Rhonda McDaniel's wedding day was a perfect day for a wedding, a perfect day for just about anything. It was early September, sunny and warm and for Rhonda, all was right with the world. Or so it appeared. She was all smiles and laughter, beautiful in her long white gown, her light brown tresses flowing down, her figure still full, but not as full as it had been months ago when she began to drop weight for the Big Day. She planned to lose more weight for her beloved betrothed, or maybe not. Damian said he liked her 'just the way you are,' and once even began to sing the Billy Joel song before she cut him off. She loved Damian; she just didn't love his singing voice, such as it was.
She had some time before the zero hour. Guests had not yet arrived at Chesapeake Resorts, the fancy country club by the Chesapeake Bay where both the ceremony and reception would take place. The main ballroom was all set, filled with fifteen round tables, ten place settings per table, each with a water glass and a champagne flute, plates and silverware that rested atop fine white linen. The bar was ready too, and so was the bartender. Beefy Sam, club members called him, thirty-something and heavyset. His tip jar stood empty, waiting for the bunch of ones that guests would no doubt stuff later on. The parquet dance floor was also empty, awaiting the arrival of the five-piece band.
Rhonda was nervous. In fact, they all were—Jasmine, her college-age sister, her aunt Millie, her dad Westin and a few relatives. Her pretty bridesmaids were there in their long blue dresses, helping her to get ready, doing their best to calm her pre-wed jitters. Her aunt, the hair stylist, worked on her, trying to make her coiffure look as perfect as she could. Rhonda felt lucky to have an aunt like Millie, her deceased mom's sister who fussed over Rhonda and Jasmine as if they were her own daughters.
Her widowed dad, Westin McDaniel, stood off to the side, letting the women do their thing. He might be footing the bill, but it was the women who did the rest. He was conventionally handsome, from his tawny tan (he was a construction supervisor), to his full head of sliver-gray hair, parted in the middle, to his solid, six-foot two inch frame. Some say he bore a slight resemblance to a young Ted Turner. Rhonda might be twenty-seven, but she was still his little girl. Soon he'd be "giving her away," not losing a daughter but gaining a son as the cliché went. He was okay with it, knew that Damien was a good man, had a good job with the county, one with benefits and a pension system if he stayed long enough. He'd treat Rhonda the way he'd want any man to treat his daughter.
Westin looked forward to dancing with Rhonda. She and Damien would have the first dance, and then it would be his turn to waltz her across the dance floor. She'd be Mrs. Rhonda Bennett by then. He smiled to himself, thinking back to what she told him last week. 'One last hurrah, dad, we'll have one last hurrah before I become Mrs. Rhonda Bennett.' Their planned rendezvous earlier in the week didn't happen, what with Rhonda busy every hour of the day, caught up in the minutia for her wedding. He was disappointed but understood. They had their fun. Now it was time to move on.
The future Mrs. Bennett thought about what she told Westin, even as she was about to embark on what was perhaps the greatest journey one can take in life. As she sat there while her aunt worked on her hair, surrounded by her bridesmaids, she looked up at her dad and gave him a knowing grin. He grinned back. She hoped he could read her lips: "There's still time."
He chuckled, waved his hand at her, dismissing what he knew couldn't happen. His body language said it all: Are you kidding me? It couldn't happen surrounded by company in what they called the prep room, and it sure couldn't happen in the main ballroom. As they discussed, she planned to be loyal to her husband. There would be no more fooling around, no cheating. So what did she mean by there's still time?
"An hour to show time," Westin told her. Rhonda nodded, thinking how dapper her dad looked in his blue, double-breasted suit. She could only hope that her Damien would look that good when he turned forty-eight. He was in another room, surrounded by his own "entourage." She wouldn't see him again until Westin walked her down the aisle toward the altar. Meanwhile, there was still enough time for that last hurrah. "Come on dad," she said, "let's take a walk. I need to walk off these pre-wed jitters."
When they entered the hall, Rhonda whispered to him that there was probably plenty of privacy to be had upstairs, a warren of offices and store rooms. She was here last year for a friend's wedding, so she knew. "But you look so nice," he said. "You'll get all messy and sweaty."
