An Exciting Wedding (A VULGAR erotic short story)

   
Martin considered the facts carefully, even coldbloodedly. He was thirty-six, not exactly a spring chicken. He'd screwed more than his fair share of birds in his twenties before meeting Angela and he'd screwed quite a few after meeting her too, although after Angela had moved in with him, he had been obliged to cut down a bit. Sex with Angela had been quite exciting to start with, maybe not as great as some of the others, but Angela was more amusing and interesting than any other women he knew and that counted for something. Also she was very clearly very much in love with him, which was flattering. Martin was genuinely very fond of her, even loved her a little. Angela was very attractive, tall for a woman, blonde hair, blue eyes, good figure. They had a lot in common: the same taste in food, books, theatre, music. All right, Angela loved the ballet which he utterly detested, all those pansies prancing around; he loved the opera which Angela could barely tolerate. But they could cope with this minor difference. Additionally, Angela's parents were obscenely rich and, although currently alive and well, when they died Angela would inherit the lot.

  Martin decided very sensibly that he could do very much worse than marry Angela and raise a family. He could still have the occasional fling at the office or at a conference as long as he was careful. And anyway, in ten years' time he'd be a bit long in the tooth for nubile secretaries' tastes. Martin therefore told Angela he loved her very much and wanted her to marry him and have his children and would she marry him. Angela said yes.

  Angela's father, relieved that his beloved only daughter was finally being made into an honest woman, gave them a cheque for a very large amount of money. More than enough to allow them to move out of their trendy but cramped Notting Hill Gate flat into a bijou Georgian cottage in Richmond.

  'I knew Daddy would do something like that. He was never keen on my living with you without being married, but he never actually said so,' Angela explained, when Martin saw the cheque. 'I'm pleased I never told you. I wanted to be sure you were marrying me for me, not for the money,' she added, kissing him affectionately.

  The wedding was in church, Anglican naturally, other varieties usually required some measure of belief. Even though neither Martin nor Angela were religious, they decided that Angela's parents deserved a bit of a ceremony, especially as they were paying for it. Martin's parents were indifferent to the religious side, although they were delighted that their son had married into money. It was quite a lavish affair; perhaps nothing special by High Society standards, but still there were a good hundred and fifty people there. All paid for by Angela's Daddy.

  Martin first noticed the woman he later found out was Heather as he was leaving the church with his happy new wife on his arm. He saw an intense, rather sharp-nosed but still very pretty face with deep, dark brown eyes staring intently and unblinkingly at him as they walked up the aisle towards the open door at the far end of the nave. The face's owner was a small, slightly built young woman, mid-twenties perhaps, with jet-black hair cut into a fashionably androgynous page boy style. She was standing next to a tallish good-looking blonde man. His bright orange silk bow tie matched the girl's orange silk dress exactly. It seemed to be quite a subtle couple statement, he thought. He was wrong, as it turned out. She smiled at him and winked very deliberately.

  Outside the church, Martin couldn't resist asking Angela who the couple were - he had never seen either of them before and they were on 'her' side of the church anyway. Martin phrased his question carefully.
  'That tall fair chap with the lurid orange tie and the short girl in the bright orange dress. Who were they?' he asked as casually as he could and Angela thought for a moment before answering.
  'That's Andrew. He's a cousin. Daddy's younger brother's son. We used to be great chums when we were kids, but they moved away. I've not seen him for years. I heard he was a bit queer, but he seems to have a girl friend. I thought she had weird eyes, didn't you?'
  'I never noticed her eyes,' Martin lied professionally.

  The reception was held in a hotel down by the river at Twickenham, not far from Angela's parents' home. Martin hadn't forgotten the wink from the girl with the big, dark eyes, but he had managed to banish it from the front of his consciousness until halfway through the best man's speech. He suddenly realised she was watching him from a table at the very back of the banqueting room. He couldn't think how he hadn't noticed her before. She seemed to have a smile playing on her face. He held and caught her eyes for a moment, before reluctantly withdrawing his gaze. He was probably imagining it. Why would she keep staring at him?

  Much to his own surprise, he felt the unmistakeable stirrings of an erection as he thought of how she might look naked. He couldn't stop his eyes from going back to her. She was still looking at him. She pursed her lips into the unmistakeable outline of a kiss. He realised she was the most incredibly sensual creature he had ever seen in his entire life. His erection was almost painful.

  After delivering his own less than perfect bridegroom's speech, during which he had struggled continuously against the temptation to look at the unknown beauty in the orange dress, Martin sat down to applause and cheers. His palms were damp and he could feel moisture running down the sides of his body. He was trembling, not with relief that his speech was over, but with desire.

  After the formal dinner had ended, and before the jazz band began to play for dancing, his eyes ranged over the crowd, searching out the woman who had so disturbed him. She was nowhere to be seen. An hour or so passed, old friends came and congratulated him, people he didn't know came and told him to take care of Angela, and a quick chat with his new wife told him that everyone thought he had spoken well and the event was a huge success so far.

