With This Ring, I Thee Bed

by Alison Tyler

  That’s when it hit me. Everything he’d said, and why he’d done what he’d done. I couldn’t quite see him then, because my vision blurred. I bit my lip. A passing car blew my hair over my face.

  He lifted the stray hairs away from my eyes and then rested his hand against my jaw and smiled. “Mel, next time I bend you over that bar, we’ll be man and wife….”

  Forsaking All Others

  Janine Ashbless

  We have two albums full of photographs from our wedding. The first is faced in cream satin printed with little gold ribbons and bells, and it lives in a tissue-lined box in the dining room cupboard with the good china, the set we use only on special occasions. All those photos are in colour. The second one stays in a locked briefcase under my side of the bed, and its cover is unmarked black leather. All the prints in that one are black-and-white.

  They’re the only albums in the house; everything else is stored digitally. I like to take both out and look through them. I like to feel their weight.

  Here’s the first album. Each laminated page turns under my fingers with a tiny sigh. The photographer we hired has embossed his name on the flyleaf in gold cursive script, which is sort of cheeky, but I forgive him. He was pretty good, I think; he had the right eye for arranging formal groups of relatives and friends, but he wasn’t bossy or impatient. And all the pictures are flattering, thank goodness—at least to Roy and me. Each snap-snap-snap of the shutter was like a tiny round of applause.

  Snap: Here I am in my wedding dress, stepping down from the limousine. My dark hair catches glints from the sun and the tiny silk flowers woven through my French plait shine like stars. It’s a lovely dress, slim and sophisticated—rather than one of those frothy meringues—with a daringly steep plunge between my breasts that was held secure—shh! Keep it secret!—with double-sided tape that pulled at my skin. I was nervous as hell, but oh so happy that day. I remember how unfamiliar the clasp of the blue garter around my right thigh felt, as if someone was touching me.

  Snap: Here’s Roy in his gray tailcoat and high collar, looking so handsome I could kiss the page. We married because, after seven years living together, I suggested it was time we tried for a baby. Not that I have a desperately strong need to be a mother just yet, but we’re settled and solvent at last, and I thought, What if we don’t take the opportunity while we still have it? What if we leave it too late and then I decide it’s important? I don’t want to regret that when I’m older. And when I explained this to Roy, he smiled and said, “We’d better be married first then.” That was how he proposed.

  Snap: Here are Roy and Calvin outside the church. Calvin had to be best man, of course. Roy’s known him since forever—or at least since college, which feels like forever. They share the cycling fixation and are off together for a road race at least once a month. It’d be annoying, if I didn’t like him—but luckily, I do. He’s fun, and I’ll admit he’s easy on the eye. We’ve gone on several cycling holidays together: Roy and me, Sylvia and Calvin, all around the Dordogne and Brittany and the Atlantic coast of Spain. Wine and winding roads. Calvin is three inches taller than Roy, with a big dirty grin that hides a determined business brain. He’s a builder with his own company, one of those “work hard, play hard” guys. He’s got his hand on Roy’s shoulder in this picture, as if to back him up going into a fight. Roy, darker and slighter, with gray eyes that the photo has caught beautifully, looks tense but incredibly proud.

  Snap: Here’s me with Sylvia, my chief bridesmaid, in the grounds of the Waters Hotel, where the reception was held. She’d be the first to say that I look better in a long formal dress than she does; I’ve got the curves to make the most of it. Sylvia is a professional photographer herself—pretty famous, actually—and she looks exactly like you’d think a photographer ought: tall and tanned and lean, her blond hair usually twisted up into a knot on the crown of her head. She looks fabulous in khaki and cycle shorts and sports tops that show off her golden muscles. While Calvin is doing up decrepit barns on the Continent to sell as holiday homes to Brits, she roams the countryside, taking her art photos. Her specialization is close-ups of subjects so small you might otherwise miss their beauty. We’ve got one of her prints on our wall at home of a dragonfly resting on a rusted tractor, cerulean against the red, and it’s just breathtaking. In this photo she’s trying to look demure, but her grin is breaking through.

