s*x With The Virgin Bride

Lucia’s pov : I stood at the far end of the aisle, my hands clutching the bouquet so tightly that my knuckles turned pale. The church was bathed in warm golden light, the sun filtering through the stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor with shades of crimson and blue. Every step I took toward Marco felt like walking into a dream I had been nurturing for years. My heart pounded wildly beneath the lace of my gown, not from fear, but from sheer happiness. I had loved Marco for as long as I could remember. He was the kind of man who remembered little things — the way I liked my coffee, the exact shade of rose that made me smile, the stories I loved to hear before bed. To me, he was perfect. The nicest man I had ever met. And today, he was mine. As I reached him, his eyes met mine — warm, dark, and steady. He took my trembling hands in his and smiled. That smile… it made my knees weak. The priest’s voice became a distant hum as I kept my gaze locked on his, barely aware of the guests watching us. When the words were spoken, when we exchanged vows, it felt like the whole world had melted away. The moment the ceremony ended, the applause and cheers from our families and friends wrapped around me like a blessing. My cheeks hurt from smiling. I could barely stop my hands from reaching out to him over and over, as if to assure myself that this was real. This man, this day was all mine. After the photographs, the hugs, and the congratulations, I was guided back to the bride’s dressing room. My hands trembled as I began to undo the pearl buttons on my gown, the satin slipping off my shoulders. I caught my reflection in the mirror — flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes and a shy smile tugged at my lips. Tonight… My mind whispered. Tonight, I would give him the most precious part of myself. The thought made me blush. I had waited, guarded myself all these years, because I wanted my first time to be with the man I loved. My heart felt too big for my chest, filled with excitement, nervousness, and a kind of trembling happiness that made my hands unsteady. But then… I heard it a weird noise. A low, breathless sound. At first, I froze, confused. But it grew louder — sharp, intimate, unmistakable. My heart stumbled in its rhythm. It was the sound of pleasure, but not mine. Not ours. My mind scrambled to explain it away. Perhaps a joke, perhaps… no, no, it couldn’t be. The sound was accompanied by another — a deep, guttural moan I knew far too well. Marco’s. My breath caught. I moved without thinking, barefoot on the cool floor, the train of my dress dragging behind me. The corridor outside was dim, lit only by flickering candles. The sounds grew clearer with every step — gasps, whispers, the creak of a body against the wall. My stomach churned violently. I turned the corner… and saw them. Marco’s back was to me, his tuxedo jacket hanging loose around his arms, his shirt undone. His hands gripped the hips of the woman in front of him, a dress I recognized instantly — pale gold, the same one my dearest friend wore today. Her head was thrown back, her lips parted in bliss, her hands tangled in his hair. For a moment, the world narrowed to a single point, their bodies moving together in a rhythm that stabbed at my chest like knives. “No…” My voice was a whisper at first, but it broke, trembling. They didn’t hear me. Or maybe they didn’t care. “God, Marco,” she moaned, and he shushed her with a kiss, murmuring something against her lips. I stepped closer, my pulse roaring in my ears. “Marco!” They froze. He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting mine. There was no panic, no shame just mild irritation, as though I had interrupted something trivial. My friend… my best friend… smirked. “Well,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery, “you weren’t supposed to find out so soon.” My voice cracked as I forced the words out. “Why? Why would you do this to me? On our wedding day?” Marco pulled away from her slowly, buttoning his shirt without haste. “Lucia… you wouldn’t understand.” “Try me,” I spat, my chest heaving in anger and betrayal. He sighed, almost impatiently. “My parents have been pressuring me to give them a grandchild. She”—he nodded toward my friend—“doesn’t want kids. You do. And you…” He shrugged, as if the rest was obvious. “You were an easy choice. Sweet. Trusting. Perfect for the role. So, I just need someone to give me child. I have always loved Sofia.” The words hit me harder than any physical blow could. “So you… you never loved me?” My friend chuckled, stepping closer to him, her hand resting possessively on his arm. “Oh, darling… did you really think someone like him would settle for someone like you? You’ve always been too naive. It’s adorable, really.” I felt my knees weaken, my hands shaking violently. The lace of my dress suddenly felt suffocating, my skin crawling under it. “I loved you,” I said, my voice breaking, the tears finally spilling over. “I defended you. I dreamed of this day my whole life… and you—” My throat closed up, my chest aching so much I could barely breathe. Marco looked at me with the same calm detachment one might reserve for a stranger. “You’ll get over it. You always do. And my parents will be happy. That’s all that matters.” That’s all that matters. The church walls seemed to close in on me. I thought of every smile he had given me, every sweet word, every promise — all poisoned, all lies. I wanted to scream, to tear the veil from my head and throw it at him, to demand an explanation that could undo the past five minutes. But there was nothing. No explanation that could erase the image of him inside her, the sound of her laugh, the cruel twist of his lips. I took a step forward, my voice shaking with rage. “You could