by Huss, JA
“Where do we find a wedding dress?” I ask.
“I have no idea,” she says. “I haven’t been to a mall since I was twelve.”
I laugh at that. “Me either.”
“Blind leading the blind,” she says, leaning into me. “Let’s shop for you first.”
So we do. Not a department store, which is where I usually get my clothes, but a designer label that has its own boutique. But I’m a quick shopper. I know exactly what I like and soon we’re out in the mall walking past the lingerie store.
Lyssa stops.
I shake my head at her.
“This is grown-up,” she says. “Those bras and panties you’ve been giving me are for little girls.”
God, it sounds kinda sick when she says it like that.
“Come on,” she says, tugging me into the store.
A saleswoman comes over immediately. Smelling money, or desperate for conversation, or hell, maybe she really does just want to make sure Lyssa gets the perfect-fitting bra.
They disappear into a dressing room while I browse the goods, stopping at the nighties. I have never bought underwear for a woman before. Mostly because I always make sure I do not have a girlfriend on Valentine’s Day when such a purchase is expected. But I could see Lyssa wearing some of this stuff.
I pick one off the rack, walk over to the dressing room, and hand it to the woman helping her. “Tell her to try this one on.”
She waggles her eyebrows at me, and even though I have a desire to put distance between myself and what she’s inferring, I keep my mouth shut and don’t even try to explain. There’s no good way to explain who and what Lyssa is to me in this moment, anyway.
Lyssa giggles in the dressing room. Yells, “Mason, are you out there?”
“I’m right here,” I say.
“What’s this for?”
“Your wedding night,” I say. “Unless you have something already.”
“I don’t,” she says. “But I love it. It’s very grown up.”
“Good,” I say, cringing at her words. The saleslady is waggling again. Oh, wedding, that waggle says. I ignore her. Because I do not want to discuss the wedding I’m not a part of.
When Lyssa gets tired of trying things on, she emerges triumphant and hands the saleswoman a whole armful of pretty bras and panties. And the nightie.
“Fits,” she says, shrugging one shoulder at me.
I pay for it all, because I did promise her new underwear.
But I like paying for it. Feels good to have a lot of money. I’m not poor, by any means. But that’s mostly because I’m a saver by nature. My jobs are here and there. Sometimes I’m super busy, sometimes I’m not. I’ve learned to live below my means.
When we’re done there we head into another boutique that sells dresses and Lyssa chats with the saleswoman about something that might be appropriate for a wedding.
“What do you think I should get, Mason?”
“Up to you,” I say.
“No, really,” she says. “I want to know your opinion.”
This exchange earns us a weird look of confusion from the saleswoman.
“Not pink,” I say.
“No.” She laughs. “I still want white.”
“No ruffles,” I say.
“Done,” she says.
“How about this one?” I point to a very sophisticated dress on a mannequin. Long, fitted, satin, two slits up the side, crystal beads covering the tight bodice, and strapless.
“I’d like to try that one on,” Lyssa tells the woman.
She smiles at me as she turns to follow the woman to the dressing room, and I look around. Wondering how one chooses just the right dress for her wedding day. Then feel guilty for choosing Lyssa’s dress for her.
I wander over to the dressing area just as the saleswoman—Margaret, her name tag says—comes out, almost bumping into me.
“Oh,” she says. “Sorry.”
“Totally my fault,” I say.
“You’re Mason?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“And you’re not the fiancé?”
“No,” I say.
“Hmmmm.”
“What?”
“She wants you with her. She’s in room six.” And then she gives me a stern look, which I fail to understand.
I wander in, looking for room six, and find the door open. “You beckoned,” I say.
“Unzip me,” she says. “And close the door.”
I close the door, notice that the room is walled in on all four sides for maximum privacy, then walk over and pull her zipper down as she lifts up her hair. My cock suddenly reminds me that I did this very thing a few hours ago and it ended up getting sucked. Cocks remember stuff like that. They are easily trained that way. Get it once, they expect it every time.
I suck in a deep breath as she lowers her dress over her shoulders and lets it fall to the ground.
She’s not wearing a cotton bra anymore. And her panties were definitely not made for a little girl.
“I see you wore something home from the last store.”
“Do you like it?” she asks, looking at me in the mirror.
And again, my cock is saying… Are we having a Groundhog Day? Because I could swear we just did this. And if it happened once…
Easy there, fella. Don’t get excited. It’s not gonna happen again.
He doesn’t listen. Because Lyssa looks like a fucking lingerie model in her matching yellow bra and panty set. All she needs is a pair of those huge wings and she could be on the runway.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Lyssa says.
“Knock, knock,” a voice says on the other side of the door.
Lyssa goes over to the door, opens it a crack, takes the dress, and says, “No, thank you, we’ve got it.”
Then shuts it in her face.
“Lyssa,” I say.
“I said thank you,” she protests. “I wasn’t being rude.”
“Maybe she should help you get the dress on?”
“No.”
I cock an eyebrow at her.
