Wedding Day No. 10

"What's that?" I asked.

"The ink, the piercings, the surgery," she said, an odd smile on her face.

"Surgery?" I asked.

She smiled then, a happy smile, as she lifted her foot, demonstrating almost supernatural balance, wiggled her boot loose, pulled it off, and then did the other one.

The smile was still on her face as she unbuttoned the low-slung jeans, unzipped, and pushed them down.

I was surprised that the panties she wore were modest bikini-cut panties. I would have bet a LOT on a buttfloss thing, complete with a whale tail.

And then I realized what she meant about "surgery" when she slowly pushed them down.

"Oh my God," I breathed, mirroring what I had heard my daughter say about a zillion times.

"I told you," she said in that soft voice, adjusting her stance so that she stood with her feet a little over shoulder width apart.

"Jesus," I breathed, staring.

Her labia were gone completely, as was her clitoral hood. Her delicate labia minora, those tender inner lips, hung from that fully exposed gap, pink and full with a series of heavy weights pulling them down to dangle fully three inches.

A bar through her clitoris ran from the top of her right thigh to the top of her left.

Different tattoos ran up both legs, covering most of the skin.

"Being looked at is addictive too," she said, and her voice had changed.

As I watched, her fingertips moved slowly down her body, playing with her nipples, touching the bars in her belly button, and then touching where the bar had her clitoris stretched out in a way that just had to be painful.

Her breath caught at the touch and then she started brushing it with her fingertip.

As I watched, a thick, water-clear string of her natural lubricant started accumulating around two of the rings making her dangle, and slowly start stretching in a lengthening teardrop. I watched as that string with its growing sphere at the bottom hung lower and lower until the connecting thread finally broke and that thick teardrop hit the hardwood floor with an audible plop.

"You'd better lick that up," she said, her voice strangely light, "we wouldn't want to stain this nice floor."

And so I did. It was thick and salty and a bit gritty with whatever it picked up off of the floor.

I liked it.

I felt her first orgasm as thick, hot, oil hitting the back of my head.

When I looked up my vision was filled with those pierced inner lips. Well, filled until her love honey, thick and hot and white now, covered my eyes, making them burn before I could shut them.

I felt her legs moving against my hands as she squatted a little and then the hard rings touched my lips.

I flicked her stretched and pierced clitoris with my tongue as her fingers tangled in my hair, holding me where she wanted me.

I smiled as those fingers started moving my head around, using my face to masturbate. The strange mixture of warm soft skin, slick natural honey, and the hard rings was beyond anything I had ever imagined. I was helpless as her fingers in my hair hurt. My face was smeared.

And I found that I liked it.

I had the thought, unbidden, that almost made me laugh. "What was all that bitching those feminists in the 1970s were shrieking about over being 'sex objects?' What the hell is wrong with it?" Because at this point I was clearly a sex object. Melanie could have accomplished the same thing with a vibrator and, I thought, with about as much emotion.

She was cumming in waves and I was soaked.

And I was hard. Christ, I was harder than I had been in decades. Those pills, now gone from under my tongue, combined with her pheromones and, well, just the situation, had me going like I was 50 years younger.

"I think that's enough for now," she said and jerked me away from her pussy hard enough to make me yell with the pain.

"Follow along, Phillip," she said.

"On all fours," she added.

So I crawled after her, feeling foolish but also, on some deep level, feeling even more aroused if that was possible. My erect cock was pointing straight up my body by then and I could feel it throbbing with my heartbeat.

"Sit," she said and I sat back on my feet, waiting like a patient dog.

I watched, captivated, as she moved around, putting one of the four pillows on the king-size bed at the head, and piling the other three about halfway down the mattress. She fiddled and fluffed for a few seconds and then crawled up onto the bed, moving to lay face down with her hips elevated by the three pillows and her face turned to the side on the other.

"Okay, Phillip," she said, "follow the yellow brick road."

