The Transsexual Bride's Wedding Eve Lust

The suite was too quiet for the size of what waited on the other side of morning. Roxanne, twenty-eight and hours from becoming a bride, had already taken the gown off the closet door and hung it again, as if the white silk might settle her if she looked at it long enough. It had not. Her pulse kept climbing. She stood barefoot on the hotel carpet in the set she had bought for the honeymoon and then, on a restless impulse, put on tonight instead: sheer white lace, a bra that barely held the soft weight of her breasts, and panties so thin the restless thickening between her thighs was already pushing the fabric into a clear, obscene line.

She did not want the wedding planner. She did not want her groom, who was across town and would only tell her she was beautiful and that noon would be fine. She wanted a voice that would let her be afraid out loud.

Roxanne called Darius.

He picked up on the second ring. Thirty, broad-shouldered, and still half in the clothes from the rehearsal dinner, his voice came low and easy, the same voice that had been undoing her for months. "Roxanne? You all right?"

"I don't know," she said. "I'm nervous about tomorrow. About all of it. I need someone to talk to, and I didn't want to call him. Will you please come to the hotel? Just to talk. Room 814."

She heard him breathe once. "Yes," he said. "I'm coming."

He did not say the rest. Darius had wanted to fuck Roxanne since the night her groom had introduced them at a downtown bar two years ago, both of them long grown, her laugh bright over a glass of club soda, her mouth the kind a man kept. He had never touched her. He was the best man. He was supposed to stand beside the man she was marrying and keep his hands to himself. Wanting had not cared about that, and it did not care now. He grabbed his keys and drove through the late city, completely unaware of what the lace in room 814 was failing to hide.

She opened the door before his second knock. The hallway light caught her, and Darius forgot the speech he had rehearsed in the elevator. The lingerie was bridal and almost nothing, white straps cutting pale lines over her skin, the bra sheer enough that her nipples showed dark through it. Lower, the panties were losing the fight. Her cock had thickened at the sound of his voice through the door, and the lace cupped a heavy, unmistakable bulge, the head already nudging the waistband.

For a second he only stared. She saw the knowledge land. Her stomach dropped, and she almost shut the door.

"Come in," she said anyway, because she had asked him here and she was not going to lie with her body. "If you still want to. If this changes it, you can leave. I won't be angry."

He stepped inside and let the door click shut behind him. Up close she smelled like warm skin and the gardenia soap from the hotel bath. Her mouth was the same mouth. Her eyes were steady and scared and wanting. The surprise did not kill the hunger. It sharpened it.

"I came to talk," he said, rough. "I can still do that. But I'm not leaving unless you tell me to. I have wanted to fuck you for a long time, Roxanne. I didn't know. It doesn't make me want you less."

Her breath left her in a shaky laugh. She had carried this particular want just as long, since that same bar, since the first time his hand had brushed her lower back guiding her through a crowd and her whole body had answered. She had never said it. Tomorrow she was marrying a man she loved. Tonight the fear had her by the throat, and the man in front of her was looking at her cock like it was part of the woman he had been starving for.

"I'm nervous about the wedding," she said, and did not step back when he came closer. "About standing up there. About whether I can be that sure in front of everyone. And I'm nervous because you're here, and I have always wanted to fuck you too. Not instead of him. Just you. Tonight. If you want all of me."

"I want all of you," Darius said. "Say it clear, so I don't guess wrong."

"I want your mouth. I want you in my ass. I want to suck you, and I want to fuck you, and I want you to fuck me until I can't think about noon." Her voice steadied as she gave it to him. "All of it. Yes."

"Yes," he said, and kissed her.

It was not careful. His hand cupped the back of her neck, and hers fisted in his shirt, and the kiss went deep and wet, teeth catching, both of them making small hungry sounds into each other's mouths. She tasted coffee and the mint he must have chewed in the car. He tasted her lipstick and the soft give of her lower lip, then the braver push of her tongue. When his palm slid down and closed over the lace-covered length of her, she gasped into the kiss and rocked into his hand, already hard, already leaking a little at the tip.

"Still yes?" he asked against her mouth.

"Still yes. Get these clothes off me. And yours."

They undressed each other with clumsy, consenting hunger. He unhooked the bra and groaned when her breasts spilled into his hands, heavy and warm, nipples tight under his thumbs. She dragged his shirt up and off, then his belt, then his pants, until he stood in nothing but skin and a cock that jutted thick and flushed, already wet at the slit. Her panties came down her thighs in a whisper of lace. Freed, her cock curved up against her belly, smooth and eager, balls drawn close. He looked his fill, one hand stroking himself, the other tracing the line of her hip as if memorizing the proof that she was exactly who she was.

