YEARN FOR YOU

Lizzy’s POV On September 4th, 2014, I did something really crazy. It was my wedding day. I woke up already angry—furious, actually. In a few hours I was supposed to walk down the aisle and marry Ken. The same Ken who, throughout our entire relationship, had never lasted longer than two minutes. The same Ken whose d**k was so small it barely counted as one. I still can’t believe I was about to say “I do” to him. Flashback – February 10th It was his birthday. I had planned everything. I wore a tiny red dress that barely covered my ass and carried a black purse with birthday cards, condoms, and the one gift I had been saving for him: my virginity. I wanted the night to be long, rough, and unforgettable. The second I stepped into his room he grabbed me by the waist and pressed his mouth to my neck. His hands slid under the short dress, squeezing my bare cheeks. I shivered, remembering every filthy thing we had texted the night before. He carried me to the bed and laid me down like I was already his. The dress came off fast. My bra followed. When his mouth closed over my n****e and sucked hard, a low moan slipped out of me. He switched to the other breast, biting gently, then harder, until both peaks were wet and aching. “Prepare to be amazed,” he whispered against my skin. His middle finger pushed inside me. I was tight—painfully tight—but I forced myself to relax and open for him. A second finger joined the first. He curled them, stroking that spot that made my hips jerk. It felt good. Better than I expected. For a moment I actually believed the night would be everything I had fantasized about. But fingers weren’t enough. I needed more. He noticed. Without a word he lifted me off the bed and carried me to the living room, still kissing my neck, still playing with my wet n*****s. He set me on the couch, dropped to his knees, and pushed my thighs apart. “Open up, baby.” I was already shaking. He didn’t wait. His tongue dragged slowly up my slit, then pushed inside. The first long lick made my back arch. He ate me like he was starving—slow, deep strokes mixed with quick flicks over my c**t. My fingers tangled in his hair. I was soaked, dripping onto the couch, hips rolling against his mouth. Every time his tongue curled inside me I felt myself getting closer. “So f*****g sweet,” he groaned between licks. I was right on the edge when he finally pulled away, lips shiny, eyes dark with lust. That was my cue. I shoved him back onto the sofa, climbed on top, and reached into his boxers. My hand closed around him—and the world stopped. It was small. Shockingly small. Soft, thin, barely the length of my palm. For a second I just stared, frozen. All the dirty talk, all the promises, all the buildup… and this was what waited for me. I swallowed the urge to laugh, or cry, or both. I had come this far. I wasn’t leaving without at least trying. I sank down onto him. The stretch I had expected never came. There was almost nothing to feel. I rolled my hips, chasing friction that wasn’t there. I rode him harder, grinding, trying to force some kind of fullness, but it was useless. Halfway through I already knew: this wasn’t going to satisfy me. Not even close. So I climbed off, dropped to my knees, and took him in my mouth instead. Maybe if I focused on him I could still salvage something. His c**k slipped past my lips easily—no weight, no thickness, nothing to stretch my jaw. I sucked anyway, using my tongue, my hand, everything I could think of. He moaned loudly, almost theatrically, and the sound made my stomach turn. The more he groaned, the more empty I felt. “Enough, Lizzy,” he suddenly gasped, pulling my head back. I stared at him in disbelief. We had barely started. My body was still throbbing, still wet, still waiting. And he was already done. He stood up, half-soft c**k in his hand, and walked back to the bedroom without another word. I stayed on my knees for a few seconds, trying to process what had just happened. Then I followed him. He was already lying on the bed, eyes closed. I sat beside him, still aching, still unsatisfied. Slowly I reached over and touched him again, hoping maybe a second round was possible. My fingers stroked lightly, trying to coax him back to life. He caught my wrist. “Lizzy, baby… enough for now. Let’s rest.” That was it. The final nail. I stood up, pulled my dress back on, and grabbed my purse. At the door I forced a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Happy birthday, Ken. I have to go.” I left before he could answer. Outside, the night air felt cold against my still-sensitive skin. I had imagined so many things for that night—being bent over the couch, taken hard against the wall, f****d until I couldn’t walk. Instead I walked home with my virginity gone and nothing to show for it except a dull ache between my legs and a growing sense of regret. I should have known then. I should have run. But I didn’t. And now, on our wedding day, I was about to make the same mistake all over again.