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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2008.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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Father of the Bride
by NaughtySamantha (samanthachadborn@gmail.com)

***

A story in which I spread my legs to help little 
Tiffany and Sara and Margot get the wedding gowns of 
their dreams. You should know that I'm neither a 
recovering nymphomaniac nor an amateur easy-after-a-
few-drinks-take-me-home-and-have-your-nasty-way-with-me 
nymphomaniac. Instead, I'm an ardent, unabashed, full-
fledged, let-it-all-hang-out, celebrating, practicing, 
sucking, fucking, raging, roaring, whoring 
nymphomaniac. (MF, oral, rom)

***

A man I meet through Tina sells upscale wedding dresses 
out of an upscale shop on upscale Bloor Street.

Robin is in his late forties. All suave, sophisticated 
and sexually ambiguous. He lounges behind his desk in a 
Savile Row suit which can't have cost less than three 
thousand dollars. I know it's Savile Row because on the 
inside jacket pocket I can see the label. It says 
"Pendel & Braithwaite of Savile Row" with "Tailors to 
Royalty" underneath. I suspect he spends a lot of time 
arranging himself and his jacket so visitors can admire 
the label. You wouldn't trust him with your daughter. 
Or your son. Or your dog.

Robin has the cold, dark eyes of a rottweiler. He 
studies my body and the first thing he says is that my 
breasts are much too big for modeling. "Most of those 
models on the runways are flatter than me, darling."

"Sorry to waste your time." I get up to leave.

He waves me back into my chair. "But bridal wear is 
different. You can have tits. Anyway, a lot of the 
girls are knocked up so their tits are nearly as big as 
yours. Those are fucking world-class boobs." He leans 
forward, studies my breasts more carefully. "Come to 
think of it … not many of the girls are nearly as big 
as you though. And fathers love big boobs." I decide 
he's probably a sadistic gay. I don't say anything. I 
can wait.

Robin swings his feet up on the desk. His shoes have a 
deep, oxblood shine, cost maybe six hundred dollars. He 
takes a silver toothpick out of a little, silver box, 
puts it between thin lips. His rottweiler eyes don't 
leave my body. "Anyway, we don't sell wedding dresses 
to brides. We sell to the brides' fathers. The brides' 
fathers adore boobs. You want to try out, sweetie?"

I can play games too. "I don't know... depends..." I 
wave a hand dismissively to show the job isn't 
important to me.

"Show me your tits, sweetie."

"No. And don't call me sweetie."

"I want to know they're real."

"They're real."

Robin takes the silver toothpick out of his mouth, 
changes tactics. "I apologize" he says. "I don't mean 
to be rude... but I have to know because of bodice 
size. You understand?" I shrug, pull my sweater up 
above my breasts. He studies my chest. "Jesus." He 
tries again. "You could be padded."

I look down. I can plainly see my nipples thrusting 
against the bra's thin white lace like they're supposed 
to. "Don't be silly... what do you think these dark 
bumps are, freckles?"

Robin glances at my face, back to my breasts, back to 
my face again. "Ok. I'll give you a chance. I pay a 
hundred bucks a show. Usually two shows a day. Probably 
four days a week including Saturdays. Almost always a 
few hours in late afternoon or evening." He's developed 
an interesting bulge in the front of his pleated 
elegant trousers. So maybe he's not gay. "But you're 
expected to be nice to customers. The fathers. Did they 
tell you that?"

I nod. "They did. How nice?"

"Very nice."

"Then it's not enough. Not if you want me to be … very 
nice." I pull my sweater down, get up to leave again.

Robin says hastily "I believe in happy customers and 
happy employees. So there's five percent of the price 
of the dress for you if I'm having trouble closing a 
big sale and you get to close it. Remember, I don't 
like to sell the cheap dresses. I like to sell 
expensive dresses. Like ten thousand dollar dresses. 
That makes me happy. So make the fathers happy and you 
make me happy, Sam. Know what I mean? Five percent."

I do a quick calculation. A few hours a day. Lots of 
time to study. Add maybe eight hundred dollars to five 
percent of ten thousand and I can make $1,300 dollars 
on a four-day week even if I sell only one dress. I 
know I can sell a lot more than one. That's pretty good 
money but I take a chance anyway. "Not enough."

Robin stares at me, confused. I play my big card, pull 
my sweater up over my head and unhook my bra in the 
front. My breasts swing free. "Eat your heart out. 
These are what you're missing."

"Jesus" he says "never seen tits like that in my life."

"Hundred and fifty a show... and six percent..." I cup 
my breasts in my hands. "And the best damn blow job 
you'll ever have." I walk behind his desk, swing his 
chair around to face me, get down on my knees.

Robin's hands go to my breasts. "Holy, suffering 
jesus..."

***

Robin teaches me to catwalk. It's a real rush striding 
down the runway in gorgeous wedding dress after 
gorgeous wedding dress, shoulders back, breasts out, 
one foot in front of the other, all desirable and 
unattainable, hips swaying, schmaltzy music sweet in 
the background.

I love the dresses. It's like living in a fairy tale. 
Dress after dress, all silk and satin and taffeta and 
tulle and chiffon and pearls, all embroidered and white 
and ivory. Long skirts swish and swirl, veils shadow my 
eyes, miniature roses fill my hands. Enough Italian 
shoes to make me cum a dozen times a day. I graduate in 
arrogant-demure.

Flinty-eyed wives and pampered daughters come to buy 
wedding dresses. Only the very best for little Tiffany 
and Sara and Margot. Rich men, fathers, reluctantly 
come with them, pay outrageous prices for the dresses, 
watch me, want me.

