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“No! No way! Uh-uh. I’m not going.”

“Please, Daddio.”

“Stop it. You won’t get me to go by doing that,” I said as Lo batted her lashes at me, reached for my cock, and rubbed her hips up against my leg.

“It will be fun.”

“Fun? Your idea of fun and mine are very different.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You think another wedding will be fun?”

“The last one was, remember?”

“I remember — the food was beyond blasé, the music was mediocre, and the people were piss-poor conversationalists.”

“Oh, Daddy. Don’t you remember what we did in the bathroom?”

“That was its only redeeming feature.”

“I have a lot of redeeming features,” she said, pulling her breast out of her blouse.

“You need a lot of redeeming, darling.”

“Suck it,” she commanded.

I bent my head down to her nipple and did as she asked.

“Bite down.”

I followed her instruction.


I did as she wished.

“Mmmmmm, that’s it. Make it hurt. Pull it with your teeth.”

I pulled.

“Let’s go fuck,” she said, removing her blouse and lifting up her skirt, running down the hallway. I followed her, but she stopped me at the door to the bedroom. “No, wait,” she said, “I have a better idea.”

“A better idea than fucking?”

“Well, it involves fucking.”

“I see. What’s your idea?”

“I’ll change into the different outfits I might wear to this wedding and you can fuck me in each of them. At the end, you can tell me which is the one you want me to wear.”

She shut the door and when she opened it again she was wearing a little white blouse and a short skirt and heels. No panties. She lifted up the skirt and bent over the bed. “How’s this?” she asked.

I entered her from behind and said, “This will do.”

After she came, she pushed me out. “I have to try on another outfit. Give a girl some privacy to change.”

She shut the door again. When she opened it, she was wearing a tight blue dress and strappy heels. “Thoughts?” she asked as she lifted up the dress from behind and bent over the bed.

I repeated the process again. “I like this, but not as much as the other. Too fancy.”

Now she pushed me away again and she shut the door in my face. When it opened, she was wearing a short red dress. “This?”

“This is by far the best!” She looked like a little harlot and she lifted up the back to show me how ready she was for a third go-round.

“So you’ll come?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, meaning that I’d cum.

“No, you’d better not fucking cum on this dress,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m not paying to have this dry-cleaned. I mean, you’ll come to the wedding.”

“Yes dear,” I said reluctantly, “You know you always get your way.”

“Don’t you like my way?” she asked as she slammed her ass into my hips again and again and reached back with her right hand to massage her perineum.

“Your way is the best,” I said, pulling out and telling her to get on her knees as I came into her mouth and she hungrily devoured me.

My reluctance to go was twofold. First, I simply detest weddings. Call me a curmudgeon, call me jaded, call me a stick-in-the-mud, but if you’re getting married, don’t call me. Second, I found it particularly challenging to be happy for the “happy” couple, knowing full well that they really weren’t happy together but rather, felt this to be the next logical step in their relationship. Relationships based on logic are not relationships based on love. Logic has its own sort of force, but not the mystical force exerted by love.

However, countering these two weighty reasons for declining our invitation were two weightier reasons to concede to the social obligation: an open bar and the prospect of seeing Lo on the dance floor in that red dress. If two people are fool enough to get engaged and ultimately get married, if those same two people are fool enough to invite me to their party and supply free food and adult beverages all night, really, who am I to stand in the way of my happiness?

So I went. This was no conventional wedding and thank God for that! It was not at some swanky hotel or a low-budget VFW hall. It was being held at a mountaintop private residence. As such, the bride and groom were welcome to use the grounds, but not the dwelling. A big-top tent was rented and set up and, as accommodations for the guests, we were welcome to pitch our own tents in order to avoid the treacherous hair-pin curves of the dirt road back down into the valley at night.

Lo and I arrived around noon and, though we thought we were early, to our surprise we found that the pre-nuptial festivities were already in full swing. Beer kegs were strategically placed around the expansive lawn, games of Frisbee, croquet, and bocce were being played. We mingled, took some pics of the vista overlooking the river basin below, and we drank and had lunch before setting up camp.

By two o’clock a sprawling tent city was emerging and we were lucky enough to find a level spot on some soft grass right at the corner of this temporary village. As we unpacked the tent and the air mattress, a young couple pulled up in their Subaru Outback and began setting up their tent next door to ours. Everyone was in a jubilant mood and the fella turned to me and said, “Not a lot of space here for all of us.”

“No,” I replied, neighborly.

“We’re practically right on top of one another,” he remarked. It was true, there was so little room between tents that we couldn’t even spread the lines to tether down the tent with the stakes.

“I wouldn’t mind being right on top of him,” Lo said under her breath to me. I saw her lick her lips as she watched him nimbly unpack the suitcases from the car into their tent.

“I hope you two don’t mind,” he practically called out to us, “but we’re planning on trying to make a baby tonight.”

I had no idea what the neighborly thing to respond was, so I just looked dumbfounded until his wife yelled at him, “What did you just say?”

“I said, we are hoping to make a baby tonight.”

