Sylvia had occasionally enjoyed George's descriptions of the initiation ceremonies or scarification rituals which some primitive societies used to mark the passage into adulthood. She figured that wedding receptions were modern America's version; honed over centuries to maximize the pain.

She hadn't wanted a wedding reception, really. Her parents should have been glad that she and George weren't costing them a bundle; instead, they wanted to put on a reception. And her friends, much less George's, were pleased to have free drinks. They were treating the champagne like beer, but it wasn't as if she hadn't warned her parents.

She was leaving the champagne alone, easy when you weren't supposed to drink the toasts. And she hoped George was, as well. The last thing they wanted was to start their life in Canada with a DUI arrest.

George's family were being polite to hers -- and studiously ignoring each other. She met his father and his mother. She also met his father's third wife and his mother's second husband. Now, she liked George's sister and, for a wonder, he seemed to like her, too.

"Well," his father said to her as the reception was winding down, "it's good of you to marry him even though he's running away. Usually women flock to the heroes, not the cowards." George could hear that -- a quarter of the room could hear that, and George was standing quite close.

"Dad," George replied, "I'm not running away. I'm taking a job in my profession. The job is in Canada. And, if that protects me from the draft, great."

"Profession! A school marm." (Which, Sylvia noted, was one of George's words. He might not get along with his father, but he'd picked up some traits.) "You should get out in the business world and actually earn your way. As for the draft, I've told you. We may have had differences, but I'm perfectly willing to call in some favors. You could get a commission in the reserves. You'd never have to risk your ass."

"In the first place," said George "there is something hypocritical in seeking a military commission for the purpose of avoiding military service. In the second place, that doesn't answer all my objections. True, I don't want to kill people. But I don't want to wear a uniform, march in step, or salute people either." Whatever that statement did to clarify his motives, it settled another question. George was dead sober.

"What you really don't want to do is risk your ass. Next time, dear," (Sylvia suddenly wondered if he had forgotten her name) "look for a real man."

"I don't want to kill people," said George, "with one particular exception. And there isn't going to be a 'next time.' This is 'until death us do part.'"

His father smirked and left them. Soon, they had to leave, too. Their friends had brought some bird seed (rice being environmentally unsound) which they threw over them. George drove the first shift. It was her car, but she'd thought that driving away with her at the wheel wouldn't be the right image to leave with his family.

They stopped well outside of town to strip off the sign and old shoes. They weren't going to drive across Canada with a "Just Married" sign on their trunk. She took the wheel.

When she had got into the driving, George said, "Well, you'd better look out for my health. You'd have to invite him to my funeral."

"You don't plan on seeing them again?" She wouldn't argue against that decision.

"I'd be happy to go to his funeral. Tomorrow."

"Should I expect that we'll never visit my family either?"

"That's another kettle of fish. Though I might not want to leave Canada. Depends on the law. Anyway, I liked your parents. Maybe they'll visit us in Regina."

"I liked your sister, too."

"Cheryl is a lovely person when you see her briefly and fairly seldom. She can get on your nerves, too. But she is nothing like our parents."

George was driving again when they got near Ogdensburg. He filled the tank up, using his credit card. "You'd better be driving when we cross the border," he said. "The registration is in your name." She got behind the wheel. She mentally rehearsed her story as to why she was Sylvia Foster, while the license, registration, and passport were all in the name of Sylvia Jennings. New brides couldn't be that rare. As it happened, the border guards weren't interested in any of that. She and George passed thorough the checkpoint unchallenged -- almost unnoticed.

They stopped at a diner. Again, he paid for it.

"About time for a stop?" he asked hours later. He was at the wheel again. "Want to look for a motel?"

"Sure." She turned her attention to the roadside signs, but the mention of a motel had reminded her of something they hadn't settled. "Look, this is the same as always, right? I pay half. How do you want to handle this at the motels?"

"Well, in the first place, that isn't really fair."

'Not fair'? She thought she had been generous. It was traditionally the groom's responsibility to pay for the honeymoon, not that they were being traditional, not that her family had paid for the wedding service. They'd paid for the reception, which was probably one hell of a lot more, but that was their idea. Anyway, where had he gotten the idea that this wasn't fair? "How so?"

"Look, you won't be able to get a teaching job in Regina, right?"

