Emmas Wedding Dress Pt 01

Beautiful and successful Emma took a chance and responded to an ad calling for a woman to star in a particularly depraved adult film. Her deep-seated cum obsession forced her hand and now the video is out there. But, it's so niche and obscure she's in the clear. Right?

Her wedding is only weeks away and the price of her decision has come due.

~~~~~

This one's an erotic slow burn that will lead to an explosive conclusion in Part 2. Enjoy!

~~~~~

I can barely hear Jacob on the other end of the phone despite having it pressed against my ear so hard it hurts. For him, the cacophony created by New York City streets is just white noise. After two years in this place, I'm still struggling. The engines, the shouting, and the blaring horns are like an assault as I stand on the curb, waiting in the fading glow of dusk.

"I said that the shoot went smoothly!" He pretends like he's shouting at the top of his lungs. I hear him chuckling. A car pulls up to the curb, giving a little screech as it comes to an abrupt halt. The driver is out of the car like a shot.

"Oh, that's great," I say. "I bet you were very handsome in your tuxedo."

"I don't know about that," he lies. "But, Anton and his assistant were great. They'll make sure I look like Prince Charming."

The driver Jacob's father sent is on the sidewalk beckoning to me. He has the rear passenger door held open. "Good evening, Miss Emma," he says, with a hint of an accent; Spanish or Portuguese maybe. "I'm here to take you to your appointment at the Waterhouse." I give him a nod, and a quick smile, as he ushers me into the car. It's expensive and powerful. A symbol more than anything else.

"Hmm, maybe they can make me look like Cinderella," I giggle, relieved as the chauffeur shuts the door. The silence is a blessing. "And then we can live happily ever after. How's that sound?"

"Ever after, huh?" He laughs. "I'll settle for the next few weeks. As excited as I am, this wedding is gonna take ten years off my life."

"Don't worry baby," I try to assure him, despite my own nerves. "It'll all be over before you can blink. Just think of the honeymoon."

"Oh, I haven't stopped." The car springs into motion and soon we're weaving through the metropolitan night. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to the sight of the city after dark. It's beautiful. Now I can hear men on the other end of the line shouting impatiently at my fiancé. "Sorry, babe. The boys are getting hungry, and I can't promise they won't resort to cannibalism if I don't feed them soon."

"As long as they leave me some leftovers," I laugh. "Okay, hun. You have fun with the guys. I'll see you at home. I love you."

"I love you too sweetie." The phone is back in my bag and I take off my suit jacket. The July heat is still lingering from the day. Work was exhausting. I let out a sigh, realizing that my day is far from over.

"That your boyfriend?" I look up and make eye contact with the chauffeur through the rearview mirror. He's adjusting it to get a better look and certainly not at the road.

"My fiancé." I corrected him.

"Right, right." I see him smirk. The driver is unusually handsome. He has an olive complexion and his strong jaw is covered with a short, trimmed beard. He's also quite tall and fit and reminds me of some soccer superstar. I don't know, Ronaldo MacDonald, or Lionel Richie or something. Jacob would know.

I can feel his eyes on me, his gaze moving from my long, smooth legs to my breasts. The champagne-colored silk of my top reveals their shape more than I would like, and the plunging neckline perfectly frames my cleavage. Then, he's following the swirling locks of my boutique-styled hair until we lock eyes again.

"I'm Rafael, by the way." He's concentrating on the road again. He's an aggressive driver, but good. I can feel every confident swerve and acceleration. "I picked you up in front of the District Attorney's office. You a lawyer?"

"I am."

"Cool!" He smiles through the mirror. "Like Law & Order, right?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"You look a little too young to be a lawyer."

I roll my eyes a bit. "A lot of people have done a lot of things by twenty-five." I pull out my phone again, aimlessly tapping, hoping he'll get the message.

"Steven says he set all this up for you and his son. This whole photo thing. Wedding stuff, huh?"

Steven, he says. Not, Mr. Presfield. I shake my head a little.

