Wedding Day No. 09

What is it about a wedding?

"What is it about a wedding?" the voice said, making me chuckle since it was exactly what I had been thinking.

I looked around, and then down.

If you look in the dictionary for Mrs. Santa Claus, well, there she was. Barely five feet tall, the best part of five feet wide, tightly curled silver hair, a round face with round cheeks and a round chin, tiny ears, a button nose, and a small Cupid's Bow of a mouth. I just knew, looking at her, that when she laughed she'd jiggle like Santa's bowl full of jelly.

I guessed her at 65 and strained for the name. Christ, I must have met a hundred people already this weekend.

Ah, there it was.

"Trudi," I said, "you literally just said what I was thinking."

"Oh," she said, moving closer, not that there was much room between us to begin with.

"Yeah," I said, "There's something about all the young people all full of energy that kind of gets to you."

She giggled, an oddly cute sound from her Medicare-eligible face. "It's the pheromones," she said.

"The what?" I said, feigning ignorance.

So she started explaining the intricacies of female pheromones and their impact on males.

"Trudi," I said, "I was just kidding. I know about pheromones and you're right, the air is thick with them."

She closed the remaining few inches between us and laid her hand on my arm.

"Thick enough to make an old Jewess think pretty hard about asking the only age-appropriate, unattached man in the place to dance, even if he is a goy," she said.

That made me laugh.

I took both of her hands in mine and asked, "Would a nice Jewish girl be willing to dance with an old goy?"

We had been through the YMCA-Chicken Dance-Hokie Pokie medley and the DJ was getting down to the slow dances when the bridesmaids and groomsmen would find their way to the nearest broom closet or some other semi-private room. We walked onto the little dance floor to Julie London doing Cry Me A River.

I took her in my arms, caught the beat, and stepped off into a simple box step. It turned out, that was about all she could handle.

And I felt my years of being a faithful husband slipping away. This woman was so perfectly my type that she was getting to me way below the level of any thinking. She was short and round and soft and very VERY busty, just like I like my women. And she made it pretty clear that she was interested too.

"You know," she said, as we stepped off to Marilyn Monroe's version of I Want to be Loved by You, a more uptempo song, "all of those jokes about Jewish sex are a bunch of shtuyot," anyway, that's as close as I can write the word she used.

"A bunch of what?" I asked, laughing.

"Shitooyot," she said again, "Nonsense." She flashed a gap-toothed grin, "Bullshit."

"Oh? Like what?" I asked.

"Oh, you know," she said, looking up at me, grinning now, "Like - What is Jewish foreplay?"

I'd heard it, but played along. "I'll bite," I said, "What is Jewish foreplay?"

She smiled. The smile your gramma might have given you if you were a particularly good boy.

"Four hours of begging," she said, giggling.

I laughed, dropped to my knees, and said, "Please."

She laughed, looked at her watch, and said, "Three hours and fifty-nine minutes to go."

I laughed, got up, and we picked up the dance. A few people looked at us but I figured that little play was being seen as just a part of the post-wedding reverie.

"Tell me another one that's bullshit," I said.

She smiled and snuggled against me as Marilyn finished up in her too-breathy voice, "poop poopy doop."

"How a gentile girl eats a banana," she said and then mimed holding up a banana with her left hand, using her right to peel it in four long downward movements, and then lifting it to her mouth.

"How a Jewish girl eats a banana," she said and did the miming of peeling thing but at the last instant reached up with her right hand, put it on the back of her head, and pushed her head down to the banana.

I laughed again. That one was a new one to me.

"And that's not you?" I asked.

She looked up at me under one raised eyebrow, being genetically enabled to do the one-eyebrow thing that I am NOT able to do, and said, "Oh dear me, no."

She repeated the peeling mime but this time the punch line was both hands on the imaginary banana and her dropping to her knees to take it into an obviously eager mouth.

"Okay, Sluterella," I said, laughing and pulling her to her feet, "You made your point."

"Have I," she asked, standing close enough that those heavy breasts pressed against me.

"Oh yeah," I said, "I really REALLY want to see how you handle my banana."

I took her hand and went in search of my son and his new bride.

Stephen saw me and dragged his new bride, Meg, away from the crowd of well-wishers that had them surrounded.

