Two Bags for the Bride

I hate my fiancée's clocks. I can appreciate her sense of humor, but it's just so damned hard to figure out what time it is in her house. You see, all of her clocks run backwards. She's got three stooges clocks, Bill Clinton clocks, Goofy Clocks, and every other kind of gag clock that runs backwards.

I'm not real fond of her mirrors either. The closest thing to an intact mirror in her house is the center section of her makeup vanity. She doesn't let her sense of humor get in the way of practicality after all. The other mirrors in her house are all mosaics. Artful creations by expensive artists and designers that all look like a child's attempt to hide the damage from his parents.

Her sense of humor may be part of the reason I love her so much, but sometimes it's a little overboard. Take her ornamental garden for example.

It's got the neatest G-Gauge model railroad layout you've ever seen, complete with a dirt road for her prize freight train to run on. I still haven't figured out how she keeps the damn thing on the road without rails to guide it. Come to think Of it, I haven't figured out how she lets it know where she is in the garden. It only takes the dirt road when it's headed in her direction. It just speeds up when it's headed away from her.

Oh, well. If I could figure out things like that, I probably wouldn't be a tennis pro. I'd be a rich computer geek and would never have met Maggie.

You might have guessed two things about my fiancée by now. First, she's not what you might call a pretty lady. She proudly claims she's 'Coyote Ugly,' but I obviously disagree with that description. I've never even considered chewing my arm off to keep from waking her. I told her she's only a 'two bagger.' She took me semi-seriously and we now have matching velvet bags that she insists we wear to bed. She had them custom made.

The second thing that should be apparent by now is that she's rich. Not just well off, but filthy stinking rich. She's in that class of people who can't spend money as fast as it earns interest.

Aha, you say. You're just marrying her for her money.

Well you're wrong, absolutely dead wrong. If I wanted to marry her money, I'd marry her sister.

Abigail has more money than my girl Maggie does. She also is mad as a wet hen at me because I prefer her ugly sister to her. She can't understand why, after dating her for six months, I dumped her for Maggie.

None of my 'friends' can understand why I dumped a gorgeous blonde like Abigail for the horse-faced younger sister with calico hair either.

Maybe I should start at the beginning.

*****

"Damn, Gordi, I'd sure like to teach that babe a few things, and don't mean about tennis!"

"What do you mean, Harry?"

"Your new student just walked in, and she's one hot number. You watch your step, boy. Don't stumble when you turn around to look at her, or you'll pole vault over the net by accident."

I turned around to see what had my fellow tennis pro so excited. I scanned the court casually to see if I could pick the one he meant from all of the rich hard-bodies playing at being athletic. It wasn't hard. Well, it got hard quickly, but that's not what I meant.

It was obvious which girl he meant. The most perfect ass money could buy from a plastic surgeon was pointed right at my face. It was attached to a body that was sculpted by a genius. Probably literally sculpted, as were most of the babes around the country club.

The face that greeted me when she stood and turned was as beautifully sculpted as the rest of her. So were the large tits stretching her demure white tennis dress.

"Which one of you is Gordon Jones?"

I was stunned by the dulcet tones of her voice. That wasn't sculpted. Trained maybe, but a voice that sexy couldn't have required much training.

"He is."

My buddy Harry saved me from sounding stupid. I couldn't have talked coherently when I first heard her voice to save my soul. I recovered fairly quickly. I am a professional after all.

"That's correct. You must be Ms. Walker, my two o'clock lesson. I'm pleased to meet you."

"Please call me Abigail. I shall call you Gordon, if you don't mind."

"Actually I go by Gordi, but you're paying the bills, so you can call me anything you want."

"OK. Gordi it is. Since I am paying the bills, shall we get started?"

"Certainly. I understand you're a B-Class player, and just want some talented competition. Correct?"

"Yes, that's correct. I just need someone to challenge me, and maybe give me some pointers so I can move up to A-Class. I'm sure that you'll have me sweaty in no time."

Her laugh was even better than her speaking voice. I heard it often during her hour-long tennis lesson. She did indeed work up a sweat too. It did nice things to the bodice of her tennis dress.

