The Gavin McClain Stories 3: Erica's Big Day - Chapter 2: Sacred Vows free porn video

Erica Greendale's perfect wedding day has been hijacked by her jilted almost-lover Gavin McClain and secretly resentful Maid of Honour Helen. To avoid the public screening of a deeply compromising hen-night video featuring the bride herself, she must follow all of Gavin's instructions, while somehow getting through the ceremony and beyond...

It scarcely mattered, Erica thought, who found her in her desolation. What, after all, were her options? Tell Stephen? Tell her parents? That would wreck her marital prospects and the family name at a shot, destroying the occasion in which she had pleaded with her father to invest so much. Every straw at which she clutched left her drowning in desperation.

It was Helen who came to her rescue, sweeping into the room in shimmering royal blue. “Erica we’re waiting for you in … God, what’s the matter?” She shifted presents and sat down beside the weeping bride, enfolding her in comforting arms. “You’re all messed up, your mascara’s running. Whatever’s happened?”

Erica looked up through tear-stained eyes to see her friend in the silk dress they had spent so much time choosing—bared shoulders, slim cross-straps, tight and sequined around the bust, then flowing in a glossy river the length of her body. It set Helen’s figure off well. So glamorous, yet so tasteful, like everything else she’d picked for this wretched ruined occasion. “I can’t say, Helen. It’s too dreadful.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Helen consoled. “If it’s second thoughts, I’m sure most brides have them on the actual day. Is it Gavin?” Erica looked at her in fright. “Well you were quite taken with him a while back, weren’t you? Was it seeing him with that other girl? Are you worried about your feelings for Stephen?”

“No, no, it’s not that, I love Stephen!” Erica asserted hurriedly. “It’s nothing to do with Gavin, not in that way …” She faltered, remembering the awful movie which had been screened for her, the head bridesmaid lying unconscious in the scene’s background. “Helen,” she asked desperately, “do you remember anything else about the stupid hen night? Was anyone filming?”

“Filming? What are you talking about?”

“That damn pill messed up my head, Helen. Tell me what you remember.”

“Well … there were a bunch of cocktails, the strippers arrived, they were strutting their stuff, then… Well… It all got hazy after that. Erica, what is all this? Tell me!”

So Erica told, and wept all through the telling, while Helen stared in mounting astonishment. She told almost all, including the blank in her memory, the footage of her with the strippers—“On my knees, Helen, sucking on them, sucking on them both, for Christ’s sake! Letting them … you know, in my mouth, all over my face! Do you want all the damn details?” (It was coming back to her as she told it – the smoothness of the dancers’ buff bodies, the pulsing hardness of their young cocks, the rush of semen that had sluiced out her mouth.) Then she explained Gavin’s possession of the evidence and all his threats and outrageous demands. She couldn’t quite bring herself to describe Clementine’s interference with her, or the sex-toy currently planted in her pussy.

“How did this happen, Helen? Who brought the camera to the party? Who started the filming? Wait, the video guy’s in on it as well, the guy you recommended to me …” Her mind was working furiously now, trying to make connections, as she sat wringing her hands. “Gavin can’t have been there, can he? So who was it? Who would have done that, Helen, who hates me that much?”

Her friend sat silently for a moment, face grave. “It’s … I … Shit, I can only think of one person who might have done this.”

“You can? Helen, tell me!”

“Babe, I think it must have been Eloise.” Erica frowned at her in consternation. “It’s something I overheard her say early on during the hen-night when you went off to the bathroom. You know how garrulous she can be after a few drinks. And how spiteful.”

“What did she say?”

“She’s always been jealous of you, I think. She’s had a crush on Gavin for the longest time and couldn’t stand that you’d dated him and then got to leave him for someone else. She was calling you all sorts of things. ‘Daddy’s little princess …’ Seriously, you don’t want to know. ‘Irritating …’ ‘Childish …’ I forget most of it. ‘Prissy little bitch’, that was another one. It doesn’t matter. The thing is she had a camcorder with her that night and she knew the strippers were going to be there.”

“Oh my God!” Erica was appalled at the treachery. She had gone so far as to invite Eloise Mayhew to the evening part of the reception.

“I’d asked her about them following her birthday party,” Helen continued. “She seemed a bit too zealous that I hire them. God, Erica, that and the molly – I feel so responsible.”