  He was standing near the main bar, a large damask-covered table where smartly dressed waiters poured out unending flutes of Daddy's champagne, when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He turned around. It was her. She was even more attractive close up than he had realised. Her skin was flawless, slightly olive, whether thanks to suntan or nature he did not yet know. What had seemed to be a sharpish nose at a distance was now revealed to be deliciously pert and elfin. She was beautiful.

  'I'm Heather Watson,' she said in a soft, surprisingly deep and clear voice. 'Congratulations, Martin. You make a very attractive couple. Cheers.' And she toasted him with her champagne.
  'Thank you,' Martin blushed. He paused a moment before ploughing on, 'I saw you at the back of the room earlier. You're with Andrew, Angela's cousin Andrew, aren't you?' He knew it must sound lame.
  'So you found that out did you? That was quick work.' Martin felt himself blushing uncontrollably as she continued calmly. 'But I'm not really with Andrew, not in that sense, if you see what I mean. We just work together. Andrew's gay but was too embarrassed to bring his boy friend. So he asked me.'

  'I'm pleased you could come. I hope you're enjoying the day, it must be a bit boring, not knowing anyone.'
  'I know you now,' Heather smiled. 'I saw you looking at me.'
  'Yes, well, I... You're not easy to miss. I mean, that's a lovely dress and, well,' he floundered.
  'You were looking at me a lot.'
  'I couldn't help it. You were staring at me. You winked at me.'
  'And why do you think I would do a thing like that to the bridegroom, on his wedding day?' Heather teased.
  'I don't know, I..'
  'But you do know, Martin. You know exactly why I winked at you. And I know why you couldn't keep your eyes off me.' And she glanced down at Martin's groin and smiled. She must be able to see the bulge there, Martin thought almost hysterically.
  'Listen, Martin,' Heather said softly in her almost boyish voice. 'I'm going for a little exploration of the hotel now, just to see what I can find. I'll see you back here, in this same spot,' and she indicated the floor with a downturned forefinger. 'In twenty minutes. I may have a little surprise for you. Don't be late.'

  She smiled her elfin smile, turned on her heel and, without waiting for a reply, collected a replacement glass of champagne from the barman, and picked her way through the milling guests. Martin could see she was very slim, her firm and pert buttocks moving against the tightly stretched orange silk of her dress. She turned her head slightly and winked lasciviously at him. Martin's heart was pounding against his chest like a lovesick teenager's. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes. Something told him she shouldn't be late for Heather.

  A carefully measured but endless nineteen minutes later, after another bout of circulation, a huddled chat with his bride, a few words with his proud parents, Martin found himself near to where Heather had left him. He took up position four or five yards away from the champagne bar to wait for her. He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun round expectantly. Instead of the mysterious black haired woman, he saw it was a friend from university. It was almost a relief.

  'Congratulations, Martin! You're a lucky guy! Angela's lovely! Absolutely beautiful! How the fuck did someone like you get hold of someone as fucking gorgeous as that? It's just not fucking fair!'
  'Fuck off John, you're pissed.'
  'No, no seriously. She's gorgeous. I'm really pleased for you. My very, very, very best wishes. You won't mind if I ask the lovely Angela for a dance, will you? I promise not to abduct her!'
  'That's fine, John. Go ahead. Thanks.' And drunken John tottered off to try and find Angela for a dance. If he could stay vertical long enough.

  Martin looked back to the champagne bar. Heather was standing there, glass in hand, head to one side, looking at him quizzically. He made his way towards her as quickly as he could. She was delightful. Elegant. Sexy. Desirable.

  'You're late!' she said.
  'Sorry, I got held up by some drunken school friend.'
  'I know. I saw. That's why I waited. Otherwise I would have left. I hate, hate, hate lateness.'
  'I'm sorry,' he repeated.
  'Well, my explorations were successful. I've found somewhere.'
  'You've found somewhere?' he echoed.
  'Yes. I've found somewhere. Somewhere interesting.' She paused for dramatic effect. 'Take the lift to the third floor, turn right out of the lift, take the fourth door on your right. Knock. I'll be waiting for you. In exactly twenty minutes. OK?'
  'OK,' said Martin in disbelief.

  Heather held out her hand for him to take formally and said in a slightly raised voice for the benefit of anyone nearby, 'Congratulations again, Martin. I really must be off now.' And she raised herself on tip toe to kiss him chastely on the cheek. 'Don't be late,' she whispered.

  She brushed her hand against the erection which was pressing eagerly against his trousers, gave it a brief squeeze and then kissed him equally chastely on the other cheek. 'I feel exactly the same, but sort of differently. If you see what I mean,' she commented. Martin was incredulous. He had been publicly groped on his wedding day.

  The next seventeen minutes passed agonizingly slowly, it seemed to Martin. He simply could not believe what was happening to him. It was like a dream. He made his duty rounds as if in a trance. He danced with his bride. He chatted to his new father-in-law. He glanced at his watch repeatedly. 'Catching a train, are you?' someone wittily commented.

