The Wedding Feast

The Wedding Feast

Simon, a successful, athletically handsome, and intelligent twenty-six-year-old London estate agent, returned to his family home in Sussex for his sister Susan's wedding. A Christmas wedding. The evening before the main event, the men all went to the local pub whilst the ladies stayed at the house and prepared the bride to be in the house.

Around eleven, the men arrived back and barged into the front door, whereupon Simon's mother, Dorothy, barred the way.

"Now wait, it's bad luck to see the bride the night before the wedding."

Simon saw the women run upstairs, giggling, glimpsing the telltale white hem of his sister's wedding gown as they disappeared. His sister's fiancée, Jack, not blind drunk but a little worse for wear, pushed past Dorothy.

"It's fucking freezing out here. Let me in, you."

Simon was taken aback, especially when the other men said nothing and followed Jack, ignoring Dorothy.

"The spirit cabinet's in the dining room," shouted Simon's father. "Anyone for a nightcap?"

The men filed past, with Jack, a little dazed, left standing in the hall. Simon put his arm round Jack's shoulder in a friendly manner and guided him into the lounge. He pulled the door to, but it didn't quite shut. Simon roughly pushed Jack onto the settee.

"Sit down, fucker, and listen to me."

"Wha-wha-what are you doing, mate?"

"I'm not your mate, and you just crossed a line." Jack looked dazed and also scared. "You know I was chucked out of school for kicking another lad's head in, don't you?"

"I... er..." Jack stammers.

"Stand up." Jack stood, a good four inches shorter than Simon. "Nobody, but nobody insults my mum. Understand?" Jack nodded his head, lip quivering. "So, you will apologise, now."

"Alright, just don't hit me."

"And you will address mum as Mrs Hadley at all times from now on, not Dorothy, and definitely not 'you'. Got that, because if you don't, you'll be going up that aisle in a wheelchair tomorrow."

Dorothy, still standing in the hall, overheard the whole interchange through the slightly ajar lounge door, and glowed with motherly pride at Simon's defence of her. She also felt an unnerving sensation between her legs, with her sex, usually a little dry from menopause, moistening at her son's strident tones. Jack shuffled into the hall.

"I'm sorry for being rude, Mrs Hadley,"" he muttered.

"Oh, that's alright," beamed Dorothy. "We'll think nothing of it, now go and join the other men in the dining room." For the rest of the evening, Dorothy's gaze barely left Simon.

The following morning, Simon's father and sister Susan had already gone to the hotel where the reception would be held, so that the bride to be could make final preparations before her father gave her away. Back at the house, Dorothy was dressed and ready, and Simon admired his mother, in her tight-fitting two-piece suit, high heels, and seamed stockings, a black fascinator hat adorning her blonde permed hair.

"You're a mother to be proud of," he told her, and she glowed once more.

"Come with me to the loft?" she asked Simon. "I've something to show you." Simon followed his mother up the stairs to the landing, watching her soft curves undulate and her taught, seamed calves tense with each tread.

"You go first," Dorothy giggled, pointing to an extending ladder that led to a ceiling hatch.. "I shouldn't go up that in front of a man wearing this tight skirt." So son, then mother, climbed into the loft, whereupon Dorothy switched on a dim, shadeless light bulb, then opened an ancient looking cardboard box in the corner, to reveal her wedding dress.

"I wore this twenty-eight years ago." She held the dress up against herself.

"You could still get into that, mum. Your figure has hardly changed."

"Thank you darling. Now, I have a little confession to make." Dorothy then admitted to Simon she overheard him talking to Jack. Simon flinched a little, remembering the trouble he got into for fighting as a teenager.

"Sorry mum, I just lost it."

"No, no, I loved it, made me feel... well, protected. My knight in shining armour." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Simon showed no reaction.

"Oh, why don't you give me a little more affection?"

Simon said nothing and looked to the floor. He wondered if putting his arms around his mother might lead to more than the affection of a son.

"I'm so proud of you Simon."

"You never said that before, Mum. I always felt when I got into trouble at school you didn't think I was good enough, then when my career took off you were just sarcastic. Told me I was some kind of superman."

