Runaway Groom

The day I learned he was getting married I went out to a dive to drink alone and put the past to rest once and for all. On my 2nd beer and 4th shot of tequila I saw him at the other end of the bar where he was having his bachelor party and stared until he looked up. We maintained eye contact far too long, but neither of us made any other move.

With nothing more than a gentle flat handed stroke across the lap of one of his groomsmen, I got the date and time and place of the wedding. I wasn't sure I would go through with it until I found myself in front of the church. I walked rapidly up the steps before I could come to my senses and in the doors. It seemed like fate to me that I saw him walk into a door of the first hallway I looked down. I ran to the door and reached in and grabbed him by the back of the jacket. I pulled him into the deserted hallway and rapidly explained myself. That I'd had to make the decision to move on when I could no longer ignore his passive-aggressive refusal to make even the smallest effort to achieve something that could lead to something resembling a semi-normal, semi-stable life for the two of us. But

that

was the reason I left, not because I wanted anyone but him, not because he wasn't The One. He was the One, the Only One. How could that have not been obvious to him after everything I'd put up with, after all the times I came back to try again.

Here, now, I pull him into a closet and lock the door. I get on my knees and unfasten his tuxedo pants, struggling to reach the zipper under his ridiculous purple cummerbund. By this time the mother of the bride has gotten wind of what's happening and she's enlisted the help of the maid of honor to batter the goddamn door down before it's too late. I smile to myself. My name is infamous to these people. The chastity guard are beating at the door as only two women determined to prevent the ultimate shaming of their beloved girl can. He begins to waver when what he thought was going to be a secret, just one final, farewell blow job from the psycho ex-girlfriend (funny how the psycho prefix is generally added as punishment for enjoying sex a little too much) is looking like it could become the ruin of the many relationships he has built with this woman in the process of merging of their lives into one.

I quickly take the "situation" in hand and ram it aggressively into my mouth, as far down my throat as I can while at the same time put a hand on his chest and push him back against the wall, crawling forward on my knees at the same time. I proceed to work at a rapid pace to keep him from collecting his thoughts and to get his dick as big and hard as possible. With the further stiffening of his cock and the deepening of his breath, I slow down and press it further down my throat with each thrust, slower and deeper until I finally stop with the full length of it pressing hard on the back of my throat, gagging slightly so my eyes are tearing up. When a single tear finally runs down my cheek I look up at him with wide open eyes and nothing to hide. He looks down at me and says, "You. You are my obsession."

He grabs the back of my head, fingers wrapped painfully tight in my hair and fucks my face so hard I get a bit of a bloody nose and he comes straight down my throat with the force of a fire hose. After a few shuddering breaths, he kneels down in front of me and takes the pocket square from his rented tuxedo and gently cleans my face up and smooths my hair down and then kisses me like he might just eat me, like I'm a juicy peach, dripping nectar. Like I am water and he has been wandering the desert for years. He stands up with his back straight, head up, determination in the set of his shoulders. He takes my hand and pulls me up to his side and as he pushes passed the Bride's Brigade he says to them, "Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her it's Christabel. It always has been. She knew, I never lied about it."