George Foster hadn't wanted a wedding reception. For that matter, if he could have had a marriage without a wedding, he would have gone for it -- would gladly have stopped off at a JP on their way to Canada. Sylvia, however, was a church-going woman. George figured that she would regard a church wedding as more binding than a visit to a justice of the peace. And, whatever he thought of the ceremony, binding is what he wanted. More binding than any of the weddings his father had had, anyway.

The reception was something else, though. It was less Sylvia's idea than her parents'. Still, her relationship with her parents was one of the things that George envied. For that matter, having a couple of parents was enviable. And, since he wanted to celebrate their anniversary in thirty years (her parents must have been married nearly that long), he figured they were the ones to ask. Better advice than his father would provide, anyway. Not that he would accept his father's advice even on things the old man might actually know about. The reception no longer demanded his attention every moment; by now the serious drinkers were drinking seriously. He wandered over to where Sylvia's parents were standing together.

"Congratulations," her dad said.

"Thanks. And thanks for raising such a wonderful daughter."

"I can't take credit. It was all Gladys's doing."

"'Each person can take 100 percent of the credit. Cash can't be divided that way.'" There. Once upon a time, he'd listened to his dad.

Sylvia's parents chuckled.

"Speaking of cash," George said.

Sylvia's dad looked annoyed, but reached for his wallet. Hell! He and Sylvia were planning to drive most of the way across Canada. If he had been out of cash right then, they'd be in hot water. "Not that. Much more serious." Her dad raised an eyebrow.

"You people have been married a long time. Long from my perspective, anyway. And, also, what you do is something Sylvia will respect. What I want to know is how you handle money -- not the details, not anything personal. But what do you do? Do you split all the expenses down the middle? And what if somebody is making more than the other?" Sylvia was going to cut her income to come with him. How should they calculate that?

"We don't do anything special," said her mother. "It's just like everybody else."

Now, George could tell her that money was something which only some people in the world -- not in Toledo, but in the world -- used. But broadening her horizons wasn't the object of this discussion. "Good! What does everybody else do?"

"Well," said her dad, "we have a joint account. One of us, which one has varied over the course of our marriage, pays the big bills -- mortgage, insurance, things like that. Gladys used to buy the kids' clothes. We each buy our own. Is that what you mean?"

"That's precisely what I meant. And Sylvia was aware of that?"

"Not much," he said. "It wasn't something worth mentioning. You know kids. Food comes from the 'fridge; money comes from dad's wallet. They don't think of how it got there."

"Sylvia knew I bought her clothes," her mom put in. "We had regular fights about that."

"Well," George said, "I'm not going to raise that issue. Thanks. That's what I wanted to know." And it was. He and Sylvia could have one pot of money. With his salary -- not that the University would be paying him much, all the Yanks of draft age wanted jobs in Canada -- and his Grandfather's trust and whatever Sylvia could make, they'd have enough. Maybe more than enough.

That was a real relief. He headed for the champagne, forgetting his promise to Sylvia to keep sober for the drive. Luckily, somebody proposed another toast just then. Couldn't drink when you were being toasted.

Speaking of drinking, his dad reached Sylvia just a little ahead of him. For all his oft-expressed opinions of domestic champagne, he'd been consuming a lot.

"Well," his dad said to Sylvia in his usual bray, "it's good of you to marry him even though he's running away. Usually women flock to the heroes, not the cowards."

"Dad," he 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. 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," he replied, "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."

"What you really don't want to do is risk your ass. Next time, dear," his dad was patronizing Sylvia and coming on to her at the same time, "look for a real man."

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

His dad went away, looking unconvinced. Still, he went away. Some more people came by -- most of them being pleasant. Cheryl must have heard Dad's comment. She had only nice things to say. She could be remarkably pleasant when she remembered the hatred they shared for their parent.

She joined the mob throwing bird seed on them as they ran to Sylvia's car. He drove until they stopped at a convenient spot to remove the decorations from the car. Sylvia took the wheel.

He thought for a bit before telling her, "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?"

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

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

"That's another kettle of fish," he said. Her parents had been especially helpful. Besides, it depended on what she wanted. Then he had another thought. "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." Though Cheryl liked Mom a lot more than he did, she didn't share her faults.

