Chapter 5: The businessman pins Lyss against the wall, his hand sliding up her skirt to finger her swollen cunt as Scott watches with a smirk. 'Your husband will fuck you missionary like a good boy,' he breathes against her neck, 'while I take this ass again and 50 investors watch live.'
The businessman’s whispered threat in the hotel corridor had lived inside Lyss for months, a splinter of ice in her veins that not even the spring sunshine could melt. Now, standing before the floor-length mirror in the bridal suite of the same hotel chain, she saw a stranger draped in silk and lace—a beautiful wrapping for a transaction she now understood in terms of hidden cameras and knowing smiles. Her reflection trembled slightly.
The door opened without a knock.
Scott filled the frame, his tuxedo tailored to his broad shoulders, a stark contrast to the room’s delicate pastels. He closed the door with a soft, definitive click, his eyes traveling over her with an intensity that had nothing to do with familial pride. “Christ, Alyssa,” he breathed, the words rough.
He crossed the room in three strides, the scent of his cologne cutting through her floral perfume. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb tracing her lower lip painted a perfect, virginal pink. There was no question, no preamble. His other hand settled firmly on her shoulder and pushed down.
She sank to her knees on the plush carpet, the crisp train of her dress pooling around her like a fallen cloud. Her hands moved on their own, a learned instinct from that night in the suite, fingers working the buttons of his tuxedo trousers. She freed his cock, already thick and hardening in her cold hands. She didn’t look up.
“You remember how,” he stated, not asked, his voice a low rumble above her.
She did. She took him into her mouth, the taste of him flooding her senses, a bitter, familiar anchor. She worked him with a rhythm he’d taught her, one hand gripping the base of his shaft, the other bracing against his thigh. Her wedding veil brushed the backs of her hands.
“Deeper,” he grunted, his fingers tangling in her carefully styled hair, guiding her head. “Use your tongue like I showed you. Yeah, just like that, you perfect little cocksucker.” He fucked her mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts, watching himself disappear between her lips. “An hour from now, he gets this forever. But right now, you’re still mine.”
His grip in her hair tightened, his hips pumping faster, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat with a wet, rhythmic choke. "Gonna come," he warned, a raw groan tearing from him. She felt the first hot, bitter pulse flood her mouth, and she swallowed convulsively, taking every thick, salty drop as he shuddered above her.
He pulled his softening cock from her lips, a strand of spit and cum breaking on her chin. "Up," he ordered, his voice gravelly, turning her roughly to face the mirror again. With one hand gathering the expensive lace of her wedding dress, he yanked it up around her waist, exposing her bare ass and the wet cleft between her legs to the cold air.
His fingers, slick from her mouth, pushed bluntly inside her pussy from behind. "Still loose from last time," he remarked, working them in and out. He freed his cock again, now hard once more, and positioned the broad head at her entrance. "Now you say them," he breathed against her ear, watching their reflection.
As he thrust into her with a single, deep, filling stroke, she gasped, "I, Alyssa..." He began moving, a steady, possessive rhythm that stole her breath. "...take you, Gregory..." she forced out, each word punctuated by his hips driving into her, the slap of skin echoing. "To be my lawful wedded husband."
"Fuck," Scott grunted, his pace turning frantic and hard, his hands digging into her hips. She could feel the tight, familiar coil building low in her own belly, a traitorous response. "In sickness and in health," she whispered, the promise morphing into a moan as he hit a spot that made her knees buckle.
He held her upright, pounding into her, his own release building. "Now," he commanded, his body going rigid against her. As she choked out, "Till death do us part," he erupted inside her, a hot, rushing flood that pulsed deep into her womb. He held himself there, grinding, as the warmth immediately began to seep out, a slick trail tracing a path down the inside of her thigh.
He finally pulled out, the sudden emptiness a violation in itself. A fresh, warm trickle escaped her, marking a slow path down her skin. “Fix yourself,” he said, his voice flat now, as he tucked himself away with a casual zip.
In the mirror, her eyes were glassy, her smudged lipstick a crimson accusation. The slick sensation between her legs was a constant, humming reminder as she smoothed the dress down. She didn’t wipe her thigh.
