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Part 1 After the Wedding Ceremony
11:15 a.m
The church doors close behind us. The wedding ceremony was beautiful and went without a hitch. At about 11:15am we climb into the limo to head to the hotel for our wedding party. Rice, like tiny white stars, is stuck in her long, straight brunette hair that was styled for the wedding. My wife Leanne sits beside me looking like every guy’s Asian fantasy: 5’3″, 130 perfect pounds of warm brown skin, curves exactly where they’re supposed to be, B-cups high and proud under the lace bodice, those impossibly long, smooth Asian legs folded beneath miles of white satin. Even now, after the ceremony, she’s wearing the colored contacts that turn her brown eyes to a haunting green that always makes my breath catch.
Six weeks. Six agonizing, delicious weeks of no sex so we could “savor each other” on our wedding night. I’ve spent every one of those days replaying the way she used to tease me in tiny shorts or skirts that barely covered the curve of her ass, the way her legs looked endless in high heels, the way I’d always trail several steps behind her in public just to watch them move. And now she’s mine forever.
The driver pulls away from the curb, the partition already up, she kicks off her heels, curls her legs beneath the ocean of white satin and tulle, and turns to me with a soft and loving smile and a twinkle in her eye. “Hi, husband,” she says, tasting the word like it’s chocolate. She scoots closer until her bare shoulder brushes my suit. Then, without breaking eye contact, she takes my left hand (brand-new ring glinting) and slides it slowly under layers of dress until my fingertips meet warm, smooth, unmistakably naked skin. No panties. Not even a thong. “I’ve been bare under this dress since the moment I zipped up this morning,” she whispers. “Every time we knelt at the altar, every time the piano played, every time you looked at me like I was the only woman in the world… I felt the air on my pussy and thought about our night tonight.” My mouth goes dry.
She lets me feel her for three full heartbeats (slick, swollen, ready), then gently guides my hand back out and places it on her knee like nothing happened. “I have a wedding surprise for you,” she says, voice trembling with excitement and love. “A big one.” She kisses me slow and sweet, lipstick smudging. “But you don’t get to know what it is yet. You just have to trust your wife.”
11:30 a.m.
The jazz quartet greets us with a swinging “It Had to Be You.” Pianist, sax, bass, and the singer’s velvet voice wrap around the room like smoke. Pink roses, champagne, laughter, hugs. We are the perfect couple.
She never strays far, but every moment is deliberate. During our first dance she presses so close I feel her nipples through the lace of her bodice. “Feel how hard they are?” she breathes into my ear. “They’ve been like this since the vows. Tonight they’re going to get a lot more attention.”
During cake she licks frosting from her thumb like it’s something else entirely. “Save some appetite, baby,” she teases. “You’re going to need every ounce of energy later to stay awake.” Every time she passes me she brushes my arm, my hip, my hand (little sparks of promise). She leans in during photos: “I can’t stop imagining what my legs are going to feel like tonight.” I’m half-hard the entire reception.
4:00 p.m.
The last guests trickle out. The quartet finishes with a slow, sultry “Lover.” We load the gift cart, wave goodbye to the stragglers, say thank you to the band, and ride the elevator alone up to our bridal suite, 2410. She stands in front of me, back to my chest, and guides my hands to her hips. We hold each other for that quick minute and savor the moment until the elevator dings.
In the room, we kick off shoes, collapse onto the king bed fully clothed, and laugh like kids. The room smells like roses from the hotel and her perfume that drives me wild. She changes into a soft white sundress with no bra and no panties. I can see hints of her pussy lips when she bends over. I change into linen shorts and a T-shirt. We sprawl on the bed, scrolling through phone photos, stealing kisses, letting the day settle.
She keeps touching me with little strokes on my thigh, tracing my ring. But every time I try to slide my hand higher she playfully swats me away. “Not yet,” she says, eyes sparkling. “Save it for later.”
6:30 p.m.
We head out for candlelit Italian place where they give us the corner booth. She orders for both of us, feeds me bites of tiramisu from her fork, licks cream off her lip while holding my gaze. Halfway through the second glass of wine she leans across the table. “I’m so wet right now I can feel it on my thighs when I shift,” she whispers. “Tonight is going to be worth the wait.” I believe her completely.
