Epilogue
PoppyYour hand is clapped over my mouth as your other hand digs under layers of lace and tulle to find my p***y—bare at your request. Bare precisely for this moment.
Outside, the guests are beginning to filter into the church, a Catholic church despite my parents’ playful protests, and in exchange for having a Catholic wedding, they extracted from us a grudging acceptance to let them throw the lavish affair they wanted to throw for their princess—fireworks and gallons of champagne and strings of lights under a starry Rhode Island sky.
But I’m nobody’s princess right now. I’m a panting lamb, squirming as your fingers find my c**t—already ripe and swollen—and pinch it, gently. There are thousands of dollars of designer lace and silk pooled around my waist and I want you to rip it
