Erica's Big Day

Erica Greendale's perfect wedding day has been hijacked by her jilted almost-lover Gavin McClain and secretly resentful Maid of Honour Helen. To avoid the public screening of a deeply compromising hen-night video featuring the bride herself, she must follow all of Gavin's instructions, while somehow getting through the ceremony and beyond...

It scarcely mattered, Erica thought, who found her in her desolation. What, after all, were her options? Tell Stephen? Tell her parents? That would wreck her marital prospects and the family name at a shot, destroying the occasion in which she had pleaded with her father to invest so much. Every straw at which she clutched left her drowning in desperation.

It was Helen who came to her rescue, sweeping into the room in shimmering royal blue. "Erica we're waiting for you in ... God, what's the matter?" She shifted presents and sat down beside the weeping bride, enfolding her in comforting arms. "You're all messed up, your mascara's running. Whatever's happened?"

Erica looked up through tear-stained eyes to see her friend in the silk dress they had spent so much time choosing—bared shoulders, slim cross-straps, tight and sequined around the bust, then flowing in a glossy river the length of her body. It set Helen's figure off well. So glamorous, yet so tasteful, like everything else she'd picked for this wretched ruined occasion. "I can't say, Helen. It's too dreadful."

"It can't be that bad," Helen consoled. "If it's second thoughts, I'm sure most brides have them on the actual day. Is it Gavin?" Erica looked at her in fright. "Well you were quite taken with him a while back, weren't you? Was it seeing him with that other girl? Are you worried about your feelings for Stephen?"

"No, no, it's not that, I love Stephen!" Erica asserted hurriedly. "It's nothing to do with Gavin, not in that way ..." She faltered, remembering the awful movie which had been screened for her, the head bridesmaid lying unconscious in the scene's background. "Helen," she asked desperately, "do you remember anything else about the stupid hen night? Was anyone filming?"

"Filming? What are you talking about?"

"That damn pill messed up my head, Helen. Tell me what you remember."

"Well ... there were a bunch of cocktails, the strippers arrived, they were strutting their stuff, then... Well... It all got hazy after that. Erica, what is all this? Tell me!"

So Erica told, and wept all through the telling, while Helen stared in mounting astonishment. She told almost all, including the blank in her memory, the footage of her with the strippers—"On my knees, Helen, sucking on them, sucking on them both, for Christ's sake! Letting them ... you know, in my mouth, all over my face! Do you want all the damn details?" (It was coming back to her as she told it - the smoothness of the dancers' buff bodies, the pulsing hardness of their young cocks, the rush of semen that had sluiced out her mouth.) Then she explained Gavin's possession of the evidence and all his threats and outrageous demands. She couldn't quite bring herself to describe Clementine's interference with her, or the sex-toy currently planted in her pussy.

"How did this happen, Helen? Who brought the camera to the party? Who started the filming? Wait, the video guy's in on it as well, the guy you recommended to me ..." Her mind was working furiously now, trying to make connections, as she sat wringing her hands. "Gavin can't have been there, can he? So who was it? Who would have done that, Helen, who hates me that much?"

Her friend sat silently for a moment, face grave. "It's ... I ... Shit, I can only think of one person who might have done this."

"You can? Helen, tell me!"

"Babe, I think it must have been Eloise." Erica frowned at her in consternation. "It's something I overheard her say early on during the hen-night when you went off to the bathroom. You know how garrulous she can be after a few drinks. And how spiteful."

"What did she say?"

"She's always been jealous of you, I think. She's had a crush on Gavin for the longest time and couldn't stand that you'd dated him and then got to leave him for someone else. She was calling you all sorts of things. 'Daddy's little princess ...' Seriously, you don't want to know. 'Irritating ...' 'Childish ...' I forget most of it. 'Prissy little bitch', that was another one. It doesn't matter. The thing is she had a camcorder with her that night and she knew the strippers were going to be there."

"Oh my God!" Erica was appalled at the treachery. She had gone so far as to invite Eloise Mayhew to the evening part of the reception.

"I'd asked her about them following her birthday party," Helen continued. "She seemed a bit too zealous that I hire them. God, Erica, that and the molly - I feel so responsible."

