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Subject: {ASSM} [wedding] new "Oh Canada!" {Uther} (MF) [1/1] <*>
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<1st attachment, "Oh Canada!.txt" begin>

Subject: new "Oh Canada!" {Uther} (MF) [1/1] <*>

- = - 

IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, or otherwise forbidden by law to read
electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do something else. 

This material is Copyright, 2003, Uther Pendragon. All rights reserved. I
specifically grant the right of downloading and keeping ONE electronic
copy for your personal reading so long as this notice is included.
Reposting requires previous permission. 

All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as public
figures in the background, are figments of my imagination and any
resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. 


# # # # 

Oh Canada! 
by Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net


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."


The End 
Oh Canada 
Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
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