"Not the way I picture us doing it." She lead him up the back stairwell to the second floor. Because it was a Saturday, the offices were empty, empty and unlocked. One even had a sofa as well as the usual office furniture.
Offices and store rooms hadn't been their usual venues. It was motel rooms and sometimes in the apartment she shared with Damien—when he wasn't there, of course. It had been going on since she graduated college, started a few months after her mom died. Rhonda was between relationships, the time between when she broke up with her last boyfriend and the time she met Damien. Both were grieving and needed something to ameliorate their grief. They found that something in ways that neither could have once imagined.
She initiated it one day after Westin came home and caught her masturbating. She was still living at home. Jasmine was out shopping. Westin saw her through the screen door, saw her out back on the patio doing it, saw her fingers shoved down her shorts, moving at a rapid pace. She knew he was there. At first, she was embarrassed. But then she found it titillating, her dad watching her finger-fuck her wet pussy. She felt bold enough to sit up and say, 'Don't just stand there and watch me, dad, do something.' So he did, helped her to climax using his tongue. She then returned the favor. Full intercourse came later.
So now they were in this office furnished with a green leather sofa, she in her wedding gown, he in his dapper, double-breasted suit, both looking so clean and pretty. She bent over, grabbed the hem of her gown and lifted it up, fully exposing her bare thighs, full and white and luscious. She chuckled watching him stare, got turned on just knowing what this was doing to him. "Our last hurrah, dad," she said, running a finger over her crotch.
"Our last hurrah," he repeated, brushing the end of his mustache. "You sure you won't get all messy and sweaty? 'Cause I sure might." He slipped off his sport coat, then tucked his solid blue tie inside his white shirt, military style.
She giggled and let her gown drop. Then she stepped forward, reached out and felt his crotch. "Ooo, nice. The Goodyear Blimp is ready to fly, I see." The Goodyear Blimp—a pet name for her dad's thick appendage that she came up with during that initial encounter on the patio. She unbuckled his belt, then dropped his pants and underwear. Then, dropping to her knees, she put her mouth around it. After a few strokes, she looked up. "Don't worry, I won't make you come over your good suit pants."
He lovingly stroked her tresses. "Better quit now, honey, because that's just what I'm gonna do if you keep this up much longer."
"Okay then, let's do it. But this is gonna be a quickie. You sit on the sofa and I'll sit on your lap." With his pants pulled down below his knees, he hopped onto the middle cushion. He then began to stroke his erection, watching the erotic way she slipped off her red panties, slow and sensual, the sort of move he once watched in strip clubs. She looped the garment around one of her thick ankles. Then, lifting her gown, she straddled his cock and began to move, fore and aft. She bent over, gave him a long kiss on the mouth, then straightened up and popped out her boobs, those 'deliciously firm cantaloupes,' Westin once called them. "You love the feel of my firm cantaloupes, don't you, dad?" She bent over, giving him a sample. When her gown began to slide, she tugged it upward, then quickened her pace. 'Poor Damien,' she thought. 'He'll have one tough act to follow. On our wedding night yet.'
"Come when you're ready, dad, don't hold back," she cried. "Shoot your hot jizz into your sexy little princess. And don't worry, I'm protected as always." He alternated between grabbing her wide butt and running his hands along her full, silky-smooth thighs. When he accelerated, she cried, "Yes! Yes! Ohmygod, oh, baby!" Moments later, she could feel said hot jizz shoot inside her.
To his dismay, he couldn't hold it long enough for her to climax. If only they had more time. Fifteen minutes would be enough time for him to rejuvenate—fifteen minutes they didn't have. "I'm really sorry, honey, I couldn't hold it any longer. You're just too damn sexy."
She climbed off him, grabbed a tissue on the desk, then lifted her gown and swiped it across her crotch. She was soaking wet, and not just from his jizz. "Don't feel bad, dad, that's okay. We're pressed for time. That's the downside of quickies." She pulled up her panties and popped her boobs back in while he fixed his pants and then slipped his jacket back on. Then she turned to him and said, "Well, am I all sweaty and messy?"
He took a tissue and dabbed her forehead. "You might want to touch up your makeup."
"And you might want to wipe my lipstick off your mouth." He pulled out a hanky and took her advice. Then, glancing at the sofa cushion, he wiped all "evidence" from there, too.