have told me the truth. You could have spared me this humiliation. But instead, you stood there, in front of everyone, and vowed to love me.” He smirked faintly. “Well, vows are just words, Lucia.” My friend giggled again, her arm still looped through his. “Oh, don’t look so heartbroken. You’ll thank us one day.” My hand trembled on the doorknob. “No,” I whispered. “One day, you will regret this.” And with that, I walked out — my tears blurring the golden light of the church into a cruel, mocking haze. The echo of their laughter followed me down the corridor, each note another knife in my back. I had walked into this church as the happiest woman alive. I left it hollow, my heart shattered into pieces too small to ever fit back together. But deep down, beneath the grief, a quiet ember of something else began to burn. I couldn’t breathe. The walls of the church felt like they were pressing in on me, suffocating me with the scent of flowers and candle wax. My legs moved before my mind could catch up — I just needed to get out. Away from Marco, away from her, away from their laughter. The satin of my wedding gown tangled around my ankles as I ran down the church steps, into the street, my heels slipping against the stone. I didn’t even notice the cold wind biting my cheeks. My vision blurred from tears, and the sound of traffic roared in my ears. Suddenly, I was blinding by a sharp light and a deafening honk made my head go dizzy. The impact came like a storm, my body flung sideways, pain bursting across my ribs and head. The world spun. The sharp taste of blood filled my mouth before everything went dark. When I opened my eyes briefly, I saw a sleek black car, its headlights cutting through the night like blades. A tall man in a tailored suit stepped out slowly. He didn’t even glance at me. Instead, his voice was cold, clipped, and aimed at the man beside him. “Wipe it off.” I watched through half-lidded eyes as his driver knelt, pulling a cloth from the trunk to clean a streak of red from the bumper. My blood. Someone came over to me and touched my neck. “Sir,” the driver finally said, looking up, “she’s still breathing.” The man’s gaze shifted to me for the briefest second not out of concern, but as if evaluating an object. “Get another car,” he ordered. “Send her to the hospital first.” And then he turned away. —- When I woke again, the sharp smell of antiseptic filled my nose. The ceiling above me was blindingly white. My body ached, especially my right side. I turned my head slightly and saw an IV drip, the slow tick of the monitor beside me. A nurse came in, smiling gently. “Ah, you’re awake. You were brought in last night. Do you remember what happened?” I swallowed hard. My voice was hoarse. “I… I was hit by a car.” She nodded. “You’re lucky. No broken bones, just some bruising and a minor concussion. The doctor will be here soon to check your wounds.” I let out a shaky breath. Lucky. If this was lucky, I didn’t want to know what unlucky felt like. A few minutes later, the doctor entered — a middle-aged man with kind eyes. He greeted me softly, checked the stitches on my forehead, pressed gently against my ribs, and made notes on his clipboard. “We’ll also run a premarital examination,” he said casually, as if it were routine. “It’s standard for women your age before… well, before starting a family.” My chest tightened at the reminder — a family. That word still stung, wrapped in the image of Marco’s betrayal. But I said nothing, letting them take the necessary samples. Later, the doctor returned with the results in hand. His expression was calm, professional, but I caught the slight hesitation before he spoke. “Miss Lucia… I want you to understand, this is not uncommon. Many women today, especially those working in high-pressure environments, face this. But your follicle quality is… poor.” I don't know how they even know my name but I blinked, not understanding their words at first. “Poor? What does that mean?” He clasped his hands together. “It means your chances of natural conception are low. It doesn’t mean impossible, but… it will be difficult. If you plan to have children, you may want to consider alternative options.” The room felt colder all of a sudden. I stared at the white blanket over my legs, my mind running in jagged loops. All these years, I’d imagined myself holding my child, watching them grow… and now, even that was being taken away from me. “Alternative options…” I murmured. “You mean… adoption?” “That’s one path,” he said. “Another is surrogacy, if you have a viable partner’s sperm and can provide your eggs for IVF. But… your follicle quality might make that challenging too.” The words “viable partner” stabbed me like a cruel joke. Marco’s face flashed in my mind, and I nearly laughed — a bitter, broken sound. After the doctor left, I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling. My mind was a storm. Marco had married me for my ability to bear a child. He didn’t love me — only my womb. And now, even that… even that wasn’t what he thought it was. If he found out, he’d probably throw me away like garbage. But then, an idea took root. If I couldn’t carry my own child… I could still have one. Surrogacy. It wouldn’t matter if my body failed me. I could still raise a child as my own, give them love, protect them from the kind of cruelty I had just tasted. The thought steadied me. For the first time since yesterday, my heartbeat slowed, my breathing even. “I’ll find a way,” I whispered to myself, my hand resting over my bruised ribs. “Even if it’s not in the way everyone expects… I will have my child.” And in the quiet hum of the hospital room, I made a silent vow. Not just to be a mother, but to never again be the naive woman who trusted too easily. This time, I would choose my battles. And I would win them.