"I have offered Trudi a ride and think I'll leave you young people to do young people stuff," I said.

He looked at me with a smile that was too knowing and wrapped me in one of those big bearhugs he used to remind me how much bigger he was than I am these days.

"Thank you, Dad," he said, "for coming. And tell Paula we missed her."

"Wouldn't have missed it," I said, grinning.

I hugged my new daughter-in-law, welcomed her to the family, and stood back and watched as Trudi and Meg huddled, giggling.

Finally, they broke their huddle, Trudi came over, put both hands on my arm, and said, loudly enough for all to hear, "Come on, handsome, let's leave these youngsters to their fun."

There was a golf cart waiting and I helped her into its back seat and then draped my arm across her shoulders while we were shuttled the half-block to the field where the cars were parked.

She giggled when she saw my little midlife crisis still retained through my 75th birthday. The little Fiat 124 Spyder is, in my view anyway, the most beautiful piece of rolling sculpture ever produced that was within reach of the middle class. I bought mine as a 50th birthday present for myself and over the intervening 25 years slowly rebuilt and improved it. Now, the car almost 50 years old, was far better than new, and unlike when it was new, it was reliable.

Trudi giggled when she saw it and asked if we could put the top down.

I helped her into the low car, always an awkward move and particularly cumbersome for fat people. She giggled as she squirmed around, showing an interesting flash of nylon and garter belt as she did.

I got in under the steering wheel, and started the car, listening to the pleasant burble of the exhaust and watching the gauges.

I worked the latches and gave a push to put the top down, and we set off, open-air motoring.

The lane down to the highway was a little over three miles of extremely twisty road, and since I had a few beers in me, I took it slow and careful. She was a good passenger in the little car, only reaching for the grab bar in the tightest switchbacks. We survived, and at the highway, I turned left.

"Ummmmm, town's that way," she said.

"Trust me," I said, making the left, running through the gears, and letting the little car run out now. With a small four-cylinder engine, old Fiats will never win a drag race, but ninety is comfortable and in the small low-slung car it feels like approaching the speed of sound.

She was laughing.

My memory was accurate and the little diner was still there on Main Street in the next town north.

She didn't say anything, just looked at me as I pulled in front of the Diner, Dan's if you care.

I hopped out, ran around to the passenger's door, opened it for her, and helped her out.

We looked out of place, her in her floor-length semi-formal dress, me in my three-piece suit, while the rest of the customers, there were a half dozen grouped around a big table, looked to be teenagers in their jeans and T-shirts.

It was a little after ten on a Saturday night. This was not a nightlife town.

We sat and a tired-looking waitress came over.

"Coffee and a menu for me," I said.

"Same," Trudi said.

"Sooooo," I said, smiling over the rim of my coffee while we waited for the breakfast skillets we both ordered, "Tell me your fantasy."

"My fantasy?" she asked, repeating the question in an obvious play for time to think.

"Yes," I said, patiently, "your fantasy. What do you see in your mind's eye, late at night when the lights are out and fingers are busy."

She giggled.

"That's very poetic, Phillip," she said.

"Quit stalling," I said.

She met my eye.

"Why?" she asked.

"Trudi," I said, "I'll fulfill it."

"How?" she asked.

I grinned.

"From the instant, you finally get around to telling me what it is," I said, letting the grin spread and reaching across the table to lay my hands on hers, "we'll live it."

She held my eyes for a long moment.

I could have cheerfully shot the waitress when she walked up with the two loaded skillets, the soft sound of bacon sizzling in the hot pan and the mouth-watering aroma of the bacon breaking the mood for a moment.

So I took a bite, resetting the mood, and it was frikkin' delicious. There's really nothing like diner food.

"Quit stalling, Trudi," I said for the second, "and tell me."

She forked a huge bit of biscuit, egg, potato, and gravy into her mouth, grinned, and took two open-mouthed chews before turning serious.

"My husband's name is Aaron," she said, the non sequitur throwing me off a bit, "and he is the most gentle man I know."

She took another bite but this time I didn't say anything. I knew that once started she'd go on.

She swallowed, took a drink of her coffee, and laid her fork down.

"In my fantasy," she said, "he's angry at some imagined slight. Maybe a little drunk. And he gets, well," and she stopped for another sip of the coffee, stalling again, "he gets abusive with me."

