The wedding night fuck

Before I begin, allow me a minute to put off 50% of you: this is not erotic fiction about what to do on your wedding night. It’s not a post about a romantic fuck at the end of your special day, or how to arouse your partner on the wedding night even though you’ve been together five years and you’re bored of the sight of their bollocks by now. If that’s what you’re after, then please pick up your warm white wine and move on to another buffet: this wedding night fuck is dirty.

I am currently obsessed with wedding dresses. Not because I want to get married, or even because I think they’re pretty. I’d never wear a dress out of choice – they make me look like an uncomfortable toddler who’s been forced into a party outfit when really she’d rather be wearing jeans. Besides, white is a clothing colour simply ripe for ruining.

No, the reason I’m obsessed with wedding dresses is that I had a fantasy about a wedding night fuck recently and I can’t get it out of my head.

I had a vision of a horny groom fucking a bridesmaid while his wife looked on, and it made me wet on a train.

It’s not about the dress, and yet it’s all about the dress. Tight and restrictive and uncomfortable – a thing I would never wear out of choice. And after all, white is a clothing colour simply ripe for ruining.

The key to the wedding night fuck fantasy is that it’s nothing like what a wedding night fuck is meant to be. It’s all about the destruction of a perfect evening. I walk into the bridal suite, ready to kick off my wobbly high heels and release my tits and stomach from the tight hug of a corset. Remembering the expensive, perfect underwear I’ve bought for just this moment. Picturing the way my new husband’s dick will twitch and swell when he catches the sight of my taut nipples pressing against silk.

And then I walk in to find him fucking one of the bridesmaids.

She’s bent over the end of the bridal suite bed. Skirt hitched up round her waist, spitting rose petals from her mouth as she moans. He’s behind her, mostly still clothed, filling her with his dick, and gripping her hips and arse with meaty, eager hands. Staring into space and panting – biting his lip to hold back from coming. To better appreciate the sensation of her tight cunt round his cock.

I look at the white stains around his open fly. I hear his satisfied grunting.

And I weep.

It’s a very bridal word, isn’t it? Weep. Brides rarely sob or scream, but they’ll whimper and weep if something bad happens to spoil their precious day. No matter how strong a woman is, when she becomes a bride she’s softened. We sand away her hard edges, attach some delicate frills, and declare her ‘beautiful.’ There may be strength in brides as well as beauty, but we rarely hear about it other than in whispered tones of horror. A strong bride is the most frightening thing: a Bridezilla.

I’ve tried not to be a Bridezilla, though. I’ve bitten my tongue when I disagree with seating arrangements, and I’ve smiled and said ‘I don’t mind’ in the appropriate places. I’ve stepped aside for my mother in law and I’ve eaten shit in front of his aunts and oh God I’ve swallowed so much to maintain the illusion of timidity.

So, still in character, I weep.

He keeps fucking her. Only pausing to order me to stop covering my face, so he can look me straight in the eye while he shoves himself deep and hard into my bridesmaid. My friend. She doesn’t look up but she knows I’m there, and doubles the volume of her moans accordingly. She likes me to see how much he likes fucking her.

I keep watching, entranced and humiliated and aroused. And still wearing that fucking dress.

He beckons me over. Pauses for a second and bites his lip again, holding back from the moment when he’ll squirt jizz into my bridesmaid: my best friend. She keeps going – sliding back to try and take more of the length of him – so he puts a hand on her arse, thumb resting in the crack with the tip just about to penetrate. A gesture of dominance. An order: stop now. Wait.

And I stand there in my off-white dress, and my tight corset and those fucking shoes that are making my feet bleed, and I look at the man I chose to marry and see the spark of urgent lust in his eyes.

And he reaches out for the folds of fabric. And rips.

One long tear, as the skirt comes away from the bodice, exposing a glimpse of the underwear that I now realise would have done nothing. Another, harder tug opens the gap wider. I ache.

And it is so. Fucking. Hot.

He uses a fistful of fabric to drag me closer, then reaches for the top of my bodice – thick fingers pulling me closer towards him for an aggressive, mouth-crushing kiss. I can feel his teeth, and the beads of wedding night fuck sweat which are dripping down his face. I lick them from my lips and tell him: more.

Harder.

So he grips my bridesmaid’s hips with one hand, and the top of my bodice with the other, and yanks us both closer towards him with each stroke of that vigorous fuck. And as he speeds up he gets grabbier. More urgent. He tears again at my dress, and smacks her arse when she moans too loudly, and he stares deep into space so he doesn’t have to look me in the eye.

So I tear more at the dress. Both dresses – hers and mine. I see money and time and planning go up in smoke as we both lay waste to the trappings of the best day of my fucking life.

And my cunt drools slick with the joy of destruction.

I want to see both of them look up at me and rip another strip from the satin of my dress. I want to hear it tearing and watch it get smeared and messy. I want it all gone. Shredded. Until all that’s left is the stains on the bedsheets, fragments of wedding-night lingerie and the echo of his grunting in my ears.

Because this is a wedding night fuck: it’s supposed to stick in my mind, so I want scars and memories to carry me through until divorce.

I want to watch him come inside my bridesmaid.

I want everything we’ve planned and hoped for to come to nothing at all. Because building a future with the man of my dreams feels gentle and soft and loving. Because the dress makes me feel smaller and prettier and all the things a bride should feel.

But destruction? Destruction feels like power.