She helped me into it, her hands gentle as she tied the sash. I could feel her wanting to ask. Wanting to say something about the spanking she must have heard through the door. About whatever she could smell in this room.
But she held herself back, her lips pressed together in a tight line.
Was she afraid? I wondered suddenly. Afraid that Mark would spank her if she gossiped about what Chris had done to me? That he would punish her for interfering in another man’s handling of his bride?
The thought made me clench involuntarily down there, a fresh wave of shameful heat pulsing through my core.
What was wrong with me? Why did thinking about Megan being spanked by her husband make me feel this way?
Had Chris changed something inside me when he made me come over his knee? Broken something? Fixed something?
I tried to tell myself that was what had happened—that before today I had been normal, and now Chris had done something to me that made my body react this way to thoughts of submission and punishment.
But deep down, in a place I didn’t want to look, I knew that wasn’t true.
Deep down, I knew I was simply having to confront something I had refused to confront before. Something that had always been there, waiting.
“Should I send in the makeup and hair consultant?” Megan asked, her voice carefully neutral. “And the photographer?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Actually,” Megan said quickly, glancing around my room, “on second thought, let’s do all that in the guest room. More space for everyone.”
More space. That was the excuse she gave. But I knew the real reason.
My room smelled of… of naughtiness. What I had done, and what had been done to me. Of my submission. Of the pleasure my future husband wrung from my body as reward for my obedience—though it had felt more like punishment for my disobedience.
The rest of the time before the wedding passed in a blur. Megan led me to the guest room where the makeup artist fussed over my tearstained face, applying foundation and powder until my skin looked smooth as satin in the mirror.
The hair consultant pinned and re-pinned my blonde locks into an elegant up-do, weaving in tiny white flowers. Thephotographer snapped picture after picture—me in the dressing gown, me with my bridesmaids, me with my mother who looked at me with such pride I wanted to cry all over again.
There was too much to do, too many people talking at me, asking me questions, adjusting my dress, my veil, my bouquet. I didn’t have time to think about what had happened in my room. About Chris’s hand between my legs. About the way my body had responded.
I didn’t have time to be anxious.
Not until I stood at the back of the church, my arm linked through my father’s, and the organ began to play.
Then, as I took my first step down the aisle, I became suddenly, intensely aware of the tiny lace panties under my wedding dress. Of the smooth, bare skin beneath them. Of the way the delicate fabric pressed against my still-sensitive flesh with every step.
I could feel it all—the thong nestled between my bottom cheeks, the lace covering my waxed pussy, the knowledge that tonight Chris would see it all, touch it all, claim it all.
My face burned under my veil as I walked past rows of guests, all of them smiling at the—yes, absolutely—blushing bride. If only they knew what I was thinking. What I was feeling.
Then I saw Chris waiting for me at the altar, and my breath caught.
He looked so handsome in his tuxedo, his broad shoulders filling out the jacket perfectly, his dark hair neatly combed, his blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my knees weak. When he smiled at me—that gentle, loving smile that had mademe fall for him in the first place—I felt something shift in my chest.
This was Chris.My Chris. The man I loved.
And then the moment passed, and everything sped up again. The ceremony became a whirlwind of words I barely heard, vows I repeated automatically, a kiss that was chaste and brief but still made my heart race. The reception was even worse—a blur of congratulations and toasts and cake-cutting and dancing, all of it passing too quickly and yet not quickly enough.
Again, there was no time to worry about what awaited me later.
Not until Chris took my hand and led me toward the elevators, and everyone cheered and threw rice, and I realized with a jolt of pure terror that we were going upstairs. To our room. To our bridal suite.
To our wedding night.
Chris carried me across the threshold, and I clung to his neck, breathing in his familiar scent—soap and aftershave and the perhaps-imagined but very comforting hint of wood shavings. He set me down gently on my feet in front of a large armchair, and I stood there trembling as he moved to the small bar in the corner.