"Yes, he did." I'm struggling to hide my annoyance. "My fiancé just finished his session. Now, it's my turn." Steven's been conspicuously generous lately. About a month ago, he told us he's been pulling strings and calling in favors. He's somehow orchestrated a photo shoot for

Belle Mariée

, an upscale wedding magazine. The haute couture fashion, the beautiful people, and the extravagant wealth within its pages always seemed like a fantasy to me. But, there I was, in an ultra-chic design studio, working with the owner to pick out a worthy wedding dress. And, while standing there in my underwear, getting measured, I made the mistake of asking how much it would all cost. She just smiled and told me that Steven would take care of everything. Rather than comfort me, the answer filled me with anxious dread.

I've known Steven was wealthy, but the cost must be obscene. What could I have done to deserve this? And who am I to think I could be in the pages of

Belle Mariée

? I'm nobody; a public servant, not a fashion model. I never asked for any of this. But, I have to admit, I'm dying to see Jacob's expression when he sees me in this dress.

"You're lucky," says Rafael. "Steven treats his friends and loved ones very well. Oh, yes. And I bet the camera's gonna love you too." He's impudently bold. Why would Steven hire this man? I see his predator's eyes through the mirror again. My jaw grows tight and I frown, a heat rising in my cheeks. But, I feel something kindling below as well.

"You're getting paid to drive, Rafael. Maybe you should pay closer attention to the road."

