THE BRIDESMAIDS

copyright: Lesley Tara, 2011


She looked so delightful in her pale pink satin bridesmaid’s dress, its tightly-fitted cut highlighting the budding curves of her slender sixteen-and-a-half year old body – her small pert breasts, her slim waist, her trim hips and her cute bubble-butt. Helen was a very pretty and attractive teenager even in her everyday jeans and T-shirts; in this classically-simple and elegantly-shaped sheath of satin, she looked absolutely eatable – and I had plans to do just that.

We two had been the maids of honour at the marriage of my sister, Samantha, to Helen’s brother, James. The bride and groom had met five years ago when attending the same university, and were now aged twenty-five. I am three years and seven months younger than Samantha, and a college student myself these days, but there is a much wider gap of more than eight years between Helen and James. There are no other siblings in either family, and so it was natural that my sister would ask Helen to act as a bridesmaid as well.

The ceremony at the church had been beautiful and everything went very smoothly, so Helen and I were feeling pleasurably satisfied and relieved. The whole party had come back to this large hotel for the wedding ‘breakfast’ – actually a large buffet lunch – and reception. This was now winding down: the speeches had been given, the toasts had been made, and the guests were now mingling in a hubbub of conversation, whilst the radiantly-happy new husband and wife circulated around the long function room. In the early evening there was to be a party, with a disco for the younger generation, but there would be an interval of a couple of hours before this, to let everyone digest the lunch and catch their breath, to allow the hotel staff to clear the room and set it up for dancing, and to give the bride and bridesmaids the opportunity to change their dresses. James and Helen’s family and many of their relatives and friends were staying at the hotel, and my parents – the hosts for the wedding – had also booked rooms for themselves, Samantha and me, so that we could change into and out of our wedding finery, and also stay overnight and not have to worry about driving home after the party.

Helen and I were standing side-by-side together in a quiet corner of the big room, with just the wall and a couple of potted palm trees behind us. We gazed at the throng and chatted inconsequentially in the way that you do with someone with whom you feel in tune, but don’t actually know very well – the town that the groom came from was nearly a hundred miles away from London, where I grew up, and so Helen and I had only met each other at the fittings for our bridesmaids outfits, for which she had come up by train on a series of Saturday afternoons.

I glanced down at her and smiled, with the advantages of being three inches taller, four bra sizes bigger and five years older. No one else was paying attention to us for a few moments, and this seemed like the best opportunity to set things in motion. I leaned closer to the pretty teenager and murmured in her ear:

‘Now that we are sisters-in-law, I really want to get to know you …’

I paused for a second, and traced a finger horizontally across her back at waist level. She gave a little gasp, and then a soft mewl of pleasure as I drew my fingernail back, this time lower down, just under the curve of her sweetly jutting buttocks (as I know well, this has a tantalisingly erogenous effect), whilst completing my sentence:

‘… intimately.’

Helen’s lips parted and I saw the tip of her tongue flick along to moisten them. She turned slightly to look up at me; for a second, she nibbled her lower lip with her teeth, looking suddenly even younger than her age, but what she saw in my warmly admiring gaze eradicated any lingering doubts. She gave me a radiantly beaming smile and slipped her hand into mine, giving it a confirming squeeze.

‘Oh, I would like that, Vicky – yes, I would like that very much!’ she whispered eagerly, her eyes bright and her face slightly flushed with excitement.

‘Well’, I said, ‘we need to change out of these bridesmaids dresses – why don’t we do that together, in my room, and then we can properly … get acquainted?’

Helen swallowed and nodded, her nervousness due not to any fear of what might happen in my bedroom, but rather a lingering residual doubt that it might not, that she might be misreading my signals – unsubtle though they had certainly become. Still holding her hand – for I had no intention of allowing anyone else an opportunity to cut in and carry off this deliciously wholesome teen – I towed her through the crowd to where my parents and hers were chatting amicably together.

‘Excuse me’, I interrupted politely; ‘Helen and I are going up now to get changed, and maybe take a bath before the party.’ I made the latter point quite deliberately, to account for us being gone for quite some time and to explain why we could not answer if anyone came knocking at our doors. Helen’s mother nodded approvingly, saying that she would take a rest herself in a few minutes; my mother enquired, rather vaguely, if we would need some help with removing our bridesmaids outfits. I hastened to reassure her:

‘Oh, no, don’t worry about that! If Helen brings a robe along to my room, we can manage fine together, and then she can go back to hers – it’s only three doors down – and have a soak in the bath or take a nap, whatever.’