"I'm fairly certain I won't," she said. Though what this had to do with paying for a motel room, she couldn't see.

"And, even if you could, it would probably pay less. So what you are putting into the family coffers isn't just whatever you'll be earning in Regina. You're also contributing the difference between that and what you'd be earning in Boston. You're putting that out to keep the family together."

She liked his saying that they were a family. They were, if for less than a day. Anyway, she couldn't object to his saying that her suggestion was unfair to her. This was still the George she had known. "Okay."

"And," he went on, "in the second place, I talked with your parents at the reception. What they have is a joint account. This 'George pays half -- Sylvia pays half' was fine when we were living together. We're married now, and maybe we should have one pool of money, too."

"We split expenses down the middle when you were a grad student, and I was a teacher. Now that you will be a paid instructor and I'll be back to waiting tables, you think we should pool our money?"

"Well, that's one way to think about it. I was mostly thinking of being married. I don't have experience there. Of course, you don't either. But you have seen a much better marriage up close than I have. I figured that we might copy something from them."

"George, have I ever mentioned what a generous guy you are?"

"Just being sensible. I want this marriage to last, figured that we might copy one which has."

"'Sensible' wasn't my description. But you are a generous man. Will you marry me?"

"Can't. I'm already married. Anyway, you had your chance to ask."

She laughed. "You'll never let me live that down, will you?" Okay, he had been the one to propose. She hadn't even been thinking in terms of marriage, and was surprised that George was. But he was quite prepared to leave her for this job. She'd had enough of his being in another country.

"Nope! All this talk of Woman's Lib -- but when push comes to shove, you let the man ask the hard questions."

"Women need to be liberated, but it's the man who needs to be hard," she pointed out. Then, "Motel!"

The sign was on the interstate. Interstate? interprovince? Anyway, the sign was on the divided expressway, but they had to take an exit to get to it. They checked in and walked around the tiny settled area. They both had kinks from sitting in the car for hours.

"Morning love?" George asked. He preferred mornings. And he made every effort that she would enjoy them too.

Why not? This was a honeymoon, after all. "Sure! Is checkout at noon?"

"Checkout's at noon," he said, "but you can sleep in the car." Braggart!

The room was a typical motel room, chilly with the air conditioner on high. It probably had been needed in the August afternoon; it was superfluous at eleven o'clock. Despite that, George stripped off his white shirt and suit pants with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Just be glad we didn't go formal," she said. "You'd have loved wearing a monkey suit."

"A tux would have been worse, but not for very long. I should have changed before we got in the car." He had hung up his suit coat and his tie in the car.

"Why didn't you?"

"Didn't want to rummage through the suitcases. Mistake. Still feeling tired?"

She was still feeling something, and his massage helped. He rubbed her back, and then started on her feet. His hands traveled up her legs, then he gestured for her to turn on her face. Well, her ass had been working a lot more than her feet had. He actually gave a full massage there before his hands strayed.

She rolled over on her back so he could have easier access to the parts he was caressing. Besides, she wanted some attention to her breasts. He approached these very slowly, kissing up her stomach. When he got there, though, he made it worth the wait. He kissed a trail up the bottom slope of her left breast. Then he tongued her nipple to firm attention before he sucked it. Fire burned within her.

When he turned his attention to her right breast, he spent the longest time licking the crease which was normally on the bottom of it. That was while fingering her lower lips. When he finally sucked on the nipple, he stroked across her clitoris at the same time. She soared.

When she came back, he covered them both with the sheet and blanket. He held her in a tight hug. "Good night, my love," he said. And a very good night it was.

She woke in the spoon position. His hand was cupping her right breast. His prick was hard against her ass. He had to be awake; his hand didn't take that shape unless he were conscious. Now, his prick could be hard when he was dead asleep. "Let me take a bathroom break," she said softly. He took his hand and arm away.

This was, she remembered while sitting on the toilet, the first morning of her honeymoon. She finished up everything she could do before her shower. Then she went back to rummage through her bag for a shower cap. He was lying there ogling her in the buff.

Well, why not? This was a honeymoon. "Want to share a shower?" she asked. Rhetorical question. He took off his glasses and got out of bed to join her. His prick was already pointing out -- if not yet up.

