The Wedding Part 1: Butter Wouldn't Melt.

[Marion]

Nancy is sitting at the dining table when I get home; studying a pile of glossy leaflets. She’s grinning; I can feel my own cheeks tighten as I echo the smile – and I don’t even know what’s funny yet.

“So who is this brasser?” she asks, cheerfully thrusting a card into my hands.

The young woman pictured is indeed a ‘brasser’: she’s got false everything! Fake hair, fake tan, fake nails. She’s very pretty, but boy does she look like a lot of work. I have never seen her before in my life.

“No idea. Is this a wedding invitation?”

“Yup. Check it out…”

She spreads out the paperwork in front of her. There’s so much of it: glossy images of a palatial hotel, seating plans, cocktail menus…

“Christ,” I say, “that’s going to be some wedding. How do we know her?”

“I don’t think we do, but I’m delighted she sent us all this crap. I had no idea how much STUFF you could have for a wedding. Look at this: Gospel Harmonies Choir!”

“Oh My God. Wait, look, this is the part about the actual ceremony: ‘The wedding of Scott Mells and Louise Munroe’. We don’t know Louise, but I was at school with Scott. I haven’t seen him in about eight years. I wonder how many people they’ve invited.”

“Here: seating plan for the meal,” Nancy counts in her head, “four hundred and fifty.”

“Fuck. You don’t actually want to go to this, do you? Oh god, you DO. Nancy, this woman has chosen tangerine and teal as a colour scheme! And we won’t know anyone there.”

“I kind of want to see if her eyebrows really look like that in real life. Besides…”

Nancy smiles her ‘cunning plan’ smile and swivels her laptop round so that I can see the screen.

“the wedding’s in Essex. I thought we could make a weekend of it and spend Sunday at the beach.”

The image is from Google Earth: miles of twisting creeks and channels; shallow water showing an almost tropical blue against the pale mudbanks. It’s beautiful. I’m still staring when Nancy abruptly minimises the window. A photograph of a stylish dress replaces the coastal creek. Tailored mint-green satin from a high-end store.

“I thought you might want to get a new dress for the wedding.”

I meet her eye and return the smile. We’re going to Essex.

“We’re going to bed right now.” I tell her.

***

My new matching shoes pinch my toes but the thought of losing them in three feet of sticky mud tomorrow is keeping my spirits up. Actually, I’m also a bit pissed, and so is Nancy.

This sort of formal function would be unbearable without her. We are making a secret game of being well behaved and ladylike. I’m being ladylike: Nancy’s being a modern dandy in her chic silk suit. We mingle and sip champagne, performing for each other amongst all these tedious strangers. We’re polished, smiling, elegant – and as artificial and saccharine as the monstrous towering cake in the middle of the room. Today I’m embodying all the expectations these people have for pretty young women. I shall be modesty incarnate. You want a people pleaser? Well, which kind of people pleaser would you like, sir? Nancy is giving a stellar performance of her own. She’s being ‘the man’ in our relationship. It’s what the lovely people want to see: she’s taller and has a boyish hairstyle after all. She’s telling a story about how she ‘saved the day’ when I flooded our kitchen, her arm slung paternalistically around my shoulders. She knows how difficult it is for me to keep from laughing.

Trashing these stiff clothes in cool, clinging mud will be lots of fun. But taking these characters, these versions of ourselves that the world imposes, and rolling them in the mud? That’s the thought that has us both wet and waiting; stealing little touches when no-one is looking our direction. Nancy has been pulling late duty over the last week and we are just aching to share our bed. The plan is to slip off back to our room upstairs after the meal and speeches: the soonest moment we can decently depart.

This is such a straight-laced crowd. I can feel a lot of eyes on us as we move through the press in the reception room trying to get a bit closer to the French windows. I’m so aware of Nancy’s body beside me, it feels as if we have a neon sign above our heads proclaiming: HORNY. It’s hot in here; the ice sculptures are suffering. Nancy snags fresh champagne flutes from a discreet, be-suited waiter.

“That one of the leaping horse is starting to look like a huge lumpen phallus.”

She announces this much too loudly, but ‘phallus’ cracks me up and I have to grab her arm so that I don’t fall in my high heels. I realise we are making an exhibition of ourselves again.