8:45 p.m.
We ride the elevator giggling, stealing kisses. She’s tipsy enough that her cheeks are flushed a perfect rose and her green contact-lens eyes are glassy with wine and anticipation. The second the suite door clicks shut she kicks it with her heel, shoves me back against it, and kisses me like she’s starving (hands fisted in my hair, hips rolling slow and deliberate against the front of my pants). “Shower with me,” she whispers against my lips, voice already husky. “Then bed. I want to fall asleep in your arms after the longest day of my life.”
Six weeks. Forty-two endless days of blue-balls torture so tonight would feel like fire. My cock is already straining at the thought that in twenty minutes I’ll finally slide into my wife for the first time as her husband. She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the marble bathroom, shedding clothes as she goes. The dress hits the floor in a puddle of white satin. By the time the glass door fogs she’s gloriously naked, brown skin glowing under the warm lights, long legs looking even longer without heels, nipples tight from the cool air.
She steps under the rainfall shower first, tips her head back, lets the water cascade down her body over her perfect B-cups, down the curve of her waist, between those legs I’ve been dreaming about wrapping around my head as I ate her delicious pussy for the last six weeks. She crooks a finger at me. “Come here, husband.”
I strip fast and join her. The water is hot, the steam thick. She turns me so my back is to the spray, presses her wet body against mine, and kisses me slow and deep while the water pounds between us. Her hands slide down my chest, over my stomach, and wrap around my aching cock. “Feel how hard you are already?” she murmurs, stroking me lazily under the water. “Six weeks of waiting…you must be dying to be inside me.”
I groan into her mouth. She sinks to her knees right there on the tile, water streaming over her shoulders, down her back, between her ass cheeks. She looks up at me with those hypnotic eyes and drags her tongue from my balls to the tip, once, twice, then takes me all the way to the back of her throat.
Just when I’m throbbing against her tongue she pulls off with a wet pop, stands, and turns around. She braces her hands on the glass wall, arches her back, and pushes that perfect ass against my cock (sliding me between her cheeks, up and down, teasing).
“Imagine how good this is going to feel when I start riding you” she breathes, grinding back. “My pussy is so ready…” She reaches between her legs, spreads herself open with two fingers so I can see how pink and slick she is, how the water and her own wetness mix and drip down her inner thighs. I try to push forward. She laughs softly and steps away, spinning to face me again. “Not yet, baby,” she says, biting her lip. “I want you absolutely desperate when you finally get me.”
She grabs the body wash, lathers her hands, and starts washing me (slow, sensual circles over my chest, my abs, then down to my cock again). She strokes me under the suds until my knees almost buckle, then rinses me clean and presses her whole body against mine (nipples dragging across my skin, one thigh sliding between mine). After we rinse off, she says let’s take this on the bed.
9:15 p.m.
We’re fresh from the shower, skin warm, hair damp. She lotions up her body with my favorite smelling lotion. The scent permeates the air, turning me on. She then puts on a cotton camisole with no bra, which shows her nipples through the material, and a lace thong. I’m in boxer briefs and a white shirt. The lights are low, only the outside pool lights glowing through the windows.
She crawls onto the bed, pats the space beside her. “Come here, husband (liking the sound of it as she says it). Let me hold you.” I slide in next to her. She curls into me, one leg thrown over mine, head on my chest. For ten perfect minutes we just breathe together while the TV plays some random show in the background. We begin to kiss and make out. Just as I’m getting ready to slide down to savor her pussy with my mouth, there comes a soft knock on the connecting door to room 2412.
9:42pm
She lifts her head, tilts it toward the sound, and gives me a playful little frown. “I wonder who that could be knocking at this time from the connecting room?” she says, voice light and teasing, like we’re in on some harmless joke. I look at the clock on the night stand and it says 9:42 pm. She slides off the bed, smooths her hair, and walks barefoot to the door in just her camisole and lace thong. I sit up, heart suddenly pounding, full of mixed feelings of who the heck is that and why the heck are they interrupting us at such a crucial moment of our wedding night. Then a second before my wife opened the door, it hit me that my wife was about to open the door in just her camisole and lace thong. Whoever was going to be at the door was going to see my beautiful bride near naked on our wedding night. That sent a flood of dopamine to my brain and a rush of blood to my cock that instantly hardened.