Erica protested. Yes, the pill had turned out a disastrous idea and she was paying a price for it, but her friend could never have guessed how Erica would behave, not if the bride hadn’t even known it herself. Not could she have appreciated the level of Eloise Mayhew’s vindictiveness. Helen, however, was not finished. “No, you don’t understand. I’m remembering now … It was Eloise who suggested the video guy, you know, Scott? She really sold him to me, that’s why I put you and Stephen in touch with him. Shit …” Erica’s whirlwind of concerns spun even stronger. “I don’t know if this matters,” Helen added, “but she suggested Alan the photographer as well.”

“Oh my God,” Erica moaned disconsolately, “it’s a conspiracy. What am I going to do, Helen? I can’t have everyone find out what’s on that disc! Oh Christ, I can’t believe I did that! Can we prove it was Eloise?”

“I doubt it, certainly not in time. And realistically we can’t deal with Gavin, not today. Not without risking those discs going out.”

Erica was crestfallen. She found herself dependent on her friend’s wisdom, looking to her urgently for a way out.

“We can try and sort out his evidence afterwards,” Helen muttered. “I’ll do all I can, but right now all you can do is go through with the wedding.”

“Oh God!” It was a near-silent wail of despair; she could feel the tears starting to build once more. “I can’t do it, Helen, I can’t stand up there and marry Stephen knowing what he—what Gavin wants from me.”

Helen seized her by both shoulders. “Now look,” she said firmly, holding Erica’s mournful gaze, “you’ve got to pull yourself together here. You want to marry Stephen, right?”

“Yes, yes I do,” Erica sobbed.

“Then today is the one chance you get. And if you have to give yourself to Gavin McClain in order to do so, then that’s the price you pay, yeah? See it as an act of love to Stephen if you like.” Erica was shaking her head in denial, but Helen pressed on. “Look, babe, you’re doing this thing. You’re going to get through today, I promise. I’ll be with you every step. You’ve got a church full of people waiting for you and you’re going to get out there and give them the wedding they’re all here to see, okay?”

It took a lot more convincing on Helen’s part, along with explanations to Mrs Greendale and other concerned parties, but eventually Erica was talked around. Helen was right—whatever her hen night slip-up, she owed it to Stephen, to the guests and to herself for God’s sake, to go through with this. Gavin could take her—she could only imagine how thoroughly he would—but she could not let him ruin everything. She had to be strong, had to face this trial with grace and fortitude.

“Let’s get you to the church, that’s the first step,” Helen said gently, and Erica let her friend guide her to the other bedroom, where her beautiful dress awaited.

She felt numb as Zoe from the salon adjusted her make-up. “It’s not a wedding without a few tears from the bride, right?” the girl said, as she reapplied mascara. It seemed unreal to be helped inside her dream gown in this fairy-tale gone horribly wrong. She stared at herself once more in her parents’ mirrored dresser, Helen and Zoe framing her. The corseted white bodice was embroidered with seed pearls, before the skirts flowed in a satin river down to her slipper-clad heels. The dress showed off her full bosom and tight waist gorgeously with its heart-shape, leaving her naked shoulders on display—an exquisite fusion of taste and sensuality. The long gauzy veil tumbled all down her back and the pearl necklace warmed on her skin like in the Carol Ann Duffy poem she had loved at school.

“Unlucky, pearls,” an aunt had warned her sagely. “You don’t want to wear them on you wedding day.” How Erica had laughed the superstition off. She was so grief-stricken, as the words came back, that Zoe had to apply the matching earrings for her.

“You look beautiful,” the girl said in awe. “The perfect bride.”

Everyone else’s reaction approximated to that one. Her mother looked ready to cry. Her dad swept aside all his irritability and held her with outstretched arms as though she was a porcelain doll. Kate and Camille, in crystal-blue dresses matching Helen’s, gathered around and hugged her.

“You okay?” Camille whispered in concern, squeezing her hand.

Erica would have confided totally in Camille once; it occurred to do so now, but too much contact had been lost. Today her lot was thrown in with Helen. “I’m fine,” she said, shoring up her strength and forcing a smile. “It’s just nerves, that’s all.”

“I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.” The smooth voice chilled Erica to her centre and caused her pussy to clench. Gavin was strolling from kitchen to hallway, Clementine on his arm, looking darkly amused. “What could go wrong for such a gorgeous bride on her wedding day?”