"You are darling. I..." Dorothy looked coy, batting heavily macarid lashes that touched Simon's senses somehow, despite her being his mother. "You, now how can I say this... are something your father can never be. He is a good man, don't get me wrong, but you... well... you're special."

"Come on Mum," joked Simon, whilst still feeling odd at his mother's look. "We're going to be late."

"You go down the ladder first. My modesty will be fine walking down facing you, as long as I takes off my high heels. It won't be as unladylike as it would have been going up backwards," she laughed. Simon went first as instructed, then Dorothy descended the ladder, stilettoes in hand.

"Be a darling and slip these on for me, I don't want to go stockinged feet on the cold floor." She stood on the lowest ladder rung and Simon knelt, taking his mother's exquisite stockinged feet in hand and slipping them into her beautiful court shoes. Their eyes met for a brief moment. Was there a recognition of something more than just a mother and son?

They took the family Range Rover to the church, Simon driving through what was already becoming a serious snowstorm, as extreme weather warning's interrupted the music on the radio.

The wedding itself was a blizzard of white lace and whispered promises, the kind that filled Simon's heart with a warmth that had nothing to do with the crackling fire inside the entrance to the church. His sister Susan looked like a porcelain doll in her gown, a stark contrast to the tempestuous weather brewing outside. Jack, her soon-to-be husband, was the picture of nervous excitement, his eyes darting around the room like a caged bird seeking an escape from the impending vows.

Dorothy, on the other hand, was a vision of poised elegance. Her eyes gleamed with a secret amusement as she watched the guests arrive, as if she were in on a delicious joke that no one else knew.

During the wedding breakfast, a fabulous feast held in an ornate baroque banqueting hall, Dorothy sat next to her husband, with the bride and groom next to him and Jack's parents the other side. Simon sat next to Dorothy.

"Darling," she whispered. "I er... have to go back to the house."

"Not now mum, surely."

"It's a tablet, I have to have it. It's in my other handbag. Would you drive me back, please?"

"Can't it wait?"

"No darling, it's, er... HRT, testosterone if you must know. Has to be taken same time every day, regular as clockwork, otherwise, well... let's just say I'll have problems."

"OK mum, but let's be quick." They made their excuses and left the hall, coming out to high drifting snow.

"Oh dear," said Dorothy. "I can't walk through all that snow in these shoes."

"No problem mum," said Simon, and promptly took her in his arms and lifted her up. Dorothy gasped.

"Now, over to the car." Simon felt his skin tingle at the touch of her mink coat, soft against his cheek, and the delicious hardness of suspender buckles beneath her skirt.

"Strong boy," Dorothy said breathlessly, as Simon strode through the snow.

"Strong enough for both of us."

When the time came for her to slip out of his arms into the car, Dorothy took Simon's arm with a gentle tug, whispering sweet nothings of gratitude into his ear. The warmth of her breath sent a shiver down his spine, and he couldn't help but feel a thrill at the soft press of her hand on his forearm.

The journey to the house was a silent dance of anticipation. The snow fell harder, swirling around the Range Rover as if it were a ship lost at sea. Inside, the warmth of their shared secret seemed to amplify with each passing mile, the drifting snow adding to the excitement. Would they even make it home?

The powerful Range Rover just managed the last half mile, and the moment they stepped into the hall, the reality of their situation set in. Dorothy opened her daytime handbag, found the pill box and went into the lounge, whilst Simon called the hotel. The desk clerk informed him that the road had indeed become impassable, and the other guests, including Simon's father would have to stay the night. Simon's heart hammered in his chest, a mix of excitement and trepidation.

"Mum, we're snowed in and stuck here on our own for the night. The others will have to stay at the hotel," he called out.

Back in the lounge, Dorothy peeled off her gloves, her hands trembling slightly as she unbuttoned her fur coat. She looked at Simon, her eyes dark with unspoken desires. Simon stepped closer, his hand reaching out to help her remove the mink coat. As the deliciously sensual fabric slid from her shoulders, the scent of Dorothy's perfume filled the space between them, a heady bouquet of jasmine and vanilla that seemed to cling to the very air.

"Hope you got a license for that thing?" Simon joked, as the mink slid from her shoulders.