From my position, I couldn’t see who it was from my angle on the bed—the door swings open toward the wall. “Hi there,” she says, voice warm and breathy. A deep, smooth male voice answers: “Hey beautiful. Is it a good time?” She giggles softly, a little nervous, a little excited. “You bet. Come on in.” My heart begins to pound in surprised and nervous excitement at what I’m hearing.
I hear the door click shut, then the soft rustle of bodies moving closer. A low chuckle from him. Her light laugh in response. Then silence for a beat—and the unmistakable sound of lips meeting. Soft at first, a quick peck. Then again, longer. A quiet sigh from her. They make out right there by the door for what feels like forever but is probably only thirty seconds—wet kisses, little breaths, her fingers probably in his hair. I can’t see them, but the sounds paint every detail in my mind: her lips parting for him, his tongue sliding in, her body arching just a little.
Finally, she pulls back with a soft “Mmm” and takes his hand. “Come meet my husband,” she says. She leads him into the room. He’s tall—easily six-three—broad-shouldered, dark hair tousled, wearing a navy Henley that hugs his chest and gray slacks. Handsome in that effortless way, with a confident smile.
“Honey,” she says to me, voice full of love mixed with shy nervousness, “this is my friend Paul. Paul, this is my husband.” Paul nods politely, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you. Congratulations on the wedding.” I shake it automatically, my mind reeling, my heart pounding, my palms sweating. Friend? How? When? But she never explains. She just smiles at me—that sweet, knowing smile—and turns back to Paul giving him all her attention like I’m not even there.
They sit on the suite sofa across from the bed. She curls into his side, legs tucked under her, while he drapes an arm casually around her shoulders. “So,” she says to him, voice light, “how was your day?” He chuckles, rubbing her arm absentmindedly. “Smooth as silk. I’ve been thinking about you all day.” She blushes, glancing at me for the first time since he entered. Her eyes sparkle with that wicked, naughty smile—the one that says she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. “Tell me about it,” she teases him.
They began to chat like old friends. Work stories. The latest going-ons. Her laughing at his bad jokes. Every few minutes she looks right at me—sitting there on the bed like a fly on the wall—and gives me that smile again. It’s pure love mixed with mischief, like she’s sharing a secret only we know. Without her saying a word, I realize why he’s here and what’s about to happen. My cock throbs painfully in my briefs.
They flip through channels on the TV. News. A sitcom. Some late-night talk show. They settle on a cheesy rom-com rerun, volume low. Paul shifts, looks her up and down. “Stand up for me,” he says softly. “Let me get a good look at you.” She obeys without hesitation, rising gracefully. He leans back, eyes roaming her body. “Turn around, beautiful. Slowly.” She does, giving him (and me) a full view. She pulls her camisole up high enough to show off the bottom of her breasts with her nipples poking through the fabric while she turns to show him the curve of her ass in her lace thong.
“God, you look incredible,” he murmurs. “Must have been stunning at the wedding today. All those eyes on you.” She giggles, glancing at me again with that naughty smile. “You have no idea.”
“Pose for me,” he says. “Hands on your hips.” She does. “Now turn sideways. Arch your back a little.” She complies, chest thrusting forward. “Fuck, you’re hot,” he breathes. “Come here.” He pulls her into his lap. Their lips meet again—light at first, testing. Then deeper. Her hands in his hair. His on her waist, sliding up under her camisole to cup her bare breasts. She moans softly into his mouth. Things heat up fast. Kisses turn hungry, tongues sliding. He pinches her nipples through the fabric; she gasps and grinds down on his lap.
I watch, frozen, heart hammering, cock leaking. She breaks the kiss, looks at me over her shoulder with a naughty smile and whispers, “You okay, honey?” I nod in anticipation for what’s to come.
