Here’s a short story (maybe the beginning of more?) of a fun wedding day story!
~Richard

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“Son of a bitch!” Chelsea yelled. Her maid of honor was supposed to be helping her finish her corset, but she’d had to step away because the caterer was on fire or some nonsense. It didn’t matter how many color coded checklists you triple checked, weddings never went according to plan.

She jumped when someone rapped on the door, one hand flailing to the makeup counter as she balanced in her heels. Putting them on first was a pain, but she’d never be able to do it fully laced.

“What’s, who is it? Just come in!” she said, watching the door in the mirror. Her heart froze when Mark swung it open and stepped in.

She spun around to face him, one hand behind her back gripping the counter hard enough to make her knuckles match her dress. “What’re you doing here?”

Mark smiled a little. Veering dangerously close to a smirk. His beard was a little greyer than she remembered. That was dangerous too. 

“Unless someone else is hiding in here,” he said, taking a step inside, “I think I’m going to help you into that corset.”

Chelsea tried to keep up a glare, but it only lasted for about three steps.

“Turn around,” he said. “Put your hands on the counter.”

A part of her brain that had been sleeping for the last five years buzzed, and she spun around before the rest of it could catch up.

“Can’t even say hello before you bend me over?”

He rolled his eyes and put one hand on her shoulder, squeezing just a touch harder than necessary, making her shiver. “Bending you over wouldn’t be a very good way to lace up a corset. I assume I should leave this loose enough to let you breathe?” he said, pulling on the laces.

“I don’t think my husband would like me passing out at the altar, so yes.”

Mark hummed quietly as he worked, touching her lightly to shift her position, each brush sending a jolt down her spine. After a particularly harsh tug, she let out a groan. He looked up, meeting her eyes in the mirror. His grin slipped into a full smirk. “How’s that feel to you?”

“Fine,” she said, taking half a step back and turning around. “Is this the part where you tell me you’re here for one last blow job before you can’t have me anymore, asshole?”

Mark took the same half step forward, a hairsbreadth between them, his presence pinning her to the counter. “If I want you, I’ll always have you, pet,” he said with a little growl.

She stared up at him, defiance lasting until his eyes met hers, sending them dropping to her feet.

“Am I wrong?” he asked.

She stood there for a moment, trying, but failing, to force a “yes” past her lips. He put one hand on her arm, squeezing lightly. She imagined the hungry grin on his face, not daring to look up at it.

“No,” she paused for a second. “Sir.”

“Did you miss me, pet?”

Only every time I faked an orgasm and then got myself off in the shower, she thought.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And what’re you going to do now, kitten?”

She looked back up at him for a second, then slowly dropped to her knees.

“May I take out your cock, Sir?”

He nodded, and she undid his belt, then the button of his pants. Her eyes were glued to his crotch now, staring at his bulge, willing its source to appear faster. His pants dropped down to his ankles, revealing his hard cock, already poking through the flap in his boxers. She moaned. She’d always loved his cock. Warm, heavy, and oh so perfectly curved. She thought nostalgia might’ve sweetened her fantasies over the years. She was wrong, it looked even better than she remembered. In a trance, she leaned in, planting a kiss where the head met the shaft.

His hand grabbed the back of her neck. Some small part of her was thankful he hadn’t messed up her hair. “Did I give you permission to kiss my cock, slut?”

She shook her head as best as she could in his grip. “No, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”

He tutted lightly and released her, then took a step away. She almost fell after him, but kept herself under some semblance of control, letting out a low whine. He walked back to the door, and when she heard the lock click it made her clit throb.

Mark walked back, taking the same stance he had a moment ago, before her mistake.

“Now. Where were we?”

“May I please kiss your cock, Sir?” Chelsea asked, kneeling at the feet of her old Dominant, pussy soaking her sheer white bridal lingerie. A simple white pair that connected to her plain white stockings and slightly lacy garter. Nothing she could’ve worn to marry him.

“Make it a French one, pet. We don’t have all day.”

“ThankyouSir,” she slurred out, all one word, before diving onto his cock, tongue finding its old patterns again. She made it about half way down before he hit the back of her throat, drawing a gag from her, followed by another whine. Was she that out of practice that she couldn’t even fit her Master’s whole cock in her mouth anymore? 

She felt his hand on her neck again, giving it a comforting squeeze. And then forcing her mouth down another half inch. He was always a good trainer. It wouldn’t take him long to get her back into shape.