“I’ve got to sit down, Nance, these shoes are total bastards.”#

We nab two vacant chairs by the outdoor terrace, finally out of earshot of our fellow guests.

“Who was the windbag with the moustache after the arrival drinks? The one who kept calling me your “friend” ?” says Nancy.

“That was Scott’s dad. I don’t think I’ve seen any of his family since junior school. I thought we were never going to get away.”

“I don’t know… I enjoyed that story about you knocking over the table with all the party food on it. When did that happen?”

“Scott’s sixth birthday party. And just don’t. Seriously: I’m still embarrassed about it 20 years later.”

“You are the most peculiar creature, Melissa, but I love you.”

We each glance over our shoulder before risking a kiss. Her lips are so warm and soft that I could just loose myself in her. I break the kiss reluctantly but whisper into her ear.

“Imagine the bridal party coming out those doors to find me sitting on your lap: astride you with my tight dress all pushed up and my stockings on show.” Her breathing is quickening against my cheek “You’ve pulled it down at the front too, so that you can take my hard nipples into your mouth…”

“Mmm,” I feel her slight shudder, “Fuck it Lissa, let’s go up to our room now. I want you fuck you in that silly dress and…”

I cut her off and take a half step away from her, my eyes full of warning. Hotel staff have appeared behind her bearing covered trays and trollies. We compose ourselves immediately and watch as a buffet is laid out along the whole span of the terrace. A bored looking teenage girl in a smart uniform passes us with a tray of drinks and we help ourselves to more champagne.

“Awesome mods.” I tell her.

The waitress grins and tucks her cap lower with her free hand, hiding most of her piercings and softening the impact of her blunt rockabilly fringe. Other guests drift out onto the terrace as the serving tables begin to fill up. We are in no hurry to eat, but watch with interest as the kitchen porters uncover the food.

“What do you think is in the big tureen?” Nancy asks playfully.

“Soup, tomato. I would like to fill a water-pistol with it and chase you across the lawns. What about the things with the metal lids?”

Nancy’s eyes widen. I suspect she will get the hang of this game rather quickly.

“Creamed potato. I would like to fill your handbag with it and then tip it over your hair later when you aren’t expecting it. Shallow metal trays?”

I almost can’t, the thoughtful absurdity of Nancy’s suggestion has me wrinkled up with laughter.

“I’m not going to tell you what’s in the shadlow - shallow – metal trays I’m just going to pour it down the back of your collar and make you guess.”

Nancy squirms and beams, almost blushing, and at this precise moment a waiter appears with a pavlova balanced in each hand. This is too easy and we both start giggling helplessly. We are once again attracting a bit of attention. Brightly dressed guests are now thronging through the open doors and we allow ourselves to be swept into the queue for the buffet, passing a gilded signboard to remind us all of where we have been instructed to sit. Our attention is diverted by the salad bar.

“Are those hard boiled eggs in mayonnaise?” Nancy whispers in my ear. I smile, because this would be a perfectly innocent question to ask out loud right now. We have found ourselves doing this in the supermarket or the bakery as well: whispering ‘get two tubs of margarine’ or ‘that fudge-cake would be perfect for Saturday’ like those are unforgivable profanities. Making sure Nancy is watching I drown my salad in French dressing; trickling it in chaotic patterns, almost overshooting the edge of the plate. I replace the serving container and lick dressing off the side of my thumb. Nancy is watching me like a huntsman.

The desserts nearly derail our fraying composure. Moist berries drip over swirled cream, blizzards of flaked chocolate float in basins of smooth mousse. I slide a serving spoon into some sort of sculpted pink blancmange, producing a sucking noise as I withdraw and liberating the scent of strawberries. Nancy licks her open lips with no pretence at subtlety.

“Prefer cream or custard, ladies?” asks the server.

Our mirth baffles him of course. It’s a feeling I remember well from high school: laughing helplessly with my friends when we shouldn’t be and being totally unable to give an account of our improper behaviour. I don’t mind reliving it now, although perhaps I shouldn’t have any more to drink.