Then she turns back to Paul, lifts the camisole over her head, and tosses it aside. Naked except for her wedding ring and lace thongs. He groans, hands everywhere—squeezing her ass, sucking her neck and leaving the first faint love mark. He squeezes her breasts and sucks on each nipple while she looks at me.
She stands, pulls him up with her. Leads him to the bed—our wedding bed. She stands beside the bed and her wedding ring catches the low lamplight causing a sparkle. “Lie down,” she tells him. Paul gets on the bed and stretches out on the crisp white duvet, propped on his elbows, watching her with open hunger. “Lie back,” she says, voice soft but certain.
He obeys instantly, head sinking into the pillows, arms falling to his sides. She pulls off his navy Henley, slow and deliberate. Then the belt, the slacks, the boxer-briefs. His cock springs free, thick, heavy, curving slightly upward, the head already glistening. I hear myself inhale sharply from across the room.
Her eyes flick to me just once (that naughty, loving smile) and then she crawls onto the mattress like a cat in heat. She straddles his thighs, leans down, and kisses him again, deeper this time, tongues sliding, little moans vibrating between their mouths. His hands roam her back, her ass, squeezing, spreading her open for a second so I can see how wet she is already through her lace thongs.
After a long minute she breaks the kiss and slides lower. Her small hand wraps around his shaft (barely able to close around the girth) and she looks straight at me. Right at me. Then she lowers her head and takes him into her mouth. The sound she makes is pure, filthy gratitude. A long, low “mmmmmmph” as her lips stretch around the head, cheeks hollowing on the first slow pull. She bobs slowly at first, savoring, tongue swirling, saliva shining on his length. One of her hands cups his balls, rolling them gently while the other strokes what she can’t yet swallow. Paul groans, head falling back. “Just like that.” She loses herself almost immediately. Her eyes flutter half-closed, lashes dark against her flushed cheeks, and she starts working him in earnest (deeper, faster, sloppy). Strings of spit drip down his shaft, over her fingers, onto his stomach. Her hips rock unconsciously, pussy visibly dripping now, a thin strand of her own wetness stretching from her folds to the sheet beneath her.
Paul threads his fingers into her hair, guiding but not forcing. “Come here, gorgeous. Turn around. I want to taste how soaked you are.” She releases him with a wet pop, a thick ribbon of saliva still connecting her bottom lip to his cockhead for a second before it breaks. She looks up at me again (eyes glassy, lips swollen, face flushed with pure lust) and gives me that naughty, hungry smile around the taste of another man’s cock. She stands up and with eyes locked on mine, she pulls her lace thong off. Then she crawls up his body, spins, and settles over his face in perfect 69. She loves to be eaten.
The moment his tongue touches her clit she shudders and dives back down, taking him to the back of her throat. The room fills with wet, obscene sounds: her muffled moans around his shaft, his tongue lapping greedily at her dripping pussy, the occasional slap of her hand stroking what her mouth can’t reach.
I can’t stay on the bed any longer. I stand, legs shaky, and move to the velvet armchair angled perfectly at the foot of the bed – the cuckold chair. I sit, heart hammering, cock aching in my briefs, and just watching.
Every few seconds she lifts her head, cheeks streaked with spit and precum, and locks eyes with me while she swirls her tongue around his head. Each time she smiles (naughty, proud, loving) before plunging back down. Paul’s hands grip her ass, spreading her wider so I can see everything: his tongue spearing into her, her juices coating his chin, her thighs trembling.
After what feels like forever (ten minutes? twenty?) she finally pulls off with a gasp, strings of saliva hanging from her lips. “I need you inside me,” she breathes. She spins again, straddling his hips facing me this time. His cock stands straight up, angry-red, slick from her mouth. She rises on her knees, positions the fat head right at her entrance, and looks straight into my eyes. “Baby,” she says, voice trembling with emotion and raw need, “another man is about to take your wife’s married pussy for the very first time. From this moment on, you will remember that Paul was the first to have me after we said ‘I do.’ Paul gets the honor of being the first to penetrate your wife’s married pussy with his thick cock.”
