At the church, as I sat on one side of Mom, Dad on the other, I noticed as her dress rode up just enough, that she was wearing thigh high stockings. This of course made my dick instantly wake up and secretly salute her. Fuck, she had amazing legs.
Then throughout the bizarre service (the rings were on candy canes, their oaths were based on the 12 Days of Christmas, but the weirdest was that the groom was dressed as Santa, the bride was in a traditional white wedding dress but knee-length so I (and everyone else but I probably cared more) could see her red nylons and her green heels… the wedding party was all dressed as elves). But inadvertently driving me crazy, my Mom sitting next to me was restlessly sliding her feet in and out of her heels.
Fuck, I was so horny and knew I’d have to find a way to shoot a load tonight either in a bathroom or some chick (my success rate at getting laid at weddings 67 percent… although on very limited data… just three weddings, all last summer. At the first I got a bridesmaid who was a year older than I and after striking out at wedding two, I ended up in the back of a limo with the bride’s MILF mother… that itself could be an entire story).
So I’d be lying if I tried to get you to believe I listened to much of the service as I drooled over my mother’s legs and feet, although truth be told I hadn’t listened to the other services either as I zoned out thinking about whatever else popped into my head (sports, how hot the bridesmaids were, etc.).
After the service, Mom, a few female relatives and I went for a late lunch (Dad went golfing with some guys… I was invited, but hate golfing), there being a four-hour gap before the reception/dinner and dance that would follow.
I need to tell you about the women I was sitting with. Mom was pretty, but not hot (I know that sounds cruel, but Mom was more cute than hot (objectively speaking anyway, my subjectively leaning cock would like you to know she’s red hot), her three sisters were all hot (even Aunt Carol at fifty). Tiffany though at twenty-three was almost twenty years younger than anyone else (the anyone in question being my Mom who was a couple years younger than Aunt Dana, the second eldest). Tiffany was a complete oops when my grandparents were in their late forties. She, in addition to hating golf, was the main reason I often enjoyed hanging out with Mom’s female relatives. Plus, I was the only son among the four sisters, the two eldest having only girls (two for Aunt Carol, named Emily and Zelda; and one, Becky, for Aunt Dana. Aunt Tiffany (it always feeling odd to call her that) hadn’t yet started a family, possibly because if she had children she’d need to clean up her language. So today here at the table were just me and six women: my Mom, three aunts and my cousins Emily and Becky. Aunt Carol’s other daughter wasn’t here; Zelda was in Japan and unable to make it.
At the table Aunt Carol, Mom’s oldest sister, said to me, after they’d all complained about their men for about twenty minutes, “You’ll make some girl a great husband one day.”