About halfway through her lesson, Harry interrupted with a note from the club's athletic director. I took a quick look and saw it was a revision of my scheduled lessons for the day, and tucked in my racket bag without paying much attention to it.

Abigail thanked me for a very good lesson as she pulled a sports bottle from her bag. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when she soaked her chest and stomach with the contents instead of drinking it. Where the sweat from her workout had made the white cotton translucent, the cold water made it transparent. It also made her nipples stand up to attention.

"Looks like there's only one thing you've got left to do, Gordi."

"What's that, Abigail?"

"Why, seduce me, of course. Isn't that what Tennis Pros at posh country clubs do to single rich girls?"

"Well, if you believe romance novels I guess you might come to that conclusion. I actually prefer seducing their mothers."

Abigail's expression was priceless.

"Besides, I'm not sure who's seducing whom here. Let me see if I have time to seduce a poor little rich girl right now."

I checked my revised schedule, and found that, lo and behold, all three of my remaining lessons were canceled for today.

"You are in luck, fair maiden. I seem to have time for a proper seduction today. Your place or mine? Or should we just go for a quickie in the janitor's closet?"

"If you place is more than ten minutes away, then we'll just have to kick the Athletic Director out of his office and spend the rest of the day making it smell like a whorehouse."

"My place it is. Shall we go then?"

Abigail simply hooked me by the arm and guided me towards the main entrance. She shucked her frilly tennis panties off as soon as the door to her limo closed. She had my face buried under her skirt a couple of microseconds later and didn't let me up until we arrived at my modest apartment. Well, she did let me up for a couple of seconds to tell the driver where I lived.

Now, I'm no virgin, and I wasn't really joking about seducing the mothers more often than the poor little rich girls. I've got a fair bit of experience when it comes to cunnilingus. Abigail was obviously enjoying my efforts during the five-minute limo ride. She enjoyed the next forty minutes on the carpet in my living room as well.

I was humbled when she left four hours later. Abigail established a new record for a victim of my oral ministrations: She didn't cum once in the forty-five minutes she held my face to her crotch. It was the first time since I lost my virginity at an early age, that I had had more orgasms than my partner did. Abigail was most definitely NOT multi-orgasmic; at least not with me. She was happy with my performance, though. She thanked me profusely for the one orgasm she did have.

Over the next six months, we spent a lot of time in her bedroom or mine. That wasn't the extent of our relationship though. There was much more than sex involved. Abigail was smart as well as beautiful, with a romantic streak that ran deep into her very soul.

She loved getting flowers as much as I liked sending them. Moonlit walks along the beach, romantic dinners in exclusive restaurants, and a spur of the moment weekend flight to Acapulco, were all part of our affair. I must admit that everything seemed to involve sex, or lead to sex, in one way or another. The trip to Acapulco resulted in membership in the Mile High Club, for example.

It may not sound like it, but one of the most romantic parts of our affair for me, was our 'Pizza and Porno' nights. "Spaghetti and Sex" nights ran a close second. Abigail tastes great with tomato sauce, either pizza or spaghetti.

A seminal point in our affair occurred about four months into our affair. Abigail instigated our one and only "Salad Night." With the assistance of a large jar of Roquefort dressing, I actually brought Abigail to orgasm twice in one 24-hour sexual marathon. She was so happy that she bought me a new car. The only reason we didn't do a repeat salad night, was the mess we made. It was a real pain to clean up and Abigail's housekeeper threatened to quit.

Five months into our affair, I met her sister Maggie. I had determined by this time that, contrary to my cynical first impression; most of Abigail was original equipment. Her face was indeed sculpted and her right breast had been reduced slightly to match the left. So, I was very surprised when she introduced her sister.

I was surprised to find out I had known Maggie longer than I had Abigail. In fact, I'd spilled more than a few drunken confidences to her over the two years I'd been working at the country club. People tend to do that with sympathetic bartenders, like Maggie.

Maggie was nothing like her sister. Not in temperament, and most definitely not in looks. Maggie is nine inches shorter than Abigail's 5'11". Her arms and legs are muscular and well toned, but she's skinny, with knobby knees and pointy elbows. Her ass is a bit too big for her figure, and she's got mismatched breasts, one C-cup and one D-cup. Her hair is shoulder length, and mottled gold, brown and black. Just like a calico cat's fur. It would be sort of exotic, if there was anything available from the cosmetic industry that could give it a little luster and body. If there was something available, she didn't use it.