“You didn’t tell me how charming Mr McClain was,” Jane Greendale scolded her daughter. She had clearly been wooed by Gavin and his companion over coffee. “I’m so glad she invited you both,” she told her beguiling new acquaintances.

“We’re looking forward to the day immensely.” Clementine concurred with Gavin’s sentiment via a bright beam. “You’ve got a beautiful daughter here Jane, she’s a credit to you and to her soon-to-be husband. It’ll be wonderful to witness today’s climax—to their courtship. But look, we’re in danger of outstaying our very warm welcome. We’ll see you at the church, Erica. And then after.”

There was bustle and warm goodbyes from all but Helen, who was staring at Gavin with ill-disguised contempt. Erica was speechless during the couple’s departure. She fought not to let the internal tumult destroy her fragile composure. Helen clutched her hand reassuringly and then sat her down, stroking her arm as they all waited for the limos to arrive.

“You’re doing this for Stephen. We’ll take it a step at a time and get you through the day. Brave face, okay babe?”

Erica nodded somberly.

“Are you all right, dear? You look a little pale.” Her mother’s sentiments were echoed by others, but Erica summoned up her smile again—the fake sunny smile she figured would be in much use as the day wore on—and brushed aside all their worries.

“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s been such a long wait, that’s all. And I’ve a bit of a headache. I just want to get on with it.” Everyone smiled in response and her mother fetched paracetamol. It seemed they had bought her story.

As the beribboned limousine drove Erica to the church, she felt like she was heading to her own execution. She barely registered the journey, answering briefly and automatically to anything Kate or Camille said. Gavin’s oval gift in her pussy was a presence of which she was constantly aware; nor could she stem the tide of images from his tablet that were returning to her, playing out in all their gaudy horror. It hadn’t even been a semi-conscious ravishment on the hen-night. She had been an enthusiastic player in the action, slurping on those cocks with gusto like she was making up for lost time. That wretched pill had made her want to hug Helen and her friends and the whole damn world – that much she remembered from the evening’s early stages. Well apparently she’d ended up wanting to wrap herself (to say nothing of her mouth) around those hard-bodied specimens of masculinity more than anything.

What freakish desire had possessed her that night? Now this secret whore was in a bride’s costume, headed for a phony wedding, promising herself to one man, while caught in the lustful trap of another …

She gave a start as the car pulled up kerbside at the church. It was only Helen’s hand on her arm that steadied her.

The sun was shining on Erica from a sky of uninterrupted blue. It should have seemed a blessing on this July bride, but it oppressed her instead, beating on her brow like an accusation with no breeze to mitigate the condemnation. She wanted to draw the veil down over her face already, to hide her shame.

A floral arch decorated the gateway to St Xavier’s church, while further down the path to the restored 18th century house of worship the final few straggling guests were heading inside; parents were rounding up their perfectly turned-out children from among the thick-leafed sycamore trees where they were playing, herding them through the doors.

Then only the photographer remained on the church steps.

“Okay, let’s get a few of the bridal party before going in,” Alan Travers was saying. Erica knew him by reputation alone—the one Helen had passed on to her and Stephen. He was organising the party smoothly, changing the groupings and snapping efficiently, charming parents and flirting with bridesmaids. Camille in particular looked taken with his combination of amiable banter and dark good looks. A babble of excitement enveloped Erica, but she hardly heard a word of it. She was the troubled heart of everyone else’s joy.

“And now the blushing bride standing on her own, please.” Alan’s words filtered through her haze. She clung to her bouquet and, taking strength from Helen’s secret glance to her, drew herself up and faked serenity till the shots were taken.

“Lovely, that’s it,” the photographer said, then paused as he passed her en route to the church. “You’re going to blush before the day’s out, that’s for sure.” He winked at her slyly and was gone.

This time Erica did lower the veil, to mask the rush of mortification to her face. The conspiracy went as far as she’d expected, it seemed—one more person party to her shame. She had been stitched up royally, and there was nothing she could do.

“You okay?” Helen’s compassion was comfort, however small.

