With This Ring, I Thee Bed

I glanced toward the audience, and though I couldn’t see them—just a hundred silhouettes in a long, dark hall—I could feel their stares, could sense their growing pleasure, as we moved against each other. It was as if the whole room was holding its breath, swallowing, readying, leaning forward.

“Screw her!” someone murmured from a seat near the front.

“Is it real?” hissed someone else.

“Jesus,” said a female voice from just below the stage. “This is really hot.”

The music grew louder and faster. Jake grabbed my breast through the tight, boned bodice, and I reached down below again, guiding him inside me. He shuddered as he filled me, and the pleasure of his length made me arch, head falling back. How I groaned to feel him thrusting, feel his teeth on my neck, feel the shape of him inside me growing harder every time, feel the wetness of my clutching sex, my fingers in his shirt, as his warm scent rose.

“I’ve wanted you so long,” he groaned.

I said I felt the same.

I saw him glance out at the noisy crowd, who were muttering and gasping at our obvious display. There were excited whispers, ripples of chatter. Somewhere near the front, a man gave a groan. Turning back, Jake grabbed my face and kissed me, while his hips thrust harder and I spread my thighs wide. I pulled his shirt open, laying my palms on his chest, and felt the quick pummel of his heart.

I tried to call him gorgeous, but only managed, “You feel …”

The heat in me grew heavy like a perfect weight, burning, working deeper till I figured it would give—but no, it kept building as we bashed against that wall, our kisses now wet as my sex. The music burst into a growing crescendo, building and building, dramatic and loud. When at last I was so aroused that the nearness of my coming felt like pain, Jake began to fuck me in a beautiful stampede, and we groaned together, long and deep, the pleasure rolling through us. Only when it died did I notice I’d been drooling, with saliva trailing down my chin.

The actors’ voices behind us fell, and the lights grew dim. It was the end of the first act. The audience applauded, but Jake didn’t move.

“That was quite a performance,” I said.

He didn’t return the joke. Instead, I felt him smoothing my hair from my face. “Don’t tease me, angel. Say you’ll come to dinner.”

Gently, I told him I would. “We should go,” I added, “before the lights come up.”

I felt him slide from me, then raise me in his arms so I gave a little gasp of surprise. And humming an aria, he carried me offstage, my wedding dress loose, my cheek pressed against his lapel.

One Last Time

Saskia Walker

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