“What? I’m not seducing you. I’m standing way over here, see? And besides, you picked it out. Don’t you want to see it on?”
Which is dumb. Because I could wait outside and still see it on her when she’s finished.
“Put the bags down, Mason. I need your help.”
I drop the bags and walk over to her as she unzips the new dress, removes it from the hanger, and says, “Hold it, so I can step in.”
“Lyssa,” I say.
“Just please,” she begs. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
Which is not true. She’s playing games with me again. And my cock is doing its best to play along, against my better judgement.
I hold it, back side facing her, and she puts her hands on my shoulders to steady herself as she steps inside the dress. I pull it up her body and she holds it against her breasts, then turns and says, “Zip me.”
I do, and again, I feel like this day is on repeat. Which is making me think about how she sat at my knees and sucked my dick.
When it’s zipped she turns to face me. “What do you think?”
I place both hands on her shoulders and turn her to the mirror. “What do you think?”
She smiles at herself in the mirror. “Now this is a wedding dress.”
And I agree. So different than the one she used to wipe my come off her face.
“But oh,” she says, turning to look at her ass in the mirror. “Panty lines.”
And then, before I even realize what she’s doing, she reaches inside the side slits along each thigh and pulls her panties down, kicking them off to the side.
“Lyssa!”
“This is why I never wear underwear,” she explains. “I need to see if it looks OK without them. Because with them—”
“You are not walking down the aisle with no panties on.”
“Oh, yes, I am. This is a no-panties dress and you picked it ou
t. So you have to live with it.”
My cock agrees with her. Because I’m fully fucking hard now.
She glances down at it, then lifts her eyes to mine, and says, “I hope you’re not thinking—”
“I’m not,” I say.
“—because if you wanted to do dirty stuff in here, we could get caught—”
“Don’t worry,” I say.
“—and Margaret would be so disappointed in us if she caught the best man fucking his best friend’s fiancée.”
“What?” I say, doing a double-take.
“That’s what I told her. It’s kinda hot, isn’t it?”
“No,” I say. “It’s kinda sad, actually.”
“Well, it was a lie, anyway. So that just makes it hot.“
“Jesus, Lyssa.”
She mouths the words Wild Thing at me, then reaches down to grab my cock.
I push her away, but she backs me into the mirror with a bang.
“Everything OK in there?” Margaret calls from the other side of the door.
“Just fine,” I yell back, glaring at Lyssa.
“Come on,” she whispers. “Wild thing, hold me tight.” And then she giggles.
“That’s not even how the song goes—”
But I stop. Because the next thing I know, she’s on her knees in front of me, the button popped on my jeans, the zipper down, and my cock is in her hands.
“Lyssa,” I groan.
“Tell me no,” she says, then sticks the head of my cock in her mouth, pressing her tongue up against my shaft, before I even have a chance.
“Would you like another dress?” Margaret calls.
Lyssa eases her mouth off my cock with a loud smacking sound and looks up at me. “What do you think, Mason? Do we need to try on another one?”
“No,” I call back to Margaret. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”
“I could wrap it up for you,” Margaret offers, just as Lyssa puts my cock back in her mouth and takes me deep into her throat.
“Uh… we’re not quite…. oh, God… done yet,” I say.
“OK, I’m right out here if you need anything.”
“Great,” I groan. Because Lyssa is giving me a full-on head-bobbing messy blow-job. And against my better judgment, my fingers are now tangled in her hair, urging her on.
She pulls off me, both her hands on my thighs, pushing me back, and then she stands again.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Making you choose.”
“Choose what?”
She backs up against the mirror and whispers, “You know why you chose the dress with two slits?”
I already know where this is going.
“Because I can do this.” She pulls the center portion of material aside and flashes her bare pussy at me. “And you,” she says, grabbing my shirt and pulling me towards her so my cock bumps into her leg, “can put that inside me and I don’t even have to take my clothes off.”
“I’m not gonna fuck you,” I whisper back.
Why not? she silently mouths and simultaneously pouts.
“Because you’re not mine, Lyssa.”
She sighs. Frowning. Giving up. Because she leans back against the wall and wilts. “I want to be yours.”
“You can’t be,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re engaged. And I’m just… I’m just your fucking babysitter.”
She slides her hand between her legs, then withdraws it and places the tip of her glistening wet finger against my lips.
I close my eyes and open my mouth, my cock totally in charge now. I suck on her finger the way she was just sucking on my cock.
“Please,” she whispers. So low, I almost don’t hear her. “I promise to be good in every other way if you just… make me feel loved right now.”
I pull her finger out of my mouth and say, “Lyssa,” feeling sad for her.
“We can pretend,” she says. “Right?” She places both her hands on my cheeks and leans in. Kisses me.
I kiss her back.
I know I shouldn’t. I feel the guilt of a best man fucking his best friend’s fiancée, and I don’t even care.
If her name is Lyssa Baylor then I want to fuck my best friend’s fiancée.