“What do you think? I wish this was all over …”

Minutes later the vestibule rumbled with organ music. Erica Greendale stood with her father alone for company, awaiting her cue with a sense of deepest doom. He patted her arm and leaned in solicitously. “Look, sweetheart, I know I get uptight. I said things I shouldn’t have this morning and I’m sorry. I want you to forget all that and know that I couldn’t have a daughter of whom I’m more proud. You make us all proud, and if you have the day of which you’ve been dreaming, then every penny was well-spent.”

Erica fought the pricking sensation behind her eyes. “Thanks Daddy.” Then the organ ceased and the string quartet she had begged him to book broke into the opening strains of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. It was time. Blotting out all else than the need to get to the altar, she began the funereal march down the aisle, leaning on her father all the way.

Sunlight was refracting through the stained glass as she progressed into the resplendent church. The players’ harmonies interlaced exquisitely and heads turned to Erica in their hundreds. Ladies in broad-brimmed hats gasped in delight at her, little girls goggled in amazement. But some eyes—she had no clue now how many—were staring as though through her dress, contemplating the lusciousness they imagined lay beneath. The rest of the wedding party was assembled at the front and waiting; she should have been focused on her groom alone, but other figures were there in the periphery of her veil-clouded gaze. Scott the wedding video guy, who had already pored over, probably masturbated to images of her hen-night whorishness. Alan the photographer, now seated in a side-pew—were these men expecting a piece of her as well? She couldn’t discount the possibility. And somewhere in the congregation … somewhere … Where the hell were they?

A sudden erupting of sensation in her pussy answered that question. She was three pews from the front when the egg exploded into life, channelling its vibrations from her startled vagina throughout her entire body. She flinched and nearly stumbled, and her father had to steady her. The great tuxedoed form of Gavin was there at her elbow for a moment, left hand plunged into a pocket so he could surreptitiously hit the remote. The great buzz in her loins lasted only seconds, but it was a sufficient reminder. I’m here. My eyes are on you and today your cunt is mine. Trembling, she made it the final few steps to join the wedding party and her expectant groom.

You look beautiful, his eyes said, as she peeled away her veil, and in her anguish she summoned up the best return-smile she could. He was gorgeous in his wedding tux and silver-grey cravat, his tall, lean-muscled frame all parcelled away from her in such fine trappings. His fair hair was swept back and flowing, face strong yet kind, never more so than now with his cerulean-blue eyes drinking her in.

“Surrounded by glamorous LA women,” he had explained in the lead-up to his proposal, “and I could only think of you.” How she yearned now, as the music of the strings soared and died, to give herself to him alone. Maybe if she’d offered up her sweet jewel, rather than preserving it so preciously all these weeks, she would not be in this mess. She would surely not have succumbed to her own secret lusts in that hotel suite …

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God …” Robin Stapley, the nice young vicar who had guided them through the marriage preparation classes was beginning. “… And the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with us all …”

Then the vibrations recommenced, softer this time, but enough to shock her pussy along with every inch of her taut flesh, as she stood before all those searching eyes. Reverend Stapley was continuing, leading the now-standing congregation in their responses, but Erica could scarcely hear him. It took all her focus to return her groom’s stare, what with the alarm screaming in her head and the low-key thrill in her clenched vagina. Her tormentor was a mere ten feet away from her. He was watching for every minute reaction in her face, enjoying her secret humiliation, loving his control of her wet secret place. And that camera was there to capture every moment, every flicker. She must betray no more signs than she could of his power over … Oh god!

The egg’s vibrations never ceased from that point onward. As the service progressed, so grew her torture. Gavin increased the device’s throb till waves were pummelling her insides, rippling their way through her to the nipples, then he let it fade to a low inner growl, never letting it die completely. He cranked it up during Love Divine, All Loves Excelling, so that it buzzed her cunt into a sweet fury. All her intimate flesh-folds screamed with sensation; her whole pussy seemed to be liquidising, drenching her thong till it over-saturated and the juice slithered down her trembling thighs. She tried to fix her eyes on the hymnbook which the vicar had given her, but the words were a blur. All sense of where she was, of propriety and decorum, was in danger of being robbed from her. The bride in all her wedding finery might be brought to orgasm before the entire church-load of people and right next to her own groom. It was a supremely alarming thought.