  I hit it off with Sylvia the moment we met, the way girls sometimes do. I felt like I knew her instantly; we just meshed, even though we look so different and have such dissimilar lives. It was certainly a relief to the lads to find that their girlfriends got on so well. For the last six years we’ve all four holidayed together, visited each other at weekends and generally moved in the same orbit.

  For the past two years we’ve been sleeping together.

  It was Sylvia who started it all off. I was washing up in our Spanish holiday cottage when she came up behind me and slipped her arms about my waist in a hug. I wouldn’t have been startled—she was always unselfconsciously demonstrative—except that I was only wearing a bikini at the time and her hands clasped my bare flesh. “Whoa,” I said, bemused, as she stroked the curve of my hip.

  Sliced olives afloat in the dishwater looked up at us like green eyes.

  “You have such a great figure, you know, Debbie. You’re really beautiful.”

  Blood rushed to my cheeks. I was actually more bemused by the compliment than the caress; I’d always thought of her as the beautiful one. “You think so?”

  “Oh God, yes.” She slid her hands up to my breasts and gave them a gentle squeeze. That was the moment I felt the first hot spurt of arousal, unexpected and primal, and I was so gripped by the sensation that I didn’t move at all as she stroked the slopes of my cleavage, exploring the edge of my bikini bra. “You have the most gorgeous big boobs, Debbie,” she whispered in my ear. “I’ve always been jealous.” As she pulled the stretchy cloth aside to bare my nipples, I giggled breathily. “And Calvin couldn’t keep his eyes off you out there.”

  I twitched. “I’m sorry, Sylvia—”

  “Don’t be. Do I sound pissed off? I was just thinking, if the guys were to walk in right now…”

  “Uh…”

  “D’you think they’d like what they saw?” She circled my nipples with her fingertips and teased them to stiff points, which she pinched. I could feel the soft pressure of her thighs and belly snuggling up against my backside.

  “I think they’d love it.” My voice sounded funny, not like my own at all.

  “So what would you do if they did see us, Debbie?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Would you let me lick your beautiful tits in front of Roy and Calvin?”

  “Sylvia…”

  “Would you lie back and let me eat your pussy? Would you get off on them going all hard watching us?”

  The pleasure of her fingers and the thought of our two guys getting massive boners watching her and me play together—that was enough to make me moan. My bikini gusset was filling with wet.

  “Then,” said she, “let’s do it.”

  There was quite a lot more discussion, but in the end that’s just what we did that night, after getting back from dinner at a local restaurant. Both of us girls had worn our tightest, most low-cut dresses, and we’d piled on the teasing and the flirtation over the meal. As we walked back to the cottage Roy’s hand was already on my ass, but I didn’t intend letting him drag me off to bed just yet.

  “We’ve got a special treat for you two,” Sylvia announced, drawing Calvin into the living room. “Come on.”

  We sat them down on the sofa and stood before them. Both men looked intrigued, catching our mood of giggly promise. I was so dizzy with excitement and anticipation that it hardly seemed real, and I just let Sylvia take the lead, slipping her arms around me and kissing me full on the lips. She tasted sweet and felt surprisingly soft, not like Roy’s hard and bristly embraces. Our kiss was slow and sensual,
punctuated by little breathy smiles. When we broke at last I looked over at the lads. Roy was sitting forward with his mouth open and Calvin, slumped back with his knees sprawled, had a monster grin on, but their delight was shared and undisguised. Bottles of beer dangled forgotten in their limp hands.

  Sylvia’s hand moved to my back and pulled my dress up, all the way to my ass. I could feel the cooler air contrasting with the heat under my skin and between my legs. Gently she eased the stretchy fabric up my torso, over my breasts and off. I stood there, blushing a little to be so exposed in my undies—a lacy, magenta thong-and-bra set picked especially for this moment because it showed off my curves. I caught my breath then. This was the moment when Roy would object, if he was going to at all.