She pauses, letting the words sink in, letting me feel every ounce of their weight. Then, still staring right at me, she sinks her dripping wet pussy down onto his thick cock. Slowly. Inch by thick inch. Her mouth falls open in a silent scream. Her eyes roll back for a second, then snap back to mine as the head pops past her entrance and stretches her wide. “Oh my God,” she whimpers, voice breaking. “He’s… he’s so fucking thick…” The moment he’s fully seated inside her (balls deep in my wife on our wedding night) she shudders violently and cums. Hard. A gush of wetness squirts out around his shaft, soaking his groin, running down his balls, dripping onto the hotel sheets.
She stays there, impaled, shaking through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving mine. Then she starts to move. Slow circles at first, grinding her clit against his pelvis, savoring how full she is. Her hands brace on his chest, wedding ring glinting with every roll of her hips. “So deep,” she moans, looking at me. “He’s so much deeper than… oh fuck…” Paul grips her hips and starts thrusting up to meet her. The sound of wet skin slapping skin fills the room. She picks up speed, riding him harder, faster, breasts bouncing, head thrown back.
Second orgasm builds fast. They clasp each other’s hands with entwined fingers. I see the shimmer of her wedding ring as their hands brace each other while she slams down on him. Then in one final thrust onto his thick cock, she screams (actually screams) as she squirts again, harder this time, a clear arc splashing across his stomach, all over his balls, and onto the comforter.
Paul growls, flips her onto her back without pulling out, hooks her legs over his shoulders, and starts pounding. The headboard bangs against the wall. Her nails rake down his back. She’s babbling now (half to him, half to me). “Yes, Paul… fuck your married pussy… show my husband how it’s done… oh God, I’m cumming again…” Third orgasm rips through her, pussy clenching visibly around his cock, another flood of wetness.
Paul’s rhythm stutters. “Where do you want me to cum?” he grunts. “Inside,” she gasps, pulling her legs back with her hands so that she is as spread as she can be, giving him full access to her married pussy. “Fill me up… give my husband his wedding present…”
He roars, buries himself to the root, as deep as he can go and pumps rope after thick rope deep inside her. She milks him with her pussy, eyes on me the entire time, whispering, “Feel it, baby… feel him claiming me…” and as the words left her mouth, the intensity of the moment brought her to a simultaneous, mind-shattering orgasm with him. Her eyes rolled up and she began to convulse and squirt all over him. I watched every pulse of his cock inside her, the way her pussy fluttered around the base, the way her thighs trembled as she took every thick rope of his cum while she came at the same time.
When he’s finally spent, he collapses forward, catching himself on his elbows so he doesn’t crush her. They stay locked together, breathing hard, foreheads touching. They lay there both catching their breath while the aftershocks subside. For a long, quiet minute the only sounds are their ragged breaths and the soft wet pulse of his cock still twitching inside her. She cups his face, pulls him into a slow, lazy kiss (soft at first, then deeper, tongues sliding, tasting each other). He kisses her like he’s memorizing her mouth. She kisses him back like she’s already addicted.
Eventually she shifts her hips; his softening cock slips out with a wet, obscene sound. A thick river of cum immediately follows, sliding down the crack of her ass and pooling onto the sheets. She rolls to her side, curls into him, head on his chest, one leg thrown possessively over his thigh. She’s looking straight at me now, eyes heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. Paul kisses the top of her head, strokes her hair. She tilts her face up for one more soft kiss from him, then lays her cheek back on his chest and smiles at me – sweet and utterly satisfied.
My gaze drops between her legs. His cum is still oozing out of her, slow and steady, pooling on the white duvet beneath her. Paul murmurs something about needing the bathroom. He kisses her once more, slides out of bed, and walks naked across the suite with his thick cock swinging. The door clicks shut behind him. Even while soft, his cock was longer and thicker than when I am hard.
The second we’re alone she turns onto her back, spreads her legs wide, knees bent with heels on the bed, and lets me see everything. “Look, baby,” she whispers, voice hoarse from screaming. “Look what he did to your wife on our wedding night.” Another thick dollop of Paul’s cum pushes out of her swollen pussy and slides down toward her ass. She reaches down with two fingers, scoops a little, and rubs it along her clit with a soothing touch.
