Title: Hyfrydol
Author: Sara
Keywords: FM cheat

My groom is with his best friends and the minister.

Jesus.  This man's tongue, beneath me, is driving me insane.

My head feels strange, light.  I haven't been drinking.

I first met the man beneath me last night at the rehearsal.

Alex, mostly unconcerned and whatever-you-wanting about wedding
details, insisted on bagpipes.  "You take care of it," I had told
him, too full of wedding disorder to attend to this need to have
the recessional done to the tune of fucking "Hyfrydol."

I'd remembered the tune as "Come To Jesus" from my younger days
in the Presbyterian church.

And so Jesus came to the rehearsal in the little Presbyterian
church, a young man with long hair and a beard, pierced ear,
tattoo, but gentle, deep eyes.  He was dressed in khakis, an open
white shirt, a black blazer, casual and elegant and perfect.  He
looked like a young, hip Jesus.

I saw him arrive, saw Alex shake his hand.  The first thing I
noticed about him was the intent, serious look he wore when Alex
talked to him, as though he were drinking in every word.

"Katie, this is Matthew."  I held out my hand, and he took it. 
His fingers were long and slender and confident, his hand a
little chilly but firm.  He never took his dark green eyes off of
mine.  It was a little unsettling.

"Happy to meet you," I said, smiling.  "Alex's bagpiper."

He smiled at me.

How do you explain these moments?  You could meet a hundred
people in a week and say these things, look them in the eye, and
not feel what I did.  The only thing I can say by way of
explanation is that he never took those smiling, warm green eyes
off of mine, and when he released my hand his thumb slid slowly
along the curve between my own thumb and index finger, and there
was no pretending that it was not deliberate.

The chatter of my bridesmaid Rebecca and my niece Andrea called
me back to the moment, and I smiled at him.  Did I mean the smile
to be so... private?  I couldn't have.  But his answering look
was so self-assured.

Wedding rehearsals lend themselves to day-dreams, even for the
bride.

Ministers want to exercise their professional prerogative to
preach and pray.  Friends want to exercise their right to laugh
and joke and extend the thing longer than it ought to go.

Matthew sat in the front pew with the organist, drinking in every
word.  I had the feeling that he would comprehend my wedding more
deeply than I would.

When at last the thing ended and the small knots of attendants
and parents and visiting family had drifted out towards their
cars and the rehearsal dinner, I managed to detach myself from my
groom... I love Alex, but he is apt to cling a bit, to hover over
me.

I don't know why but I found myself standing in front of
Virginia, the organist, a matron of some sixty years, and
Matthew, who treated her with a stunning, almost courtly courtesy
and deference.

"Are you coming to the dinner?" I asked them both.

Virginia waved as though shooing a fly.  "No, Katie, dear." 
She's known me since I was a toddler in the church.  "Too many of
these things, and I'm a little tired.  But I'll see you in the
morning."

I smiled at her, and realized that for some reason I had not
looked at Matthew at all.

I did so.

I almost stopped breathing.

His eyes were calm but hungry, alive with a light I can only
describe as joyful in their desire.

I am used to other peoples' desire, the casual lusts of both boys
and men.

But Matthew... here was something different.  It was as if he
knew me, had ached for me for longer than I'd thought possible.

His eyes traveled up my legs from my ankles to my thighs.  I had
on a pleated skirt and a green blouse.  My hair is long and thick
and fell around my shoulders.   His eyes seemed so familiar with
my body.

He smiled and shook his head.  "Too many people," he said, his
eyes never leaving my own.

He stood and left.

I felt a touch on my shoulder.  It was Rebecca.  She guided me
gently a few steps away.  "Hey," she said.  You okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine."  I smiled brightly.  Too brightly.

Her face showed a perception that made me a little uncomfortable.
 She stared at me.  Her face was blank.  She knows me too well.

"Come on," she said finally.  "Let's get you to your last single
party."


The morning of a wedding is, for a bride, a mixture of nerves and
decisive action.  She has to decide the moment she wakes (if she
slept at all) to make decisions, not to agonize.

I showered and shaved my legs and my vulva for my groom.  My hair
was put up with two tendrils curled around my temples.  I slipped
on sheer white lace panties, my legs were put into stockings, my
small breasts and slender waist were slipped into the dress.

And then there was interminable waiting, and a coming and going
of bridesmaids, my best friends, with whom I laughed and
reminisced and whose jibes I endured.  Rebecca in particular
seemed intent on harping on this being the last hour of my
freedom.  "And about time," I told her lightly.  "I'm tired of
being single."  She didn't smile.

There were thirty minutes to go.

My stomach felt like water.  We were waiting in a sort of lounge.
 There was a couch, and no windows.  I would have liked to have
opened a window.  Suddenly nobody was talking.

"Come on, everyone," Rebecca said.  Let's leave Katie alone for a
little while.  That suit you, Katie?  We need to go do our last
touch-ups.  You, love," she said to me, planting a light swift
kiss on my lips, "are perfect."

I wasn't sure what to say or do.  That kiss was a strange thing.
"Yeah," I said.  I'd like to be alone.  Thanks.  See you all in
twenty minutes or so?"

Rebecca smiled again, that enigmatic sad smile of hers.

They had scarcely been gone a minute when the door opened, and he
came in.

Matthew.

Jesus.

He was in a red and black kilt, and he had a sporran at his
waist, a beret on his head, and his long black hair was pulled
back from his head.  He closed the door.  He turned to me.  His
eyes held a question.


Now he is beneath me.

My panties are in his sporan.  They will stay there.  When he
plays "Hyfrydol" they will be with him, damp, the scent of my
pussy lingering on them, and in his beard.

His tongue is buried in my pussy, and his beard tickles my clit.

I have come three times in ten minutes, and his cock is in my
right hand, his kilt pulled up around his waist.  His cock is
fucking glorious.

The hem of my dress, when it slips from my trembling left hand,
covers him.  The only words he said to me were, "It seems a very
long time."

I don't know what he meant.  I can't think what that meant.

I don't care.

But I will not marry Alex without my Matthew's sperm on my
thighs, without tasting myself on his lips.

He stops what he is doing to tell me that he loves me.  I bend to
kiss his cock.

"Make me come, my love," I whisper to him.  What am I saying? 
This man is not my love.  I marry my love in twenty minutes.

Oh, Jesus, I am coming.

I am breathing hard as I pull him to me, kiss him, and he slips
inside me.

"Matthew," I tell him, drunk, or high, or bewitched.  "You are
going to love taking my ass."


  
Hyfrydol