"Of course, Miss Emma," he says, returning his attention to the traffic ahead. "You're the boss." I see that insolent smirk again.

~~~~~

We arrive at the Waterhouse Hotel, another bastion of conspicuous wealth in the city that I'm not yet used to. Rafael is leading me through the plush and gilded lobby. It's the definition of opulence. The building is over a century old, and the authentic Art Deco styling screams refinement and exclusivity. My middle-class, suburban upbringing hasn't prepared me for any of this, and I can't help but feel like an impostor.

I've never felt claustrophobic in an elevator until now. The ascent is excruciatingly long. Rafael is leaning back in the corner of the lift, casual as you please and too close for comfort. I can see him reflected in the surface of the doors. His eyes are like hands, groping and fondling every inch of me. He's a pig! A crass, impertinent, beautiful pig.

An ember of lust is sparking in my loins. My heart beats a little faster and I can't help imagining the contours of his muscled physique beneath my fingertips. I envision the shape of his engorged manhood, and I can almost taste it. He grabs me roughly about the hips and spins me around. I'm hard against the wall now, my tits pressed flat. My skirt is scrunched up about my waist and I hear a ripping sound as my black, lace panties are torn away in one smooth motion. He kicks my feet farther apart, gaining easier access to my weeping cunt and blushing asshole. A strong arm grips a thigh, raising my leg and spreading me wide. The head of his cock furrows through the soft, wet petals of my sex until they're slathered with pre-cum. He grips a handful of my hair and tugs my head back until I feel the roughness of his beard against my smooth cheek. I can smell his cologne and the sweat underneath. With a single, powerful thrust he fills me to the...

What the fuck, Emma? Fight this! No more cheating. God, that video I shot six weeks ago was cheating enough for a lifetime. One could argue I had twenty-seven illicit affairs in a single afternoon, and I wouldn't be able to deny the truth of it. Jacob doesn't deserve this, even if he lives the rest of his life none-the-wiser.

I start my meditative breathing exercises. They've helped me get past moments like this before, and the fantasy is fading. I've almost counted down to zero when the elevator doors slide open. There's a moment of relief when I don't have to see Rafael's reflection anymore. But, he's quickly ahead of me, leading the way down the corridor. His stride is as confident as his driving, and I can see the powerful muscles of his back working through the tightness of his tailored jacket.

We're finally at the door to the suite. Rafael gives a knock and pulls out his phone. "I'm texting you right now, Miss Emma," he says. Steven must have given him my number. "I'll be waiting for you. Just respond when you're ready to leave."

"Thank you," I say, avoiding eye contact. "I will."

The door flies open to reveal a young woman with an infectious smile. "Hi! You must be Emma, our bride-to-be." I'm struck by how cute she is, and I'm at a loss for words. Her short hair is dyed a bold and brilliant red that transitions into shades of orange and yellow. It would burn me if I ran my fingers through it. Her carefully tousled locks frame a pixie's delicate face and a pair of oversized, gold fashion specs. She's beautiful and couldn't be a day over twenty. Her gaze flits over to meet Rafael's for the barest moment. The subtle change in the curve of her smile, and the shape of her expression, reveals that they've met before. He grins and gives us a two-fingered salute before sauntering away. The relief is palpable.

"I'm Alena, Anton's assistant." She grasps my hand and pulls me into the suite. She has a kitten's energy, and I'm practically running to keep up. Her tight, blue leggings hug a pair of firm cheeks that have a pleasing bounce as she rushes me down a handful of steps and into a massive living room.

This is a presidential suite, impeccably decorated, with high ceilings and huge windows that provide a view of the city skyline that's second to none. I try to not think about the cost.

A middle-aged man with graying hair and a thick mustache emerges from the kitchenette. "Alena, please!" His accent is Eastern European, but his English is perfect. "We're professionals. Not children on a play date."

"Okay, Anton," she pouts and flops down on the couch. Her sea-green cardigan is two sizes too big and billows like a parachute as she falls into the cushions. For a moment I can see her smooth, flat tummy and the thin straps of her panties peeking out of the waist of her leggings.

"I'm so sorry, Emma," he apologizes. "In a city like this, people her age just want to play, when they should be working."

"Pfft," says Alena. She has her phone out and a coquettish expression on her face as she stares into her phone's camera, snapping selfies.

I smile and shake Anton's hand. "It's great to finally meet you two. Steven's had nothing but glowing praise for your work. And Jacob said that the shoot went well earlier."

"Yes, very well," he chuckles. "It took a bit of coaxing, but he warmed up to the camera eventually."

"Steven made it seem like you've known each other for a while."

"For nearly twenty-five years!" He's walking around the living room now, adjusting a series of studio lights. I see boxes of camera equipment on the dining room table. "We have quite the history. But, you don't want to hear about a couple of old men. And I didn't fly across an ocean for small talk. You want to see your wedding dress. Right?"

I feel my pulse kick into high gear. I have to clasp my hands together to keep them from trembling.

"Um, yes. Yes, of course."

"Up, Alena," he orders. "Time for work."

She rolls her eyes and gives me an exasperated look. She leads me to the adjoining bedroom and grips the handles of the sliding doors. "Are you ready?" She draws out every word to heighten the suspense. I'm about to scream at her, "Yes!" But, she loses patience and flings the doors open before the word can come out.

A mannequin, standing at the foot of the bed, wears my wedding dress. It's a work of art so beautiful that I have no words. I approach cautiously as if it were dangerous. I'm getting choked up and I have to wipe away tears with the back of my hand. I don't want to touch it, it seems so delicate. Alena is nodding at me excitedly and does a strange little, gyrating dance.

"Oh, yeah baby!" She's smiling from ear to ear. "Now that's a goddamned dress! But, trust me, gorgeous. This dress was literally made for you. And once you're wearing it, wow! Guy's in the church'll be creamin' their trousers! And maybe some of the ladies too." She gives me a wicked grin and I can't help but laugh.

"Alright, Alena," I say, sniffling. "I'm in your hands."

"Oo, I like the sound of that," she giggles. "But first, hair and make-up. Step into my office."

~~~~~

The next hour, or so, sitting in front of her portable workstation, flies by in a rush. Alena's youth and exuberance belies her dedication and talent. She puts on a masterclass in cosmetology and hair styling that shocks me. By the time she's done, I almost don't recognize myself. Every quality is intensified and every flaw is invisible. I look perfectly sexy and demure, all at the same time.

"Whoa," whispers Alena. She's crouched behind my chair, her head level with mine, looking at me through the mirror. She's close and I can feel her breath on my neck. "You are so fucking hot."

My heart flutters. "It's all you. You're just... amazing."