Erica protested. Yes, the pill had turned out a disastrous idea and she was paying a price for it, but her friend could never have guessed how Erica would behave, not if the bride hadn't even known it herself. Not could she have appreciated the level of Eloise Mayhew's vindictiveness. Helen, however, was not finished. "No, you don't understand. I'm remembering now ... It was Eloise who suggested the video guy, you know, Scott? She really sold him to me, that's why I put you and Stephen in touch with him. Shit ..." Erica's whirlwind of concerns spun even stronger. "I don't know if this matters," Helen added, "but she suggested Alan the photographer as well."

"Oh my God," Erica moaned disconsolately, "it's a conspiracy. What am I going to do, Helen? I can't have everyone find out what's on that disc! Oh Christ, I can't believe I

did

that! Can we prove it was Eloise?"

"I doubt it, certainly not in time. And realistically we can't deal with Gavin, not today. Not without risking those discs going out."

Erica was crestfallen. She found herself dependent on her friend's wisdom, looking to her urgently for a way out.

"We can try and sort out his evidence afterwards," Helen muttered. "I'll do all I can, but right now all you can do is go through with the wedding."

"Oh God!" It was a near-silent wail of despair; she could feel the tears starting to build once more. "I can't do it, Helen, I can't stand up there and marry Stephen knowing what he—what Gavin wants from me."

Helen seized her by both shoulders. "Now look," she said firmly, holding Erica's mournful gaze, "you've got to pull yourself together here. You want to marry Stephen, right?"

"Yes, yes I do," Erica sobbed.

"Then today is the one chance you get. And if you have to give yourself to Gavin McClain in order to do so, then that's the price you pay, yeah? See it as an act of love to Stephen if you like." Erica was shaking her head in denial, but Helen pressed on. "Look, babe, you're doing this thing. You're going to get through today, I promise. I'll be with you every step. You've got a church full of people waiting for you and you're going to get out there and give them the wedding they're all here to see, okay?"

It took a lot more convincing on Helen's part, along with explanations to Mrs Greendale and other concerned parties, but eventually Erica was talked around. Helen was right—whatever her hen night slip-up, she owed it to Stephen, to the guests and to herself for God's sake, to go through with this. Gavin could take her—she could only imagine how thoroughly he would—but she could not let him ruin everything. She had to be strong, had to face this trial with grace and fortitude.

"Let's get you to the church, that's the first step," Helen said gently, and Erica let her friend guide her to the other bedroom, where her beautiful dress awaited.

She felt numb as Zoe from the salon adjusted her make-up. "It's not a wedding without a few tears from the bride, right?" the girl said, as she reapplied mascara. It seemed unreal to be helped inside her dream gown in this fairy-tale gone horribly wrong. She stared at herself once more in her parents' mirrored dresser, Helen and Zoe framing her. The corseted white bodice was embroidered with seed pearls, before the skirts flowed in a satin river down to her slipper-clad heels. The dress showed off her full bosom and tight waist gorgeously with its heart-shape, leaving her naked shoulders on display—an exquisite fusion of taste and sensuality. The long gauzy veil tumbled all down her back and the pearl necklace warmed on her skin like in the Carol Ann Duffy poem she had loved at school.

"Unlucky, pearls," an aunt had warned her sagely. "You don't want to wear them on you wedding day." How Erica had laughed the superstition off. She was so grief-stricken, as the words came back, that Zoe had to apply the matching earrings for her.

"You look beautiful," the girl said in awe. "The perfect bride."

Everyone else's reaction approximated to that one. Her mother looked ready to cry. Her dad swept aside all his irritability and held her with outstretched arms as though she was a porcelain doll. Kate and Camille, in crystal-blue dresses matching Helen's, gathered around and hugged her.

"You okay?" Camille whispered in concern, squeezing her hand.

Erica would have confided totally in Camille once; it occurred to do so now, but too much contact had been lost. Today her lot was thrown in with Helen. "I'm fine," she said, shoring up her strength and forcing a smile. "It's just nerves, that's all."

"I'm sure you have nothing to worry about." The smooth voice chilled Erica to her centre and caused her pussy to clench. Gavin was strolling from kitchen to hallway, Clementine on his arm, looking darkly amused. "What could go wrong for such a gorgeous bride on her wedding day?"

"You didn't tell me how charming Mr McClain

was

," Jane Greendale scolded her daughter. She had clearly been wooed by Gavin and his companion over coffee. "I'm so glad she invited you both," she told her beguiling new acquaintances.