He really scrubbed her back. Okay, when she bent over to push against the wall, he was right up against her. His prick was lying over her ass. She enjoyed that, too, although more of her attention was on the feelings of the washcloth against her back. On her front, he didn't use a cloth at all. He soaped up his hand and rubbed it across her stomach. On her breasts and pussy, it was less than a rub than a caress.

She did her own face and arms. "I was going to do that," he said when she started on her legs. But she'd had enough foreplay. Well, almost enough. She soaped him up -- first his torso, then his face -- he'd shaved, she noticed. When she soaped up his prick, he said: "Watch it!" Well, her hand wasn't where she wanted his spunk. She was quite gentle with his balls -- quite gentle, but quite thorough. She did his back a lot less thoroughly than he'd done hers. She ended by passing two soapy fingers along his ass crack. She washed and rinsed her hands while he was rinsing off.

First, he dried her. He toweled her back as vigorously as he had scrubbed it. Maybe, her stance encouraged him. She bent over and leaned against a wall. Again, he pressed his groin into her ass. He was gentler with her face, and gentler yet with her breasts. He was far less gentle with her lower legs, but he pressed more lightly and moved more slowly as he went higher. By the time he got to her pussy, the towel touched her in light pats. "Are you trying to reduce moisture," she asked, "or increase it?"

He laughed and handed her the towel. She used it to wipe his back and shoulders vigorously, then got a fresh one for the rest. She was reasonably gentle on his face and chest. She moved more slowly the lower she got. Then she dropped to her knees on the bath mat to deal with his legs. She dried upwards from his left ankle. As she went up the thigh, she became more gentle. She repeated the process on his right leg. She reached between his legs to dry off his hard buttocks. This brought her face very close to his prick, which was straining upwards. She blew on it. Seeing him jerk in reaction was such fun that she repeated the process. Then she -- very carefully and gently -- dried it off.

"Sylvia," he said.

"Time to get dressed?" she asked. "It's Sunday. Do you think the motel office would know where there is a church close?"

"Sylvia!"

"Oh. Did you have something else planned? Yes, you mentioned something last night. Now what was it...? Oh, yes. Morning love." She was inches from his prick while she was saying all that. Watching it bobble in response to her words and her breath was fun. Now, she got up. "Why don't you go lie down while I take my pill?" Of course taking the pill beforehand wasn't any better than taking it at lunch. It was no better medically, that is to say.

It was one hell of a lot better tease. Obediently, George opened the door and lay down on the bed, covering himself. "That's a good idea," she said. "I ought to be wearing something, too."

"Sylvia!"

"Well, sauce for the goose, you know." Maybe it was sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose in this particular situation. Anyway, George tossed the sheet aside and lay down on his back. His prick was sticking right up. He reached for his glasses.

She carried her handbag over to a chair and set it down. Spreading her legs a good foot-and-a-half apart, she bent over with her back to him and rummaged around in it. The pill container was easy to find, but she took another minute before she straightened up. Then she sauntered back into the bathroom and ran a glass of water. After taking the pill, she bent over again to return the case to her handbag. She had her feet further apart this time, and kept her back straight as she bent from the waist.

George rolled over as she approached the bed. "No," she said. "Lie back down." He obeyed. This was fun! She knelt on the bed with her legs straddling his chest. He wanted to look at her pussy? Give him a good look. As her husband, he should be entitled. But, nevertheless, his glasses were in the way of more important matters. She took them off his face and put them carefully down on the night stand.

She shuffled a little towards the foot of the bed, leaned over, and kissed him. While his tongue explored her mouth, his hands explored her body. First he ran them up her legs to her ass. Later, he moved them up her sides until they were cupping her breasts. She could pretend indifference all she wanted when he was across the room; she was sure he could feel the hardness of her nipples when he was like this. But she was enjoying the feeling too much to try for a change of position. On the other hand -- other mouth? -- one change of position did occur to her.

"Like this?" she asked.

"Oh yes."

"Don't you want to do something else with them?" Then she leaned forward so that her right breast was at his mouth. With no more suggestion than that -- he was a Harvard Ph. D., after all -- George licked and sucked that nipple. "Equal time," she said, moving so that her left breast was at his mouth. His tongue felt lovely, his suction felt lovelier. The only problem was that he could only do one breast at a time. So she shifted back and forth. Every once in a while, she said "Equal time" as she shifted.

