A Wedding Wee to Remember

It was supposed to be the wedding of the decade, and from my point of view, it certainly was. For the groom?

Well, let's start from the beginning.

Shelly and I dated for five years, starting in high school and all through college. We were really close, and most of our friends assumed we would end up getting married and live happily ever after.

And that was our plan too, at least before she was accepted in a post-graduate program. In Europe.

I had just taken a job at a good law firm in DC, where we grew up and went to school and planned to spend the rest of our lives. Shelly was torn about the opportunity to study abroad, but I knew she had to go.

So we made a pact to write each other and Skype each other and continue our relationship the best we could.

Of course, it was a fool's plan. Shelly and I were crazy in love and one of the most important things to both of us was sex. Mind-blowing sex. Almost nothing was off limits to us, and we pushed our boundaries and explored our fantasies, almost to the point of some dangerous dark places.

But we loved it. We lived for it. And once Shelly left, it was over just like that.

To stop cold turkey drinking or smoking is difficult. For two sexually addicted nymphos stopping cold turkey was impossible. We both knew it, but neither of us knew how to address it.

So she left DC, and I stayed home and we made the best of it. Of course, it didn't last. We drifted apart. Talking about sex and having sex are two different things, and I sensed probably before she realized it that neither of us could do without it.

For me, I just started to having meaningless sex with prostitutes and whores, cheating wives and office workers, girls I met in bars or online or wherever. For Shelly, she just started fucking her professors.

We told each other everything, and for a while it was hot. But I could sense her drifting, and she wasn't really into me fucking street sluts. We decided to end the relationship, virtually and literally.

And just like that, it was over.

I was a 25-year-old single man living in my hometown, a lawyer, an eligible bachelor and a support group that offered me a lifestyle fit for a politician. Shelly, on the other hand, was a 25-year-old single woman living in a strange country with no friends, no means of support other than the scholarship and no idea what her future held.

So she just kept studying, fucking her professors and hoping to survive two years abroad before entering the real world. Of course, it came to her.

She met a guy, an American living in Europe, rich and good looking, urbane and classy and everything a woman could ever want. Except he had a five-inch cock.

Shelly convinced herself it would work. After all, she would live like a fairy tale princess in an old mansion on a river with old money and a new world for her and her Prince Charming.

She ended her studies just months from her degree, forgetting all about the plans for a doctorate and the life she planned from the time she was a little girl. A wedding date was set, the guests were all invited and the fairy tale ensued. Or so the new plan became.

It was an expensive wedding. Family and friends from all over the world were coming. Royalty was coming. And little did Prince Charming know, so was a 25-year-old ex-boyfriend from America.

Shelly called me late one night, trying to sound happy, trying to put on a good face. The call lasted two hours and it ended with her crying so hard she couldn't complete a sentence.

"You have to come," said said sobbing. "You have to be here for me."

I protested then relented. I missed her. I wanted to be happy for her, but most of all I just wanted to support her as she rode off in a gilded chariot, or whatever it was they had planned.

It was a spring wedding in the country, miles from London where they would reside.

Now I've been to weddings before. Big weddings for very rich and powerful people, weddings in chapels the size of coliseums, weddings in exotic islands and even one on an ocean liner.

But nothing compared to this.

I arrived week before the wedding and checked into a hotel room reserved by Shelly. When I checked in, there was an envelope waiting for me.

I opened it in the room.

Mark, it said. I am so glad you're here. Don't move. Don't make any plans. I have seven days on my own. I'll see you tonight.

Shell.

I smiled and started getting ready for a shower, thinking about long it had been since I'd seen her. Wondering if she'd changed. Wondering what we would say to each other.

I was down to my boxers when I heard the door lock open. Shelly was standing in the doorway, her back to me as she leaned over and started pulling luggage into the room. I immediately came to help her, both of us beaming as I looked at the stacks of luggage.

"Are you moving in?" I asked.

"More like moving out," she said. "He's gone for a week, something about a tradition in the family."

We huffed and puffed, bringing large, vintage crates and stand-up storage cases like something off the Titanic.

After the last one was hauled in, she collapsed onto the bed and held her arms out.

"Come here baby," she said.

I fell into her arms.

We kissed for 30 minutes, wet, sloppy teenage kissing, all tongue and slobber and moans and laughter.

And then she was up. Sliding out of her dress, leaving her in a bra, panties and thigh highs. She opened one of the leather crates and pulled out two glasses and bottle of wine that looked like it had been in that crate for 100 years. She expertly popped the cork, poured two big glasses of dark red wine then turned back toward me.

God, she was gorgeous. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tall and tanned, perfect breasts, a bubble butt and the smile of a beauty queen. She was perfect.

She slinked toward me like a cat, handing me a glass as I stared at her. We clinked glasses and she said "make a toast, Mark."

