Wedded Bliss

Written by on 04/02/2013 in Erotica, Humor

I don’t really want to get married. I just want to have a wedding.

Wedded Bliss by Mary CynMarriages are about taxes and compromise, a sleepy march toward death or divorce. Weddings, on the other hand, are parties so huge that other, smaller parties orbit them. Think about it–the engagement party, bridal shower, bachelor party, bachelorette party, and rehearsal dinner. Around the wedding sun there are five party planets, each of them centered on sex, and smaller event moons: dress fittings, cake tasting, flower choosing, present buying, present opening, getting dressed for the wedding, getting undressed after the wedding, making toasts, hooking up.

Every moment a small celebration of love and life, friendship and family, beauty of all kinds, rejoicing in the senses. The look and feel of the dress, the scent and color of the flowers, the lush taste of food and drinks, a reason to see friends and family you haven’t seen for ages. Why should this amount of joy and sensual delight be tied to such an outdated bummer of a concept like marriage? How can one think of knitting their life to just one person while experiencing this much of life? Shouldn’t everyone be able to have a party this massive? Even people who don’t want to get married?

I understand, in a way, how and why weddings have been linked with marriages historically. But in a world where marriage is, at best, a fifty/fifty shot at lifelong companionship and tax breaks, why would that be linked with a once-in-a-lifetime party of epic proportions?

Marriages are about compromise, weddings are about perfection. The perfect spouse, the perfect day, the perfect dress. Marriages are about the dead end of your sex life. Weddings are nothing but sex and burgeoning potential. It’s normally considered uncouth to reach up your girlfriend’s dress, remove her undergarment, and throw it into a crowd, but at a wedding it’s required! And throwing it makes some kind of prediction about who else is going to get laid that night.

We should all be able to run through a corridor of our friends holding sparklers on our way to go have sex. There is never another time in your life when people will be that celebratory about the fact that someone else is having sex.

And formal wear! There are men in formal wear! There’s a reason men’s formal wear hasn’t changed for the past hundred years and that’s because they’ve simply got it right. The tux squares out the shoulders and brings the torso into a V. It’s black and white, which looks good on everyone. It forces men to wear pants that actually fit.

I’m convinced that women pre-plan their weddings because they feel it’s rude to discuss their sexual fantasies in public at any other time.

My wedding would begin with the Chris Cornell cover of “Ave Maria,” a religious song I find intensely sexy.

I would walk down the aisle in a white silk corset with crystal and pearl beading, yards of tulle trailing behind me, glistening like the morning dew. All over my dress, a spray across my skirt and clinging here and there to my bodice, would be blood red silk rose petals. As I walk down the aisle women would gasp and men would be speechless. My bridesmaids would follow behind me like minions of sex. Bright red satin, sweetheart necklines, short skirts, and maybe a little ’50s hat with a veil. The obligatory bridesmaid ass-bow would look inviting and succulent, like a present just daring you to unwrap it.

My husband, whoever the fuck he is, the instantly erect man to whom I am affianced, would stand tall and proud, a slight sheen on his black tuxedo. The red rose on his lapel would match the red on my dress. His eyes would shine and his lips would be slightly parted in wonder. His eyes would be beautiful and odds are good he’d be a brunette.

He would take my hand and we would vow our love. I would honestly believe that our love would last forever.

The ceremony would end and I would be kissed (with just enough passion to not make my family uncomfortable) and we would run through a corridor of our smiling, rice-throwing, bubble-blowing loved ones.

Then we’d double back to the now empty church.

He would take off my skirt but leave on the corset. The skirt would come off quickly and I would wrap my legs around his waist while he kissed me with a fervency that suggested we had waited till this moment to fuck for the first time (but, really, who are we kidding?).

He would lift me up onto the altar, run his hands across the velvet of my garter belt, and slide off my already wet lace g-string. The marble would be cold and his breath would be hot as he presses his reverent lips to my smooth white pussy. The pleasure would be instant and I would dig my heels into his back. My screams would echo from the vaulted ceiling and I would silently beg Christ’s forgiveness as my flailing limbs upend candlesticks and chalices. Christ would stare at me placidly from his cross. I like to think he would enjoy the view.

I would slide off the altar and kneel at the feet of my husband, extracting his cock and sucking it deep inside me. I would keep his pants on because he looked so damn good in them and my hands would anchor into fists over the silk ribbon running down the outside of his thigh. The ministrations of my tongue would shake his core till he sinks to the floor and throws me to my back on the thick red carpet of the dais. He would enter me swiftly and the feel of his cock would be like velvet and molasses and the idea of whiskey, a dark warm sweetness with a light fire behind it. He would move inside me and my body would sing with pleasure, the physical equivalent of “Ave Maria.” The pin sunk deep in his satin lapel would dig ever so slightly against my skin, maybe making me bleed, but I wouldn’t mind. My world would become without thought, only sensation: the rose of his boutonniere brushing softly along my breasts, my garter belt stretched against my ass as my legs wrap around his torso, the boning of my corset shifting as I arch my back. My arms would grip the thick fabric of his jacket and pull him closer to me as I scream, “Yes yes, oh fuck yes.” The spasms of my pussy would send him over the edge and in a few more hard thrusts he would spend himself inside me.

“I love you,” he would whisper between gulps of air.

“I love you,” I would say.

And as we kissed I would see that both of us were shivering.

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