I remember fùcking my bride in the church toilet twenty minutes before we said our vows, and she still walked down the aisle with my cùm inside her. Everyone was outside. Photos. She pulled me into the small toilet behind the vestry, locked it, and said she was shaking and needed me to calm her down the only way that worked. Dress up. Nothing under it. She bent over the sink, looked at me in the mirror, and said, “Quick. And finish inside me. I want to feel you when I say I do.” I pushed into her pùssy in one stroke. She was soaked. She bit her arm so the bridesmaids outside would not hear. I fùcked her deep and short, the sink rattling, her eyes on mine in the glass. She came fast, shaking, clenching around me, whispering my name like a prayer. I càme inside her, buried, because she reached back and held me there. We straightened the dress in silence. She fixed her lipstick. Unlocked the door. Her mother was calling her name.