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, this 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