Their fingers brushed as he took the coat from her, and a spark of electricity shot through him. He watched as Dorothy crossed the room, her stockinged legs moving with a grace that seemed almost unreal. She bent to place the coat on the settee, the fabric of her skirt hugging her curves with a tantalizing promise of what lay beneath. The soft rustle of material was the only sound as she moved, a siren's call that made his blood rush hot and fast.

"Light the fire darling," Dorothy cooed, pointing at the grate, where logs and paper were already laid. Simon took a taper, lit it with a match from a box lying on the hearth, then watched as the fire sparked into life. He poured two glasses of ruby red wine, his hand steady despite his racing thoughts. He handed one to his mother, their fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. The warmth of the liquid spread through them, loosening inhibitions that had been stretched taut like a bowstring. They sat on the edge of the settee, the plush velvet upholstery giving slightly beneath their weight.

Dorothy took a sip, her eyes never leaving Simon's. She popped a pill from the box on her tongue, and sipped again, then placed the glass on the floor and reached out, her hand resting on Simon's thigh. The heat of her palm burned through the fabric of his pants, sending a bolt of desire straight to his core. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the tumult of his emotions. Her touch was tender, yet firm, a silent question that demanded an answer.

Simon's hand hovered over hers for a moment, then he covered it with his own, his thumb stroking the delicate skin of her wrist. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips, matching the erratic beat of his own heart. The room grew smaller, the air thick with the unspoken confessions that danced on the edge of their lips. He leaned in, his breath hot against her cheek, and whispered, "I've wanted this for so long."

Her response was a soft gasp, her hand sliding up his leg to rest on his thigh, her fingers curling around the firm muscle. The heat of her palm seemed to sear through the fabric of his pants, and he felt the undeniable pressure of his arousal swell. The space between them shrank to a mere sigh as they leaned in, their lips finally meeting in a kiss that was both gentle and fierce. It was a kiss that held the promise of a thousand unspoken confessions, of a bond that transcended the ordinary boundaries of mother and son.

Simon's hands moved to the buttons of her jacket, his trembling fingers fumbling with the tiny pearls. Dorothy's own hands were not steadier as she reached up to his face, her fingertips tracing the contours of his cheeks, his jaw, her touch as if memorizing the landscape of his desire. With a soft pop, the buttons gave way, and she shrugged out of the jacket, her blouse parting to reveal the swell of her breasts, the lacy edge of her black lingerie peeking through the opening.

He kissed her neck, his tongue tracing the delicate line of her throat, feeling the rapid pulse beneath her skin. The taste of her was intoxicating, a sweetness that seemed to beckon him further, deeper into the warm, secret caverns of her body. His hand slipped inside her blouse, cupping her breast, his thumb circling the hardened nub of her nipple. She moaned, the sound a symphony to his ears, and leaned into him, her body arching like a bow.

Her fingers found the zipper of his pants, and with a flick of her wrist, she released the tension. He gasped as her cool hand found his heat, her grip firm and knowing. Her touch was a revelation, a promise of things to come. He stood, his pants pooling at his ankles, and stepped out of them, his erection standing tall and proud between them.

Dorothy's eyes grew wide as she took in the sight of her son's arousal, a blush blooming on her cheeks. Yet she did not look away, instead her gaze seemed to devour him, her pupils dilating with each breath she took. She reached out, her fingertips brushing lightly against the velvet skin of his shaft. The contact was electric, and Simon felt his legs threaten to buckle beneath him.

He stepped closer, his chest pressing against hers, and the heat of their bodies melded together. He kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring the recesses of her mouth as if he were a man lost in a desert and she the only oasis. She responded eagerly, her own tongue dancing with his in a sensual tango that left them both gasping for breath.

Her hands moved to his shirt, deftly unbuttoning it and pushing it aside. She ran her nails down his back, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, and he shivered at the sensation. His skin was hot and tight with need, and he could feel the muscles in his abdomen quiver with each ragged inhale.

Simon's hand slipped up her thigh, the stocking material smooth and cool beneath his touch. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the sheer fabric, and the urge to rip it away and expose her to his gaze was almost unbearable. He slid his hand higher, finding the apex of her legs, the dampness of her arousal seeping through the material.

