasn't as bad as that first, but it was still a lot to ask of my oversized tank, especially at the speeds she liked.

In the lot, I pulled in next to her as she was pulling a small duffel out of the microscopic trunk of her Miata.

"So," she said, meeting my eyes with a speculative look, "What's our room number?"

I chuckled and said, "I'm in 418."

She took my hand and said, "Let's go."

She was a force of nature, pulling me along toward the elevators.

"Loretta June?" I said, making the question mark clear.

She giggled as we stepped into the elevator.

"I'm not the good girl you remember, Uncle Phil," she said and wrapped me in big arms and kissed me. The kiss lasted all the way to the fourth floor. "Now let's get ready for the dinner or we'll be late."

I was still in a bit of a daze when she started peeling off clothes. And "peeling" is the proper word. The clothes were tight and her body was big.

I watched as she did the two-arms-crossed thring and peeled the top up and off, showing her bra, a white lacy thing with no support at all, basically a titsack holding two big tits.

I watched as she kicked off her shoes and then pushed down the tight pants, rolling them because they were too tight to just push down.

The thong underneath looked like dental floss against her big body.

She grinned as she tugged the bra up from the bottom, allowing her boobs to flop with an audible slapping sound against the roll of her belly.

She turned out to be one of those women with big mammary glands, about the size of softballs, that hung in her breasts like balls in a sack made of skin. They were heavy enough that her nipples, a pale tan color with oversized areolas surrounding them, were distended from the pressure. A ring of white stretch marks highlighted the tops of her breasts where they emerged from her body.

She held my eyes as she worked the buttfloss past her hips and thighs, making it look like a scrap of Kleenex as it joined the rest of her clothes on the floor.

She kissed me, a brief kiss in passing, as she headed to the bathroom.

"Come on," she said, "I need my back washed."

So I took a deep breath, undressed quickly, and joined her in the shower.

Wet, hair hanging down her back, she looked almost childlike if a child was an inch taller than you and outweighed you by at least 50 pounds. But that didn't mean she didn't look good, and by then I figured I was committed.

I used a washcloth and the body wash the hotel provided to do her face and then the hotel's shampoo on that great mass of her hair. Then I did her body, slowly, carefully, thoroughly. In part, this was an exploration as I found those special spots that made her twitch or giggle.

On my knees, doing her feet, she said the first words since inviting me to join her.

"Now that is a good look for you," she said.

I kissed her belly and said, "I aim to please."

She laughed, that belly laugh making her jiggle, and said, "Isn't that part of the joke over the can in the men's room?"

"What's that?" I asked, looking up at her past the roll of her belly, almost sighting along the crease of her belly button between those enormous tits.

"Doesn't the sign say - - We Aim to Please. You Aim too, Please?" she said.

I laughed. I had seen that sign.

I finished with her feet, surprisingly attractive feet at that. Unlike the rest of her, including her hands with fat fingers, her feet were big and beautifully well-formed. She had high arches, long toes, and the tendons across the tops made distinct lines. Her feet were the ONLY not-fat part of her.

She did me the same way, face to hair to body.

She had me squirming a little as she carefully washed my cock and balls and made me jump when her finger found my asshole for a quick exploration.

Finally clean and dry I watched, fascinated, as she opened her little duffel and pulled out a roll of white. It looked like the way my wife stores her towels. She flicked it like she was spreading a sheet over the bed and it opened into a white dress that she quickly dropped over her head. It was Empire cut, with a bit of tightness accentuating her breasts, with a very high neck, almost a turtleneck, and long sleeves. It was almost floor length, just leaving the tops of her feet showing.

"Christ," I said, staring, "you are absolutely stunning."

She giggled and did a slow turn.

"I"m glad you approve," she said, "Now get dressed, and let's go down so you can feed me."

It turned out, she meant that literally.

I quickly dressed, boxers, grey slacks, brightly patterned socks, black shoes, and a pale pink button-down, Oxford cloth shirt.

She giggled and said, "You look like a preppie."

On the way down she held my arm with two hands in that way some women do to establish their claim on a man. She didn't release it as we walked into the meeting room where the caterers had their steam tables laid out and a dozen or so tables were set up.

Loretta's father, George, was coming across the room and I felt a rush of fear. I'm Mr. Average at 5'10" and about 185 pounds since I put on a belly. George is the basis for Loretta's size at 6'3" or so and easily 250 pounds.

