ALWAYS A BRIDESMAID…
by
copyright 2011, Andrea Dale
Published by Soul’s Road Press
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ALWAYS A BRIDESMAID…
by
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride, I thought as I watched Veronica struggle with her sheer white stockings. I’ve been through six weddings since high school graduation, none of them my own. Veronica and I had never been close—I had been more the swim-and-track-team type, rather than the prom-and-yearbook type—so I’d been surprised when she asked me. It seemed she required the biggest damn wedding Eagle Creek had ever seen. And I’ve had always had a problem saying “no.”
Despite being low down on the list of bridesmaids, I was the one here at the Holiday Inn this morning helping Veronica get dressed for her big day. Everyone else, including her own mother, had fled in fear. Veronica had become more and more of a shrieking harpy as the wedding approached.
But honestly, I didn’t mind being here. I’ve been hot for Veronica’s tight little cheerleader-panty clad ass since junior year when I realized that tight little cheerleader asses made me wet.
Right now, the ass of my fantasies was framed by a white thong and garter belt while Veronica adjusted her stocking, trying to get the seam straight. As she bent over, the long rope of pearls double-looped around her neck fell against her perky breasts, which threatened to spill out of her satin bustier. I thought about coaxing them free, tying the pearls tight around them so the creamy fleshed bulged around the strand, and biting her nipples hard. My mouth watered.
“We interrupt this program for a news bulletin.”
I had a feeling that Albert, the only DJ at the local station for the past fifteen years, had always wanted to say that. To distract myself before I threw Veronica down on the bed and made her wedding day really something to remember, I turned up the volume on the radio on the night table.
“Carstairs Jewelry Store was robbed last night. Police have no leads. The door lock was not damaged. Only employees’ fingerprints have been found.”
I already knew this all this, because I’d been the one at Carstairs at 6 a.m., dusting for those prints. In truth, I probably should have been there now. But there was no way I was going to pass up watching Veronica prance around in lingerie and pearls for my own personal show. Half of my brain was trying to piece together clues while the other half was, well, occupied. It’s not just guys who lose mental functioning when they’re in lust.
I shifted restlessly. Beneath the hideous fuchsia polyester monstrosity of a bridesmaid gown, my own nipples tightened.
Veronica let out a string of expletives. One long, French-manicured nail had gone through her stocking.
“Here’s another pair,” I said, handing her a new set of sheer white hose. Three more pairs, still in packaging, were lined up neatly in the dresser drawer, which was lined with lavender-scented paper. If my luck held out, I’d get to watch her slide her smooth legs into every pair. My legs might have been longer, but hers were wonderfully curvy, the muscles still toned from all that leaping about.
Veronica grabbed the package without a thank you and tossed it on the bed. She peeled off the ruined stocking and flung it. It caught on the edge of the vanity mirror and sagged like an exhausted bird.
That was the strange thing. In all other areas, Veronica was the neatest, most organized, most anal-retentive person anyone had ever met. Yet this wedding had thrown her into disarray. No, I amended. It had turned her into a woman possessed by the demon Cupid.
I wanted to pin her down and paddle her ass until it was glowing red. She certainly deserved a spanking. I liked the idea that she might enjoy it.