As I stood, it was obvious what she meant. Up the back of each thigh were tattoos of, yes, a yellow brick road straight out of the Wizard of Oz. The yellow brick road started at the back of both knees and ran up her thighs, around the outside of her athlete's slender ass before making a sharp U-turn and disappearing into the crack of her ass, her Gluteal Cleft if you're into the nomenclature. The perspective the tattoo artist had used was beautifully done and it looked like the road disappeared into the distance.

Her knees were parted in invitation, her ringed inner lips hanging down from the way her pussy was elevated, and her natural nectar was dripping.

I crawled up so my knees were between hers, laid my palms on her ass, and spread her cheeks, following the yellow brick road.

And, again, I just stopped and stared.

The road terminated at her anus, as I expected. But her asshole itself was surrounded by little gold studs making a perfect circle just outside of the puckered little exit of her digestive system. I knew it was the "exit" because a tattoo had the sign "EXIT" emblazoned on the inside of her right cheek with an arrow pointing the the circle of studs.

It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to bend and trace those studs with my tongue before touching that puckered little most private spot with it.

"Use your finger to lube me up," she said in that same weirdly conversational voice, "and then take what you want."

So I did. I drug my finger slowly between the rings of her inner lips and then slipped it, slick with her natural nectar, into her asshole.

She sighed.

I did that four more times, wanting to make sure she was slick to make it easy on her, well, easy on both of us, and then moved forward, guided my throbbing erection, and entered her anally.

She was relaxed and oddly loose. I've been in pussies that were tighter.

And then she squeezed and those powerful muscles held me locked inside her rectum.

"Come on, Baby," she said, her ass rocking, "take what you want."

I used my palms to spread her as open as I could get her and set up a rhythm. It was slow and easy at first.

"Harder, Phillip, TAKE IT," she said, her voice almost holding a hint of anger.

I sped up my rhythm.

"HARDER, DAMMIT," she said, her voice louder now.

My next thrust was hard enough that my belly hit her ass with an audible slap.

"That's better," she said in a satisfied voice.

I kept that rhythm up, slowly pulling out and then SLAMMING back in, drawing little grunts and, hissed, "Yesssssss" from her.

I had been doing that for a minute or so, time really didn't have much meaning at that point but I know my stamina levels, when she came, explosively, soaking my thighs.

I held still, buried deep into her, until she relaxed, and started again.

I took her through a half dozen more orgasms like that until I had fucked her asshole dry and the friction was starting to hurt.

When I pulled out she rolled onto her side and just grabbed my still-hard cock and started masturbating me.

I pulled away, what she was doing was hurting.

She giggled, used that athletic ability she had shown, and spun around, turning me onto my back and pinning me with my arms caught in the bend of her legs. Her weight held me pinned and helpless as her hand stayed busy on my now painful erection.

"Come on, Phillip, you can do it," she said and another of those odd, non sequitur images ran through my mind. I could just see her saying the same thing to me at the gym as I struggled to do that last bench press.

She smothered my yell, when I came, my ejaculation fountaining like it hadn't in a half-century, by sitting back and covering my mouth with her pussy.

I came like a teenager, the pain as she slowly milked my now softening erection overridden by the ecstasy of my climax.

Finally empty she rolled off of me, giggled, kissed me, and said, "Hold that thought."

She left the bedroom and I enjoyed watching her ass as she left. She had a truly beautiful body.

Walking back in she was smiling.

"I know you're sore, Phillip," she said, smiling and kissing my forehead, "that's those pills that keep you hard but don't let you cum."

She shook a pill out of another of those amber pill bottles.

"Swallow, Baby," she said, popping the pill into my mouth and offering me a glass of water.

So I swallowed.

And went to sleep.

She was gone when I woke up.

She left a note, written in handwriting so beautifully done it made me think of calligraphy.

Phillip, you were my first crush and I was right to feel that way. Thank you for fulfilling a girl's fantasy. I hope you enjoy the gift I left you. Maybe we'll meet again, but probably not. So just believe,

I love you still.

Melanie

Now all I need to do is figure out how to explain the ring on my glans, penetrating the urethra.

Because Melanie was right. I enjoy that gift. I wonder how my nipples would look with rings in them and wonder how Paula will react.