Two Bridesmaids

Author's note: This is my entry in the 2014 Summer Lovin' Story Contest. If you like the work, please considering giving it a vote.

*

Walt's at the reception watching her drink, watching her have a good time.

He swirls his whiskey in the glass. He met her yesterday at the rehearsal. Instant attraction. By the end of the night, she was sitting in his lap, her tongue in his mouth. Tonight she won't so much as meet his eyes. Won't speak to him. He can't recall her name, but she has great calves, that sexy Russian accent.

She's from the bride's family—came all the way from Estonia. It's a shame she won't speak with him, because he really enjoyed her company. His first bit of romance since the divorce. He crunches an ice cube, sucks the broken shards. She's here with her daughter. The kid can sense something isn't right between him and her mom. For some reason, her mother's behavior seems to draw the girl out, animate her. Walt thinks she feels sorry for him. She says her name is Claire. She's lanky and slender, a sweet little kid in a pretty party dress.

She says she wants to dance. A waltz is playing. Walt smiles.

She's still in high school, he's almost sure of it. His own kid is only a few years older. Claire complains because she doesn't know anybody in this country. She has the same sexy accent as her mother, only it seems strange to think of what's coming out of her mouth as sexy because she's so adorable. Pink cheeks. No makeup.

Walt takes her fingers. Leads her out to the floor. After they dance, Walt's brother makes an announcement. He wants to make a toast, and he asks everyone to participate. Claire asks her mother if she can have champagne. Mom says yes, but only one. She reminds Claire that the drinking age is different here.

For the first time that night, mom looks at Walt.

He grins, tries to think of something to say. Something funny. He wishes he could remember her name. Before he can open his mouth, she looks away. Claire is telling him she started to drink this year and she loves it. Makes her feel older. Walt watches mom dash off. He's disappointed but looks at Claire and smiles. She's talking about visiting some colleges she applied to while she's here, but Walt's only half-listening.

Claire goes quiet. She's looking at him and he realizes she's waiting for him to say something. He tells her she'll do a lot of drinking in college. Claire grins and asks for another glass of champagne. He looks at her. Really looks at her this time. She has a little tattoo on her neck, a symbol of some sort just under her ear.

He makes her promise not to tell her mom.

Walt gets her the champagne and then slips into the crowd. But each time he finishes a drink, she somehow manages to find him and ask for another drink for herself. They dance a few more times. He gets her a few more glasses of champagne.

A slow song comes on and Claire reaches for his neck, molding her body against his. She's drunk. At first he's amused. She lays her cheek on his shoulder, crushing her small breasts up against him. But she's got a nice little body and it's making his dick hard. He grows alarmed. He puts his hands on her hips, about to push her back. Break it off. But then she slips her leg between his, straddling his thigh. Her hip is up against his groin and she's moving her weight from one leg to the other, finding a natural rhythm. His hands rest lightly on her hips. Her hair smells fruity and clean. The lights are low and her mom is nowhere to be seen. Moving his hands to the small of her back, he presses her toward him. Makes a big exhale. He's glad she's drunk. Tomorrow she won't even remember his cock on her hip.

When the music stops, he suggests she go to his parents' house and take a nap. He walks her to the street. Warns her not to let her mom see her tipsy. He tells her which house. It's just across the street from the Italian Club.

Walt waits at the entrance of the club until she's on the front porch.

She waves. Goes inside.

He crushes out his cigarette and goes back inside the club to visit with his brother. His family. He kisses his mother. He goes outside for another smoke, and then decides to use the bathroom in his parents' house, avoid the long lines at the club. He doesn't even think about Claire until he sees her napping in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

She is curled up on a bed, her skirt hiked up. Her panties show.

Retrieving a blanket from the hall closet, he shakes it out. Tosses it over her. He leans down to kiss her head, and she opens her eyes. Turns her head toward him. For a brief moment, their faces are only an inch apart. Her breath warms his chin.

He doesn't know why, but he brushes his lips across her mouth. Tilting her head, she kisses him. Her nose presses against his. He pushes his tongue against her lips and her mouth opens. Her tongue is warm and fast. She's a good little kisser. For the second time that night, Walt feels his cock rise in his pants.

She is making little needy noises in her throat. He puts his knee on the bed. Lays the heel of his palm on her breast, feeling her stiff nipple under the dress. She lays flat on her back. He moves his hand to her hip and she opens her legs. He uses his palm to cup her warm crotch.

She's wet. Her hips start to roll.

He finds her hand and puts it between his legs.

He's hard. She molds her fingers around his shaft, groans into his mouth. He slips a single finger into the leg hole of her panties and finds her wet slit. She moans, crushing her mouth against his. Both her hands rise to his cheeks.

He breaks their kiss, keeping his head close to hers. He unzips his fly. Pulls out his cock. He takes her hand and puts it back on his dick.

She is breathing heavy. She wraps her fingers around him.

