Closed-Door Prose is a sex-positive feminist erotica column. You may not wish to read it at work!
Elizabeth had thought she would never marry. It happened for other people but she hadn’t believed it would happen for her. For a long time she wouldn’t even let herself think about it. She kept the whole idea in a locked box in a locked room in a locked house on a gated street in a far off town she would never let herself visit.
But here was Stacy’s hand, cupped gently around her shoulder, under her shirt. As of that morning, Stacy was her wife. Even better: As of that morning, Elizabeth was Stacy’s wife.
“You married me,” Elizabeth said, just to hear it said aloud.
“Just like I always wanted,” Stacy said, always so sure of herself. With that same certainty she moved her hand down Elizabeth’s shoulder, over her waist and the big curve of her hips and the even bigger curve of her butt. Elizabeth’s skin was a musical instrument, a banjo with a thousand strings, and Stacy was making it sing. Stacy could touch her in the same ways a thousand times and it would always be new.
Stacy stepped back, then hoisted Elizabeth up by the hips onto the little wooden desk that they’d both commented on gleefully as soon as they’d unlocked the room—its red mahogany color, its adorable carved legs. Elizabeth had pretended to have been surprised by how cute it was, how cute everything was, when in fact she had done so much research for this honeymoon—to pick the best room in the best B&B on the best street in the best town, and she had looked at every last picture on every last Yelp review, so she knew the desk well, and now she was sitting atop it, Stacy kneeling below her, gathering Elizabeth’s legs around her shoulders and yanking off Elizabeth’s underwear. Elizabeth was lightheaded with joy. Stacy’s head, her loose curls coming undone from her ponytail, now moved, business-like, devilish, up Elizabeth’s bare leg, licking and kissing the soft secret skin on the inside of her knee and then up her thigh, the kisses getting longer and wetter and slower the closer she got to Elizabeth’s center, which was now as if someone had lit a match there, crackling, hot, burning.
Stacy’s lips lifted from Elizabeth’s thigh and paused, wet, and then approached her. She kissed the tip of her clitoris and then softly searched it with her tongue, and Elizabeth knew she was on the desk but now she was on the ceiling, too, shouting, hollering, groaning, trying to make a noise that would express the thrusting fucking ecstasy of Stacy eating her as if she was the most delicious thing in the world.
“I’m your wife,” Elizabeth said, really she screamed it, and that was the thing she meant to say, after all, as Stacy’s tongue moved up inside her pussy and her top lip sucked softly on her burning wings. Elizabeth crested, finally, as she’d only ever before dreamed of doing, and she said it again so the feeling would last: “I am your wife.”
Robbie Freid is a writer in Virginia
Stephanie Yonce believes weddings are huge events, but they are peppered with tiny moments that make the day completely irreplaceable. Her approach to photography on a wedding day has been described as high-spirited, bright, and natural, and the photos will reflect a day that is entirely your own. She is based in Richmond, VA, but available in Charlottesville, Washington, D.C. and beyond.