“Everybody pretends,” she whispers past my lips. “It’s all fake, Mason. So who cares, anyway?”
She pulls her dress aside again, reaching for my cock. And when she tugs on it, I do the unthinkable. I take two steps forward and we’re not even two steps apart. So now my chest is pressing up against her breasts, forcing her against the wall. She lifts up her leg and I brush the middle section of satin dress over the side of her thigh to get it out of the way.
And after that, it takes no effort at all to slip my cock inside her.
The one thing I told myself I wouldn’t do.
I would eat her out, and let her blow me. And kiss her, and suck her nipples, and smack her ass, and all that other stuff. And it would be OK if I just didn’t fuck her.
And now I’m fucking her.
In her wedding dress.
Which I picked out.
Which she is wearing for me.
And I will not be the one waiting for her at the end of that aisle when that wedding day finally catches up to her.
“Wild Thing,” she whispers past my lips as I kiss her and fuck her slowly.
I think I love her.
Because I can’t stop this. Even if I wanted to—and I don’t—I can’t stop this. And even though I know stupid Margaret probably has her ear up to the door, listening as I slide my cock in and out of Lyssa’s wet pussy, I won’t stop this.
Lyssa hikes her leg up higher and I reach down, pick up her other one, and press her back against the wall as I begin to thrust harder.
She moans, then bites her lips to make herself be quiet.
And I moan, and she places her fingers over my lips to make me be quiet.
And then Margaret is knocking and asking us questions and we ignore her. Just… ignore her. Because Lyssa’s breathing heavy, like an animal. And I’m doing the same.
And we are just animals.
We are just… wild things.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - LYSSA
Margaret can go fuck herself. What does she care if we have hot sex in the dressing room? We bought the stupid dress.
Mason holds my hand all the way back to the car. He’s got my bagged-up wedding dress over his shoulder and I’m carrying the rest of the shopping bags.
We look like a power couple who just went crazy with the credit card.
And I love it.
He lays the dress carefully across the back seat of the Mercedes and the rest of the bags go into the trunk.
I’m already sitting in the passenger seat when he gets in his side and starts the car, then glances over at me. Opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again.
He puts the car in gear, then back in park.
“I know what you’re going to say,” I say, looking at him.
He stares at me, but keeps quiet.
“I broke the deal. I’m sorry, not sorry. And if you want to leave when we get home, or spank me, or beat me with the belt to make me understand that what I did was wrong, then fine. It was worth it.”
“That’s not what I was gonna say.”
“Oh.”
He sighs. “I was gonna say… we need rules.”
“What kind of rules?”
“Maybe just… an understanding.”
“OK.”
“You’re going to marry that guy next week, Lyssa. And I’m going to Sweden to be with my mom.”
“That’s our understanding?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Well, half of it. That’s what’s gonna happen in a week. But until then, just… fuck it, ya know.”
“Fuck it?” I say, raising my eyebrows.
“Yeah, fuck it.”
And then he puts the car back in reverse, backs out,
and we drive away from the mall.
But we don’t go home. We stop and eat first. He gets a steak and I get a grilled chicken salad, and then we stop at the grocery store and get things that are not oatmeal, or grilled cheese, or spaghetti.
And we talk about what kind of cereal we like, and if we should buy cage-free brown eggs or just the regular white ones. And what we should cook for the next week.
On the way home after that he tells me about his mom, and where he’s gonna go in Sweden, and I tell him about the trip my stepfather booked for my honeymoon.
“Alaska?” he says. “I mean, I like Alaska. I’d totally go to Alaska. But on a honeymoon?”
“Dickerson probably wants to kill me and leave my body in the woods for the wolves and bears.”
“That’s not funny,” he says.
It’s really not. But it’s probably true.
“I don’t care where I go on my honeymoon.”
“OK,” he says, as we make the forty-minute drive back to the house. “Then where would you go? If you could choose instead of them.”
“Fiji,” I say. “Hey, I’m gonna tell you something serious, OK?”
“OK.”
“If I don’t come back from Alaska, that’s where I’ll be. Fiji. Because if Dickerson thinks he can take me in a fight, he’s out of his fucking mind.”
“Oh, shit, Lyssa.” Mason laughs. “What am I gonna do with you?”
I have an answer for that, but it’s not one he wants to hear. So I keep it quiet.
“So this whole ‘fuck it’ thing. By that you mean…”
“I give,” he says.
“You give?”
“Yeah, like give in, you know? You wore me down.”
“So I’m forcing you?”
“No,” he says. “You’re not. You’re just…”
“Just what? A wild thing?”
“I guess the name fits.”
“So you like me though, right?”
“Of course. You’re pretty easy to like, actually.”
“Hmmm. Well, that’s news to me. But I’ll take it.”
“How about we just start with being friends?”
“Friends?” I say, making a face. “With benefits, you mean?”
“No, not really.”
“I’m confused. You like me, you’re going to let me have my way, you want to be my friend, but you want me to marry someone I hate when this whole thing is over.”