  He didn’t. How could he? Wasn’t this every man’s fantasy? And we made sure that for both men this was like Christmas and their birthdays coming all at once. We kissed with lots of tongue showing, our sighs and squeaks of pleasure unrestrained. I worked Sylvia’s top down over her shoulders to reveal that she wasn’t wearing a bra, and then she undid mine and our bare breasts met. Stroking and exploring each other with gentle hands and hungry lips, we stripped ourselves of the last of our clothes. Sylvia flung my panties cheekily into Calvin’s lap and he jumped as if he’d been electrocuted, then wound them round his fingers. She backed me up against the breakfast bar. Sliding to her knees, she gave the two men an uninterrupted view of my nakedness as well as her own out-thrust ass. And then, wriggling that ass with delight, she pressed her hot mouth to my slit and ate out my pussy.

  God, I was so turned on by then that there was no question of simply putting on a show. This was for real. The two men were motionless, pinned by the sight before them, but their avid expressions said it all. I could see the bulge of Calvin’s erection just about threatening to split his jeans. I could see Roy’s hand in his lap, squeezing the swollen length of his cock through his pants. Watching them watching us just about sent me into orbit. And as Sylvia’s tongue danced on my clit, I leaned back against the bar and lost all self-consciousness as, squealing and bucking and with my breasts bouncing, I came.

  We both went off in our separate couples afterward, and Roy fucked me over and over again for hours, like a man possessed.

  The next day, as cautiously at first as if we were approaching a dangerous wild animal, we had sex as a foursome for the first time. It was the most fun I think I’d had, like, ever.

  Since then we’ve been…what? Fuck-buddies? Is that the right phrase for it? We’ve kept it quiet, of course. We’ve never tried to involve anyone else. Sometimes we swap partners and I’ll have Calvin pump me full for the night, while Sylvia gives Roy a thorough workout. Sometimes we’ll do it all together. There’s no pressure, no tension, no jealousy. We’re just four friends who enjoy each other’s company, in and out of bed. It’s not like I’m ever going to be tempted to run off with Calvin: he’s not enough of a tender romantic to satisfy me. And Sylvia would find Roy’s steady nine-to-seven job in the same town all year round utterly stultifying. Not to mention the fact that we all love our own spouses.

  Snap: Here’s a picture of the four of us in front of that big fountain in the grounds of the Waters Hotel. It’s my favorite in this album. Roy is holding me and Calvin is holding Sylvia. We all look so happy, and so good together.

  Snap: Here’s one of Calvin making his best man’s speech. He’d warned me teasingly that he might drop a sly nudge-nudge line just for the fun of seeing me blush, but in the end he was absolutely discreet, coming out only with a mild innuendo about getting off with the chief bridesmaid.

  Snap: Here’s one taken much later on during the reception, after we’ve eaten. It’s not posed; Roy and I are leaning on the marble balustrade overlooking the rose garden, champagne glasses loose in our hands, just talking. The photographer must have taken it from the promenade below while I was preoccupied. I remember my feet in their white satin shoes were starting to ache, and I’d become pensive for a moment.

  “It feels strange, don’t you think? To be married?”

  “Actually, I don’t feel that much different.” Roy put his arm around my waist and kissed my temple. “We’re still us, and I still fancy you even if you are my missus.” His grip tightened. “You look hot, Deb, you know.”

  “But we are going to be different, aren’t we?” I was trying to grasp my nebulous feeling of unease without raising my voice above a murmur. “I mean, we’ll have to be a bit more grown-up now.”

  “You can buy me slippers for Christmas.”

  I gave him a poke with one finger. “I mean…you know. We’ll have to stop messing around. Like, playing with Calvin and Sylvia.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Well. We’ll have responsibilities. If there’s going to be a baby around…”

  “It’s not on its way yet.”

  “But we will have to stop sometime. It can’t go on forever.

  You know that.”

  Roy frowned a little. “Actually, I was imagining us still at it when we need Viagra and walkers. And maybe, you know, a nurse to help us get into position….”

  “Oh, be serious!”

  “It’s my wedding,” he said mildly. “The only thing I intended to feel serious about today was the ‘I do.’”

  “Not the ‘forsaking all others’?” We’d had a traditional church wedding for his mother’s sake.

  He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “I sort of saw that as ‘forsaking all those except the ones my wife gives me permission for.’”