He kisses her again. She's tugging his cock and he lifts her skirt. Sends his hand down the front of her panties. He rubs her swollen pussy lips. Slips a finger inside her. She moans into his mouth and lets go of his cock again. Pressing both her palms onto the mattress, she raises her hips up off the mattress, grinding her pussy into his hand.

He stops kissing her, rising on his knees. She is sitting up now, softly moaning. Making needy noises. He takes her hand and puts it back on his cock. He curls her fingers around his shaft and she has to lay flat to hold him the way that he wants to be held. He takes her other hand and puts it on his balls.

With her hands in position, he puts his forearms on either side of her shoulders, looks into her eyes. He tells her what he wants. She averts her eyes but starts to tug. He gives her chaste little kisses on her lips. Cheeks. Whispers encouragement. He can feel his sack tightening. He tells her she is not to stop. He's breathing through his nose, like a bull or some wild animal, and then the cum starts to spray from his cock. Turning her head, Claire tugs and tugs. He feels himself empty. Drain. She's looking at the wall, milking his big dick. He sees the mark on her neck isn't really a tattoo at all, but some sort of birthmark.

She obediently jerks his cock, just as he asked. Such a great kid.

As the semen drains from him, he feels guilty. It's like some crazy inverse orgasm. It's as if the semen leaving his body is making room for the shame to pour in, to fill him up. She's still jacking him, even though he's long since spent. Now it's almost painful to have his cock manipulated this way, but he lets her pull a little more. It's worth it. He likes the discomfort. Likes the idea of her doing what she's told.

He rises to his knees.

Claire opens her arms, palm up. She looks like a girl from some old Renaissance painting, a woman begging for forgiveness, or praying for redemption. A long rope of semen runs along the inside of her forearm. Her pretty violet dress is hiked up, a dark stain on her tummy. She blows a lock of hair that's hanging in her eyes. The hair rises, then falls right back into her face. She uses her other arm to clear her forehead, but the back of that arm is covered with cum and she ends up smearing it on her face, in her hair. Realizing what she's done, she makes a soft coo, then a nervous laughing sound. She looks at him, sheepishly grinning. She starts rubbing the cum into her arms.

He reaches between her legs, cups her sex, and gently squeezes.

She forgets the cum on her face and arms. Sinking into the bed, she groans. She grabs fistfuls of the sheets. He tugs her panties down to the middle of her thighs. Her pussy is swollen and hungry. Wet. He finds her clit and lubricates it with her own juice. She twists her trunk, then sits up, grabbing his hand with both her own. She humps his palm, making little squeals in her throat. He holds her pussy and lets her take care of herself. Soon she is coming, her mouth open, gasping for air. He keeps the pressure between her legs, waiting for those big deep breaths to subside. Lying on her back, she puts her hands in her hair, but keeps her thighs pressed tight together, around his hand. He keeps holding her. Soon she relaxes her thighs, lets her hips rest. She softly whimpers. Still he keeps his hand between her legs. He holds her until he hears her gentle, rhythmic breathing.

He withdraws his hand.

Tucking in his shirt, he assembles his pants. Buckles his belt. Somehow no cum landed on his clothes. It's all on her. Her legs are spread obscenely, exposing a thick bush of blonde pubic hair. Her panties are looped around an ankle. The cum on her dress is drying, leaving it stained. Ruined.

He wonders if she is faking sleep.

Taking his phone from his pocket, he snaps a picture of her face. The flash lights the room, but she doesn't move. He smiles. His cock makes a lazy roll in his pants. He stands at the foot of the bed and takes a few more shots. Full body shots.

The room smells like sex. He cracks a window. Flipping the blanket over her, he goes to the bathroom down the hall.

***

Walt can't pee.

His dick is too hard. He can't believe the response he's getting from snapping a few pictures. It's like he's fifteen again. He lights a cigarette. Opens the bathroom window.

Putting the seat down, he sits on the toilet. Looks at the pictures.

They're terrible shots. Grainy. Pixilated. In the portrait, her face is washed out by the flash. Her thighs glow an eerie shade of white in the others. His cock still throbs. He hears familiar voices outside. Looking out, he sees his brother. His father. They're outside the club, in the middle of the street. They're drunk. Arguing.

Walt can feel something lurch in his stomach.

Walt's brother swings at Dad, his fist going wide. Dad puts his son in a headlock. Guests are filing out of the club, into the street.

Walt blows air from his nose.

This is why he left Carnal. This is why he rarely visits.

Traffic stops. It's an old Ford pickup. The driver leans on his horn. The guests are milling into the street, separating the men. Dad's tie is hanging loose around his neck.

Dad is shouting that he is no fool.

Nobody's goddamn fool!

Walt wants to yell something himself, but instead he looks at the picture of Claire. Something about her looks different now. Her legs all akimbo, her mouth open. Her pretty blonde hair splayed out on the pillow. He thinks of the birthmark he saw on her neck. He can taste something fruity and sour at the back of his throat. He presses delete. The phone prompts Walt to decide if he really wants to delete the picture of Claire.