“You’re going to be so patient for me,” she says softly. “These three days are going to be for me and Paul. It’s going to be our honeymoon that you get to watch. You don’t get to reclaim me until we check out and return home in a couple of days. Until then, this married pussy belongs to him. Every load, every orgasm, every night. Is that going to be okay with you? You know you’re going to love every moment of it, right?”
I nod, throat too tight to speak. Cock too hard to think. My boxers are all soaked with my precum. I want to stroke myself so bad but I don’t want to cum. I’m afraid the moment I touch myself I will explode. So I refrain from touching myself. I want the sexual tension to last as I watch my wife give herself to her lover on our wedding night. She smiles, tender and filthy all at once. “I thought so. I knew you’d love this wedding present very much. I love you.” Come here and kiss me. I get up and kiss her deeply and passionately, with so much love and devotion.
Then the bathroom door opens. Paul walks back in, grabs a bottle of water from the mini-bar, takes a long drink. I pull away and return to my chair. She smiles at me and then turns to Paul and watches him like he’s the only man in the world.
She slips out of bed, walks past me with cum dripping from her pussy and glistening down her thigh as she disappears into the bathroom herself. I hear the toilet flush, water running, then she’s back with a fresh bottle, hips swaying. I noticed that she wiped up the cum dripping from her pussy while in the bathroom. She walks by me, swaying her ass at me, and crawls straight into Paul’s waiting arms. They start kissing again immediately – slow, hungry, familiar already. Hands roaming. Tongues sliding. She moans into his mouth when he rolls her nipple between his fingers. He then alternately sucks on both breasts while she strokes his cock. When he was done sucking on her breasts, I noticed that he left a hickey on the underside of one of her breasts not too far from her nipple. They start to kiss again, sucking on each other’s tongues. Minutes later she’s sliding down his body, taking his half-hard cock back into her mouth, licking him clean of their mixed juices, coaxing him rock-hard again.
10:57pm
I look at the clock. It’s 10:57pm. Round two begins. Paul is hard again from the way she’s looking at him and sucking his cock. She straddles his thighs, leans down, and kisses him slow and deep, tongue sliding against his like they’ve done this a thousand times. His hands roam her back, her ass, spreading her open so I can see the shiny mess still leaking from her.
She breaks the kiss, turns her head, and locks eyes with me in the armchair. “Watch closely, my husband,” she whispers, voice husky and trembling with fresh excitement. “Your wife is about to get fucked again… and I’m already soaked just knowing you’re watching.” Paul flips her onto her back in one smooth motion. Missionary. He lines up and pushes in slow (one long, relentless stroke until he’s buried to the hilt). Her back arches off the bed, mouth falling open in a silent scream. She looks right at me as he bottoms out. “Feel that, honey?” she gasps. “He’s all the way inside your wife again… on our wedding night… oh fuck…” Paul starts moving (slow, deep, grinding thrusts that make the wettest sounds). She reaches out one hand toward me, fingers curling like she’s trying to pull me closer even though I’m across the room. “Come closer, baby,” she breathes. “I want you to see every inch of another man’s thick cock going in and out of the pussy you married this morning that you didn’t get to have yet.”
I scoot the chair right to the edge of the bed. Close enough to see everything: the way her lips grip his thick shaft, the frothy ring of their first load coating the base of his cock, the way her clit swells every time he grinds against it. She turns her head, eyes glassy, and smiles at me. “You see how easily he slides in?” she moans. “That’s because he already ruined me for you tonight…I’m so fully stretched by his thick cock…I feel it touching all the sides of my pussy.”