He approached with a loud, "Uncle Phil," we had always called each other "Uncle," and slapped Loretta's hands lightly, saying, "Let me have him for a minute, Honey."

He hung a big hand on my shoulder and led me a few steps away.

"George," I started but he shushed me with a finger to his lips.

"Uncle Phil," he said, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath, "Loretta has issues, we all know that. But she's smiling now, and I haven't seen her do that lately. So I want you to know, it's okay."

I was so surprised by that little speech that I suppose I just stared for a few seconds.

He laughed, gave my shoulder a shake, and kissed me on the forehead. "It's okay, it really is," he said and turned back to Alex, short for Alexandra, his wife, nearly as tall as he was. He flashed her the thumb-to-forefinger "OK" sign and shepherded her off to another group.

Loretta took my arm again and we started making the rounds. She seemed to know everyone. I knew a few people.

You can cut a few yards of that awkward fifteen minutes and you'll have the picture.

Then my son came in with the bride-to-be on his arm, did the ding-the-glass-with-a-fork thing for attention, and said, "They said I should make a speech. So here it is. Thanks for coming. Let's eat!"

Loud applause followed and Loretta led me to a small table in the corner.

"Load us a plate, please," she said and sat.

The buffet was pure Midwest eating. I forked a piece of meatloaf, a healthy dollop of pulled pork swimming in a red sauce, some potato salad, and a half dozen deviled eggs.

I put the plate in front of her and started back to the buffet line when she caught me.

"Sit, Uncle Phil," she said, looking up at me.

So I sat.

"What's up?" I asked.

She smiled and said, "It turns out, I'm what they call a sitophile."

She paused and when I guess I looked blank she went on.

"I get turned on from eating," she said, "and especially," and here she paused and touched the back of my hand, looking at me under lidded eyes, "I like it when a man feeds me."

"Oh," I said, not sure what to do.

"Well?" she said, smiling at me, and pointedly looking at the plate.

I felt a stirring low in my belly as I cut off a healthy piece of the meatloaf and put it in her mouth.

It turns out, Loretta is a very messy eater. She chews with her mouth open and her eyes closed, obviously enjoying the very act of eating. I watched, fascinated, as a tiny crumb of the meatloaf escaped to roll down her lip and fall to the white dress over her right breast, leaving a tiny red dot.

I fed her four more bites before I took the first for myself, fascinated by the pure joy she derived from the act of eating. When Stephen stood and had Meg join him for a big kiss at the front table Loretta applauded and said, "You GO Cuz," spewing half-chewed pork down the front of her dress adding a bright smear of dark brown sauce to the red from the meatloaf and the yellow from deviled eggs and potato salad.

I filled the plate four times, and her beer glass three before she leaned back and belched, finally sated.

We were the last still eating and I had filled the fourth plate as the catering staff was starting to clean up.

I had two beers to her five and I was feeling a buzz while she seemed cold sober still.

"Come on, Plus One," she said, "let's dance."

When she stood, her messiness was unmistakable. The white material at the tops of her breasts was stained and her chin was covered with the remains of her dinner. She had slapped my hand when I tried to use a napkin.

So we danced. Slow dances were my favorite, with her big body almost engulfing mine. When the DJ put on fast music, she turned out to be light on her feet. After a dozen dances she was panting and sweating, well, okay, we were both panting and sweating, and she said, "Okay, I'm done. Take me to bed, Goose, or lose me forever," stealing that line from Top Gun.

The crowd had thinned considerably and I was surprised to see it was coming up on midnight. Loretta had kept my attention focused on her.

"I'm glad you don't mind messy girls," she said, giggling, as we rode up on the elevator.

"I'm not sure about 'messy girls,'" I said, "but I for sure don't mind YOU."

She giggled at that.

And she was a mess. Her chin and her dress were a mess from dinner. She was sweating from the exertion of the dancing and her dress clung where it touched her. And her nose was running a little, something I found oddly erotic.

In the room, she turned to face me but I touched her lips with my finger, not allowing her to talk.

"Tell me what excited you the most, ever," I said.

"Besides being fed," I added.

"I don't..." she started but I touched her lips again.

"Look at me," I said and waited until her eyes met mine.

"Now," I said, "don't say anything, just start thinking about all of the things you've done sexually. Start when you lost your virginity and work forward."

She looked puzzled but then I saw her eyes go a little unfocused as she started doing as I asked.

I watched her face closely and when I saw her eyes flick quickly, back and forth, I said, "THAT ONE!"