I said nothing, just took another bite, and held her eyes.

When I was fresh out of college I worked as a house parent in a group home. During that year I attended several little one-day training sessions and I was using every technique I had learned in them now. It was her show and I was making her take the next steps, but I was pretty sure she wanted to. I mean, she's the one who had dropped to her knees on the dance floor and did the banana thing.

She dropped her eyes to her plate, took a bite, and studied the breakfast before her.

Finally, I broke the silence.

"Call me Aaron when you respond," I said.

"What?" she said, finally meeting my eyes.

"Call me Aaron when you respond," I said.

Her eyes got big and I knew she understood.

The trick to proper role-playing is to, well, get into the role. Over the next few minutes, as I ate in silence, I was picturing it in my mind. This cute Jewess was my wife and she had been flirting, shamelessly, shaming me, and looking ridiculous. I pictured her, dancing with that other man, laughing with him, pushing those big tits, MY tits, into him, and then, right there in the middle of the dance floor, getting to her knees and doing something with her hands.

And the anger was building.

"Right in front of me?" I snapped across the table, not exactly yelling but my voice was loud.

She looked up at me, startled, and it was one of those moments when I swear I could see her thinking.

She took a deep breath.

"What, Aaron," she said, and I knew I had her.

"I saw what you were doing. Good Lord, Trudi, do you think I'm blind or just stupid," I said, again, my voice loud.

I watched as the waitress went over to the table full of young men, knowing what was coming.

"Aaron," she said, and the whine in her voice told me she was into it now, "it was nothing."

"You looked like a goddam streetwalker," I said.

"It was a JOKE," she said, fully into the role now.

I couldn't have scripted it better.

One of the guys from the table walked over. He was young and big and had that effect on me. I did the calculations and figured if he was stupid I could take him with a quick kick to the knee but then I'd be toast as his buddies jumped in. I had no intention of doing anything of the sort, but he was one of those kinds of guys and, well, I was pretty much into the role myself.

"Everything okay," he asked, very politely, looking at Trudi, ignoring me.

She smiled up at him and giggled prettily.

"Oh, don't worry, Dear," she said, "just a crazy old couple having a disagreement."

He looked at her for a long moment and then at me.

"You're sure?" he asked.

"Yes, Dear," she said again, smiling her prettiest smile, "we're fine but thank you for your concern."

He flashed me one final scowl and went back to his table.

"Is your pussy wet now that a handsome young buck rescued you?" I hissed, my voice low now.

"AARON!" she said, and the shock in her voice seemed to be legitimate.

We finished the meal in silence, walked to the car in silence although I did help her into it, and were silent on the drive back to my little Airbnb rental.

"Get your fucking clothes off, whore," I said as we cleared the front door.

"Aaron, it wasn't anything, you're wrong," she said.

"So I'm blind as well as stupid?" I asked.

"Aaron," she started but, well, she wasn't doing what I'd told her to do so I slapped her.

Not a hard slap. I didn't make her snap her head around or anything, but it WAS a slap and it gained her attention and re-focused her on the role.

"You'll have to unzip me," she said, her voice small and apologetic as she pressed her hand to her cheek.

I thought about tearing the dress off of her but she didn't have any replacement here so I grabbed the zipper and yanked it down instead.

And I stared.

Christ, there was nearly as much skin covered with the dress lying on the floor. She had on a long line, industrial strength bra, very white with inch-wide straps, holding those enormous tits up. I wondered what size I would see on the tag. 50MM or something? Maybe 50Z. They were beyond anything I had ever seen.

What I had thought was a garter belt and nylons turned out to be an old-fashioned open-bottom girdle that left only about an inch of skin between the bra and girdle, and that skin bulged out dramatically.

"Help me?" she said, her eyes pleading.

"Go get me a beer," I said in response.

Her shoulders sagged, and she went down the hall of the rented shotgun house toward the kitchen. And I liked that she moved with amazing dignity for all that she was only in her underwear.

She brought me the beer and when she handed it to me her mood was changed.

"I'm sorry, Aaron," she said, "You're right. I was flirting. Forgive me?"

I stood, setting the beer on the little table beside the couch, and deliberately slapped her. Not a head-snapping slap, but hard enough to bring color to her skin and tears to her eyes.