Her face is the crowning touch. Except for the green skin, she could be the witch from 'The Wizard of OZ.' She jokes that she's always a witch for Halloween, no matter how hard Abigail tries to make her wear a costume.

I'm afraid I let my surprise show when Abigail introduced Maggie as her sister.

"Maggie, what the hell are you doing playing bar-tender at a country club if you've got the kind of money your sister has?"

"I'm not 'playing' at being a bartender, Gordi. I AM a bartender. I'm a damn good bartender, and I enjoy my job. I also happen to have a Doctorate in Psychology."

"I'm sorry, Maggie. I didn't mean to insult you. I'm just a bit shocked at the moment."

"Why's that, Gordi? Regretting the time you've lost in seducing the 'ugly little rich girl?' Well, I don't seduce easy. I can see through the gigolos in a heartbeat. You know how I can tell a gigolo from other guys?"

"No," I answered without thinking. I was disconcerted by her tirade.

"They ask me out."

Abigail's laugh seemed forced. Maggie's was raucous and infectious.

"Ha Ha. Very funny. Is that what you think I am? A gigolo? Why? I've never asked you out."

"Well, what else am I supposed to think? Abby buys you a new car and gushes about how great a lover you are. Poor tennis pro dates rich bitch and gets a new car for his prowess in bed. Sure sounds like the description of a gigolo to me."

"It's not like that," Abigail and I both chimed together.

Abigail and I sounded like we were doing a duet. Maggie nearly tipped her chair over with her laughter.

In the month after Maggie was revealed as Abigail's sister, we dragged her along to a couple of soirees that their social standing 'required' them to attend. Maggie hired an escort for her date each time. We were set to do a 'fancy dress ball' when something came up that Abigail had to leave town for. She never said what it was. The result was that Maggie canceled her scheduled escort, and took me instead.

"No sense paying a professional gigolo when I can borrow my sister's amateur."

"I am NOT an amateur Gigolo! I'm just an ordinary guy your darling sister took a liking to. I let her 'keep' me because it makes her happy."

I don't think my innocent look came off very well, because Maggie just roared with laughter. I had to join in.

"I know you're not really Abby's gigolo, Gordi. She really does like you. She's had more orgasms in the six months since she practically raped you than she had in her entire life. More than double actually. I just wish I could find somebody as unselfish as you are."

It didn't surprise me that she knew how many orgasms Abigail had achieved. It wasn't unusual for Abigail to call Maggie right after an orgasm. A few times, she called DURING an orgasm. They talked on the phone constantly. For a change, Maggie sounded real serious. I wasn't sure if she was kidding when she continued though.

"Of course, I doubt very much you could duplicate that with me. I had more orgasms losing my virginity than you've given Abby in six months. Doubling the number of orgasms I've had would be a full time job. I don't think you've got the stamina to keep up with me."

"Are you trying to steal me away from your sister with wild claims of being multi-orgasmic?"

"They're not wild claims! While you've been working like a dog to bring Abby to a mere 60 orgasms in six months, I've had over 900."

"900! That's - um - ahh"

"An average of five a day. As opposed to Abby's one every three days."

"But how? You almost never date."

I regretted the words before they were completely said. Maggie's hand on my lips stopped me from apologizing.

"Ever hear of male prostitutes? Vibrators? Fingers? I'm rich, remember? I can afford to pay for a steady flow of certified clean cocks. I've learned a trick or three about getting them hard and keeping them that way."

"Uh - Maggie, shouldn't we be getting into costume and getting to the ball?"

I desperately wanted to change the subject. Maggie was making me uncomfortable with her frankness. Thankfully, she let me get away with my feeble attempt.

"You're right, Gordi. We've got to go make an appearance. Well, I do anyway. I can always call the escort agency back if you're uncomfortable being seen with me."

"Oh, no, Maggie. I'm kind of looking forward to going with you. At least I know it won't be dull with you there."

Maggie didn't need much to transform herself into a fair copy of the Old Hag from the movie Snow White. An old dress, a ragged scarf, and a basket of apples were all it took.