Helen – the sweet thing – supported this by nodding vigorously (I don’t think she trusted herself to speak at this stage), and both sets of parents smiled benignly at us and waved us on our way – of course, with no idea of what I was intending that we could ‘manage fine together’, and that Helen seemed to be looking forward to so avidly. In fact, I had picked up a number of tell-tale signs during the fitting sessions for our bridesmaids costumes, and so my pass at Helen had not been much of a gamble – but it was still a relief to have had my suppositions so positively confirmed.

We trotted up the hotel staircase, lifting the hems of our long satin dresses as if we had stepped out of a Jane Austen novel, and almost ran along the first-floor corridor to my bedroom. Once inside, I quickly hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the outside handle, and then closed the door and put the deadbolt on from the inside. I turned back towards Helen, who was standing in the middle of the room, gazing at the double-bed (this was one of the larger rooms); she was in profile to me, and I admired again her trim slender youthful silhouette, such a contrast to my own full swell of breasts and hips.

As I came up behind her, she turned to face me and almost naturally came into my arms, so that my heavier E-cup breasts rested upon the top of her chest. She looked up at me in silent question, and we both saw the desire in each other’s eyes. Her lips were already parted and her eyes half-closed as I brought my mouth down to hers and kissed her – slowly at first, and then with a fierce passion which she matched with a hunger of her own. So the last threshold was crossed, for such a kiss could not be dismissed as ‘sisterly’ affection – it was unmistakeable sexual lust. My hands slipped down her back, cupping and then kneading her adorable ass; after only a few seconds pause, she did the same to me. Although she was less assertive, I could sense the pleasure with which she stroked my bottom, whilst her nipples hardened into rigid prominent pinnacles which I could feel pressing into my softness through the thin satin of her bridesmaid’s dress.

After a heady minute or two, I drew back and gazed at the teenager, and told her with simple candour:

‘I want you … you’re so pretty, I just want you so much!’

My directness was all the more arousing for the innocent teen, and she breathed softly in reply:

‘Oh! … please, yes … please, Vicky, I think you’re wonderful … oh, I want you too!’

The signs had been there at the fitting sessions in the wedding-dress designer’s shop, in fact I had started to notice them from the first one. I know that I am an attractive young woman, with my tumbling chestnut hair and deep hazel eyes with long lashes. I have an even fuller figure than my sister, despite being younger, and my most striking feature is undoubtedly my breasts – high, firm mounds of femininity which fill my 32E bras and leave a deep cleavage. The flare of my hips and sway of my ass gives them counterpoint, and with a fairly narrow waist I have something of an hour-glass profile. When I arrived at the first fitting session, interested to meet my future sister-in-law and companion maid-of-honour, I had deliberately worn a jersey wrap dress which draws the eye to my breasts and accentuates my bust and cleavage; it then falls to a pleated skirt which swirls around my knees, with an opening that parts to show an expanse of leg with every step that I take. I had wanted to make a strong impression, and Helen’s jaw dropped and her eyes widened in admiration when I first swept into the room and gathered her up for a hug as introduction. My feeling that there might be the potential here for something more than friendship began from noticing the way that she glanced at me sidelong when she thought my attention was engaged elsewhere, and the look on her face as her eyes lingered on my breasts and ass. This became even more noticeable when I disrobed, and without being obvious about it I made sure that I did so in ways that gave her plenty of eyefuls.

For the second fitting session, I arrived in one of my trademark outfits – one which has pulled both pretty babes and experienced older women in the lesbian clubs and bars of the city where I am studying at university. It is a combination of smart black boots with stiletto heels, black hold-up stockings, a tight and very short black leather mini-skirt, and a figure-hugging lambswool cowl-neck sweater in bright red, cinched tight around the waist with a wide shiny-plastic black belt. The belt gives the thrust of my bust even more striking visual impact, whilst the sweater is so thin and snug-fitting that every outline of my underwired half-cup bra can be seen – a push-up, though my firm breasts hardly need any extra lift.

Helen was simply saucer-eyed, and looked bowled over by my confident and stylish sexy outfit. I had deliberately delayed my arrival, and was rewarded by the sight of her standing on the small fitting stool in only her bra and panties – both sweetly demure and plain in a light blue that went so well with her clear skin and long blonde hair. The designer slipped a pinned-together early version of the dress over Helen, and she stood as still as a statue whilst the measurements and adjustments were made – but I knew that her eyes were tracking my every move. I kept where she could see me easily, and slowly undressed – taking some time to fold each garment and put it on a chair, so that she could see plenty. First to be removed were the belt and the sweater, and I turned casually so that she had good views of my breasts and bra – the latter being a skimpy concoction of black gauze and lace – from several angles. Next went the skirt, and I know that I look magnificent in black boots, hold ups and scanty lingerie – in the silence, I could hear Helen’s shaky indrawn breath, and I could almost smell the dampening of her panties in a room which seemed suddenly much warmer. I pulled off my boots, and then turned my back to her – affording her a splendid view of my ass – whilst I rolled my stockings down my legs. Finally, I turned almost to face her and undid my bra from behind, pulling it aside and stretching luxuriously – both revealing my naked breasts and making them thrust and jiggle enticingly – whilst I made some comment about it being hot and sticky in here, and how glad I was to remove it. When I quickly glanced at Helen, her face wore a stunned expression and she looked pale, almost as if she might faint. To steady herself, she rested one hand for a moment on the shoulder of the dress designer – a pleasant middle-aged woman who was kneeling at Helen’s feet, intent on adjusting the drape of the hem, and who with her back towards me had missed my little strip-tease performance.

