Her dress was simple and modest. The smooth white satin extended to her wrists and ankles, and didn't follow her cleavage at all. Looking at her in it, people might have thought she was the kind of woman to have saved herself for this day, even though we'd been all over each other since that night I caught her masturbating to me. And yet the dress accentuated her beauty in ways I wish I could describe better; it left me looking mostly at her kind eyes and how her hair framed her face. And, of course, her hair clip, shaped like a butterfly. Most people probably just thought it looked nice, and a few might have seen it as a pun, but those closest to us know what I call her, if not why.
I don't remember what the officiator said while we were waiting to say our vows. I wasn't paying attention. All I was thinking of was my butterfly smiling back at me, our lives about to become one in new, exciting, nerve-wracking ways. Suddenly, I heard my cue and had to take a second to remember my line. I think some people laughed at my bewilderment, but she just smiled even more brightly.
At the end, when we kissed, I can't say it was an unusual feeling. Those lips were still hers. Her curves in my embrace were still the same familiar shape. Her perfume was nice (maybe a bit fruity?), but light enough that I could still make out her natural scent beneath it.
Then there was the reception. Greetings, speeches, dancing. Someone caught the bouquet, someone else caught the garter. We cut the cake. A groomsman and a bridesmaid were caught in the bushes. But through it all, my bride's hand hardly ever left mine. Between the cake and a mishap with a bottle of champagne, my tux was a mess by the time we got home.
We're not superstitious, and we don't have an audience, so (we agreed to this) I don't carry her across the threshold. Hand in hand, we both step inside on our own feet. I close the door behind us and as I lock it, I can already feel her hands on me, hungrily rubbing against my stained clothes. She has my jacket off by the time I turn to face her, and as I press my lips to hers, she's making quick work of my trousers. I appreciate her eagerness, but we have all night, and I want to savor this; I try to slow things down, taking my time with each silver button on her back. She doesn't catch on, and by the time half the buttons are undone, she's got me in nothing but my shoes.
She pulls out of my embrace, brushing a hand over my growing erection with a mischievous wink, then turns and hurries to our bedroom. I start to walk after her, but I trip on my pants and have to finish stripping before I can follow. By the time I get to the bedroom door, she's standing halfway between me and the bed, her wedding dress a heap around her ankles.
"Took you long enough," she laughs as I arrive.
Maybe someday the sight of her undressed will be familiar enough that I don't pause. But not tonight. She looks stunning, her lacy white lingerie drawing attention to her most intimate areas in stark contrast to the plain modesty of her dress. The bra has butterflies embroidered on the nipples and her--
"Have you been commando this whole time?" I ask.
"Yeah, I couldn't find a thong I liked. Besides, I figured I wouldn't need it for long anyway."