He wondered how to approach the subject of the shared pot of money. When Sylvia had drawn the higher income, it would have been impossible. But he would be in that condition within weeks. For that matter, neither of them was drawing any pay just then. His trust paid monthly, but it was the only source of funds right then, even theoretically. And they were married now. Maybe Sylvia took it for granted.

Canada didn't look any different from New York State. Not that he had really expected it to. Saskatchewan would be a little different, though.

They changed off driving, occasionally. They ate at a diner which could have been in the USA. His ice tea was served already sweetened, oversweetened for his taste, but that was probably a peculiarity of the diner. He got tired, and -- more dangerous when you're driving -- sleepy. Besides, this was a honeymoon. Sylvia was pleasant company in the car, but conversation wasn't his idea of a honeymoon. "About time for a stop?" he asked her. "Want to look for a motel?"

"Sure.... Look, this is the same as always, right? I pay half. How do you want to handle this at the motels?"

Well, the problem of how to bring up that question was solved, and -- no -- Sylvia didn't assume they'd have one pot of money. "Well, in the first place, that isn't really fair."

"How so?"

"Look." He had gone through all the arguments in his head. "You won't be able to get a teaching job in Regina, right?"

"I'm fairly certain I won't," she said.

"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."

"Okay." She sounded tentative.

"And, 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?" she asked. That wasn't quite it.

"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?"

He wasn't being generous at all. He just wanted to be married. "Just being sensible. I want this marriage to last, figured that we might copy one which has."

"'Sensible' isn't my description. But you are a generous man. Will you marry me?" Now she asked. She could have asked back then. Instead, he had had to get down on his knees; even then she'd only agreed because she had been embarrassed.

"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?"

"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. Motel!" The juxtaposition of the two ideas was accidental, but suggestive. And this was a honeymoon, after all.

He took the cloverleaf to the motel and registered. Once their bags were in the room (the man at the desk had called it a cabin -- it didn't look like a cabin to George), they took a walk around outside. There wasn't much to see, but they'd been sitting down far too long.

"Morning love?" he asked Sylvia when they were back in their room. He wanted their first sex as a married couple to be special. Tonight was too late to be special.

"Sure!" she said. "Is checkout at noon?" Which sounded as if she wanted it to be special, too.

"Checkout's at noon, but you can sleep in the car."

The outside air had been just the right temperature; the inside was too cold. He turned down the air conditioner before stripping off his one suit. His relief must have been evident to Sylvia. "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." Twenty-twenty afterthought.

"Why didn't you?"

"Didn't want to rummage through the suitcases. Mistake. Still feeling tired?" He wasn't much of a masseur, but Sylvia usually enjoyed his attentions. He moved from her back to her feet. Her butt was probably as numb as his was after the long drive. He spent a lot of time there, partly to work out the numbness, partly because he liked Sylvia's butt.

He liked other parts of Sylvia, too. When he was spending more time on her vulva than on her butt, she rolled over. She kept her legs spread, though, so he kept up his attentions. He also took the opportunity to kiss her lovely soft belly. Delightful as that was, it brought him close to her breasts. Now, those really needed kisses. He hadn't kissed them all day, had hardly felt them. He teased himself, and -- he hoped -- her, by working up to them very slowly.

Even when he reached them, he kissed all over her near breast before finally allowing himself to lick and suck her nipple. Then he repeated the process on her far breast -- conscious, all the while, of the wet nipple rubbing against his chest. He could tell she was feeling arousal, too. She was delightfully juicy by this time, but that wasn't the only clue. The belly which had been so soft under his lips was now hardening under his arms. She had begun to push her mound up against his hand.

When he'd worked his way up to the nipple, he thought she was ready. He sucked hard there, stroking across her clit at the same time. He was rewarded by a gasp from Sylvia. Her body undulated beside him as he maintained the suction and repeated the stroke.

He dropped both contacts when she relaxed. When she'd regained her breath, she turned on her side and snuggled against him. He carefully tucked her in. The room was still chilly, but she was covered with a light sheen of perspiration. He held the damp, smooth, soft, treasure in his arms -- his wife. "Good night, my love," he said. He cupped her top breast in his hand, his right hand, so it must be her right breast. Despite the arousal of his cock pressed to her butt, sleep came rapidly.