The processional music swelled, a distant, elegant wave from the ballroom below. Walking down the aisle became a mechanical act, one foot placed perfectly before the other on the white runner. She felt every slow, sticky slide of his release against her inner thigh with each step.
Gregory waited at the altar, his smile bland and expected. Scott stood just behind him, best man, his expression unreadable granite. The minister’s words about purity and devotion rang hollow, metallic echoes in a corrupted chamber.
“I, Alyssa,” she began, her voice surprisingly clear, “take you, Gregory…” The trickle reached her knee, a shameless secret beneath the layers of lace. Her mind fractured, replaying the hard, grunting thrusts from the suite, the taste of him, the feel of him swelling inside her as she spoke these same words.
A low, involuntary pulse clenched deep within her core, a direct, traitorous response to the memory. It was a quick, sharp ripple of pleasure, a mini-orgasm that stole her breath and tightened her grip on the bouquet. Gregory saw her slight shiver and mistook it for virtuous emotion.
She finished the vows on a whisper, the dampness cooling on her skin. Scott’s eyes held hers for a loaded second over Gregory’s shoulder. In that glance, she knew the hidden camera in the honeymoon suite was already waiting, and she carried his child.
The reception champagne tasted like tin on her tongue, each bubble a false celebration. She smiled at Gregory’s colleagues, a practiced lift of lips that felt painted on. Scott moved through the crowd like a shark, a silent promise in every glance that cut her way.
He found her by the empty service corridor, his hand closing around her wrist. “Time for your real send-off, sweetheart,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. He pulled her into a narrow linen closet, the door clicking shut, plunging them into darkness thick with the smell of starch and bleach.
His hands were on her immediately, gathering the heavy silk of her dress. “He’s gonna watch the tape later,” Scott grunted, hiking the fabric up to her waist. His fingers dug into the bare flesh of her ass, pulling her against the rigid line of his cock straining his trousers. “But I’m the one fucking you now.”
He freed himself, the sound of his zip vicious in the dark. The broad, slick head of his cock nudged against her, still wet from his earlier claim. He didn’t wait, driving into her with one deep, brutal thrust that stole the air from her lungs and pressed her face against a shelf of stiff tablecloths. A raw, guttural cry was torn from her throat, “Yes! Daddy!”
He fucked her with a hard, relentless rhythm, each slam jolting her forward. “This cunt’s mine,” he growled, one hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. “You’ll fucking remember who owns you every time he touches you.” She felt him swelling, the frantic pace faltering as his control snapped.
His release flooded her, another hot claim mixing with the first. He held her there, pulsing inside her, a low groan vibrating against her back. Then he pulled out, the sudden emptiness followed by the sickening sound of his cum dripping onto the floor between her heels. The door opened a sliver, spilling in a wedge of light and the distant sound of the band.
He smoothed her dress down with a brutal efficiency. “Out,” he said, his voice a low command barely audible over the thump of the bass through the walls.
In the corridor’s dim light, he didn’t let her go. He turned her to face him, his movements deliberate. With his fingers, he scooped up the thick, warm seep of his own spend from his softening cock and from the slick mess between her thighs.
He fed it to her mouth, his fingers pushing past her lips. “Hold it,” he instructed, his eyes locked on hers. “Swallow when you go out there.”
The taste was overwhelming, salt and bitterness and her own arousal, a vile communion. “The first thing you do,” he whispered, his lips against her ear, “is give your new husband a big, wet kiss.” He adjusted a stray lock of her hair with a terrifying gentleness. “Let him taste what a real man tastes like.”
She nodded, the fluid heavy on her tongue, a secret she was forced to keep. He opened the door fully, the banquet hall’s roar enveloping them. With a final, unreadable look, he nudged her forward into the light.
She walked on unsteady legs back toward the noise, the taste defining every breath. Gregory was near the bar, laughing with his father. She approached him, her smile feeling like a crack in porcelain.
She slipped her arms around his neck, drawing him down. His kiss was expectant, soft. She opened her mouth to him, letting the transferred, mingled proof of Scott’s possession slide onto his tongue.
He stiffened for a fraction of a second, then leaned into it, a low, curious hum in his throat. When she pulled back, his eyes were dark, his lips wet. “Wow,” he breathed, a puzzled, excited smile on his face. “My shy wife.”
