At My Nephew’s Wedding

[Author’s Note: many of my stories are autobiographical, at least insofar as there is an event that started the train of thought. I leave it to you, gentle reader, to decide about this one.]

I had driven all night, slept that sketchy sleep you sleep in a motel, found the hot tub out of order, no surprise there, and settled for a hot shower. Then a day spent just driving around, seeing if anything would jog my memory from almost a year spent in this town almost 50 years ago when I was in Air Force tech school (nothing did). Back to the motel for another quick shower, dressed in my off-white sports coat, black slacks, pencil striped shirt, and brightly patterned Rush Limbaugh No Boundaries tie, black loafers with brightly patterned socks (one of my trademarks when I was still working).

And now here I was, smiling and greeting the few people I knew at this shindig. Two brothers, of course, one the father of the groom and one retired military. The one from the military was the one I had shared a bedroom with for a few years. My dad and mom and then my dad and his new wife did things in twos. Me and Fred and then, ten years later, Sam and Jimmy. Joe, ten years after that, was daddy and mommy’s little surprise, one of those change of life babies that happen from time to time after step-mom had thought her last period was behind her.

Anyway, it was me, Fred, and Sam exchanging our hugs and how-are-yous. Fred’s wife Annie, outrageously buxom, and her red hair finally showing a hint of grey was cool to me, as always. Sam, another divorcee in our family, was stag tonight as was I, my wife home with dogs and arthritis.

I went circulating a bit, greeting nieces and nephews and cousins where I could find them. We’re a scattered family with branches in 22 states so it was rare to have so many together. I greeted my cousin Margie with more than a familial kiss and a pat on the ass – we had shared a bed quite a few times one summer LO these many moons ago. Others got the hug and how are you and all of that.

And sitting alone at a table was Rita, Sam’s ex-wife. I can’t say she’s a pretty woman, but attractive is a good word. She still reminded me of Terri Garr. She smiled when I sat next to her and said, “what’s cookin’ good lookin’.”

She giggled at that and we talked for a while. I loved her voice, always had. High pitched and clear with a Chicago accent so thick sometimes words were hard to pick out. We just chatted, as you do at those things.

“God,” she said, rolling her eyes a bit, “what in the HELL is a senior citizen like me doing as the mother of the bride.”

I laughed at that. “Senior citizen?” I asked. Well, from my vantage at 74 there are very few “senior” to me.

“David,” she said, “I’m 69.”

I thought about that for a minute and then stood up, theatrically, pointed down at her, and said, “YOU COUGAR YOU!” My brother is 63, an age I happened to know because my wife had worked with him to get his disability claim approved. I knew more about him, if we’re being honest, than I EVER wanted to. My wife’s a talker.

She giggled at that.

“So why are you sitting alone?” I asked.

She sort of slumped and met my eyes.

“Because,” she said after a bit of a pause, “everyone thinks I’m the slut who was stepping out on Saint Sam.”

I held her eyes for a few seconds then and leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “were you?”

She giggled and said, “well, maybe a little.”

I took her hand in mine and said, “I’m going to mingle a bit more, but save this seat. You are NOT sitting alone.”

There was gratitude in her eyes when she said, “okay,” and put her purse on the seat next to her, but I like to think there was some plain old happiness there too.

So I did some more mingling. I gave Danny, the groom, my standard offer – “that Cadillac out there has a full tank of gas and it’s not too late. Say the word and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

He laughed, wrapped me in a bear hug – he’s a very big guy – and said, “Thanks Uncle Dave, but no thanks.”

I caught Sam and asked him if my sitting with Rita was going to be a problem. I knew I’d sit with her anyway and work things out later, but I wanted to make the effort to avoid any issues.

He smiled and said, “you’ve always had a thing for her. Don’t worry. We don’t, you know, hate each other or anything. Just sort of drifted apart. So anyway, no, not a problem.”

Things were getting busy then and we all went to the outdoor chapel where the actual ceremony would be held. The usher led her to the waiting area and when things got started the father of the bride walked the mother of the bride down to a front row (there were no pews as such) seat and then Danny walked Rita down to a front-row seat on the other side.

The ceremony went, as those things do, with some scripture (too much for me but what the hell, when in Rome and all that), and some words. It wasn’t very long and then we all stood and cheered the newlyweds.