"Oh, no, Sluterella," I snapped, "you don't get off that easy. Now turn the fuck around."

My fingers were trembling a little as I started on the 12, by my actual count, hooks at the back of that industrial strength bra. I got seven unhooked before I said, "fuck it" and yanked the last five loose,

She turned and the tears and fear in her eyes had been replaced with a knowing smile.

She gave a little push to my shoulders, giggling a little, the smile on her face strangely seemed to be in place with the tears, the red mark on her cheek, and her runny nose.

Those tits. Jesus Christ, those fucking tits. They hung to her belly button. Well, they laid on her belly all the way to her belly button. And they had the strangest shape. Her oversized areolas and nipples were very high, leaving the big skin bag that held her oversized mammary glands hanging well below them.

She smiled then, making no effort to wipe away the tears or snot, and shimmied. Well, started them swinging side to side. They were FAR too big to actually shimmy. She lifted them by betting her forearms under them and then, smiling very broadly now, worked the right under the left. Christ, I thought she was going to tie them in a knot and it looked like she might be able to.

"Forgive me?" she asked, moving toward me, lifting those immense tits, jiggling them the way they overflowed her hands adding to her allure right then.

I stood, undid my belt, unzipped, and let the suit pants fall to the floor.

"Show me the banana thing, Slutterella," I said, "like you did on the dance floor."

She eased to her knees, holding my eyes, and began doing the miming thing, slowly peeling the imaginary banana.

She was smiling up at me as she parted her lips slightly, and the thick drool that started running down her chin ranks as one of the dozen sexiest things I have ever seen. She had obviously practiced this before, and it damn well worked.

She finished peeling the banana, peeled down my boxers, and opened her mouth wide, giving me the view she had practiced, thick saliva running down her chin to hang in strings down to her amazing tits, and then just took my cock in one smooth movement, all the way down her throat.

Her hands on my ass held me to her while she began swallowing hard, masturbating me with her throat.

She pulled off quickly, thick saliva and snot connecting her mouth to my cock as she asked again, "Forgive me?"

"Hmmmmmm," I said, struggling not to smile.

She took me into her throat again, that smooth movement assisted by the slickness of her saliva and mucus, her eyes holding mine, tears overflowing but I was pretty sure they were from physical irritation. She was obviously enjoying what she was doing.

Christ, she was good. She took me right to the edge. One more swallow and I would have cum right down her throat, and held me there.

She was smiling, tears falling, nose running, but her eyes were happy.

She pulled off again.

"Forgive me?" she asked, lightly caressing her cheeks with my wet, slick, cock.

"Not quite," I said, but I was smiling now.

She had me on the edge in about three seconds. and held me there until my body was trembling. This Jewess with the huge tits had real skills. The intensity of what she was doing had me trying to pull away but her fingers digging into my ass wouldn't let me.

She took me over the edge this time, but when my body tried to cum she pulled off suddenly and pinched hard with her thumb and forefinger right at the base of my cock, preventing my body from doing what a zillion generations of evolution demanded it do. My balls ached and those hard muscular contractions designed to send my sperm deep into my mate's body in search of an egg did their job, but she prevented me from release. Deep in my belly my prostate was swollen and hurting, my balls were swollen and hurting, and I was having trouble breathing.

She waited until contractions stopped and then smiled up at me, a sweet, happy, Mrs. Santa Claus smile.

"Forgive me?" she asked.

"Yes, Trudi, You're forgiven," I said.

She stood then, reached up, and pulled me down for a kiss. It was slick and sloppy and a very good kiss.

"Good," she said, turning and sitting on the couch, "Now help me with my shoes and nylons."

So I did, and I didn't feel at all strange to be doing it with my shoes, socks, shirt, and suit jacket still on. Hell, I still had my tie on.

I undid the little straps across the tops of her feet, got the shoes off, and it seemed natural, somehow to massage her feet while I was at it.

I undid the garters, those weird little buttonhole-shaped things at the bottom of the suspender straps are the garters, giving the garter belt its name, and worked the nylons down, slowly, revealing skin so pale it made the term "white" appropriate for her.

With her feet bare, I massaged them some more, playing with her toes, and making her giggle.

"You can fuck them if you want, Jewboy," she said softly, "but don't you dare cum."