The hymn ended and at that instant the buzzing faded once more, persisting at its lowest setting as the Reverend continued into the marriage ceremony. Stephen was looking at her with concern; she knew her face was aflame along with the rest of her body. She tried to send him a reassuring smile. Scraps of the vicar’s words were filtering through to her— “here in the sight of God” — “holy matrimony”—“reverently, discreetly, advisedly and solemnly”—“let them speak now or forever hold their peace …” Oh god, if they all knew …

Gavin and friends would ‘hold their peace’, of course. They were having way too much evil fun at her expense, eyes fixed on the bride as she squirmed her way through this sacred occasion. Only she might object—because I’m a silly, stupid cock-sucking slut!!!—but the moment in which to do so passed. Her agony however did not. The vibrations were building again, shuddering throughout her. The vicar was talking of “mutual joy” and “the celebration of love and commitment”, and all the while another man was causing her pussy to ooze so that her stored-up honey trickled down her legs. Her father was giving her away now, but as long as that excruciating sweetness was rolling through her, she felt possessed by someone else entirely.

The rest of the marriage service threatened to dissolve in Erica’s mind. Reverend Stapley could have been reciting nursery rhymes for all she knew. What concerned her most right now were the waves emanating outward from her sopping pussy, making the pores of her flesh bead with sweat and her nipples poke hard against her bodice. But, Christ knew how, she made it through to the vows, the vows she and Stephen had chosen together.

Her almost-husband took her hand and slipped her wedding band onto her finger; she was sure he would feel the vibrations through her fingertips and recognise the awful guilt that was shining from her eyes and glinting on her skin. But he was professing his commitment to her unaware that anything was wrong, proclaiming how he would love and cherish her all the days of his life … and as he did, the Gavin-induced arousal was surging through her whole body.

Finally it was Erica’s turn to place the ring on her beloved’s finger and make her solemn promise. She had to do this, had to make it through for both their sakes, keeping her gaze on Stephen’s eyes and following the words of the vicar. “I, Erica Louise Greendale, take you, Stephen Edward Laughton, to be my beloved husband …” At that point a great electric thrill was pumped through her entire body so that she nearly lurched forward, eyes widening. She gripped Stephen’s hands tight to stabilise herself.

“Are you all right?” the vicar was asking. Stephen was leaning in worriedly, bearing her up.

“I’m fine,” she gasped. “Keep going.” He did, and she repeated, the vibrator thrumming through her like Gavin’s presence inside her body, as she swore herself to Stephen. “… To be at your side in sorrow and in joy … to love and cherish you always … all the days of my life.” Promising herself to one man, with the knowledge that before the day was out, another would pillage her conjugal trove with his great hard dick.

She had just made it to the end when Gavin switched the egg to an outrageously high setting, making it tremor like it would hatch inside her cunt. “Aaaagh!” Ohhh god … It was only a little scream, but enough to make the congregation gasp. Stephen caught her swaying body and somehow she absorbed the explosion of sensation. “I’m fine, I’m fine …”

They finally made it through, the egg settling down once Reverend Stapley had declared them husband and wife. “Those whom God has joined together let no man put asunder,” was his final instruction. There was only one man with the power to sunder anything, and Erica would have to satisfy his rampant cock in order to prevent it. The thought loomed huge in her mind as her husband kissed her.

“It’s okay, I‘m sure no one else noticed a thing,” he whispered, as he guided her shaky steps to the registry at the back of the church. “You okay now?”

“A little light-headed, that’s all.” Relief swept over her at being out of Gavin’s range. “Not enough breakfast.” Her parents’ worries also needed dismissing. “I’m fine, really. I was a bit overwhelmed, that’s all—and it’s such a hot day.”

She was a wilting, sweating version of herself all through the signing. There was no relief from torment, it seemed, for Scott Anderson, editor of the hen night footage, had his camera in her face the whole time. She could guess his thoughts as she leaned in to sign the register. It was all she could do to hold the pen. Her only concern right now was making it to the bathroom and removing that wretched egg; from that at least she could have some relief.

The practicalities, once she got there, threatened to foil her. How to conclude the messy operation without staining anything? She might have enlisted Helen to aid her, but that detail of her shame was still more than she felt able to share. Then the door opened and with mixed emotions she realised she had not been left alone in her plight.

“It’s okay, I’m here to help,” Clementine assured her sweetly. “Go on, hitch up the skirt.”

“No, I’ll do it alone.” Anger was flaming up along with her mortification this time. Who the hell did this girl think she was?