The bride and bridesmaids dresses – like so many in this summer of 2011 – were influenced by the Royal Wedding not long before. Of course, they were not simply copies – but they followed the newly-fashionable style by having a narrow waist and sweeping wide skirt for the bride, and plain and figure-hugging floor-length pencil dresses for the bridesmaids. I was all in favour of this – like any hot-blooded lesbian, my enduring memory from the television coverage of the wedding was not of Prince William or even the lovely Kate Middleton, but of her athletic younger sister Pippa’s stunning ass in her gorgeously sexy slimline maid-of-honour dress.

In fact, the dresses for Helen and myself were going to be so closely fitted that we were not to wear our ordinary bras underneath; instead, to support our breasts, each of our dresses would have soft cloth cups of the appropriate volume sewn inside the bust. A delightful consequence of this was that we spent much of the fitting sessions dressed only in our panties, and I sneaked almost as many glances at Helen’s small pointy tits as I saw her giving my swaying ripe mounds. During that second session, when it was my turn to stand on the stool for fitting and measuring, I could see from the corner of my eye that Helen was leaning against the wall to my left, gazing almost hypnotised at my tits and ass. When I turned more away from her, she did not realise that I could still see her reflection in a nearby full-length mirror, and my breath caught in delight as I saw her cup and pinch her own small breasts, and then she slipped one hand down inside the front of her panties and was clearly giving her pussy a vigorous rub.

I was sure from this point that Helen fancied girls, and some instinct convinced me that she was – as I am – purely and entirely lesbian, rather than bisexual. However, I also doubted that she had yet had any actual sexual experience; I was certain that she would not want to do it with a boy, and it was most likely that she would be too scared and nervous of coming on to any of her female friends – the risks would be too great. She was only sixteen-and-a-half years old, and so almost certainly a virgin – unless, of course, an older woman (such as a school teacher, sports coach or Girl Guide leader) had seduced her, as she was more than pretty enough to be tempting. However, I thought that this had not yet happened, as her manner radiated the naive eagerness of the inexperienced.

It was after this second fitting that I began to think of seducing Helen at the wedding, and taking her cherry myself. After all, it was only right and proper that there should be a loss of virginity on a wedding day, and my resolutely heterosexual sister Samantha could not fit that bill, as she and James had been fucking like bunnies ever since they started going out together.

The third and final fitting was also a final confirmation of Helen’s growing interest in me – in fact, in addition to her awareness of my physical charms (my breasts being a particularly magnetic focus), it was clear that she was developing quite a crush on me, chattering away and eagerly agreeing with any comment that I made. At one point, when the designer briefly left the fitting room to take a phone call, and Helen and I were naked apart from our panties (mine this time being a sketchy thong in burgundy red), I managed to contrive an opportunity to remove mine. I forget the reason that I gave, but I turned my back to Helen in apparent modesty, and bent from the waist only, keeping my legs straight, as I rolled the panties down from my thighs to my ankles. I knew that she could see my asshole, the swell of my completely-shaven pussy mound and the base of my slit – with my labia visibly puffy and parted. I heard her give a sigh of desire, and a quick glance at the mirror (once again, she was so intently focused on me that she had not realised she was visible in it) showed me a glorious sight of sapphic apprenticeship – Helen had thrust her hand so hard into her panties that they were pushed down three or four inches, and I could see that her fingers were frantically frotting along her gash. When I slowly straightened and turned – giving her a full view of my cunt from the front – she had had time to straighten her panties and remove her hand, but my eagle eye noted the giveaway dark damp patch at her crotch. Seconds later, Helen excused herself to visit the en suite bathroom, and as the designer had not returned, I swiftly crossed the room and put my ear to the toilet door. My reward was to hear the moans of a girl fingering herself to a rapid climax, and when she came – to my delight – it sounded like she was saying my name, over and over.

Some time after the wedding, Helen told me that she had begun to suspect that I might be a lesbian after the second fitting session, and had wondered if the eyefuls of my tits and cunt which I had afforded her both then and at the third session were a come-on – but, because she wanted so much for that to be the case, she was afraid that she was reading too much into it.