At the reception I found Rita sitting where she had been before. I laid my hands on her Çanakkale Escort shoulders and said, “drink?”

She looked up at me gratefully and said, “a screwdriver if they’ll make one, a triple if you can swing it.”

I chuckled and found the bar, ordered drinks, and brought back her screwdriver and my beer.

You can cut a few yards of any wedding scene and you’ll understand the next couple of hours. Rita and I chatted, just catching up. I was retired, making guitars, doing home improvement, and traveling some in the travel trailer with my wife. She was working again at the airline doing some back-office logistics stuff that was maddening in today’s economy.

Danny took her for the Groom-Mother dance and I danced with her a few times. She moved amazingly well for a woman of 69 when the fast music played and I had trouble keeping up. We did the obligatory chicken dance, hokie pokie, and YMCA.

After a slow dance, something new that I had heard on the radio but couldn’t sing along to, she looked up, met my eyes, and said, “David, get me out of here please.”

So we found the bride and groom, exchanged hugs and kisses, Danny whispered “thank you for taking care of mom,” and we headed for the door.

“Would you like to stop for a quiet drink or just go home, well, back to your hotel?” I asked.

She looked at me in that way only a woman can, her lips pursed and pulled slightly to the side, her eyes kind of squinted, and after a few seconds said, “I’d like you to take me to bed.”

Okay, the grin that spread across my face probably made me look like I was way out there on the Autism spectrum.

She giggled and added, “unless you’re not interested in a senior citizen.”

I didn’t say anything, just opened Google Maps on my phone and said, “give me the address.”

She rattled it off and I started driving.

It was a companionable silence, oddly enough. There was no particular nervousness. Well, we HAD known each other for decades and we were both fully grown adults.

At her motel, I ran around the truck, my “car” is a Cadilac Escalade EXT, a literal Texas Cadillac, opened the door, and helped her out. She was a bit tipsy and the long dress with its small hemline kind of constricted her steps.

We walked hand-in-hand, like an old married couple, to the elevator where she punched 12 and we waited. The anticipation of those final moments in the elevator was exquisite.

At her door, she touched the little card and the light turned green. On a whim, I leaned over and scooped her up, my left forearm behind her knees, my right across her back. Fortunately, she wrapped her arms around my neck or my gesture probably would have ended with us both in a heap on the floor.

She was giggling when I set her down and I honestly can’t say which one of us initiated that first kiss.

And it was a VERY good kiss. There was a LOT of pent-up desire in it. In my case, my wife’s arthritis had pretty much ended our sex life. In hers, well, I presumed she was still a vibrant woman and just hadn’t been getting enough.

Anyway, it was a very good kiss. We knew where the noses went and her mouth was soft and inviting under mine. Her tongue was a probing little thing that I met with mine, fencing, playing, as we explored each other.

She was in a formal dress, fit for the mother of the bride. It was fun getting it off of her. First, there was that gauzy top thing, I have no idea what to call it, that covered her shoulders. I undid the button at her throat, noting that her age WAS finally showing with the soft skin there, and handled the thing very delicately as I laid it on the little desk in the room. Then the long dress itself, a dark blue thing of some silky material and a dozen more tiny buttons. But I managed them and eased the dress off her shoulders and dropped it to pool at her feet.

“David, I…” she started but I shushed her with a fingertip to her lips.

Her bra was oddly industrial-strength, very white, very cotton. I could see the end of the mastectomy scar peeking out from it. Sam had told me she had a bout of breast cancer and I wasn’t surprised.

“I know,” I said softly, my lips close to her ear as my fingers worked on the hooks in the back.

When I had the bra loose I tugged the straps and she was oddly modest, holding her arms close to her body, holding it on.

“A bit late for that, isn’t it?” I asked, smiling, and tugging on the straps.

“Oh God,” she sort of moaned softly, and let me have it.

Rita’s a small-breasted woman and the mastectomy scar was still reasonably fresh. It was a red line across where her breast used to be and ending under her armpit.

I kissed her and said, “you’re still beautiful, Rita. There’s much more to a woman than two tits. All this means,” and I lightly traced the scar with my fingertip, making her shiver, “is that you are strong enough to survive a terrible threat.”

I bent and kissed the scar, a dozen little kisses from where it began near her breastbone to where it ended at her armpit.