“You’ll never manage it,” the young blonde pointed out reasonably. “We can’t get this beautiful dress all messed up.”

Erica was too wrung-out to object any further. She allowed her skirts to be gathered up by her helper, allowed her sodden panties and juice-encrusted thighs to be displayed. She made to turn away so she could retrieve the offending object herself, but Clementine would not let her.

“You’ll never reach,” the girl insisted gently. “Let me.” Erica’s cheeks were on fire, the blood pounding in her temples, as Clementine slipped her fingers inside the silk thong and went searching. As her probing fingers squelched inside the bride, she chatted amiably. “You were a vision up there, a perfect bride. You took my breath away. I absolutely adore weddings, but I’ve never seen one as gorgeous as that. Oh god, Erica, you’re so fucking wet, so beautiful. Hang on, I think I’ve got it …” Her fingers picked out the troublesome little invader and slowly drew it away from the sucking clutch of Erica’s cunt.

“Let me clean this off,” she said, holding it up. “Then maybe you’ve a bag you can put it in?”

“I don’t want to keep it!” Erica was still blushing from Clementine’s intimacy as she readjusted her garments. “Get it away from me!”

“I suppose I’ll hold onto it then,” Clementine said simply, “if you don’t want your gift. It’ll be all the more special to me knowing where it’s been.” She licked the object clean with a lascivious pink tongue and slipped it into her shoulder bag. “I’m sorry.” She genuinely sounded abashed. “I had to taste, couldn’t help myself. Look, I’ll leave you to get ready. I can see you’re a bit flustered.”

“Flustered?” Erica cried out, causing Clementine to pause at the door. “Why are you doing this? You don’t even know who I am! Why would you let this happen to me?”

“I’m helping.” The response sounded sincere, but Erica scowled at it. “No, really,” Clementine insisted. “I know Gavin. He would do this anyway, with or without me. At least like this I can help you out where I can. You can’t blame me if I … Well, you look so delicious. The two of you will be sensational together, I feel quite jealous.”

She departed with a knowing smile, leaving Erica to recuperate. The bride leaned against the sink unit, heart beating apace following Clementine’s pretty, feminine violation. She breathed deeply, willing her body back under control. To have been fingered by a stranger-girl here in the House of God, to have been brought so near to climax by a lustful blackmailer during her own wedding ceremony …

Her wedding ceremony ...

Against all odds she had made it to the title of Mrs Laughton. In law at least she was Stephen’s, even though she had been fixating on another man’s cock as she spoke her vow—the cock which had been so warm and alive in her mouth a mere two hours ago … Stop it, stop it! Not my fault, not my ...

Only it was, wasn’t it? Her drunken hen-night performance had set this all in motion and Gavin’s great rod would punish her for the sleazy crime.

But Stephen must not be touched by all that. It was her duty now to protect him, to cordon off all nastiness from the rest of her wedding day, from the rest of her life. She would go through whatever motions that blackmailing bastard wanted and it would mean nothing. He was expecting her to come for him and had tried to push her there during her marriage vows. Well he had failed then and he would fail later. Of that satisfaction at least he would be robbed. What could he possibly do to her with his loathsome arrogance and his unbearable smugness and his huge, hard cock?

Helen joined her in the bathroom, catching her as she began to wilt once more. “How are we doing?”

“I don’t know. I’m married to Stephen I suppose.”

“Yes, you are. You were so courageous up there, even if you did have a little episode. People won’t mind, they won’t even remember. You’re going to see this through, right?”

“I don’t know.” She explained all about the photographer—a fourth person plotting against her, adding jibes and covert looks as the day progressed. The full Clementine details she skirted, so deep was her embarrassment.

“We’ll sort it all out after,” Helen told her confidently. “We’ll sort him out. I promise. Get through today, be the stunning bride for Stephen, don’t let Gavin or anyone else take this away from you.”

“You really think I can do that?”

“I know you can, girl. Go out there and hold your head high. I’m proud of you.” She held Erica’s gaze and drew from her a weak smile. “Now, let’s touch up that face. You’re the star of today’s show.”

Erica felt distinctly lacking in the star quality befitting a bride, but she clung to her spouse’s hand once back in the registry and hoped that some of his cheeriness would channel through to her. Her muted mood she passed off to him as a tension headache. “But I won’t let it spoil our day, I promise,” she said, trying to quell the surge of panic brought on by her words.

