Always The Bridesmaid?

By | February 28, 2007

Several years ago I was invited to a friend’s wedding. It was a lovely summer’s day and everything went really well.

He had very sensibly arranged the stag night for the previous weekend, giving everyone time to recover. And we needed it. I seem to remember his best man, who I thought would have had his best interests at heart, buying him several very large whiskies in quick succession. The groom was already wasted by this point and didn’t need any more to drink. He was having enough trouble sitting up in his chair.

I discretely disposed of one drink after another by spillage and by drinking two of them myself. I was already half cut but I wasn’t as drunk as the groom. We eventually got him home around 4 am. I got home as the sun was coming up and lost most of the rest of that weekend to sleep and a hangover.

Anyway, back to my post. I was standing in the church, like everyone else, waiting for the bride to join the groom at the altar. She looked lovely, but then brides tend to don’t they, something about the occasion makes them glow. Then my eye was drawn to the bridesmaids, all looking lovely in their emerald green satin gowns. One in particular looked stunning. My jaw dropped, her blue-green eyes sparkled, her hair shone, even in the muted light of the church. The flowers in her hair were at once feminine, pure and sensual. I found myself smiling at her, and she smiled back. Nice one!

During the meet and greet at the reception venue she was standing next to the bride. She held my hand for a few moments longer than was necessary when she shook it, her eyes engaging with mine, filled with promise.

The speeches and meal were pleasant though too long, if only because I wanted to get hold of the bridesmaid who was seated across the room on the top table. Finally the meal was over and I stepped outside onto the terrace overlooking the hotel’s golf course while the staff cleared the tables and prepared the dance floor.

I could hear the DJ winding up his patter so, drink in hand, I turned to re-enter the function room. She was walking towards me, her captivating eyes sparkling.

“Hello” she said in a deeply alluring tone.

“Hi. Green suits you.” I looked down at her cleavage, what a sight, full and firm, my eyes moved to the smooth skin of her shoulder and neck.

She smiled coyly, not a feigned coyness, a genuine modesty and very attractive in its honesty. “Thank you. I’m a little hot, fancy a walk to cool down?”

“Why not.”

The terrace was built on a sloping piece of ground, so one end was raised, the other met up with the green sward of lush grass at the edge of the course. About fifty meters from the hotel, hidden from watching eyes by a dense shrubbery we stopped. I turned and took her hand, raised it to my lips and kissed it.

“Am I allowed to say you look more beautiful than the bride?” I asked.

“Only if she doesn’t hear you.” She laughed and leant in to kiss me.

I slid my hand around the back of her neck pulling her lips to mine. I stopped myself, with some effort, from launching into a full-on deep and passionate kiss as I didn’t want to disturb her lipstick. Her hand slipped behind me and squoze my backside for a moment. My cock had begun to stir.

“I ought to get back, they’ll be having the first dance soon.”

“OK” I smiled, “Do I get the first dance with you?”

“And the last.” She winked.


The night progressed well. I managed to avoid the alcoholic oblivion of the previous weekend. The groom however did his best to get thoroughly drunk, though the bride never complained of a let-down on her wedding night, just of having a pile of confetti fall out of her basque when she took it off.

I got the second dance with the bridesmaid, but she was slightly elusive that night, partly because she was mingling with the guests and partly because every man wanted to dance with her. She kept looking for me, searching me out across the room no matter what kept us apart.

Then as the reception drew to a close the last dance arrived. OK not the last dance that was the usual cheesy rendition of “New York, New York” by Frank Sinatra and the drunken mob of guys in dishevelled suits that always appear at the end of the night to murder the lyrics and strangle the melody of Ol’ Blue Eye’s second most famous standard.

I’m talking about the proper last dance. The one that counts. We began dancing almost at a very respectable distance from one another, but I quickly drew her in close, she smiled as I did so. Our bodies moved together, her head came to rest on my shoulder, her breath stroking the skin on my neck. We were so engrossed in one another that I don’t remember the song. There was no dirty dancing, just a natural closeness between two human beings and an expressed passion waiting under the surface. I coaxed her head from my shoulder as the final bars approached, her face was a beauteous vision looking up at me.