She ducked into the half bath attached to the office, looked in the mirror and saw that she needed to apply a touch more lipstick and blush. However, with her purse downstairs where the people were, she knew it would take some slick maneuvering.
The ceremony was scheduled to start in less than an hour. Quickly, they descended the back stairwell, walked a few yards down an empty corridor and then emerged into the Chesapeake's lobby, where a few of the guests waited to be called into the chapel room. Weston and Rhonda greeted them just as her aunt came into the lobby. "Where have you two been? We're starting in about twenty minutes."
Rhonda grinned. "Just walking off the jitters, aunt Millie."
Westin shrugged. "The kid's nervous. Can't blame her."
Not waiting for her aunt's response, Rhonda made a B-line for the prep room to retrieve her makeup from her purse. Her bridesmaids asked if she was okay, questioned where she'd been. Rhonda told them the same thing while touching up holding a pocket mirror. The dampness and tingling between her legs distracted her. Damn, if only they had had more time. She started to feel dizzy, and figured it was a good idea to sit with her head tucked between her legs. Her concerned bridesmaids huddled around her. "You're not going to faint at the altar, are you?" one of them cracked. The girls giggled.
Just then, Westin and Millie walked into the prep room. Millie gripped the sides of her orange sequined gown, holding the long hem just above her blue high heeled shoes. She cried, "Oh my goodness, are you getting cold feet?! We've got fifteen minutes."
'More like a hot pussy,' Rhonda thought, shaking her head. She hadn't yet come down.
Westin stooped down in front of her, holding her hand. "Honey, are you okay?"
"I will be when you walk me down the aisle." She winked. He winked back and helped her up, then held her while she took a few wobbly steps. "I'm fine," she said. "Let's do this thing."
Moments later, she smiled lovingly at Damien as Westin escorted her to the altar to the strains of Felix Mendelssohn's wedding march. The over one-hundred guests sat and beamed and commented in whispers how pretty she looked. And she did too, her face model pretty, her body chunky, though far from obese. Under her breath, and still looking straight ahead, she said, "I feel so self-conscious after that."
Westin didn't break stride. "Relax. Nobody suspects a thing."
"Will you have this man to be your lawfully wedded husband..." The bald preacher man delivered the traditional wedding vows, which Rhonda and Damien repeated. Then they kissed. It was hardly their first kiss. In fact, as many of the guests knew, they'd been living together for over a year— "in sin" a prudish, old school traditionalist might say.
Following the wedding party, guests poured out of the chapel room and into the ballroom. The band warmed up. Guests took their seats at assigned tables, while their significant others lined up at the bar. The former Rhonda McDaniel was the first to line up. She ordered a glass of wine, Riesling, her fave. Damien, a light drinker compared to his betrothed, took a bottle of Blue Moon brew. They returned to their seats just as the waiters began to serve the salads. Rhonda tried to steer her concerns away from what had just taken took place in that office. It wasn't easy, not with moist panties and erogenous zones that still hadn't fully calmed down. She made lively conversation with the guests at her table, Jasmine and close friends, which included a few of her bridesmaids. The thin, twenty-something blond who made the crack about Rhonda fainting at the altar, said, "Glad to see you made it okay." She giggled along with the girls who witnessed it.
Damien, tall and handsome in his traditional tux, wanted to know what was so funny. "Did I miss something?" The blond told him about Rhonda's dizzy spell. He laughed. "Well, now it's over," he said. "There's nothing to be nervous about anymore."
"Right," Rhonda said, forcing a smile and thinking that only two people in the room knew the real reason she became dizzy. She consumed her Riesling in a few swallows and then got up for more.
"Maybe she's still nervous," Jasmine joked.
Damien got up and walked over to his new wife. He knew about her excess drinking. She wasn't an alcoholic; she just went overboard at social functions. It was one of those "negatives" about her that he tried to overlook. But doing it at her own wedding? Not cool. "Rhonda, you gulped that down like somebody gulps water for a parched throat. Maybe you should make this your last one."
"Damien, dear, it's my wedding, and I can drink if I want to." His "advice" ticked her off, but she resisted arguing on the day of all days and in front of all those people. "Now why don't you return to our table. Don't worry, I can handle it. I won't embarrass you or myself."
