With This Ring, I Thee Bed

by Alison Tyler

  “I might, if you, yeah, like that.”

  And he did it like that. And then he did it like that harder until he froze like a robber under a spotlight. Then a final jerk and he emptied into me as my cunt gripped around him tight, taking every little slice of friction he might offer.

  My hair was a mess.

  I let my heart come down a beat, and looked at my watch. Then I was scrambling across the trunk like a madwoman, hair standing on end or hanging in clumps, yoga pants nearly tangling me so that I went down in the dirt. “Oh, God! Oh, God! I’ll never make it now!” I was damn near hysterical.

  He took pity on me, bundled me up and put me in my car. Monroe pulled out into traffic, his cherry lights coming on and the siren screaming about as loudly as I wanted to right then. I could swear I saw him smiling in the rearview mirror as he escorted me to the church.

  “Oh, my God! Where in the hell have you been! We are never going to—what happened to your hair, Fallon?”

  “I, um…” They all stood staring at me. Kelly’s toe was tapping the way it did when she was furious. “I had a flat and I had to change it and God! It was a mess.”

  It must’ve worked because they all rolled their eyes, threw up their hands and flew into action.

  How Kelly made my hair go from trailer trash struck by lightning to damn near royalty is beyond me. But I was going to roll with it. The hushed presence in the church had the charged intensity you can feel in a room packed full of people about to yell “surprise!” The anticipation was palpable.

  I’d done a quick cleanup in the bride’s “facilities” and was powdered, perfumed, groomed and gowned. It was now or never.

  Do or die.

  No turning back.

  The music cued and my stomach bottomed out. “Oh, God, I am going to pass out.”

  “Clench your ass! Clench your ass!” Tracy kept hissing in my ear. “It’s what the fighter pilots do!”

  But clenching my ass made me think of Officer Friendly and the frisking, and just as they threw open those big-ass doors to reveal the ivory-draped aisle, I got the giggles.

  “Oh, no. She’s freaking out. Good thing Jackson will think it’s cute.” Tracy blew out a sigh. Tapped my cheeks with the tips of her fingers, her version of a snap-out-of-it smack.

  “You guys are so gross, how icky and in love you are.” Kelly laughed. She nudged me and I stumbled forward a bit. Remembering the perfect feel of him. The feel of warm metal under my finger and—

  “Go!” Tina said.

  I went. I nodded and smiled and tried not to throw up. I kept my ass tense, no small feat when you are trying to walk gracefully to your betrothed.

  He stood there, smiling. That perfect sexy-as-hell smile. In full-dress uniform, just for me.

  In my mind, I was spread-eagle, facedown, being slipped and slid and used and—

  “Fallon?” Reverend Scott said.

  “Yes, here I am. Here I am,” I repeated, and turned to Jackson.

  Nervous? he mouthed.

  I nodded. He smiled, took my hand for a squeeze, and I ran my thumb over the dark brown teardrop-shaped birthmark above his thumb. I raised it to my lips and kissed it.

  In a few moments we would be man and wife. And then Jackson couldn’t call me “miss” or “ma’am” when he played his game with me and made me damn near insane with want. Then he’d have to call me “missus.”

  Or “wife.”

  Forever Hold Your Peace

  I.K. Velasco

  This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. It many ways it was. But I often wondered if I would never be satisfied, if I would always want what I could not have.

  The mother of the bride, my sister—the maid of honor—and all eleven of my bridesmaids had finally left the small powder room to give me a moment of peace before the ceremony. The gentle rocking ocean waves and breezes outside the stylishly draped windows sounded like silence compared to the cacophony of a dozen women. I embraced the sound, burrowed under it as if it were down bedding, and allowed myself some refuge in the darkness behind my eyelids. I could feel the stress of the last few days ebb away with the tide.

  It was really the stress of the last eight months. Planning a wedding was like leading a war, and I often felt like a general, my flagstaff held high, barking orders to the troops. “Those hydrangeas aren’t quite the right shade of pink. You need to pick new ones. That fondant isn’t right at all! I said the color of raspberry, not Pepto Bismol! I don’t care if you’re falling out of your dress, that’s what duct tape is for.”