I leant forward and kissed her, gently at first as I had done earlier. The tenderness stayed, but the passion won-out and took us both as we expressed it with our mouths. Enraptured, our clashing, wrestling tongues continued well after the track had finished and into the grotesque cabaret of NY-NY and it’s high-kicking drunken chorus line.


Hotel corridors, at night, after a party. They have a special kind of quiet. Not a total silence, but the sound of people snoring in beds that aren’t there own, the occasional night porter running an errand. There’s the lighting too, often a little stark, especially when, at two in the morning, you’re ready for some soft lighting and relaxation.

We stood outside an unfamiliar door, my keycard in one hand and two bottles of mineral water I’d acquired from behind the bar. I’d like to say it was number sixty-nine, but alas not, 57 LOL. The lock beeped and we stepped inside, her first. I fumbled for the dimmer switch and illuminated the room with just enough light to see by. The door closed and we were alone in the comforting cocoon of the room.

“Drink” I offered a bottle of water. “Thanks”

I slipped off my jacket as we refreshed ourselves.

A few gulps and the bottles were placed, unfinished, on the dressing table. We were standing together at the foot of the bed. I slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close. Our lips met, tongues collided and I felt myself hardening in my suit. Her hands reached up to my face, cupping it, gentle fingers on my cheeks.

Her hands slid down and slid the knot of my tie loose. She struggled with the top button of my shirt, so I helped, stepping back slightly to allow myself the room to manoeuvre. Her eyes glinted, even in the low light, pupils wide and expectant.

I finally removed my shirt and tossed it over the back of a chair. She turned and looked at me over her shoulder, she needed me to unzip her dress, the look she gave was loaded with pure sexual energy. I slid down the zip, mouth dry with excitement. When she stepped out of the gown I could see her strapless basque in all its glory, bottle green and holding in her full breasts with a gravity defying design. She was wearing matching panties and black stocking, with small heals. Apparently the bride didn’t want anyone taller than her.

I slipped out of my trousers, having the presence of mind to remove my socks. Shit, guys look ridiculous fucking with their socks on. Then off with my underwear, my cock was threatening to rip them apart anyway.

I hooked a finger in each side of her panties and, kneeling in front of her I pulled them down. Her pussy’s aroma betrayed her arousal, nuzzled into it, drinking in her heavy bouquet. I stood up and pushed her backwards into a sitting position on the bed, my cock waving in front of her face as if I was attempting to hypnotise her with it.

She leant forward to take it in her mouth, but I needed to be inside so I pushed her back onto the bed. She shuffled backwards towards the headboard and I slid between her legs, parting them. My cock found its mark and pressed against her labia. Her backed arched slightly, head back, lips parted in a soundless gasp of pleasure. My glans parted her and slid inside her moist entrance.

The sensation was luxurious, sliding against the resistance of her sex, feeling every contour of her interact with the topography of my penis. Her hands grabbed my shoulder, her legs wrapped around my back and I came to rest deep inside her. Our eyes met and we saw in each other the same need.

I swung my hips back and forth, feeling her nails at first graze then bit into my shoulders. I could see the orgasm building in her, her eyes, her movements, the wetness of her pussy all told me that she was so close, she must have been imagininig this moment all night. The excitement almost overwhelmed me, but I held on until the first waves of tightness in her vaginal muscles signalled to me that I could release myself in a thrusting red and gold orgasm.

She held me tight as we reached our climax together, and continued to hold me tight as the orgasmic tension began to dissipate from both of us and we lay next to each other on the bed.

And in the morning we showered together and were very late for breakfast.

So here’s a little message for the bridesmaid. Please don’t always be the bridesmaid, that way I can guarantee the most beautiful woman at the wedding will be the bride. I’m asking you now, this year, even if it’s just a quiet wedding, Suzanne will you marry me?