"Bitch, are you crazy?" She's crude and bold in a way I'm not used to. But, I laugh. "All I did was give the Hope Diamond a little spit shine. Okay, dress time."

Alena has closed the doors to the bedroom. I take off my top and remove my skirt while she lays out the lingerie on the bed. I'm down to bra and panties, and I'm blushing as I hesitate to continue in her presence. She turns around and gives me an impatient look.

"Um, are you waiting for an invitation?" She asks. "Or maybe you won't show me yours until I show you mine?" She starts to pull off her cardigan.

"Wait, no!" I put my hands out for her to stop. "It's fine. Okay?" She lets her top fall back down, but not before she gives me a brief glimpse at the pale under-curve of her breasts. They're adorably small; a handful at best. She's giving me that mischievous grin again.

I take a deep breath as I unclasp my brassiere, and as I'm shrugging it off, Alena is suddenly kneeling in front of me with her fingers hooked around the elastic band of my panties, pulling them down. It startles me, and I discover that I'm still very damp from the elevator ride up. I can feel the sodden fabric peeling away from the moistness of my pussy. She's looking up at me with her mouth open and her big, green eyes wide behind her glasses. I notice a scattering of light freckles across her button nose and smooth cheeks. I feel the heat of embarrassment rising.

"I'm sorry," I stammer. "It's been so hot lately, and I've been sweating all day." I'm a terrible liar.

"Yeah, a real scorcher, huh?" There's a hungry look in her eyes now. Her face is only inches away and her breath is cool against the lips of my slit.

I step out of my work-a-day panties and into the fine, Parisian lace of my lingerie. Alena pulls the new panties up my long, toned legs; slowly and delicately. Her fingers brush lightly against my skin, and I have to suppress a shiver. Is she teasing me? What the hell is going on today? What's with these people? I feel like I'm in some sort of incredibly vivid wet dream, and I can't decide if I want to wake up or not.

"Alena," I say, slightly breathless. "I think I can take care of this by myself."

"Uh, uh," she says with a shake of her head. "Time is money baby. And, Anton gets very cross if he's kept waiting for too long."

"Oh," is all I can say.

We continue getting me into the bridal ensemble, and the dynamic between us feels different. More intimate. She helps me with my sheer, white stockings and her hands are practically caressing my inner thighs in the process. And then she's behind me, lacing up my corset, and her pelvis is pressed hard against my ass as she struggles with the taut ribbons of silk. At one point, we're adjusting my bustier, and for a moment her hands are cupping my breasts. I swear I can feel her give them a quick squeeze through the fabric. Occasionally, I give her an inquisitive look, but all I get is that impish grin and a furtive glance. Finally, she's helping with my tiara and veil; working them into my intricately sculpted coiffure. Sometimes, I feel her petting me, softly and gently as you would a puppy. I'm not sure she realizes she's doing it, but it feels nice and I don't stop her.

After twenty minutes have passed, I'm a vision in white. The dress is voluminous but accentuates the curves of my slim, fit body. It's revealing where it needs to be, but modest enough to intrigue the observer. It costs as much as a luxury car and the knowledge once had me filled with anxiety. Now that I'm wearing it, everything feels right and all my trepidation has evaporated. I feel glamorous and pure and sinfully sexy.

That's strange. I'm surprised to hear Anton conversing with someone in the living room, and the new voice sounds familiar. Alena opens the sliding doors, and I step out of the bedroom while she supports the train of my dress. The conversation quickly trails off into stunned silence.

"My Lord in heaven," says Steven, Jacob's father. "You are the very definition of loveliness, Emma."

Anton is laughing. "This is going to be the easiest job of my career. I won't be able to take a bad photo, even if I tried."

"Steven!" I shout in excitement. "I didn't know you'd be here." I give him a radiant smile and show myself off with a quick spin. The fabric is as light as a cloud and flows like water.

I step lightly into the living room to give him a hug, not realizing that what I should be doing is running away. That's what you do when the Devil is smiling at you.

~~~~~

To be concluded in Part 2.