A bottle breaks in the street below.

The police have arrived. The revolving lights on the police cruiser lends the scene a surreal quality. The bride is in tears.

Walt stands. He flips his cigarette into the bowl. Relieves himself. Flushes.

He is going to leave town.

Now.

Go to his car. Drive.

As he closes the bathroom door, the door to the room where he left Claire opens, and Claire's mother steps into the hall. Something in his stomach drops. He can feel the weight of his phone in his pocket.

She squares her shoulders. Looks him in the eye.

He smiles to mask his anxiety.

"Walter," she says.

He braces himself, but then her face softens. "I'm sorry," she says.

He's confused. He screws up his face. He knows he should just march right past her, go to his car. Instead he stops, looks at her.

"I'm sorry," she says again.

She's pressing her lips together. Wordlessly shaking her head.

He shrugs.

"It's okay," he says. He has no idea what they're talking about.

"I've been rude," she says. "Insensitive."

Walt's hand is in his pocket. He's rubbing his phone as if it's some sort of a talisman or a good luck charm. She looks as if she might burst into tears. "I saw you dancing with Claire and . . ." Her voice trails off. "I just wanted to say that I'm grateful," she says.

She looks at Walt, but he can't meet her eyes. He looks at his feet. His hand comes out of his pocket, and he rubs his chin. Swallows.

There is an awkward silence.

She motions to the door and says her daughter is sleeping. She shrugs, giving him a weary smile. "Too much champagne," she says.

He wishes he would have asked Claire for her mother's name.

She steps closer to Walt.

"Claire's father," she says, "left us this year." Her voice is just a whisper. Walt doesn't want to hear this, but she dismisses his protests. Says she wants to tell him. Needs to tell him.

She toys with one of the buttons on his shirt.

"He left us," she says, "for one of Claire's friends, an eighteen year old girl." Mom's lower lip is trembling as she speaks. She says the girl was Claire's best friend. The father ran off with her and now the two of them are living together.

"In goddamn Poland somewhere," she says. Her eyes harden.

Walt's mouth goes dry. The back of his jaw aches. Longing for a drink, he runs his fingers through his scalp.

He can feel moisture on his neck, at the back of his collar.

"This is why I ignored you earlier," she says. "I have to be careful for my heart, but I also have to be careful for Claire . . ." The mother's voice catches and she has to pause.

"Claire is very vulnerable right now."

Walt becomes hyper aware of his body, his body language.

He can't afford to act guilty. Can't afford to let any of this leak out. He puts his hand on his brow. The floor seems to be pitching, but he knows this is only his imagination.

Or maybe the whiskey.

He puts his hand on the bannister.

He feels her breast pressing into his bicep, her hand on his back. She has moved right up against him. This is not his imagination. He opens his eyes.

"I need someone tonight," she whispers. "I need you."

Walt's heart thuds in his ears, but he smiles. His cock hangs limp in his pants. She moves her hand to his hip and he's afraid she'll move it between his legs next.

He takes her hand in his.

His smile turns to a grin. He may not get hard again for another fifty years. Looking into her eyes, he tries to come up with something. Anything. If he could just remember her name. She looks disappointed. Like she knows he's going to turn her down. He softly snorts. Shakes his head and grins. He looks down the hall.

He looks at the room where Claire is sleeping.

Mom's head is down now.

He tilts her chin up, then puts his arm around her. Tugs her in close.

She smiles, a shy smile. Walt says nothing. What could he say? I mean really. He leads her down the hall, into the bathroom. He can hear the police in the street below. They're shouting for people to return to the party. Go home.

Shows over, they're saying.

Go on home.

Walt leans against the sink, puts mom's arms around his neck. He explores her body. Her breasts are fuller than her daughters, but her face has the same bone structure—Nordic cheekbones, the square chin. Mom presses her groin into him. Walt knows it's silly, but he finds himself looking for marks just below her ears. She resists him turning her head. Wants to look in his eyes. He remembers the way Claire looked at the wall as she jacked his cock. Was she thinking of her best friend? An eighteen year old girl, lying on a bed in some Polish apartment, accepting the thrusts of a man much older than her. Walt knows he underestimated Claire. He remembers the easy look on her face when she discovered the pool of semen he left on her tummy. The gentle noises she made after she accidently anointed her head with his cum. Somehow she seems already familiar with how messy sex is. The way human need is so raw, so electric and fickle. He thinks of the way she ground her pussy into his hand. How easily she took care of herself, her own needs. He remembers her soft squeals. The way she kicked her panties down her legs to open herself up. The peaceful look on her face after she came, her dress riding high on her hips, her legs spread so wide.

His cock is hard.

He gently pushes mom to her knees. Pulls his erection from his pants. The show is almost over now. He has just one last thing to do tonight.

Then we can all go home.