He woke to feel a sleeping Sylvia inches from him. That was delightful, but he had to get up to piss. While in the bathroom, he shaved. He didn't want his whiskers to bother her this morning. It was a little warm, so he turned up the air conditioner again. He wanted Sylvia to seek his warmth in her sleep.

He got back into bed quite carefully, easing his body against hers. She stirred, but didn't really wake up. When she'd gone back to sleep, he put his arm around her to cup her breast. He couldn't move like this, but who would want to? He lay there planning how he would serve, and service, her on the first morning of their marriage.

"Let me take a bathroom break," Sylvia said suddenly. He released her, and she went into the bathroom.

That would have been more fun to watch if he'd been wearing his glasses. He found them and put them on. She came out and looked through her suitcase, giving him a great view. She got her shower cap and turned to him. "Want to share a shower?"

He got up and followed her into the bathroom. He had a piss with her right there. She waited for the toilet tank to fill before she turned on the shower. Once she'd let the shower run over her back, she turned so he could scrub it.

Partly, he scrubbed her back hard because it was good for her. Sylvia was his woman, and he wanted her to be healthy, skin as much as anything else. Partly, he scrubbed hard because she liked it; the better she liked it, the more often she'd share a shower with him. This time, she'd even invited him. Mostly, he scrubbed hard because when he did she braced herself against a wall and stuck out her butt. And a delightful butt it was. He liked to see it, and liked more to press against it -- as he did during the scrubbing. When she'd had enough of that, he soaped up his hands and washed her belly, her breasts, and even between her legs. She took up a washcloth for her face and arms. She went on to her legs, not giving him a chance.

Then, she started in on him. This was new, and also delightful. He had to warn her, though, when she was washing his cock. He was too close to coming. She moved off it at his warning, but no further than his nuts. He remembered things he'd read about Japanese geishas. After a brief respite, she finished off by running a soapy finger along his butt. He couldn't tell what had got into her this morning, and he wasn't about to question it out loud. If this was marriage, even if this was honeymooning, he would enjoy it.

When it was time to dry off, they did each other. He went first, starting on the peripheries and ending at her center. Maybe he patted here longer than was strictly necessary to dry her. "Are you trying to reduce moisture," Sylvia asked, "or increase it?"

Then he gave her the towel. She used it on his back, but took another for the rest of him. There were plenty of towels; one good thing about a motel. At first, the drying was service. It was pleasant to be pampered, even mildly erotic to be pampered by your lover. By the time she got to his butt, though, there was nothing mild about the eroticism. Sylvia was reaching between his legs and facing his erect cock. She blew across it several times. By the time she dried it off, he was leaking precum. That was one towel they shouldn't reuse.

He warned her again.

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

He could tell she wasn't serious; she was kneeling staring at his cock while she said it. But this was too much. "Sylvia!"

"Oh. Did you have something else planned? Yes, you mentioned something last night. Now what was it...? Oh, yes. Morning love."

She got up. "Why don't you go lie down while I take my pill?" she continued. He did. Bed was definitely the place to be right then. It was a little cool by now. He tossed the sheet over himself, being careful that the leaking precum didn't touch the top. Though these sheets would only be used for a few more minutes.

"That's a good idea," Sylvia said. "I ought to be wearing something, too."

"Sylvia!"

"Well, sauce for the goose, you know." Obediently, he threw the sheet aside.

She didn't stare at his nakedness, though. Instead she looked through her purse for the plastic disk of pills. This gave him a delightful view of her vulva. Then he could see Sylvia in motion as she went back to the bathroom to take the pill and returned to the handbag.

The view he got when she returned the pills to the purse was raunchier yet. He began to suspect that she was posing. For one thing, the natural position for bending over to look in her purse would have given him a three-quarters view, not this direct one. Ordinarily, he preferred her natural nudity to her poses, but this time he was conscious that she was making an effort to turn him on. And it worked; how it worked. He was throbbing, afraid he'd come before he got in her. Maybe having the sheet against his cock had been a bad idea.

She finally came to bed. "No," she said when he turned to welcome her. "Lie back down." He lay flat on his back. She climbed onto the bed and knelt down with her legs on both sides of him. She removed his glasses and kissed him.