It takes us an embarrassingly long time to relate the seating plan to the orientation of the function room. When we find our places we have to pull ourselves together and make nice with our dining companions: two teachers; a real-estate agent and her husband, the latter balding gracelessly. Others. I realise I’m not taking any of this in, so I accept a large glass of wine and just smile at what I hope are the appropriate moments. The room is so hot and noisy that I find I’m not very interested in my food. Nancy has collected the most improbable combination of buffet food; I suspect she made a few of those choices based on texture rather than taste. She’s telling a funny story to the suited man on her opposite side. It’s one I’ve heard before, but at least it isn’t boring. To give me something to do with my hands I pull a warm bread-roll apart and take my time buttering it. Nancy is eventually interrupted across the table by Mr Estate Agent, who is apparently both drunker and more verbose than she is. He’s story is rather less droll, and I feel Nancy’s eyes on my bread roll. I spread the soft grease into the split roll with something like tenderness. I wonder if Nancy has observed that she would consider the sequence and pace of my stoke sublime if I were to apply the action to her vulva. Her foot finds mine under the table; she has kicked off her shoes. I feel the muscles in her leg bunch when I eventually take a dainty bite out of the bread.

The meal drags horribly. Our companions are now discussing which DVD boxed sets are their favourites. Bored, I sip my second glass of wine and watch Nancy picking at her meal. I’m surprised to see her select a firm strawberry and dip it in the mayonnaise before popping it into her mouth. Apparently not as surprised as she is. Nancy’s horrified choking laugh makes it very difficult to avoid spitting my own mouthful of wine onto my pale satin skirt. We have to get out of here, we are getting funny looks and I’m feeling dangerously relaxed about it.

Escape comes with the serving of coffee. I make our excuses while Nancy pockets the chocolates that have arrived with our cups and retrieves her shoes. Heads down, and both struggling to maintain a straight course, we practically run into the ladies loos where we can finally let the giggles out. We both cram into the same cubicle, despite the mercifully empty washroom. Finally I can allow Nancy to pin me up against the wall and kiss me. My unyielding dress hugs my ass almost painfully tightly as I wrap my leg around her hip, spreading my legs for her. She’s so hot under her jacket and her hair is slicked to her temples with sweat. I feel the unmistakable tickle of my stockings laddering. How are we going to get up to our room? Anyone who sees us will surely conclude we’ve been fucking in here.

The outer door opens and we freeze mid kiss. After the swell of party noise has died away it’s apparent that quite a large group of girls has come in together. They sound happy and tipsy, heels click and they start to trade good-natured boasts about whose outfit is the most uncomfortable for dancing. I suddenly realise it’s the bride and at least three of her maids! I can see in Nancy’s face that she has made the same deduction. But Nancy’s eyes are dancing and there is something roguish in her smile.
Quietly, she pulls from her pocket one of the chocolates that she swiped from the supper-table. They are the large spherical variety in the red branded wrappings: the ones that conceal a liquid chocolate fondant within a thick chocolate shell. I try to breathe quietly as she unwraps the sweet using her free hand and her teeth. There is a bridesmaid two feet away from us behind the partition, tinkling and chatting happily to her friends; totally oblivious to Nancy and I. Nancy ignores my mute protests and pops the chocolate into the front of my knickers, shepherding it in between my pussy lips and rolling it deftly to coat it in the wetness that spills over her hot fingertips. The chocolate is lovely and cool against my clit: I have to bite Nancy’s neck to stifle a moan of pleasure as it stiffens in response to the touch. Satin grates against my tightening nipples. I don’t take pains to be gentle when I pull open the flies of her suit pants.

So that’s how I came to be finger fucking Nancy, leaning over a toilet, trying to be quiet enough not to start a scandal on Louise Mells’ Special Day. Shamelessly, for the most part too.

By the time we can make our exit from the lavatory the chocolate in my knickers has started to feel more than a little tacky. I wonder if Nancy’s is melting too. I lick my slightly sticky fingers but control the impulse to wipe them on my dress. Nancy’s chocolate is unlikely to be a problem as she’s wearing trousers. I, on the other hand, have nothing under my short dress but lace knickers and torn stockings. When the chocolate starts to drip it will be shockingly conspicuous on my bare legs. Nancy is leading me at speed towards the elevators in the lobby when a familiar catchy melody strikes up from the dance floor behind us. Nancy slows and turns, questioning. I don’t know what she sees in my face, but it tells her that Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’ sounds like destiny to me right now. Fuck it: we about-face and hurry onto the heaving dance-floor.