"Beautiful," he said. "On the bed, or on your knees. Your call, bride."

"Knees," Roxanne said, and sank.

The carpet was soft under her. Darius stood over her with his cock level with her mouth, one hand gentle in her hair, not forcing, just there. She licked him first, a long flat stroke from base to crown, and the sound he made went straight to her own cock. Then she took him in. He was thick enough that her lips stretched, salt and heat flooding her tongue, the head sliding over it as she worked down. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked, slow at first, then deeper, until her nose brushed the coarse hair at his base and her throat fluttered around him. Spit shone on her chin. She pulled off to breathe, stroked him with a wet fist, and went down again, hungry, messy, devoted.

"Fuck, Roxanne. That mouth. Just like that." His hips rocked, careful, giving her the rhythm she set. She moaned around him and reached between her own thighs, squeezing her cock in time with each suck. When she pulled back to tongue the slit, he swore and his thighs shook. "You're going to make me come if you keep that up, and I am not done with you."

She let him slip free, lips swollen, eyes bright. "Then bend me over. I want your mouth on my ass, and then I want you inside it."

He turned her to the bed and folded her over the edge, cheek to the coverlet, ass lifted, the white panties abandoned on the floor like a flag. For a moment he only looked, palms spreading her, thumbs stroking the soft inner curves. Then he knelt and put his mouth where she had asked. The first lick was broad and hot, right over her hole, and Roxanne cried out into the mattress. He ate her like he had been waiting years for the privilege, slow circles, then a pointed tongue pushing, then wet open kisses while two fingers petted her until she relaxed and let him in. She pushed back, shameless, her cock hanging heavy between her thighs, dripping onto the carpet.

"Please," she said. "Darius, please fuck me."

He rose, spit-slick and shaking, and lined himself up. The head nudged, paused. "Yes?"

"Yes. Hard. I can take it."

He pushed in. The stretch burned sweet and huge, her rim opening around the thick crown, then the long slide as he sank to the hilt. Both of them went still, breathing hard, her body clutching him in fluttering pulses. Then he drew back and drove in again, and the pace turned mean in the way she had begged for. Skin slapped skin. The bed frame knocked the wall. He held her hips and pounded her ass in deep, grinding strokes, one hand sliding under to wrap her cock and stroke it in the same ruthless rhythm. Roxanne moaned without shame, pushing back to meet every thrust, the lace of her discarded bra crumpled under one palm.

"So tight," he gritted. "Taking me like you were made for it. This what you needed, wedding night early?"

"Yes. Don't stop. Fuck my ass. Use me."

He did, until her legs trembled and her cock jerked in his fist, not quite there, hovering. Then he pulled out slow, both of them gasping, and dropped onto the bed on his back, cock shining, chest heaving. "Ride me. I want to watch your tits bounce while you take it."

Roxanne climbed over him and sank down in one long, greedy drop. The angle was deeper. She planted her hands on his chest and rode, rolling her hips, then bouncing, ass slapping his thighs, her cock slapping her own stomach with every drop. Darius stared up at her like a man watching something holy and filthy at once, thumbs on her nipples, then one hand back on her length, pumping her while she used his cock. Sweat gathered in the hollow of her throat. The room smelled like sex and gardenia and the clean heat of his skin.

"Look at you," he said. "My best friend's bride, stuffed full, cock out, riding me like you'll die if you stop."

"I might," she panted, and laughed, and rode harder.

When her thighs started to fail he rolled them, never slipping free, and settled over her in missionary, her knees hooked high, his weight pinning her into the mattress. He fucked her there in long, crushing strokes, foreheads touching, mouths brushing, the pace turning from frantic to devastating. Every thrust knocked a broken sound out of her. She clawed his back and locked her ankles behind him and took it, took all of it, until the pleasure coiled too tight to hold.

"I'm coming," she gasped. "Darius, I'm—"

It hit her in a white rush. Her ass clenched around him in hard pulses, her cock jerked between their stomachs, and she came in thick stripes across her own belly and his, crying out his name, shaking through it while he kept moving, fucking her through the climax until his own broke. He buried himself and came deep, groaning into her neck, hips stuttering, filling her in hot spurts she felt as a spreading warmth. They clung and shuddered and slowly went slack, breathing like they had run up every floor of the hotel.