I know the fathers want me when they stop seeing the 
dress, its floor-length ivory lace, its form-fitting 
waist crinolined to the ankle, its scalloped hem, 
plunging neckline and three-quarter-length sleeves. 
Instead, they see inside the dress. Me. My body. Naked. 
I understand when their eyes tell me they're 
fantasizing about pulling my bodice down, sucking my 
nipples, thrusting between my thighs. When they forget 
their wives and daughters sitting there, all prim and 
respectable next to them, forget the incredible price 
of the dress and lust to hike my bridal skirts and fuck 
my bridal pussy right there on the runway.

So I smile, cold and distant, to show how unavailable I 
am, how much I despise them and flounce back behind the 
curtains to slip into the next, ever more gorgeous and 
expensive gown.

***

The father and mother of the bride try to decide. Does 
the four thousand dollar or the eight thousand dollar 
gown suit little Tiffany best? Or maybe it should it be 
the ten thousand dollar dream?

They argue in code. Her code means "you don't love her 
enough, you cheap bastard." His code means "I'd be 
crazy to spend that kind of money on a dress the 
ungrateful little bitch wears only once."

Robin intervenes politely to suggest that little 
Tiffany and her mother choose underclothes and 
negligees and looks at bridesmaid's outfits with one of 
the staff. As soon as they disappear, Robin calls me 
from backstage. I come out in a filmy silk robe. Robin 
suggests casually "Sam... would you offer the gentleman 
a drink in the boudoir and perhaps show him some of the 
gowns again so he can think about it..." Robin shrugs 
elegantly. Robin loves to shrug elegantly.

I smile at the father. It's an entirely different smile 
now, no longer cold and distant. Warm suddenly, and 
inviting. "Of course... I'll be happy to... please come 
with me to the boudoir, sir..."

***

The boudoir looks like an expensive brothel. Which is 
how it's supposed to look. Thick crimson carpets cover 
the floor. Discreet oil paintings of improbable nudes 
hang on the walls. An oiled mahogany bar sits in one 
corner. An antique ivory Chinese screen cuts off 
another corner and hides the racks of dresses. A mirror 
covers one wall and most of the ceiling above a huge, 
crimson satin couch and a massive leather gentleman's 
club chair.

"Please sit sir..." I wave the father to the chair, 
stand above him, ask innocently "what can I give you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

I smile mischievously, let the silk robe open to show 
some breast, launch into my lines. "To drink... I mean. 
Perhaps Johnnie Walker Blue? Or we have an excellent 
Bodegas Fuentespina 1995... gold medal at the Challenge 
International du Vin? And a very fine Taittinger Comtes 
de Champagne, 1952? Maybe a cigar? Very fine Cubans... 
Romeo y Julieta?"

"Scotch please... no ice." 

I pour the father a generous tot of Blue, bend over to 
hand it to him. Of course, my robe falls open so my 
naked breasts sway invitingly, only inches from his 
face. "Would you like to see them again, sir?" He looks 
startled. I smile without closing the robe. "I mean... 
the gowns?"

He stares at my breasts. "Please... if it's not too 
much trouble."

"Of course not. The dressing rooms are full at the 
moment. Do you mind if I change in here, sir?"

He looks even more startled. "No... no... go ahead..."

"Please make yourself comfortable, sir..." I go behind 
the screen, take my robe off. I'm not wearing 
underclothes, only a lacy garter belt and stockings. 
The father can't help but watch me in the mirrored 
ceiling. I take one of the cheaper dresses off the 
rack, slip it on, come out from behind the screen, 
parade for him without enthusiasm. "This is one of the 
more popular models, sir. Very reasonable."

He gets the hint. "We wouldn't want anything that's not 
exclusive, my dear. No... wouldn't do at all. Not for 
little Tiffany."

"You're quite right... after all, she's only going to 
walk down the aisle in something really beautiful this 
once." I go back behind the screen, take the dress off. 
The father watches in the ceiling mirror. I take my 
time.

***

The most expensive gown always comes last and I always 
have trouble fastening its hooks. I come out from 
behind the screen holding up the bodice with one hand, 
breasts and one nipple billowing above it. "Could you 
help me... please sir..."

"Oh yes. Yes. Of course, my dear."

I hike the skirt up with my free hand to let the father 
see lots of leg, kneel down with my back to him. I let 
the bodice slip further. The father fumbles with the 
hooks.

I let go of the bodice. It falls to my waist. I lean 
back between the father's legs and smile up at him. I 
take his hands, guide them to cup my breasts. I close 
my eyes, let him fondle me. I groan. When I know for 
certain I've got him, I turn, reach for his zip.

The father can watch either me or our reflection in the 
mirror on the ceiling or both, while, with his 
daughter's wedding gown hanging from my hips, I suck 
his cock. When I think he's had enough cock-sucking I 
stand up, take him by the hand, lead him to the couch, 
lie back so he can pull my skirts up, spread my legs 
and pull him on top of me.

And always, after he cums, I cradle him in my arms and 
tell him he's the most magnificent lover I've ever 
known.

Funny how it turns a father on to fuck me while I'm 
wearing his daughters' wedding gown. Funny how it 
really, really turns a father on when I let a few drops 
of his cum dribble from my mouth or pussy and spill on 
the inside lining of the skirt. Funny about fathers 
getting turned on by the thought of their daughters 
walking down the aisle with some of their own fatherly 
cum splashed inside the wedding dress. Funny about 
fathers and daughters.

After the boudoir, the father almost always buys the 
most expensive gown for little Tiffany or Sara or 
Margot.

And Robin and I are almost always very happy.

***

END

Father of the Bride is chapter 63 in my 109-chapter 
autobiography "Life, Lusts and Loves of Samantha" 
exploring my fascinating times between the sheets and 
other places. My story is true, except that some of the 
facts have been changed to make it more interesting. 
Find me at samanthachaborn@gmail.com)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 55