“Oh my God,” she said, “You have to excuse him, he’s a redneck country boy,” she said apologetically. “You keep your mouth shut and just set up the tent,” she called to her husband.

“What?” he asked, “I’m just giving them fair warning.”

She was an attractive brunette, in her mid-thirties I’d guess, and clearly in love with the somewhat dim-witted, yet well-intentioned beau of hers.

The two of them made some small talk with us as we put the finishing touches on our new homes — asking how we knew the bride or the groom, where we were from, etc. At one point he turned to me and said, in confidence, “How old are you?”

“How old do you think I am?” I asked back.

“I’d say at least forty-five,” he said, being honest, though not necessarily polite.

“Well, you’re in the ballpark, if you add about five or so years.”

“And what about her?” he asked, nodding over to Lo.

“What do you think?” I said, turning it back to him.

“Twenty, twenty-two maybe.”

“Again, you’re close,” I said.

“You lucky dawg!” he said, slapping my back with a big smile.

Soon they and we went our separate ways. There must have been at least two hundred guests attending this affair and so we didn’t actually see them again that evening. I told Lo about his untoward questions and remarks and she smiled, contentedly, while her words denounced his lack of couth.

The rest of the day and night went much as you’d expect — cocktails were served along with hors d’oeuvres. As the sun was getting low making for the perfect romantic lighting, the bride and groom were escorted down the grassy out-door isle to the perfect spot with a backdrop of mountains descending toward the horizon in the distance. The speeches were made, the vows were exchanged, the public display of affection put on for the guests. I, for my part, held back my applause, reserving judgment for later years.

The band came out and dancing under the stars and in the tent commenced along with copious amounts of alcohol being consumed. Perhaps as a result of the fresh air or all the dancing, the effects of the alcohol upon me were negligible in comparison with what I ingested.

The stars were bright, the air was warm with a slight breeze, and music was wafting over the grounds. Lo was happy to be dancing in my arms and before too long she pulled me aside and said, “Daddy, let’s go to the tent.” It wasn’t so early; already some couples had made their exits. But the party was still at critical mass.

Nevertheless, Lo and I led each other through the ever darkening expanse of land to the tent city where, after taking a moment for our eyes to adjust, we figured out which tent was ours. In through the zipper door we climbed, out of our party attire we slipped, and into each other’s arms we sprung.

Tents are never ideal places for frolics in bed — firstly, because there is no bed per se. Secondly, because open sleeping bags slip and slide and bunch up and disappear in the darkness. Be that as it may, we found a way to make it work.

We were lying on top of one of the sleeping bags and under the other one. We were spooning. My arms were wrapped around her naked body and her round bum was pressed up against my pelvis. She could feel my manhood growing hard. My hands groped her breasts. Her tush pushed harder on my hardness. She reached behind her and began stroking it. She pointed it at her target and it slid right in.

“Do I feel tight or loose?”




“Do you like?” she asked as I protruded deeper into her.

. . . [Radio Edit — for full text, email:]

When we were done, we turned on the flashlight to remake the “bed” (air mattress) and cuddle up next to each other — big and little spoon — for warmth, though the air had only cooled a little and we hoped that no one heard our kinky taboo sweet nothings.

Only a few minutes had passed before we heard our neighbors unzip their tent and clumsily get into bed. They must have set up their interior so that their heads were right by ours, because we could hear every word they whispered.

“Shhh, Sam, you’ll wake everyone up,” she said.

“No one’s around,” said Sam.

“Yes they are,” she whispered back. “I just saw the light go out in their tent when we were walking here.”

“Then they’re not asleep.”

“Shhhh,” she said back.

There was some rustling and movement and then we heard some giggles on her part followed by a zipping sound (the sleeping bag) and some more rustling. Lo was kissing me when we heard her moan. It didn’t take long before they had worked themselves into a rhythmic slip-sliding sound and we could hear the heavy breathing. Lo reached down and grabbed my hardening cock. We heard the wife moan and it sounded like she was in bed with us.

Lo got on all fours, her head facing the neighbors’ tent, and she nudged me to get behind her. As I entered her, she also moaned. We heard the rhythm of the neighbors stop cold for a second and then, when Lo moaned again, it picked up.

I was very self-conscious and I could hear my hips slapping up against Lo’s ass as Lo began to breath more heavily. Soon she was whispering, “Yes, yes.” We heard the neighbor wife call, “Fuck, that feels good. Harder, Sam.”

That just spurred Lo on to be louder with her, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” in time with my thrusts.

Now it was feeling like a competition — who could go longer, who would be louder. It was odd, there in the darkness, as if we were in the same room, yet not. The simultaneous orgy and privacy was getting us very worked up and I think Lo wasn’t able to control it any longer — she started crying out, “Fuck, I’m cumming. Fuck! Deeper! Hold it. Hold. It. Stay. Right. There.”

As she did so, our female neighbor began growling through her grit teeth. She was cumming too and it was an angry, intense orgasm.

When we were all done and lying down, I’m not sure who started it but there was giggling and soon we were all giggling before Lo said, “Good night,” to our neighbors and they responded with a very warm, “Sleep tight!”

[From the blog:]

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Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail:

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