They were not finished.

When the aftershocks eased, Roxanne kissed him slow and filthy and reached for the bottle of lube on the nightstand, the one she had packed for a honeymoon that would start tomorrow with a different man. "My turn," she said. "I want to fuck you. If you want that. Say no and we stop."

Darius looked at her cock, still half-hard, glistening with her own come, and his spent body answered anyway, a fresh twitch of interest low in his gut. "I want it. Show me how."

She took her time. On his back, knees up, she slicked her fingers and opened him with patience that made him swear, one finger, then two, crooking until he jolted and grabbed the sheets. When he was wet and eager and nodding, she pressed the head of her cock to his hole and pushed. He was tight, hotter than she had imagined in every private fantasy, and the slide in was so good her vision sparked. She fucked him in slow, deep strokes at first, watching his face, then harder when he growled for it, her hips snapping, balls tapping his ass, one hand braced by his head. He reached down and stroked himself back to full hardness while she took him, eyes locked on hers.

"That's it," she murmured, awed and filthy. "Taking my cock. You feel incredible."

"Harder. Fuck, Roxanne, harder."

She gave it to him until his voice broke, then pulled out and let him flip her onto her side, one leg hooked over his arm, and he pushed back into her ass from behind in a new angle that made her sob with pleasure. They switched again. She put him on his hands and knees and sank into him from behind, fucking him with sharp, possessive thrusts while she reached around to jerk his cock. He came like that the second time, spilling over her fist and the sheets, clenching so hard around her that she followed, buried deep, pulsing into him with a raw cry. Before either of them had fully come down he had her on her back again, legs over his shoulders, and pounded her through the oversensitive haze until she was laughing and moaning and coming dry, or nearly, a weaker third spill striping her stomach while he groaned and finished what he had left inside her.

They collapsed in the wreck of the bed, sweaty, shaking, kissing with open mouths because closing them felt like too much distance. Outside, the city kept its late hour. Inside, the fear that had driven her to the phone had gone quiet under the weight of his arm.

Morning came in a pale bar of light through the curtains. They woke tangled, sore in the best way, and Roxanne laughed softly against his chest before either of them spoke. The shower was a glass box big enough for two, already steaming when they stepped in. Water sheeted over them. Soap slid between her breasts, down the length of her cock, over the curve of her ass where she was still tender and already wanting again.

Darius pressed her to the wet tile, chest to her back, and slid into her from behind in one slow, soapy thrust. The standing fuck went on and on, water drumming their shoulders, his hands braced beside her head, his cock working her ass in deep rolling strokes that splashed and echoed off the glass. She reached back to hold his hip and met him, moaning his name into the steam, her own cock bumping the tile, hard again, dripping. He wrapped a soapy fist around her and stroked in time, fucking her and jerking her until the pleasure climbed past the morning ache into something bright and inevitable.

"Come with me," he said against her wet ear. "One more. Then I'll let you go get married."

She came first, striping the tile, ass gripping him in rhythmic pulls, and he followed with a hoarse groan, hips flush to her, pulsing inside her while the water washed everything but the feeling away. They stayed joined until their legs threatened to fail, then turned and kissed under the spray, tender now, slow, his hands gentle on her waist, hers in his wet hair.

They washed each other properly after that, laughing when the soap slipped, rinsing come and sweat and the night off their skin. Towels. His clothes from the floor. Her robe. At the door he kissed her once more, soft, and she kissed him back like a woman who knew exactly what she had done and did not regret a second of it.

"You're calm," he said, searching her face.

"I am," Roxanne said, and meant it. Noon did not frighten her anymore. She could stand up there. She could say the vows. She could love the man waiting for her and still carry this night in her body like a secret heat. "Go. Before someone sees the best man leaving the bride's room."

He went. She watched the door shut, then looked at the gown, then at the phone in her hand. The fear was gone. In its place a plan was already forming, neat and hungry: after the reception, when the guests were drunk on cake and the groom was swept into photographs, she would text Darius a room number. Not this one. The empty suite on the ninth floor she had noticed yesterday, the one that would not be used. An hour. Her wedding lingerie again, or nothing at all. His mouth, her cock, his cock, the whole filthy circuit one more time before the honeymoon car took her away. She smiled at her reflection, satisfied and already scheming, and started to dress for her wedding.