"To your perfect life," I said.

"Fuck that," Shelly said. "Here's to the next seven days."

We never finished that glass of wine. In fact, over the next seven days we never finished that bottle. And let me tell you, it was the best wine I've ever tasted. I still have two unopened, unadorned bottles of dark red wine from God knows where.

But I only had Shelly for seven days.

We never left the room, ordered room service and sat naked on the balcony overlooking the little town of Heath-on-the-Heather, or wherever we were. Maybe that was the name of the hotel. I have no idea.

All I know is we talked and danced and laughed and loved for what seemed like an eternity. We had sex on the bed, under the bed, in the shower, in the hot tub, on said balcony, in the floor, against the walls.

We fucked and sucked and slid objects in and out of ourselves, having sex like it was the last seven days of our lives, which in a sense, it was. And while she had more clothes in that room than the Queen of England, she never opened a suitcase.

We were naked most of the week, or she would just pull a pair of my boxers out of my suitcase. She used my toothbrush, never once brushed her hair. We showered together a time or two, never bothering to dry off, just having wet sex, ending up on the floor or the couch or wherever, exhausted, smelling like sweat and cum, sometimes with my cock in her pussy or her ass.

We slept where we collapsed.

There were dirty plates everywhere. We ate like kings, drank water for hydration and ignored the phone, which rang periodically all week.

The last night we were there, she opened a long box that had sat on top of the luggage all week. It was just a cardboard box, but inside it was a fuck machine, a long slender tube with a massive dildo on one end and hand-held battery pack at the other.

"I want you fuck me with this all night," she said. "I want to walk down that aisle with my legs bowed and my insides raw. Make it nasty, Mark. Make it a night I will never forget."

I tied her arms to the bedposts, leaving her legs hanging free, and power-drilled her all night as she screamed for help, screamed for mercy, screamed for more. It was the most depraved thing I'd ever seen a woman do.

I stuffed her panties in her mouth to muffle her terror-filled screams. I pushed a pillow over her face when she cursed me and begged me to fuck her harder, faster. I don't know what time we stopped. The batteries ran weak, and it was suddenly no fun anymore.

It was the night before her wedding.

We slept hard in each other's arms, her whimpering in pain and sorrow. Me kissing her hair and licking her tears. Cuddling for the first time all week.

I awoke in brilliant sunlight. I was alone in the bed. The tall windows were open and the wind blew the long sheer curtains billowing into the room. And then out of the corner of my eye, I saw her.

Shelly came around the corner of the entrance hallway in her wedding dress. It was long and flowing, layers of white and lace, her veil pulled over her face. She was barefoot. She was the most ravishing woman I have ever seen.

She smiled as she slowly walked to me. We embraced and held each other as she sobbed quietly and told me the order of the day. Breakfast with her parents, who were somewhere nearby. Meeting with her bridesmaids, only one of them she actually knew. Champagne with the in-laws at noon and finger sandwiches on the polo field.

And then a horse-driven carriage from the polo fields to the cathedral at the far end of town. I wasn't mentioned in the plans.

I held her for as long as I could, until a knock at the door. A man walked in dressed like a lawn jockey, followed by four or five bellmen who gathered all her luggage and walked out. We were alone for the last time.

Shelly had a wry grin on her face.

"My pussy is worn out," she said, falling to her knees and sliding my boxers down. She raised her veil and began to suck my cock, tears falling from her eyes. She was a girl again, a princess about to be married and driven away to a fairy tale. It was every girl's dream.

But not her's.

She stopped sucking my cock and tuned around on her knees with a big grin on her face. She pulled the long train of her dress to the slide and slid the entire, bottom of the dress, fold after fold of sheer silk and lace, over her bare bottom.

She lowered herself onto her elbows. She was wearing no panties.

"Fuck me, Mark," she said. "Fuck my ass."

I fucked her hard as she cried. I slapped her ass as she laughed. I came in her ass and slid my cock out of her for the last time. I expected there to be a dramatic kiss, a long cry and a sad good-bye.

Instead, she stood and picked up my dirty, soiled boxers and slid them on underneath her $20,000 hand-designed wedding gown. She would wear them in her wedding.

I didn't go. I didn't want to see it. I finished the bottle of wine that night on the balcony, listening at one point as a horse-drawn carriage clomped underneath on the cobblestone streets. I didn't even look. The horse beats grew quieter and quieter and then they were gone forever.

I read about the wedding in the paper the next day at Heathrow. And then I few home alone.

Shelly and I never actually spoke again, at least not yet. It's been more than a year. But I got a hand-written note in the mail one day. It was from London, and I knew the handwriting.

Mark, it said. I miss more than I can say. I think about you every waking minute. My life is perfect, without, you know. And I suppose I'm happy. I miss you. I love you.

Shell.