  And it was in many ways, but all I really wanted right this moment was to see him—my Jacob.

  I hadn’t seen him in thirty-six hours and the ache was palpable. I could taste it on my tongue, like an unquenched thirst, an unfulfilled craving. I knew it was only thirty minutes until I would be walking up the aisle, but I wanted to be with him right this moment, to share his space and breathe his air. I felt as if I would suffocate without him.

  The door clicked open without warning, but it didn’t startle me. I somehow knew it was him—my Jacob. He stepped up behind me and placed warm, familiar hands on my shoulders. Our eyes met in the mirror and he smiled a wide and goofy grin.

  “You can’t be in here!” I chided. “You’re not supposed to see me before the ceremony. It’s bad luck.”

  “Luck, schmuck.” He tugged on his collar, uncomfortably. I wasn’t used to seeing Jacob dressed in formal garb—white shirt, suit with no tie, charcoal gray, not black; since the wedding was at the beach, we’d wanted it to be more casual. The color darkened his eyes somehow—made them more gray than green, as they usually were. He looked devastatingly handsome. “Sixty percent of American marriages end in divorce. You’re going to be a statistic in T-minus twenty-three minutes.”

  I frowned. “Don’t say that.”

  Jacob squeezed my shoulders, his wry smile spreading. “Can’t help it. Jaded, I guess.”

  “Well, I won’t be a statistic. I’m very loyal. Nothing to worry about.” I crossed my arms and pouted.

  He laughed, reaching up to pinch my cheeks. “You know I love it when you pout! Plus those crossed arms are accentuating your voluptuous bosom.” He straightened up to his full height, peering down at the tightly wound corset of my dress.

  I feigned modesty, placing my palms over what I knew was ample, revealing cleavage. I’d chosen my dress precisely for that feature.

  “I hate that you’re seeing me when I’m not fully ready. I wanted you to see me later, on my father’s arm, walking down the aisle….”

  “See you when everyone else sees you? That hardly seems fair. I’m special, aren’t I? More special than those people out there? I should get the first peek.” Jacob reached up and lifted the layers of taffeta making up my train. He quickly found the lace between my legs, running his fingers along the edges.

  I gasped, pushing at his hands. “Hey! Don’t do that….”

  He backed away, frowning. “I’m sorry. I thought you would want to…” His eyes changed again, from gray to black.

  I reached for him, wrapped my arms around his waist and tucked my chin, pressing my forehead on his belly. “I didn’t mean to push you away. I’m just… It’s a big day. I want everything to be right. I’m nervous, excited.” I felt his soft lips on my hair. “I’m sorry. Yes, I want this to be perfect for you.” I leaned back and met his gaze. He bent down to kiss me, his mouth open and giving.

  There was a fleeting thought about Jacob’s kisses messing up my makeup, but that was soon forgotten when he lifted me out of the vanity chair, hands secure under all the taffeta and lace, and carried me to the nearby couch.

  He lifted my skirt and bunched the fabric around my waist. His fingers clutched at the flesh of my thighs, pressing my legs apart. Jacob tore at my undergarments, ripping my panties aside and exposing the wet, pink folds beneath. He leaned down and ran his tongue up and down my slit. I shuddered, clutching at his shoulders.

  “Oh my…Ja
cob!” I murmured. “Please, harder, please…”

  He acquiesced, cupping his lips around my sensitive bud and sucking. I came immediately, waves of pleasure pulsing from between my legs and out to my extremities.

  I did not linger in this place of ecstasy, knowing we didn’t have much time. I pulled Jacob toward me, crushing his mouth to mine. His weight was on me, his hips grinding between my legs. I bucked against him, gasping for air. I reached for his waistband and released his hardness, guiding him to my waiting pussy. He thrust up into me, and I welcomed the fullness of him.

  “Oh baby, you feel so good,” he murmured. He tilted my hips up and pulsed his cock deep into me and out again.

  “Wait, wait,” I begged, weakly pushing against his chest. “I want to taste you.” I managed to sit up, and switched positions with Jacob, pushing him down onto the couch. I knelt before him, pulling his cock into my mouth. His eyes scrunched shut, and he pressed one cheek against the leather.

