Celeste stands before the mirror in her wedding dress, ivory silk perfect. Two weeks until she marries David, steady David with his spreadsheets and sensible future.
“The hem needs adjustment,” I observe, kneeling behind her. “And the bodice… may I?”
My hands encircle her waist, fingers tracing the boning beneath silk.
“You’re tense. Brides shouldn’t be tense. They should be eager.”
“I am eager.” But her voice carries hollowness.
“Are you?” My hands smooth silk over her hips, lingering. “Or desperate for the validation while dreading the life sentence that comes with it?”
Her reflection meets mine. “That’s inappropriate.”
“That’s honest.” I stand close behind her. “I know the difference between women marrying men they desire and women marrying resumes.”
“Good men make disappointing lovers.” My hands rest on her shoulders. “When you imagine your wedding night, does your body respond?”
I adjust her corset to present her breasts. My fingers caress her skin. She trembles.
“You wore stockings last fitting. Today, nothing.”
“You didn’t.” My hand slides up her thigh. “You wanted to know if I’d notice and how.”
I stand, facing her. “Tell me what you really fantasize about.”
Her cheeks flush. “There’s this church. Saint Augustine’s. Where the ceremony will be. I imagine being fucked there. Against the altar. In my wedding dress. Somewhere so sacred while doing something so wrong.”
“Your rehearsal is Friday evening. The church will be empty by nine thirty.”
Her eyes widen. “You can’t be serious.”
“Friday. Nine thirty. Bring the dress.”
Friday comes. The rehearsal ends. David leaves.
Celeste waits until the church empties, then texts me: “I’m here.”
I arrive at nine thirty exactly, entering the sanctuary while she changes in the sacristy.
The church is silent. Empty pews stretch like witnesses. Stained glass saints watch. The altar waits.
She emerges, changed as asked in her wedding dress, ivory silk luminous in candlelight. Her hair pinned up, makeup perfect, exactly as it will be Sunday when she pledges herself to the wrong man.
“You look like a bride about to commit the most beautiful sin.”
She walks down the aisle toward me, each step betrayal and liberation braided together.
“After this,” I say as she reaches me, “you can’t pretend you’re the good girl.”
Her eyes blaze. “I don’t want to be the good girl.”
“Then show me who you really are.”
I kiss her, tasting confession and desire. My hands gather the silk roughly, hiking it up her thighs.
What emerges makes my breath catch: black lace garter belt framing tanned thighs, sheer stockings with seams running up like invitations, a thong so delicate it’s barely there, already darkened with arousal. Her strapless bra pushes her breasts up like an offering, black against white like blasphemy wrapped in virtue.
“You dressed like this under your wedding dress,” I murmur. “You knew exactly what you are.”
I turn her toward the altar. She braces against cold marble, wedding dress bunched around her waist, elegant lingerie exposed, stained glass saints watching.
My fingers hook into the delicate lace at her hips. The thong slides down her stockinged legs like the last vestige of innocence surrendering to gravity, pooling at her ankles in a small circle of black silk. She steps out of without hesitation, leaving it abandoned on holy ground like a discarded vow.
Animalistic sounds echo through the empty church, finally being honest about her hunger.
When it’s over, she lies exhausted against the altar, ruined and radiant, her dress crumpled, her hair falling loose.
She sits up, breathing hard, her wedding dress a wreck of silk and sin.
“Then take off the ring.”
She looks at her hand for a long moment. The ring comes off easily. “I don’t want to be his wife. I want to be your whore.”