With a groan, he pulled away from her, the space between them now charged with a palpable tension. He looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, any glimmer of doubt. But all he saw was the same hunger that consumed him, a mirror of his own need.

"Mother," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Her eyes searched his, a silent question in their depths. He could see the war of emotions within her: the desire that mirrored his own, the fear of the unknown, and the love that had always been there, simmering just beneath the surface. He leaned in, capturing her mouth again in a kiss that was as fierce as it was tender. He felt the tremble of her body, the way her breath caught in her throat as she opened to him, her hands clutching at his shirt.

He broke the kiss, his eyes never leaving hers as he reached behind her to unclasp her bra. The garment fell away, revealing the creamy mounds of her breasts, the nipples peaked and begging for his touch. He took one in his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, feeling it harden even more against the softness of his lips. Dorothy moaned, arching her back, pressing herself into him, her hands tangling in his hair. The sensation was like nothing he had ever experienced before, a heady mix of the familiar and the forbidden.

Her skirt was next, a smooth arc of fabric that revealed the matching black lace of her pretty knickers. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and slid it down her legs, taking her panties with it. Dorothy stepped out of them, and for a moment, they were both naked before the fire, the flames casting flickering shadows across their skin. The room was a cocoon of heat and desire, the snow outside a distant memory.

Simon took her hand and led her to the hearth rug, laying her down gently on the plush fur. The softness of the rug against her bare skin sent a shiver down her spine, and she watched as he removed the last of his own clothing. His body was a sculpture of masculine beauty, muscles rippling with restrained power, his cock jutting forth like a warrior's sword.

He hovered above her, his breath warm against her skin as he kissed a trail from her collarbone to her navel. His tongue darted into her belly button, eliciting a giggle that soon turned into a moan as his mouth moved lower, leaving a wake of kisses and nibbles that made her quiver with anticipation. Dorothy's legs parted willingly, inviting him to explore further. The tip of his tongue flicked over her sex, tasting the sweet nectar of her arousal, and she arched her back, her hips rising to meet him.

Simon's hands held her thighs firmly, his thumbs stroking the soft flesh of her inner thighs as his tongue danced around her clit, teasing and taunting. Dorothy's fingers curled into the fur, her nails digging into the luxurious pile as she gasped for air. She could feel the tension coiling tightly in her belly, a knot of pleasure threatening to unravel with each swipe of his tongue. The room spun around her, a kaleidoscope of passion and desire, and she knew she was close, so close to shattering beneath his skilled touch.

Her hips began to rock in time with his ministrations, her body begging for more, for release from the sweet torment he inflicted upon her. He obliged, sliding two fingers into her slick heat, his thumb continuing to circle her clit with unerring precision. Dorothy's moans grew louder, echoing off the rafters as she lost herself in the sensations that flooded her body. The fire crackled and spit, a primal soundtrack to their clandestine love affair.

The storm outside raged, but within the cocoon of their passion, it was as if they were the only two people in the world. The warmth of the fire was a stark contrast to the coolness of the fur beneath them, creating a delicious friction against Dorothy's sensitive skin. She reached down, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him to take her over the edge.

Simon's touch was a masterpiece of seduction, each stroke and lick a testament to his burgeoning love for the woman who had given him life. His fingers curled inside her, stroking the velvet walls of her sex, his thumb pressing insistently against her swollen clit. The tension grew, a coil of need tightening in her belly, and she knew she could hold on no longer. With a cry that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house, Dorothy came, her body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her.

Her orgasm seemed to fuel Simon's desire, his own passion a raging inferno that could no longer be contained. He positioned himself between her thighs, his cock nudging against her wetness, seeking entry. Dorothy's eyes locked onto his, the love and hunger in their depths a silent declaration of intent. She spread her legs wider, inviting him in, her body arching to meet him.

With a gentle push, he slid into her, filling her completely, their union a perfect fit that seemed as if it had been written in the stars. The sensation was like nothing he had ever felt before, a blend of homecoming and discovery that left him reeling. Her muscles clenched around him, her heat enveloping him in a vice-like grip that threatened to consume him. He began to move, his hips rocking in a slow, deliberate rhythm that had her breath hitching in her throat.