  The sound started as a low whimper at the base of his throat. He mewled like a kitten. I could feel it building inside him. The pressure began at the bottom of his cock and flowed in gentle waves up to the tip.

  The waves swelled his cock taut. I eased back on the pressure with my mouth, and I could feel him twitching up to the roof and down to my tongue. I smiled, reapplied the pressure and sucked him inside. He moaned.

  I ran my lips slowly along the ridges, sank down until the tip rubbed the back of my throat. Building a steady rhythm, I rocked against him. His cries became urgent, his hands clenching as if he were reaching for some target just inches from his outstretched fingertips.

  I felt connected to him like no one before. More than the physical, it was as if I was leading him up into some alternate plane of existence.

  And suddenly, I lost him. It was as if he was the only one left in the world and I was lurking below, observing this massive writhing.

  I continued to tug on his cock and the undulations swelled and peaked. The crest broke and he flooded my mouth again and again, the warm wetness flowing past my tongue and into my throat.

  His trembling waned, replaced by a palpitation in his chest. Jacob was laughing, giggling beyond control, as if the rush of pleasure was bubbling out of him. I reached for his hands, knelt back and smiled as beatifically as possible.

  “That was…” He laughed again. “Incredible, amazing, mind-blowing…”

  “The best orgasm ever?”

  “The best ten orgasms ever. I had no idea my body could do that. I had no idea your mouth could do that.”

  “I hope no one heard us,” I said.

  “At this point, I don’t care. That was…amazing. Worth any embarrassment you or I would ever face.” He shuddered again, shaking his head as if to clear the last threads of tingling.

  I smirked. “I don’t know about that.” The image of my mother’s displeasure passed across my mind’s eye and I shuddered, too.

  “Wow, it’s sad, really,” he said, sighing. “It’ll never be the same again.”

  I nodded. “Yes, it will be different. That’s life, isn’t it? Ever evolving.”

  “I suppose.”

  I stood up, attempting to straighten my mussed hair. I would have to do my best to recreate the makeup job that my sister had done an hour ago. Hopefully, she wouldn’t notice the difference.

  Jacob tugged his pants back on, looking around the room for any leftover carnage from our lovemaking.

  A beautiful, uninhibited chuckle suddenly escaped his lips. I looked over as he leaned down to the floor to pick up a swatch of white fabric—the tattered remnants of my lace panties.

  “Oh my,” I said. “I guess I’ll have to go commando.”

  He laughed. “It’ll be our little secret.”

  “Ready to go, sweetheart?” my father asked.

  “Yes,” I said, hoping to still the trembling in my voice.

  Dad squeezed my hand, placing it on his arm. He smiled, a reassuring smile that could only come from a proud father. I squeezed him back.

  We turned to face them, the crowd of family and friends sitting in rows of rattan chairs, each wooden leg nestled into the sandy beach. They stood when the music started, a lilting symphony so familiar.

  I could barely see past the layers of white veil covering my face, but it didn’t matter. I could see Jacob’s shape to the right of the altar, standing beside his best friend, Michael. Both Michael and Jacob looked genuinely happy, and that made me happy, too.

  The ceremony went by in a daze. We said our written vows, the classic “I do’s,” the exchange of rings, and then the minister said, “If anyone knows of a reason why this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  I had imagined this moment many times. I had even discussed it with Jacob, discussed the horrifying possibility of someone speaking up at this point in the ceremony. The memory of those discussions did not help me; we never did come to any conclusions. The reality felt surreal, a scene from a daydream or nightmare; which one, I couldn’t decide.

  I couldn’t help it. I looked up over my groom’s shoulder, at Jacob’s place as the best man. Jacob’s face was stone, his mouth a tight line. He looked back at me and I saw it, a gesture so minute, I was sure none of the one hundred forty-nine guests had seen it. I saw it because I was looking for it—the slight movement of his head shaking no.

  I gasped, the air rushing through my nostrils so loudly it sounded like a last breath. I marveled at this silent conversation, the intricate exchange of glances. And the look that sealed my fate.