  Martin headed for the lift as ordered. Eighteen minutes gone. The glowing indicator showed the lift was at the third floor at the moment. He watched it come down: second floor, first floor, ground floor. The doors opened and an old lady with a walking stick made a painfully slow exit. He got in and jabbed the button for the third floor. Nineteen minutes. The lift seemed to take forever. He nearly ran out of the lift as the gates opened at the third floor and he reached the fourth door on the right almost exactly on time. He knocked and heard the key turn. He opened the door and looked inside. It was a linen cupboard with shelves stacked with sheets and towels reaching from the floor to the ceiling on one side. The other side was a bare wall. At the end was a small window which gave onto an internal stairwell. He stepped inside and the door closed behind him. In the early autumn evening light from the unwashed window he saw the naked figure of Heather Watson standing behind the door and he heard the lock click.

  'Nice timing, Martin. Do you like what you see?'

  Heather looked ravishing. Her skin was golden from head to foot. If it were a natural suntan, she obviously sunbathed nude as there were no bikini stripes. Maybe she was naturally olive skinned. Maybe she was a gypsy. She was the most beautiful and desirable creature Martin had ever seen in his life. She had small, upturned breasts with large black nipples. Her pubic hair was sparse but also jet black. Her legs were surprisingly long for such a small woman and she had shapely but still slim, boyish hips.

  'You are beautiful,' breathed the stunned Martin, reaching out to touch her face. 'Absolutely beautiful.' He took her in his arms and kissed her. He ran his hands down her body. Her skin was satin smooth. His hands found their way to her buttocks which were firm and which flexed as he caressed them. She reeked strongly of a particularly pungent perfume which he recognised but couldn't name.

  'We haven't much time. You might be missed. Just take your jacket off. And drop your trousers. I like the idea of your fucking me fully clothed whilst I'm naked. Quickly, I'm dripping.'

  He did as she was told and found out she was telling the truth. Her sex was drenched with love juice. She looked down at his erect penis and smiled.

  'Thank God you're circumcised. I hate foreskins. Now fuck me. Up against the wall, fuck me.'

  And she guided him into her and writhed like a wildcat as he thrust into her, impaling her and crushing her against the bare, cold wall of the linen room. He reached down to kiss her and their tongues meshed together hungrily.

  'I'm going to come for you Martin,' she panted into his ear. 'I want you to feel me coming.' And with only a moment's warning she screamed into his ear that she was coming and that he must come with her. Martin climaxed with a loud groan.

  After the sudden but devastating coupling was over, Martin stepped back, slid out of her and rested against the shelves of linen, panting. Sweat was streaming down his face and his heart was racing. Heather fell to her knees and took his half-erect penis in her mouth and licked it clean. She stood up and faced him with her elfin smile. Her perfume was even stronger now and he could taste it on his lips.

  'What perfume are you wearing? he asked.
  'Do you want to see me again?' she enquired, ignoring his question.
  He nodded and mumbled, 'Yes.'
  'How about if I fell in love with you?'
  'I don't know.'
  'How about if I already have fallen in love with you?'
  'I must see you again. I've never experienced anything like that before. It was incredible. You're incredible. I can't believe this is happening.'
  'You'd better get dressed and go downstairs. We've been away for too long,' Heather said calmly.

  He pulled up his trousers, feeling inelegant and vulnerable, his legs shaking and his heart beating irregularly. 'My legs are trembling. I'm not sure I can walk OK.' he said, pulling on his jacket clumsily in the confined space.

  'That's why they call it a knee-trembler, my love,' Heather replied with a gentle laugh. She then reached down to her handbag, opened it and pulled out a small white and gold business card. She handed it to Martin. He looked at the card and read "Heather Watson, Account Executive". The company was a well-known advertising agency; he knew several people who worked there; her office was only two streets away from his own company's headquarters.

  'I've written my private number on the back for you. If you want to see me again, phone me on Monday at the office. Before four o'clock as I'm meeting client then. I shan't call you. I've made all the running so far, so the rest is up to you. If you don't call me before four on Monday you'll never see me again. If you do call me,' and here Heather kissed Martin tenderly on the mouth, 'I might just fall in love with you.'

  'Look, there's a problem. I'm away Monday. I'll call you Tuesday or Wednesday. I must see you again.'
  'No. Monday. You can be in fucking Timbuctoo on your fucking honeymoon. I don't care. But if you don't call me on Monday, that's it. Adios. It depends if you're interested, that is.'

  And before Martin could say anything else, she opened the door and gently but firmly pushed him into the corridor. 'I'd wash the lipstick off your face before you go downstairs,' she advised with a pert smile. Before the door closed, her perfect, utterly desirable face popped out of the linen cupboard again. He looked at her naked, olive-skinned shoulders with not fully-abated desire.

  'I forgot: it's Shalimar, and it's by Guerlain. I always wear it. I think it suits me.'
  'I'll call you on Monday.'
  'Don't be late.'
  And the door closed. Martin didn't know how he would survive the rest of the evening.