Gregory’s puzzled smile lingered, his tongue working unconsciously over his lips as he tasted the complex, salty residue she’d gifted him. The band launched into a slow number, and he pulled her onto the dance floor, his hands possessive on the lace at her lower back. She rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes scanning the crowd until they found Scott leaning against the far bar, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, watching them with a predator’s stillness.
“You’re different tonight,” Gregory mumbled into her hair, his erection pressing against her stomach through his trousers. “It’s exciting.” His hand slid lower, cupping the curve of her ass, his fingers digging into the fabric where the skin beneath was surely marked from the linen closet. She shifted, letting his fingers brush the damp, sticky patch on her inner thigh he could feel through the silk.
“Everything’s for you now,” she whispered, the words a practiced echo of something Scott had growled in the dark. She saw Gregory’s father, Charles, approaching them with a paternal grin, his eyes crinkling. The music faded to a close, and Gregory released her with a squeeze. “Be nice to Dad,” he said, giving her a little push toward the older man before heading to the bar himself, right toward Scott.
Charles opened his arms for a celebratory hug. “My beautiful new daughter,” he said, his voice warm with champagne. She leaned into the embrace, her body moving on an autopilot fueled by a deep, corrosive knowledge. She drew back just enough to look up into his face, a gentle smile on her own.
“Can I give Daddy a kiss?” she asked, her voice a soft, innocent thing that belied the foul heat still coating her mouth. His grin widened, and he nodded, expecting a chaste peck on the cheek. She leaned in and pressed her lips fully to his, parting them slightly, letting her tongue trace the seam of his mouth before slipping inside, transferring the last lingering traces of Scott and of his own son.
He froze, then melted into it, a stifled groan vibrating in his throat as his hands tightened on her arms. When she pulled away, his eyes were glazed, his lips wet and slightly parted. Scott couldn’t help but laugh from across the room, a short, sharp bark of genuine amusement that cut through the murmur of the crowd, as two men now tasted his come.
Charles stood utterly still, his fatherly grin wiped clean, replaced by a stunned, hungry blankness. The crowd’s noise seemed to recede into a dull roar as he stared at her wet mouth. Then, with a clumsy urgency that betrayed everything, his hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs rough against her cheeks.
He leaned back in to kiss the bride again.
Alyssa went right along with it, opening for him immediately, letting his tongue, sour with champagne and now salted with his own son’s wedding night, plunge deep into her own contaminated mouth. It was a frantic, searching kiss, all paternal pretense shattered by the greedy slide of his tongue over hers, tasting the layered betrayal there. She could feel the stiff push of his erection against the front of his tailored trousers, a shocking pressure against her hip.
A low, mean chuckle carried from the bar where Scott watched, a sound felt more than heard. Charles broke the kiss, breathing hard, his eyes wide and frightened by his own need. “What… what was that?” he whispered, his voice strangled.
“A thank you,” Alyssa murmured, her own breath coming fast, the ghost of his desperate taste still on her lips. She let her hand brush, just for a second, against the hard bulge in his pants. “For my husband.”
He flinched as if burned, shame and lust warring in his flushed face. Across the room, Scott raised his glass in a silent, mocking toast before turning away, his work complete. Gregory was returning, oblivious, holding two fresh glasses of champagne, his own lips still curiously wet.
Alyssa accepted the glass, the cold stem a shock against her fingers. She took a sip, the bubbles doing nothing to cleanse the complex filth from her tongue. Gregory slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close, his body warm and unknowing against her side.
“Having a good time, Dad?” Gregory asked, his tone cheerful.
Charles could only nod, his eyes darting to Alyssa’s mouth before fixing on the floor. “Yes,” he managed, the word thick. “Just… congratulating the beautiful bride.”
Charles stood there, vibrating with a confused, shameful hunger. Alyssa let her champagne flute dangle from her fingers, then placed it softly on a passing tray. “It’s so loud in here,” she said, her hazel eyes holding his. “Aren’t the linens stored just down that hall?”
She didn’t wait for his answer, simply turned and walked, knowing the sway of her hips in the wedding dress was a command he could not disobey. The service corridor was empty, silent but for the muffled beat of the music. She opened the same narrow closet door, the smell of bleach and starch flooding back, and stepped inside the darkness.