“And Çanakkale Escort Bayan if this one was gone too,” I said, lifting her other breast, small with a huge and very dark areola and a tiny nipple poking up, many of her love bumps almost as big as her nipple, “you’d still be beautiful.”

There were tears in her eyes when I met them again and I kissed her cheeks.

I got to my knees then, slowly, I’m a bit arthritic myself, and lifted one foot after the other to get her shoes off. She had on medium-high heels that did good things for her legs, still the college athlete’s legs. I got off each shoe and then rolled down the pantyhose, a heavy-duty item in a dark suntan shade, presumably to cover the little spider veins that showed.

I chuckled when I saw that she had on Spanks, those sort-of-girdles the plump women use to move things around into a nice hourglass figure. But Rita has always been a slender woman, bordering on thin and even skinny, so I was curious what I’d find when I started rolling them down.

What I found was a woman who had given birth three times, with the body that went along with that condition. She had a bit of a potbelly, something I found cute, covered with a tracery of stretch marks that I found sexy. I took my time, with the Spanks making a tight band across her hips, caressing and kissing those stretch marks and that surprisingly soft belly, making her giggle as I did so. I paid attention to her belly button, a cute little outie, and she squealed when I sucked on it gently.

Eventually, I started rolling the Spanks down again, in combination with her pantyhose, until I had her standing in only her panties, a surprisingly modest, and very opaque pair of not-quite-granny-panties, but not bikinis either.

When I leaned back to admire her, standing in just her panties, I liked very much that she blushed a little.

Finally, I reached and pulled the panties down, letting them join the rest of her clothes in the pool at her feet.

There was not a hair on her body below the neck.

I understand that some men go for the little girl look that shaved women offer, but that’s never been something I care for. In my case, all three of the women I had married had been on the hairy side of the spectrum although none had been what you’d call hirsute, and I’d discouraged the use of razors.

But on Rita, it was a very good look.

She looked like exactly what she was. A woman pushing 70 pretty hard, who had borne three boys and had a mastectomy. Her mons veneris, that lovely Mound of Venus of her pubic arch was prominent, and her nether lips were full and hung loose. Her delicate inner lips, the labia minora for those of you with a human anatomy and physiology class on your transcript, dangled a little in the distinct thigh gap of her legs.

She was, in other words, a mature woman, no mistaking that, and when I bent to kiss her mons the scent of her womanneed, laden with pheromones, filled my nose and I inhaled deeply.

I stood and stepped back, deliberately looking her up and down.

She smiled, the smile of a confident woman, and struck a pose, one of those classic pinup poses, her right arm straight up, left on her hip, left leg lifted and knee bent, toes pointed in a form I’m sure she mastered as a young gymnast.

I grinned, the grin of a confident man I hoped, and extended my hand, forefinger pointing down, and twirled it, the universal gesture for “turn around.”

When her back was to me she struck another pose and she looked GOOD. Her shoulders were still broad and the musculature under them clear. She was thin, too thin I thought, and her spine showed in little bumps from her neck to her ass. That ass was so thin it was almost a boy’s ass, but still lovely and round with a very interesting set of little wrinkles right where she sat, running down to her gluteal sulcus, that crease where ass meets thighs.

Just a hint of an incipient dowager’s hump made me worry about osteoporosis, but that wasn’t an immediate concern.

What was an immediate concern was to get her into my arms so I closed the distance between us, embraced her from behind, and started kissing her neck and shoulders. My hands, meanwhile, started serious exploration, lifting and fondling her breast, tracing that soft potbelly, and touching where she was smooth and already delightfully wet.

She arched her back and tilted her head, offering her neck for more kisses and her body for more caresses.

We stood like that for a while, me nuzzling and kissing and exploring as she stood, submitting to what I was doing. I heard her breathing getting a little ragged and felt the tension building in her body. I’m pretty sure she realized I had manipulated things into this position. When one member of a couple is naked and the other fully dressed there’s a clear dominance established. I think she liked it.

Eventually, she turned to face me, reached up and put her arms around my neck, and pulled me down for another of those excellent kisses.

