I didn’t ask for this. Didn’t ask for the cold, approving eyes of my father, or the fuzzy lines of my grieving mother. The podium yields under me, making my journey that much more difficult, as if offering me one last chance to choose disgrace and flee.
But I don’t. My groom awaits me, masked under the hot lights, and I rise to meet him. My peacock feathers spread behind me and catch the light, and I know I am glorious. I hope the guests can’t see the tears.
The fat priest awaits me impatiently, his big shoes tapping. I arrive and close my eyes. I can’t watch him as he speaks away the rest of my life. I don’t dare look at my betrothed.
Everything happens in a blur: the sacred vows, the mumbled permission from our mothers; someone yells out the traditional greeting, and my groom sweeps me down the stairs. He has still not removed his mask.
No one stops us for congratulations as he takes me into the consummation room. He sets me down gently on my feet and I stand, quivering, feeling naked already. I catch my breath as he puts his hand to the mask to reveal himself.
“Please,” I say, “leave it. I wish to learn to serve your body before I know your face.”
He tilts his head, and it has the effect of a curious bird, but he complies without a word. He reaches for the buttons on my dress and slowly undoes them, one by one. The consummation room, warmed by candles, still feels cold as I am bared.
When my dress falls to my feet, feathers and all, he offers me his back and the buttons on his suit. My fingers feel fat, clumsy, but I manage to disrobe him. His skin is a pale copper and I cannot stop my hands from lingering. He has muscles, but they are undefined, potential lying beneath soft, curly body hair. I wonder what he is thinking about my body.
He turns without warning and tosses me onto the bed – not roughly, but playfully. Then he is down on top of me, his ass in the air and his tongue tracing my inner thighs. He notes the wetness of my anticipation and, with a smile visible even under the mask, he backs off, kneeling on the floor to service me.
I cry out, from pleasure and fear. This is not how a purchased bride acts: she is the servant, not the princess. But he holds me down, firmly but not without kindness, until I come. Then he raises his head and watches me for a reaction.
“Please,” I say again, “please.”
He shimmies up the bed so we lie parallel. He gently turns me away, on my side, and feels between my legs, reaching with his cock until he finds me. I tremble, waiting for him to push in, but there is a long pause. His breath grows hotter on my neck, and I realize he has removed his mask.
“Hello, my bride,” a husky, gentle voice says, and we make love for the first time.