But it wasn't really equal time. So the next time she said it she moved lower in the bed. She bent down to kiss his nipple. Moving a little further down -- she'd had to bend her back too much for that one -- she kissed the other one. She tried a lick or two, and then some suction. This was fun. The only problem was that every time she sucked George pushed his ass off the bed. His prick was leaking heavily by now, and it slimed up her thigh every time it touched her. Oh well, she was probably dripping all over him. Her pussy felt all gooey. They'd both need showers when this was over.

She moved back up to kiss his mouth. He stuck his tongue in hers. She loved the sensation, but this was her time to be in control. When he withdrew it, she thrust her tongue into his mouth. She explored all the corners, the top and his teeth on each side. In between, she met his tongue again and again. Judging from the caresses of his hands while this was going on, he didn't mind her taking control.

And, when she put her right breast in his mouth again, he not only sucked there, but he stroked her pussy as well. She reached back to point his prick straight up.

"Sylvia!" gasped George.

"Spread me a little bit." He pulled her pussy lips apart as she eased herself down over his prick. She found the right position. It wasn't as easy as she had thought. Then she felt his prick between her pussy lips, right at the entrance. As she settled down, it started to bend. Then it was going in.

"Oh, Sylvia," George said.

She slowly sat back. He was all the way inside, and it felt great. She put a hand on each of his shoulders and adjusted her position. As she rose slowly, she felt him coming out. When the head was right at her lips, she sank back down. She had figured out the motion. And the motion produced wonderful feelings. She repeated the rising and sinking so that George's prick repeated the filling and emptying. Meanwhile, his hands were at her breasts, holding them and rolling her nipples between his fingers.

She found just the position and motion which gave her the most exciting sensations. Her legs were beginning to tire, but the feelings were too good to interrupt. Then, abruptly, she climaxed. She went rigid sitting on him and shaking. All the feelings poured through her.

And, when they were finished, so was she. She collapsed on George, not even trying to hold up her weight

When he pushed her over, he came out. A moment later, he was above her and in her. The sensations started again as he slid within her. Then he was thrusting rapidly in and out of her. Moments later, before she had caught her breath, George was rigid over her and throbbing within her. Then he sobbed once and collapsed. When she gathered her energy to push him off, he lay beside her, gasping. By the time she was ready to get up, he was back asleep.

His spunk poured out of her when she sat up. She sat on the bed an extra minute while it drained. She showered again, much faster without George, if less fun. Now what to wear? Jeans, tee-shirt, and tennies if they were going to be driving all day. It was Sunday, though. Church clothes? Did she want to hunt up a church? They'd have to check out first. And she'd want to change somewhere afterwards. She went out and looked at her watch. 10:35 -- no wonder she felt so hungry. That decided that. George didn't look like somebody who'd wake up by eleven, let alone get to church by that time. After putting on the watch, she dug in her suitcase for comfortable clothes and fresh underwear. Barefoot, but otherwise dressed, she shook George's shoulder. Checkout was at noon; besides her stomach was announcing that it wanted to be filled now.

"Hunh!" he said.

"Lunch time. Checkout time, for that matter."

He grabbed his watch from the nightstand. "Quarter 'til. Didn't give me much time, did you?" He hustled into the bathroom.

"It's quarter 'til eleven," she shouted through the door.

He still showered only briefly and came out toweling himself off. She remembered that he had shaved earlier.

She'd packed several plastic bags. She put her dirty underwear in one and handed another to George. He dressed in jeans and tee-shirt, himself -- and the boots he wore almost always. Their bags were all packed and ready to go before eleven thirty. George checked them out, and got directions to two restaurants. The nearer one looked okay. She ate more than George for once, even stealing some of his fries.

When they went back to the car, he asked, "Willing to drive? I might have trouble keeping my eyes open." She felt fine, invigorated even. She got in the driver's side; he got in the passenger's side. By the time they were on the expressway again -- the Trans-Canada, not the interprovince -- George was sleeping beside her.

She chuckled. "You can sleep in the car," he'd said. Well, somebody could. Despite his failure as company right then, she felt rather fond of him. Maybe there was something to be said for this marriage stuff.