"Oh God," she moaned.

I held her hands in mine.

"What was it?" I asked.

"Uncle Phil, no," she said.

"What was it?" I asked again.

"Oh, God," she moaned again but I saw in her eyes that I had won.

"You really want to know?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, simply.

She didn't say anything, just started unbuttoning my shirt.

I stood still then while she undressed me, sinking with an amazing gracefulness, to get my shoes and socks off before my slacks and boxers. I thought it was to be a blow job but she stood and peeled off the dress and led me into the bathroom.

I watched, curious now, as she stepped into the tub and said, "You wanted this, now come on."

So I stepped into the tub and watched as she eased to her knees.

"You're sure you want this?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Okay," she said and there was a weird combination of acceptance and excitement on her face as she took my hands and put them on her head.

"When I try to pull away, you have to push," she said and took me into her mouth.

She was good with her mouth. Maybe not the best I ever had, my first wife still holds that position, but Loretta was very good. She understood how to use her tongue and her lips but I could feel how she had never learned to control her gag reflex. When I went too deep I could feel her body retch and the way she would try to pull away.

And I understood what she wanted.

So I entwined my fingers in her thick hair and began slowly gagging her.

And there was something amazingly erotic about doing that. I could feel the way her body teetered on the edge and I held her there, almost like the technique for holding a man or a woman on the edge of orgasm. I thought I had gone too far when I felt hot wetness suddenly on my cock, but I eased the pressure and felt her swallowing hard, stopping the reverse peristalsis that I was taking her to.

I could smell her excitement too, that womanscent nature has provided to make even old men react.

She smelled good.

Time doesn't have a lot of meaning in that situation, you know?

She was looking up at me when I finished her. Her eyes were red and tears were streaming down her cheeks leaving dark mascara trails. Her nose was running freely, slick clear mucus lubricating her lips. She looked tormented and gorgeous when I pulled her head down, hard.

This is one of those times when you get to actually use a word that you've only seen written before.

She opened her mouth and she spewed. The phrase from some silly coming-of-age movie I had seen once, maybe The Goonies although I wouldn't bet a lot on that, came to me. She was "blowing chunks." When I wouldn't release her, hell, when I pushed a little deeper into her mouth, she blew those chunks out her nose.

And still, I wouldn't release her. I kept using my hands in her hair and my cock in her mouth to probe that spot where her gag reflex lived.

As I say, time doesn't matter much in situations like that, but it seemed like a long time before she was down to nothing but dry heaves, gasping for breath with thick ropes of mucus and saliva and bile and God knows what hanging from her mouth.

When she quit even dry heaving I figured I had given her everything she wanted, but I didn't release her yet. I reached back and started the water running, adjusting it by feel until it was slightly hotter than warm and then pushing down on the diverter stem and feeling the water start to sluice over us from the shower head.

She stayed where she was for quite a while, gasping for breath, head hanging, before she turned her face up into the water, opened her mouth, and rinsed and spat in the tub between my feet.

She stood, slowly, and smiled at me.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're quite welcome," I said, and then, for the second time, I bathed her.

I scrubbed her face with a washcloth and the hotel soap until I had the mascara streaks and the rest of the overdone makeup residue off. Without the makeup, she was really a very pretty woman.

I did her mass of hair with the hotel shampoo and then her body with hotel soap. This time I actually paid attention to the tattoos.

Under her chin, from her throat down almost to the tops of her breasts, she was done like some sort of yellow bird. Each feather was perfect, a real work of art, with the little lines of the vanes done separately. I shuddered to imagine how much time was involved in doing that. Subtle shades of colors, mostly blues and greens, highlighted the feathers.

Her right breast was covered with a heavy black spider web radiating from her nipple on which a large black spider was tattooed.

Running down her front was an arrow. The feathers of the fletching were between those big breasts and the shaft ran, perfectly straight, down her body across the soft roundness of her big belly, disappearing briefly into her belly button but then emerging at the bottom and continuing. The arrow ended with a wide flint hunting head, the marks of the napper's tool distinct on the triangular head, and the point ending at the bottom of her clitoral hood, the top of the distinct slit her labia made. Along the shaft was written in a calligraphy quality Olde English font - "Lick Right Here Please."

Her entire body was like that. I looked as I dried her and then took my time, inspecting each separate tattoo. I laughed when I spread her butt cheeks and saw "EXIT" tattooed across her anus.