It took me a bit longer to transform myself into Prince Charming. Well actually, the costume was for Snow White's Prince. I don't think the Disney people ever gave him a name.

As if to make a liar of me, the ball was the most boring event I've ever had the misfortune to attend. Even Maggie's sotto voce comments about the other attendees couldn't liven things up for me. By mutual agreement, we split early.

I was surprised the limo took us to Maggie's house first. I assumed that she would get out and the limo would take me home afterwards. I was wrong.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Ivan can't put the limo away with you still in it."

"Huh?"

I was really being brilliant. Maggie reached back in the limo and grabbed my ear. I followed her into the house. I really didn't have a choice. She took my ear in with her, and if I wanted to stay attached, I had to go as well.

"Don't be dense, Gordi. I canceled my 'escort' for tonight in favor of you. He doesn't get paid for the fuck of his life, and you get it for free instead."

She took my ear down the hallway to her bedroom. As soon as we entered, she closed the door. She didn't turn on the light. Since she had her house built with her bedroom in the center, there were no windows; without a light on, it was as dark as the deepest cave.

Maggie grabbed my other ear to pull my face down to hers. I had never been kissed so thoroughly in my life. I have been since. Maggie was a little rushed that first time. She took her time with subsequent kisses.

"They say all women look alike in the dark," she whipered.

The platitude was delivered in the short space of time her mouth took to move from my lips to my cock. I have no idea how I got out of my costume. I also have no idea how I wound up naked and pushed back on her bed either. Maggie subdued me with a barrage of sensations that had my nervous system in overload. All I knew was that my cock seemed to have gotten stuck in a milking machine by mistake.

Seconds after my back made contact with her bed, Maggie's cunt descended on my face. I was not averse to sampling the feast presented to me. Maggie's platitude was wrong. At least in principle. I might not be able to see her, but I would be able to pick her out of a crowd.

I quickly discovered that she hadn't been boasting about being multi-orgasmic. She was easier to set off than Nitroglycerine. The way she was vacuum packing my cock in her throat made me wonder if she was right, about me not being man enough for her.

I tried to be polite and warn her, but she had swallowed every drop of my first orgasm before I could push her off enough to say anything. The milking machine never let me get soft.

Maggie must have the radar sense of a bat. Either that or she's so used to where things are in her blacked out bedroom that she doesn't need to see. That's the only way I can explain how she found a condom to roll over my renewed erection. That was the signal for a change of position. Well, her position anyway. I just lay there and let her have her way with me.

Maggie crawled over my chest and positioned herself over my erection. I was prepared for her to wrap that delicious pussy around my manhood. What I got was the unmistakable sensation of my cock sinking into the tightest rectum it had ever probed. Also, the most talented rectum it had ever met.

It seemed that Maggie's milking machine ran the full length of her alimentary system. As far as I could tell, she was sitting bolt upright and just using her bowel muscles to massage me. The only other part of her that moved was her hands. They found mine, dragged them over her thighs, and guided them to her drooling nether lips. She guided the fingers of my right hand into her cunt and my left to her clit.

It was like rolling vials of Nitro off a table. One explosion after another. It seemed that every time I touched her clit she had another orgasm. Not the gentle spasms her sister experienced once in a great while either. These were full-fledged 'Grand Mal' seizures.

The strength of her anal and vaginal muscles was incredible. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever hold a racket again when her bowels sucked a massive orgasm from me. I swear I felt the skin of my scalp stretch to free up more skin for my erection. Maggie was the most incredible sexual encounter of my life, and she wasn't done with me yet.

Maggie freed my cock from her ass and removed the condom. She turned and lay full length on top of me. I heard a slurping noise, and then she kissed me. The familiar taste she pushed into my mouth told me what the slurping noise had been. She was far from being the first woman to share my cum with me, but she was the first to suck it out of a condom to do so.

Time passes differently in total darkness. It couldn't have been more than four or five wonderful hours that we spent swapping slobber and cum from her mouth to mine and back again. She's the only woman I've ever met who had an orgasm from just kissing.

"OK, Gordi. Time to strut your stuff. Show me just how good a lover you are. I've had enough foreplay, I'm ready for some real heavy sex."