He followed, a man condemned, the door clicking shut behind him. “Alyssa, we can’t—” he began, his voice a strangled whisper.
“Shhh, Daddy,” she murmured, her hands finding his belt in the blackness. The buckle came open with a sharp rasp, the zipper’s whine loud in the confined space. She pushed his trousers and boxers down just enough, her fingers closing around the thick, already-hard length of him. He gasped, a wet, ragged sound.
She dropped to her knees on the familiar floor, the train of her dress swallowing the dim light from under the door. “You wanted to taste it,” she whispered, her breath hot against his cock. “Now taste where it came from.”
She took him all, deep into her throat in one practiced, brutal motion, her nose pressing into his coarse pubic hair. He cried out, a hand slapping against the shelving to steady himself. She worked him with a ruthless, sucking rhythm, one hand cupping his balls, tightening just enough. “Oh god, oh fuck, your mouth,” he babbled, his hips beginning to stutter forward.
She gagged slightly, pulling back to swirl her tongue around the slick head, salty with his own pre-cum. “Suck it,” he groaned, his politeness incinerated. “Suck your father-in-law’s dirty cock, you filthy bride.” She obeyed, taking him deep again, humming around his shaft, the vibration making his legs shake.
His fingers tangled in her veil and hair, pulling hard. “I’m gonna come in that whore mouth,” he panted, his voice breaking.
His hips jerked forward, forcing his cock deeper down her throat as he came with a choked, guttural roar. Thick, hot pulses of cum flooded her mouth, the salty-bitter taste overwhelming as it spilled past her lips. He pulled back, still spurting, the final ropes painting sticky stripes across her cheeks, her chin, and the delicate lace of her veil.
Gasping for air, he fumbled in his pocket, his hands shaking. The harsh white light of his phone screen illuminated her face, glistening with his spend. The camera shutter clicked, a sound as violation as the act itself.
“Look up at me, you filthy slut,” he whispered, breathless. She did, her hazel eyes empty, and he captured that too—the defiled bride on her knees.
He then hooked his fingers into the neckline of her wedding gown and yanked down, the fabric tearing with a sickening rip. Her full breasts spilled out, cool in the closet air. The shutter clicked again, capturing her perfect, exposed flesh above the ruin of her dress.
“Scott’s gonna love these,” he panted, tucking himself away with clumsy haste. He couldn’t look at her as he straightened his clothes. “Clean yourself up.”
He slipped out the door, leaving her in the dark with his taste and the smell of their transgression. She stayed on her knees, the torn bodice gaping, the cooling semen tacky on her skin. From the ballroom, the band began playing her husband’s favorite song.
From the ballroom, the band began playing her husband’s favorite song. The jaunty melody was a grotesque counterpoint to the smell of bleach and sex. She used a clean corner of a linen tablecloth to wipe the sticky streaks from her cheeks and chin, the fabric rough against her skin.
The tear in her bodice was irreparable, a gaping mouth of ruined lace. She pulled it together as best she could, holding it closed with one trembling hand. The damp, cooling patch on her inner thigh was a map of everything that had happened.
She pushed the door open and stepped back into the corridor’s dim light. Gregory was there, leaning against the wall, his face flushed from drink. "There you are," he slurred, pushing off the wall. "Where'd you vanish to?"
"Just needed a moment," she whispered, her voice hoarse from use. He didn't seem to notice the tear, his eyes glassy and fixed on her face. He leaned in, drawn by some invisible thread of corruption.
She met him halfway, rising onto her toes. She kissed him deeply, letting her tongue push past his lips, transferring the lingering, salty-bitter taste of his father’s release directly into his mouth. He moaned, a sound of confused arousal, his hands gripping her hips.
He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his eyes wide. "What... what was that?" he mumbled, licking his own lips. She just smiled, a hollow, knowing curve of her mouth, and took his hand.
"Let's go dance," she said, leading her husband back toward the music, the proof of his father’s violation shared between them. Across the room, Scott watched them re-enter, his glass paused halfway to his lips. He saw the torn dress, saw Gregory’s dazed, excited expression, and he gave a single, slow nod of approval.