  At that moment one of my aunties came up to talk to us, and the conversation ended abruptly.

  Snap: Here’s me in my reception dress. My going-away dress it would have been, except that we weren’t leaving on honeymoon until the next week, and were staying in the hotel’s bridal suite that night. It’s a nice frock, sea-green and turquoise and silver, which sounds garish, but it’s beautiful in actuality, and I’d matched it with some stunning silver jewelry. I’m keeping the ensemble for other party occasions—maybe for Sylvia and Calvin’s wedding, if they ever get around to it. Sylvia’s always said that if she does get married it’ll be the simplest register office affair. Roy is down to shirt and trousers and a dangling bow tie by now. It’s late, the disco is in full swing and the supper buffet has been ransacked. We’re waving goodbye to our guests, leaving them to dance and make their own way home or to bed. The bride and groom can’t be the last to leave.

  That’s the last photo in this album.

  We went upstairs to our suite, where my wedding dress and veil lay out on the bed as I’d left them, but a big pile of fluffy white towels and a couple of bottles of champagne had made an appearance. Roy took me in his arms, just as he had done so often that day. But this time it was different. This time he kissed me slowly and deeply, the way that always gets to me, breaking down my barriers. This time he wrapped his fingers in my hair and tugged my head back, and the almost-threat of his grasp sent a spark of arousal right down my spine and through my belly to ignite a glow at my clit. This time his cock started to get hard. His other hand pressed me to him, squeezing my ass, and I writhed my hips.

  When we broke apart I was breathless and already warm.

  “Want to go to bed?” he asked.

  “Hmm.” I nipped at his lower lip. “I believe I do.”

  “You can come out now,” he called over my shoulder. That was when Sylvia and Calvin came out of the bathroom, grinning. She was holding her own camera.

  This is where the second photograph album starts.

  Snap: I’m kneeling, out of my dress but back in my veil. It hangs down over my face and torso, so sheer that it doesn’t hide those big breasts of mine cradled in their beautiful lace La Senza bra, or my wide-eyed expression as I gaze out at the camera. The two men either side of me are faceless and fully dressed, only their midsections visible in this print. Each has one hand on my shoulder, pushing me down to my knees, and the other hand tight around one of my wrists, h
olding it up. My fingers are curled helplessly, my lips parted in anticipation of what’s to come.

  Snap: Head-and-shoulders shot. My veil is flipped back now. I’m kneeling between two sets of bare male flanks and two cocks, erect and angled toward an apex, like swords held at a salute for when the bride exits the church. I’ve got one cock in each hand and my head is turned toward Roy’s—you can tell it’s him because of the dark pubic thatch and the hairier thighs—and my lips are wrapped around his bell-end, sucking hard.

  They’re amazing pictures, the textures of flesh and fabric rendered so finely that even just looking you can almost feel them beneath your fingertips.

  Snap: Closer yet, the two cocks are almost touching over my head. Champagne foam escaping from a newly opened bottle oozes and slops down their flushed shafts and drips into my open, eager mouth waiting below.

  Snap: I’m topless and pantieless now, leaning back against a male chest, breasts upthrust. Champagne is being poured down my torso from the bottle tilted over my tits; it gushes in runnels off my erect nipples, sluicing over my belly to run into the shaven split below. You can see bubbles freckling my skin. Calvin’s sandy head is between my thighs and he’s lapping champagne and sex juices from between my spread pussy lips. He said it was the “best fucking cocktail” he’d ever tasted. God, we got champagne everywhere. On the towels, on the carpet, on the coverlet…everywhere.

  Snap: My back is to the camera, the veil hanging down to my ass cleft, my spine a shadowy, sinuous line under the transparent fabric. I’m sitting astride Roy’s lap as he perches on the edge of the bed. With one hand he’s holding my wrists cruelly together at the small of my back, and with the other he’s twisting my head sideways so I can suck Calvin’s cock as he stands beside us.

  Snap: Just my spread thighs, poised over the smooth column of the champagne bottle’s neck as if I’m about to impale myself upon it. My thighs are glistening with moisture and my sex lips visibly unfurled.