The press of bodies means we have to dance sinuously: close together. With the thump of the music and the shifting disco lights, it’s like we’re in our own little bubble. It’s a challenge to remember that we have left the privacy of the loos and should moderate our groping accordingly. Or at least make it look like dancing.

“It’s melting!!” I shout into Nancy’s ear. I have to repeat it twice.

Between my pussy lips a velvet cushion of warm chocolate spreads and tugs at the tender flesh. I don’t think the firm shell has broken yet, but reflect on the appalling possibility that when it does the molten chocolate goo may actually be enough to splash our shoes.

Nancy is lost in the beat, her eyes shut serenely and her arms draped lithely over my shoulders. I have to shout into her ear:

“TIME TO LEAVE, NANCE!”

I try to steer her back to the edge of the dancers, repeating my shout.

“NANCY THIS IS ABOUT TO COME GUSHING DOWN MY THIGHS”

The song changes this precise moment and in the heartbeat of silence before the next beat strikes up several people catch my last words.

We finally have the good sense to depart for bed. We also have the good fortune to make it as far as the elevator before I feel a feathery trickle between my tightly pressed thighs. I am in danger of coming in the corridor if I have to walk far like this with Nancy practically salivating over me.

Ten paces from our door, silky chocolate starts coursing down my left thigh. There is nothing to do but to palm it off and try to get the key-card into our door before anyone else appears. You will not be surprised to learn that we find this difficult.

We can’t turn the lights on in the room: too pissed. We end up stripping each other on the floor in the dark, having tripped over our suitcases before we could locate the bed. By the time I get Nancy out of her sweaty clothes I can just about see by the glow of standby lights and the light coming under the door. My hands leave greasy smudges on her belly and hip as I get her underwear off and dip my tongue into the thick melted chocolate filling her slit. I don’t care who hears the sounds she makes when I swirl my tongue through the wetness and the chocolate, mixing them and spreading them. Chocolate runs down my chin and in spite of everything my first impulse it to wipe if off and chide myself for being so revolting. Nancy practically screams with pleasure when my stifled laugher vibrates into her clit. She’s bucking her hips with the rhythm of my soft licks; I twist my body to the side, touching her but upside down, and her fingers find the soft dollop of melted chocolate between my legs. My nipple grazes her navel, carpet rubs my knee. This sticky, drunken, position is not something you will have seen in any professionally produced pornography. I soften my tongue against her clit, tasting chocolate and salt, and keep my licks achingly light to make her raise her hips and meet the stroke. Her own teasing touch is almost muffled by the chocolate that covers my clit, but when she drags her fingertips deeply through my wetness and back over it the slick touch is transcendent. I cover her clit with warm lips and softly suck. Her shaking finger describes quickening circles on my clit and the pleasure is indescribable after our long, slow tease.

I attend to Nancy’s gasping breath and we find the rhythm that transforms our touching into a sweet synchrony. I know what she wants and how to give it to her because I want it too. More pressure, then less, long stokes that sustain the high and soft teasing. We echo each other, sticking and sliding in the dark. I try to prolong her pleasure but my own grip is slipping and when I hear her moan that she’s coming I sink with her into helpless convulsing ecstasy. We cling to each other in the hot, musky darkness.

***

Waking up at 3 in the morning stuck to the floor of a hotel room, feeling awfully thirsty, is unpleasant no matter how gorgeous your accomplice looks when smeared with chocolate. We help each other take a sleepy shower without turning on the light in the bathroom; letting the hot water soothe cramped necks and stiff shoulders. When we slide between the crisp cool sheets of the bed it’s impossible not to get turned on again by the novel softness of clean, bare skin. It’s also impossible to stay awake.

“Nancy, did we set a –YAAAWN- an alarm on your phone, for checkout?”

“Hmmh? O ’Course. Nightnightliss.”

To Be Continued…

[Squelch]

Great and hot story. Well written. Looking forward to part 2

[emmajones1982au]

Cant wait for the next chapter xx

[Marion]

Thanks so much for the support guys - now I wish I hadn't stayed a lurker for so long!

Marion x

[shredder]

Outstanding writing - thank you.