  My groom followed my gaze, looked at Jacob and back to me again, the panic rising in Michael’s face. Jacob smiled at him—that goofy, devilish grin—and placed a reassuring hand on Michael’s shoulder. The crowd behind us laughed nervously, understanding the joke.

  I laughed, too, hoping my giggles would help to conceal the true sadness of my tears.

  A Lucky Wedding

  Thomas S. Roche

  Avery had asked for a few moments to gather her thoughts in the upstairs bedroom; Kris ushered them all out in a group— Mom, Vanessa, Kerri, Terri, Monette, Jane—and good riddance to them. Kris then mouthed, “Twenty minutes,” and winked and blew her a kiss before leaving herself.

  God love Kris Keshanski, thought Avery. Now that’s a maid of honor.

  Avery locked the door, took a deep breath. It was all so intoxicating—her being the center of attention, which she hated, and being dolled up and beautiful, which she loved. She had barely even looked at herself in the mirror; she had looked, of course, sure, but not looked. For one thing, she didn’t have her glasses on. Plus she’d been so distracted by all the bridesmaids and Mom and the hangers-on flittering about that she’d not had a chance to stand poised in the full-length, wood-framed standing mirror and get close enough to see, and say, “Damn, girl—you rock this.”

  She did. Her dress was white and traditional, maybe too traditional—gathered close at the hips beneath the tight cinch of the corset, which also jacked her breasts up improbably like hot-air balloons, until she looked as if she had a rack to salute to high heaven. She’d never had cleavage before, but she had it today—God’s gift to lady surfboards, this lingerie.

  The corset, in fact, was the one thing she had insisted on, but not just for the reason that it accented her moderate endowments. It also felt freaky good, being cinched into this thing, barely able to breathe, desperately wanting to swoon. Traditional or kinky? She’d never tell—let the guests think the white had been earned with long months of horny denial and chaste deprivation. It wasn’t.

  Avery gathered the dress up in front. She did not want to wrinkle it, but, she thought to herself, with sufficient care the crinoline could be smoothed down and she’d get a chance to admire herself.

  Lord! Was she actually wearing that? This outfit was filth, pure and simple, raw savage depravity in white satin and pretty pink lace. She looked like a whore, which was kind of a turn-on, thi
s being her wedding and all. And when, brightly, her mind filled with thoughts of dear Michael removing the twelve-hundred-dollar dress to find an eight-hundred-dollar see-through white thong with lacy pink flowers and a white, embroidered-rose garter belt, not to mention the seamed white stockings that said “Spread me” in the language of lingerie—when she thought of that, Avery Jacobsen soon-to-be-Vance went wet to the knees, put her hand where she shouldn’t, and sighed.

  It was true, then; she was a whore. Shameless, insistent… Good God, that feels good. She steadied herself against the mirror and rubbed faster, wondering if somehow she might get away with a quick one, spread wide on her back with the wedding dress gathered—no, no, fucking no, she’d just wrinkle it. She looked hungrily into her own eyes and rubbed herself gently—just a few more strokes, not a full wank or anything….

  Oh my God, being shaved makes you sensitive, Avery thought as she struggled with whether she ought to come.

  No, of course not, she decided: Tradition. Wasn’t that the tradition? Get all worked up before the wedding, sure, but wait to come until your new husband fucks you. If it’s not a tradition, it should be, right?

  She’d been to plenty of weddings. Brides and grooms in the modern day seemed to change into jeans and T-shirts before hopping on Kawasakis or into rented Porsche convertibles for a honeymoon in Napa. Not so with Michael Vance’s new bride; she’d been told in no uncertain terms she would be spirited away in a Holsman 1907 High-Wheeler reproduction, built from scratch for this occasion—with her very own crackpot inventor at the joystick. She was two-thirds convinced that the thing wasn’t street legal, despite Michael’s assurance that it was. The fact that he’d promised to follow that drive from the Jacobsen home to the Vance Bed-and-Breakfast with a bride’s carry over the threshold if she was good—or a fireman’s lift if she was bad—made her molten inside. Thinking about that cave dweller’s threat-promise would have made her rub faster, if she hadn’t already moved on, in her thoughts, to the growl of his voice at her ear, the warm breath on her neck as he told her with vigor what he’d do to her once he had her inside.