"We're looking forward to the day immensely." Clementine concurred with Gavin's sentiment via a bright beam. "You've got a beautiful daughter here Jane, she's a credit to you and to her soon-to-be husband. It'll be wonderful to witness today's climax—to their courtship. But look, we're in danger of outstaying our very warm welcome. We'll see you at the church, Erica. And then after."

There was bustle and warm goodbyes from all but Helen, who was staring at Gavin with ill-disguised contempt. Erica was speechless during the couple's departure. She fought not to let the internal tumult destroy her fragile composure. Helen clutched her hand reassuringly and then sat her down, stroking her arm as they all waited for the limos to arrive.

"You're doing this for Stephen. We'll take it a step at a time and get you through the day. Brave face, okay babe?"

Erica nodded somberly.

"Are you all right, dear? You look a little pale." Her mother's sentiments were echoed by others, but Erica summoned up her smile again—the fake sunny smile she figured would be in much use as the day wore on—and brushed aside all their worries.

"I'm fine," she said. "It's been such a long wait, that's all. And I've a bit of a headache. I just want to get on with it." Everyone smiled in response and her mother fetched paracetamol. It seemed they had bought her story.

As the beribboned limousine drove Erica to the church, she felt like she was heading to her own execution. She barely registered the journey, answering briefly and automatically to anything Kate or Camille said. Gavin's oval gift in her pussy was a presence of which she was constantly aware; nor could she stem the tide of images from his tablet that were returning to her, playing out in all their gaudy horror. It hadn't even been a semi-conscious ravishment on the hen-night. She had been an enthusiastic player in the action, slurping on those cocks with gusto like she was making up for lost time. That wretched pill had made her want to hug Helen and her friends and the whole damn world - that much she remembered from the evening's early stages. Well apparently she'd ended up wanting to wrap herself (to say nothing of her mouth) around those hard-bodied specimens of masculinity more than anything.

What freakish desire had possessed her that night? Now this secret whore was in a bride's costume, headed for a phony wedding, promising herself to one man, while caught in the lustful trap of another ...

She gave a start as the car pulled up kerbside at the church. It was only Helen's hand on her arm that steadied her.

The sun was shining on Erica from a sky of uninterrupted blue. It should have seemed a blessing on this July bride, but it oppressed her instead, beating on her brow like an accusation with no breeze to mitigate the condemnation. She wanted to draw the veil down over her face already, to hide her shame.

A floral arch decorated the gateway to St Xavier's church, while further down the path to the restored 18th century house of worship the final few straggling guests were heading inside; parents were rounding up their perfectly turned-out children from among the thick-leafed sycamore trees where they were playing, herding them through the doors.

Then only the photographer remained on the church steps.

"Okay, let's get a few of the bridal party before going in," Alan Travers was saying. Erica knew him by reputation alone—the one Helen had passed on to her and Stephen. He was organising the party smoothly, changing the groupings and snapping efficiently, charming parents and flirting with bridesmaids. Camille in particular looked taken with his combination of amiable banter and dark good looks. A babble of excitement enveloped Erica, but she hardly heard a word of it. She was the troubled heart of everyone else's joy.

"And now the blushing bride standing on her own, please." Alan's words filtered through her haze. She clung to her bouquet and, taking strength from Helen's secret glance to her, drew herself up and faked serenity till the shots were taken.

"Lovely, that's it," the photographer said, then paused as he passed her en route to the church. "You're going to blush before the day's out, that's for sure." He winked at her slyly and was gone.

This time Erica did lower the veil, to mask the rush of mortification to her face. The conspiracy went as far as she'd expected, it seemed—one more person party to her shame. She had been stitched up royally, and there was nothing she could do.

"You okay?" Helen's compassion was comfort, however small.

"What do you think? I wish this was all over ..."

Minutes later the vestibule rumbled with organ music. Erica Greendale stood with her father alone for company, awaiting her cue with a sense of deepest doom. He patted her arm and leaned in solicitously. "Look, sweetheart, I know I get uptight. I said things I shouldn't have this morning and I'm sorry. I want you to forget all that and know that I couldn't have a daughter of whom I'm more proud. You make us all proud, and if you have the day of which you've been dreaming, then every penny was well-spent."