Paul picks up speed. The headboard starts tapping the wall. She grabs his shoulders, nails digging in. “Look at me,” she suddenly commands (voice sharp with need). I meet her eyes just as the first big orgasm hits. Her pupils blow wide, then roll back, and she squirts hard (a clear arc that splashes Paul’s stomach and the sheets beneath them). “Watching you watch me is making me cum so fucking hard!” she cries, voice breaking. “I didn’t know it would feel this good… oh God, baby, I love this…”
Paul growls, flips her over onto all fours facing me, and slams back in from behind. Her tits swing with every thrust, nipples hard as diamonds. She locks eyes with me again, hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. “Tell me you love seeing your wife get fucked like a slut on her wedding night,” she pants. “I love it,” I rasp. “Louder.” “I love watching you get fucked, baby… I love it so much…” She moans like my words are a physical touch, pushes back to meet Paul’s thrusts. “I love it too baby,” she whimpers. “Keep watching… keep watching what he does to me…” Paul grabs her hair, arches her back, and starts pounding so hard the bedframe creaks. She cums again (another gush, another broken cry), eyes on me the entire time until they roll back and her whole body shakes.
He pulls out, spins her around, lifts her up like she weighs nothing. Standing now (her legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck). He walks her forward until her back is against the wall right beside my chair. I’m two feet away. Every thrust lifts her an inch off the floor and slams her back down onto his cock. Her head lolls; sweat drips down her breasts. She turns her face to me (lips swollen, eyes wild). “Listen to how wet I am for him,” she gasps between thrusts. “Listen to what your marriage sounds like now…” The room is nothing but wet slaps, her broken moans, Paul’s grunts. Another orgasm builds. She grabs my hand suddenly (actually reaches out and squeezes my fingers) while Paul keeps fucking her against the wall. “I’m gonna cum again looking at you,” she whimpers. “I can’t stop… watching you throb for this is making me cum… here it comes… here it… fuck!” She squirts so hard it runs down both their legs and splashes my knees.
Paul carries her back to the bed, throws her down, pins her knees to her shoulders (folded in half, completely helpless) and starts pile-driving straight down. The angle is brutal. Her eyes never leave mine. “This is what I needed,” she whimpers, lustful hunger in her eyes. “I need to feel his thick cock on this first night I’m yours… I want you to see him spread me open… I love the way his thick cock feels so much…” Another orgasm (longer, louder, wetter). She’s speaking in unintelligibly now, half-coherent filth about how good he feels, how full, how she never wants it to stop.
Paul finally flips her one last time (back to missionary, legs over his shoulders, full weight pressing her into the mattress). He’s close. She knows it. “Cum inside me,” she begs, looking straight at me. “Fill me again… let my husband see what a real wedding-night load looks like…”
1:07am
I quickly glance at the clock and see that it is 1:07am. They have been going at it for more than two hours. Finally, Paul groans, slams deep, and unloads (pulse after thick pulse). Her eyes roll back, mouth open in a silent scream as she cums with him, milking every drop. He empties inside her again with a guttural groan. She claws at his back, legs locked around him, riding every pulse while simultaneously cumming and squirting all over him.
When he’s done they collapse together, kissing slow and sweet, bodies still joined. They stay tangled, kissing lazily, sweat-slick skin glowing in the low light. She murmurs something against his neck. He chuckles, kisses her forehead, pulls the sheet up over them. She turns her head on the pillow, finds me with glassy, love-drunk eyes. “I love you,” she whispers, voice raw. Then she curls into Paul’s arms, kisses him once more, and within minutes they’re both asleep. Her head on his chest, his arm locked possessively around her waist, her thigh draped over his and the sheets ruined.
I sit in the armchair for a long time, watching the slow rise and fall of their breathing, the occasional sleepy kiss they share without waking fully, the faint smile on her lips even in sleep. Eventually I stretch out on the couch, still in my boxer briefs that are even more wet from my pre-cum. My cock is aching for release. My heart is full. My body is tired from the day’s events. The room smells a mixture of sex, my wife’s lotion, and Paul’s cologne. I sat and basked in the glow of our beautiful wedding night. It certainly was going to be an unforgettable night.
I eventually dozed off as I lay there imagining Paul’s cum leaking out of my wife’s pussy as she laid there just a few feet away from me sound asleep in her lover’s arms in our wedding bed. Although our first day of marriage came to a close, it was just the beginning of our three-night honeymoon.
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