She started undressing Escort Çanakkale me, and I let her do the work this time. First, my jacket joined the growing pile on the floor. Then my tie which she undid with confident fingers. There was no tremble in those fingers when she started on the buttons of my shirt and the soft kisses she delivered to the skin she revealed were delivered expertly. My breath caught when she sucked on my left nipple and I yelped when she bit down on it. I would have jerked away but her hands were behind me, exactly opposite where she bit. This was not HER first rodeo either.

She stood and met my eyes.

“Will your wife mind a few little spot bruises?” she asked, the question catching me off guard.

“Huh?” I answered, demonstrating that I’m not always the world-class wit you see before you.

She giggled, a very high-pitched, girlish sound, and I realized she wasn’t quite as much under control as she acted.

“I like to bite, David,” she said, her eyes holding mine and doing that twitching thing some women can pull off as their eyes focus on one eye and then the other, “I think it adds spice, but if Laura’s going to be upset, well, I don’t have to.”

I understood, then, and said, “chow down. She hasn’t seen me naked in over a year, so she’d never know.”

She grinned then, a bit of a feral grin if I’m being honest here, and like a vampire went to my other nipple. She sucked and then bit down, harder than that first time, making me groan and try to escape but, again, her hands had me captured with just the right leverage.

And I came erect.

I’m one of those lucky septuagenarians. My ED (erectile disfunction for those of you who might not have a television to see all of the ads) is mild and fully controlled with my daily dose of Cialis. And since it WAS a wedding and we all know how those women get at a wedding with all of those pheromones flying around, I had taken double doses for the past week.

She eased to her knees, just a little creaky in her movements, and started on my shoes, just as I had done with hers, one foot at a time, making stripping each foot a separate act of sensuality.

She looked up at me and flashed that feral grin again, her too-white, over-bleached teeth gleaming, snapped her teeth together a couple of times, giggled, and started on my belt.

Her hands were still absolutely steady as she undid my belt, the catch of my pants, the zipper, and tugged them far enough past my hips that they could just fall to my ankles.

She kissed my belly then, her tongue tracing the line of my boxers, all the while looking up at me, holding my eyes with hers.

She was VERY good at this.

In fact, this was a new experience for me, and at 74 I thought I was over new sexual experiences.

Her eyes never left mine as she worked my erect shaft out of the little access flap and then started covering it with little kisses and nips, the little bursts of pleasure and pain overlapping.

She giggled, then, and finished with the get-my-pants-down work. As the Bake Shelton song says, “I (almost) fell down trying’ to kick off my jeans.”

Still holding my eyes she took my entire length into her mouth, swallowing hard to get past her gag reflex. She continued swallowing hard, her eyes holding mine, and it felt almost as if she was masturbating me with her throat.

I was brushing her hair with my fingers when she pulled off.

“I’ll finish you if you’d like,” she said.

“As hard as it is,” and I caught what I had just said and burst out laughing.

“As hard as it is to say ‘no’,” I managed after a minute or so, “I think I’d like to do something together.”

She stood and wrapped her arms around my neck, pulled me down, and kissed me.

“Oh good,” she said.

“But first,” I said, and eased to my knees to return the favor.

I smiled up at her, across the wonderfully wrinkled skin of her belly as I took her dangling labia into my mouth and started sucking. She smiled down at me and entwined her fingers in my hair, pulling me to her. I sucked, gently at first and then harder, feeling the way she swelled in my mouth, enjoying the taste and feel of her thick, hot lubricant, salty and slightly oily, as she smiled down at me, obviously enjoying our positions.

I found her ass with my hands, the hard muscles with pretty much no fat left, and pulled her to me as I sucked harder, bobbing my head now, pulling at her pussy with my mouth as my hands spread her cheeks and touched that most intimate, sensitive spot.

I liked, very much, that her breathing was starting to catch, but her eyes never left mine as her hips started rocking in invitation, joining me, accepting what I was doing, and clearly wanting more.

And I gave her more. She was so swollen she was filling my mouth by then, and her breath was coming in harsh hisses.

When she came it was spectacular. Her fingers in my hair twisted, hurting now but I didn’t stop what I was doing. Her love honey was thick and hot and slick and absolutely delicious as I nursed at her pussy like a hungry baby, drinking her pleasure like the finest wine (well, the best beer, I’m not much of a wine drinker). I felt the tension in her ass where I held her to me, and squeezed the muscles under my hands, making her groan but bringing another gush of her delicious nectar.