Erica fought the pricking sensation behind her eyes. "Thanks Daddy." Then the organ ceased and the string quartet she had begged him to book broke into the opening strains of Pachelbel's Canon in D. It was time. Blotting out all else than the need to get to the altar, she began the funereal march down the aisle, leaning on her father all the way.

Sunlight was refracting through the stained glass as she progressed into the resplendent church. The players' harmonies interlaced exquisitely and heads turned to Erica in their hundreds. Ladies in broad-brimmed hats gasped in delight at her, little girls goggled in amazement. But some eyes—she had no clue now how many—were staring as though through her dress, contemplating the lusciousness they imagined lay beneath. The rest of the wedding party was assembled at the front and waiting; she should have been focused on her groom alone, but other figures were there in the periphery of her veil-clouded gaze. Scott the wedding video guy, who had already pored over, probably masturbated to images of her hen-night whorishness. Alan the photographer, now seated in a side-pew—were these men expecting a piece of her as well? She couldn't discount the possibility. And somewhere in the congregation ... somewhere ... Where the hell were they?

A sudden erupting of sensation in her pussy answered that question. She was three pews from the front when the egg exploded into life, channelling its vibrations from her startled vagina throughout her entire body. She flinched and nearly stumbled, and her father had to steady her. The great tuxedoed form of Gavin was there at her elbow for a moment, left hand plunged into a pocket so he could surreptitiously hit the remote. The great buzz in her loins lasted only seconds, but it was a sufficient reminder.

I'm here. My eyes are on you and today your cunt is mine.

Trembling, she made it the final few steps to join the wedding party and her expectant groom.

You look beautiful

, his eyes said, as she peeled away her veil, and in her anguish she summoned up the best return-smile she could. He was gorgeous in his wedding tux and silver-grey cravat, his tall, lean-muscled frame all parcelled away from her in such fine trappings. His fair hair was swept back and flowing, face strong yet kind, never more so than now with his cerulean-blue eyes drinking her in.

"Surrounded by glamorous LA women," he had explained in the lead-up to his proposal, "and I could only think of you." How she yearned now, as the music of the strings soared and died, to give herself to him alone. Maybe if she'd offered up her sweet jewel, rather than preserving it so preciously all these weeks, she would not be in this mess. She would surely not have succumbed to her own secret lusts in that hotel suite ...

"The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God ..." Robin Stapley, the nice young vicar who had guided them through the marriage preparation classes was beginning. "... And the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with us all ..."

Then the vibrations recommenced, softer this time, but enough to shock her pussy along with every inch of her taut flesh, as she stood before all those searching eyes. Reverend Stapley was continuing, leading the now-standing congregation in their responses, but Erica could scarcely hear him. It took all her focus to return her groom's stare, what with the alarm screaming in her head and the low-key thrill in her clenched vagina. Her tormentor was a mere ten feet away from her. He was watching for every minute reaction in her face, enjoying her secret humiliation, loving his control of her wet secret place. And that camera was there to capture every moment, every flicker. She must betray no more signs than she could of his power over ...

Oh god!

The egg's vibrations never ceased from that point onward. As the service progressed, so grew her torture. Gavin increased the device's throb till waves were pummelling her insides, rippling their way through her to the nipples, then he let it fade to a low inner growl, never letting it die completely. He cranked it up during

Love Divine, All Loves Excelling

, so that it buzzed her cunt into a sweet fury. All her intimate flesh-folds screamed with sensation; her whole pussy seemed to be liquidising, drenching her thong till it over-saturated and the juice slithered down her trembling thighs. She tried to fix her eyes on the hymnbook which the vicar had given her, but the words were a blur. All sense of where she was, of propriety and decorum, was in danger of being robbed from her. The bride in all her wedding finery might be brought to orgasm before the entire church-load of people and right next to her own groom. It was a supremely alarming thought.

The hymn ended and at that instant the buzzing faded once more, persisting at its lowest setting as the Reverend continued into the marriage ceremony. Stephen was looking at her with concern; she knew her face was aflame along with the rest of her body. She tried to send him a reassuring smile. Scraps of the vicar's words were filtering through to her— "here in the sight of God" — "holy matrimony"—"reverently, discreetly, advisedly and solemnly"—"let them speak now or forever hold their peace ..."

Oh god, if they all knew ...