He kissed her back. He extracted his arms, which had been trapped against his sides by her posture. Then he could caress all of her. After paying proper attention to her thighs and butt, he held her breasts. They were so smooth, and her nipples were so firm. "Like this?" she asked.

Like what they were doing? He adored it. "Oh yes."

"Don't you want to do something else with them?" She bent down so that one breast was against his mouth. He leaned upwards slightly to kiss it. Soon, he lay back down and she bent further forward. He kissed and licked and sucked. She only removed it to give him the other breast. "Equal time," she said. She changed breasts every once in a while. That was great, one thing he usually had to worry about was whether his attentions were making her breast sore. These weren't. Now they were making his cock sore. But he was enjoying this too much to try to bring it to an end. And, after all, he wanted her to welcome his sexual advances; he wouldn't refuse hers.

Controlling which breast he sucked was fair, her next move wasn't. She pulled the breast out of his mouth and moved down to suck his nipples.

When she finally abandoned his nipples, she kissed him on the mouth. He kissed her deeply, playing tongue tag. When he was done, she inserted her tongue in his mouth. They played another round of tongue tag, but his cock was starting to need something more direct. When he got her breast again, he reached for her vulva. He petted the outer lips before parting them. He tried to steer his finger blindly while paying proper attention to her breast. But, if he had to have distractions, these were the best possible distractions.

She reached back to finger his cock. That was too much! "Sylvia!" he warned.

"Spread me a little bit," she replied. All right. This was what he needed, had needed for hours now. Eons maybe. He spread her lips and she sat down on his cock. At first the direction wasn't quite right. Then, everything was perfect.

"Oh, Sylvia," he said. He reached up to hold her breasts. He gloried in all that sensation, gloried more when she began moving. At first he worried that he would come too soon. Then he worried that he wouldn't come at all. His tension rose and rose, but it never peaked. The sensations on his cock were exquisite.

Finally, she came around him. She sat rigidly upright while her vulva clasped his cock again and again. Then she sagged against his hands. Breasts weren't meant to be handles, and he let her down on his chest. This took him out, and he needed some relief.

He turned her over and arched above her. He found her entrance and thrust within. What control he had needed for that maneuver disappeared immediately. His body thrust in and out of her as it sought its climax. Then it came, pumping gallons out through his cock, pumping his very life out through his cock.

When that drive left him, so did everything else. He vaguely felt her push him over on to his side. His next sensation was of her shaking his shoulder. He was lying flat on his stomach.

"Hunh?" he asked.

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

He looked at his watch. Quarter 'til. Maybe later. "Quarter 'til. Didn't give me much time, did you?" He might be able to make it, but not the way he was feeling. And that might mean wearing yesterday's clothes again. A suit when you're feeling grungy.

"It's quarter 'til eleven," she shouted through the door. When he'd had a piss and a minimum shower, he came out and checked his watch. She was right, and they had time. He moved quickly but efficiently. He dug out clean clothes.

By the time they'd got the car loaded and reached the office, he felt human -- not rested, but human. The guy at the desk recommended two restaurants, the closer one was all right.

Despite two cups of coffee, he started to drowse off during lunch or breakfast or whatever. He didn't do the meal justice, and Sylvia ate what he couldn't.

"Willing to drive?" he asked Sylvia when they left the restaurant. "I might have trouble keeping my eyes open." She took the wheel, and he settled in beside her. The drone of the engine acted as a lullaby.

He woke with the sun slanting down into his eyes. He adjusted the visor. They were going west, going west a hell of a long way. Maybe it wasn't the smartest of ideas to do their traveling mostly in the afternoon. On the other hand, would he have traded this morning for the comfort of the sun behind him? Not in a million years.

"Back?" Sylvia asked.

"I think so. Maybe you can stop at the next gas station and I'll take over the driving. Need to visit the men's, anyway. Sorry to leave so much of the work to you."

"I just hope you'll be able to sleep tonight." There was a thought.

"I think I will." Of course, they were on their honeymoon. A nice bout of lovemaking would beat a sleeping pill every time. If he could get it up, if he could get it up ever again. Which led to the question. "What got into you, anyway?"

"It wasn't you?" Sylvia's facial expression of dismay was playing mostly to the windshield, but he could see enough of it to tell she was hamming it up. "It certainly felt like you."