The Wedding Crashers, Pt. 2

Part 1 

Why am I not running away? I'm totally vulnerable. I mean, my panties are so satiny and thin there might as well be nothing between us.

My wedding dress billows around my body, framing me so sweetly. My garter belt does the job of keeping my stockings in place. All night my clothing felt like my prison. Now, it feels like gift wrap. I sway here, feeling his gaze, feeling exquitely packaged and ready to be unwrapped. My panties will peel away sooooo easily. I feel the heat of his thick cock radiating into the back of my thigh. I want it closer. And these heels that I balance in — they feel like the platform I'm standing on to present myself to what he has planned for me.

Fuck. What does he have planned?

Look at that cock that's so hard for me and at the ready. I just sucked that monster. Did you watch me? I pleasured it with my puffy feminine lips and my velvety female tongue, half horrified by what I was doing, but also painfully aroused by it, too. I lost control of myself. I tried things. I listened to his moans and took notes for later. And I — like — totally got off doing it. Giggle.

I even started competing. Fuck. I'm letting that sink in. I competed with my idea of his fiance. I competed with my idea of the bridesmaids I danced with at the reception tonight. And, perhaps even more mind twisting, I competed with my girlfriend who is likely right now dressing for her Sunday shift at the restaurant. We're both wearing panties. But I might not be for long. Fuck.

The thing is: once I got into it, I wanted to beat them all. I wanted to suck cock better than ALL women. Didn't I also owe him that since it's his honeymoon? To be honest, I think I did go down on him better than anyone would. Saying so makes my nipples swell like marker caps on the tips of my titties. I mean, towards the end he like literally pushed me off of him and said "Fuck, girl — you're on fire. I'm about to come. And I don't want to come yet." Sooooooo, like, yeah. This bitch gives good head. Having great lips helps.

He snatched me up and pushed me into place on this piano. I like the way he pushes me around. And now he's peeling my pretty panties away from my pulsating pink pussy. And I'm not stopping him. Why am I not stopping him?

He pats my ass. It makes me feel like his.

"I got your note yesterday," he says. I can feel his soothing breath across my tight little ass.

"Oh?" What note?

"The answer is yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes. I liked how you planned it without me knowing."

"Planned what?" Why are we talking? Why isn't he fucking me yet? I'm going to lose my nerve. Oh my pussy feels even more achey exposed to the air. I pout my lips and go puppy dog eyes as if to say — Please. Can't you see I need help?

"Your plan. You giving up birth control three months ago, and you are ovulating on our wedding night — that's hot. So yes. The answer is yes."

My voice is shaking. Oh god, I need to stand up and walk away just as much as I need him to hurry. Another wall has crumbled like my pulled-away panties.

I'm exposed. My womb is open for business. I don't notice my thighs spreading wider instinctually. I can feel my heart is beating in my clit. And my ovaries.

Oh fuck.

"Y-yes?"

"Yes, I'll impregnate you."

Oh! A fullness. A pressure. A moan deep in my throat.

Here he is. Oh, I'm already getting stuffed and feeling the longing that had been building in my pussy be pushed out into every extremity of my body. He's practically impaling me. The stocking held around my thighs only make it more pronounced.

I imagine what my average cock could have done to my pussy. It seems nearly pointless to have an average cock at all when just the head of a thick one can make you feel this fucking good. I'd rather have a clit to be honest. Mine is currently erect and peeking from it's frilly little pink hood. It's positively buzzing and waiting to be touched.

Oh I'm going to come soon. I don't even know what that feels like but I'm going to come so deep.

"Fuck yes! I want all of you. Fuck my pussy."

"You like your hubby's cock don't you."

"Oh, I love my hubby's cock. I want my hubby deep inside of me and fucking me senseless."

Oh fuck.

Why did I just say that?

His ring burns on his finger. I'm his. I'm his property. At least he's making me feel that way.

There he goes. The familiar slow build up of sex between a man and a woman. I am the woman. It's my pussy that's getting stuffed.

He's taking me bareback. His veins tease my pussy lips. His head is simply massive and so close to tapping my new cervix. Occasionally his balls meet my clit and I purr in satisfaction.

I spread my thighs wider and feel the uncanny sensation of something penetrating my pelvis. Poke the base of your balls lightly and imagine your finger sliding in and you'll have some idea of what it feels like. Except I'm gushing wet, because I have a delicoius flowering fault line of pink flesh that hugs and paints his cock in layers of feminine juices so it will slip in deep and get massaged by my yearnful squeezes until it fires its thick creamy payload one shot at a time deep inside of my aching pussy.

This man.

This man is working out all of my problems.

He's ironing out the wrinkles in my pussy and untying all the knots in my mind.

He's making my legs weak and kicking my pert little breasts online. It's been so long since I've just relaxed.

He's making my nipples hard without even touching them and making me coo little noises from my tightened little throat.

I love my hubby's cock, Bryson. Fuck our jump and any problems if things get to "charged". If I have to come back, I'm coming back with my eyes opened and my femininity unbottled.

Oh, my mind feels like it's being coated in waves and waves of pretty pink syrup and surrounded in puffy clouds of cotton candy.

Oh god, I totally want to be his whore. His little wife. His fuck toy. Giggle.

Fuck. Here comes another one.

My hubby plays my pussy like an instrument.

Which orgasm is this?

I've lost count.

At least he keeps them coming.

I wonder where we are going on the honeymoon. He said he has a special trip for me. All I know is we are staying in the hotel even if I have to be on my knees the whole time.

Well, Bryson. Fuck it — I'm going to get this guy off. I'm going to power through it.

This ride is unstoppable. Let's see if he can withstand a tried and true cowgirl bounce. Steady as she goes. I'm making this my trademark if he explodes.

I'm working my little hips. I'm like soooo totally going to get my hubby off.

Because I can.

Because he deserves it.

Yes.

I feel him.

There he goes. That's the swell I was looking for. He just filled up. His gun is cocked and loaded.

How about I spring the trigger?

He siezes inside of me.

A jolt.

A shot of warmth.

He moans.

His cock is suddenly locked in reflex now. A reflex I triggered. We couldn't stop this now if we wanted to. With the first shot it's already too late. Each shot contains millions of possibilities for my womb.

That's what sex should feel like.

Bury it deep and coat me good. Your wife needs to feel all of you. Your wife needs you dripping out of her.

That's the fun of all of this. Our bodies fool us into these elaborate situations. A wedding! We should have fucked when we met. And, Bryson, you should have joined us with your tight little bridesmaid's body.

Because face it, we did it all for this moment. For me to make your body lose itself to what it was made for — to pump me full of your come — so I can use my body for what it was made for.

Each shot. The lift of your balls. Firing deep. Every warm infusion of your rich baby batter in my oven.

Let's face it. Ceremony or not: this is about mating. Nothing more. Nothing less. Everything is about fucking, from your fine suit, to your gold watch, so the way you fuck me.

So load up my womb because I finally get it now. There was no hope for me. The moment I was blasted into your fiance's pretty little panties I was on a one way train to being bred. We should have just skipped the ceremony and fucked in front of all of them. To think they were embarrassed by our dancing. How unimaginative.

To think, I was dreading this. Now I'm dreading the jump. God I hope I've fucked it up for myself. I hope everything gets twisted up. And I hope, Bryson, that since we crashed this wedding together, that you are not excluded from what is about to happen.

Until then I have five hours to fuck. Five hours to be a Mrs. and play fast and loose with my fertility.

But first things first — I need to be a good little wife and clean up the mess I've made. Nothing should go to waste.