Her unwitting groom held fast to his whore bride, as they walked from the church into a cloud of confetti. “Throw the bouquet!” he had to remind her, and she flung it almost desperately, scarcely noticing that Kate Laughton was the gleeful recipient.

The post-marriage photo shoot was a grim business. Erica had two vultures hovering throughout—video-Scott filming in the background and Alan Travers resuming his oh-so-amiable photographer’s banter as he snapped them all close up. Both men were behaving themselves, but she had a sense of them leering through their lenses, imagining. Oh god, did Gavin intend to have them record her shame? The thought sent a shock of fury through her. That, if nothing else, would be a deal-breaker.

Travers’ words were laced with innuendo as he photographed the couple: “Okay, let’s have our gorgeous bride with her lucky groom. You can’t have her to yourself for a while yet, got to share her for a bit longer.” While her husband grinned and hugged her with propriety, the bride felt her smile tighten. Today, it seemed, was to be respite-free.

The limo journey to the hotel might have provided a temporary cocoon, but for the fact that Erica shared it with the man she was in the process of betraying. She should have been blissfully melting into her first private interlude with her husband, but it was an effort even to meet his eye. Gavin’s phantom cock was swaying ever before her and it was hard to see past it to the man she professed to love. Instead she nestled guiltily into his side, resting her head on his shoulder like the doting new wife she was meant to be. She wished she could cuddle with Helen instead, her only solace in the midst of this nightmare.

Arrival at the Langham returned her dread to the level she had felt in the church. How smug, how delighted she had felt when her father agreed to book one of London’s most exclusive hotels for her reception. Now as Stephen drew her from the car, as he led her through the cheering guests who thronged the great porticoed entrance, there was no delight. This magnificent building would house her wedding celebration and her debasement at the hands of Gavin McClain. Everything from the moment she stepped into the marble-pillared lobby was countdown to the debauching of the bride.

But that was for her to deal with, right? Her father had poured money into his only daughter’s wedding day so that three hundred people could share in her self-indulgence. Those same people had rained gifts on her and Stephen, so she’d better give them what they expected. Erica drew herself up and launched into the meet-and-greet, gliding through the vaulted splendour of the reception area and sumptuous art deco of the Artesian bar, showering her bridal favours on cousins, great aunts and old college friends who had driven or flown in for the happy occasion. The cameras she dodged all she could, till she was virtually dancing through the two families and their amassed friends, bestowing greetings and giving out peals of girlish laughter almost manic in their cheerfulness.

The performance grew in momentum to the point where she nearly fooled part of her brain with the illusion that all was well. Then in the heart of the crowded bar she swung away from her favourite maternal uncle, straight into her charming nemesis and his date. Her heart jolted and she only just stopped herself from stumbling in reverse.

“You’re doing amazingly well,” Gavin told her approvingly. “Stephen looks quite the proud husband. You’ve obviously made him very happy.” She thought she might have a panic attack on the spot.

“You look magical,” Clementine chimed in. “We were just saying.”

“Quick reminder,” Gavin said confidentially. “I know you’re busy and I don’t want to keep you. Scott has both edits of the ‘Story of Erica’—the pre-watershed one which he’ll be screening during the speeches and the extended cut, which he can put on any time he wants. His choice is entirely dependent on your being present at the Infinity Suite for our private celebration at, let’s say nine o’clock. Once the dancing is well underway. I know I said I had my own suite booked. That was something of a white lie, I’m afraid.”

“The Infinity Suite …” Erica breathed out the words, all the horror of their morning encounter rushing back to her. “That’s our suite, mine and Stephen’s!”

“Later it may be,” Gavin replied casually. “But at nine o’clock it’ll be ours to enjoy, Erica. Yours and mine. I trust you’ll be there to let us in. We’ll set aside an hour for play. More than that would be pushing it, don’t you think?”

“Find somewhere else,” she hissed, desperately trying not to make the wrong sort of show. “You can still book another room. I’ll pay you back.”

“Now where would be the economy in that?” Gavin asked mildly. “I wouldn’t dream of having you pay. No, Erica, it’s there or nowhere. And you can’t risk nowhere. Understand me?”

“Darling, we’re about to go in for the meal.” Erica jumped at the sound of Stephen’s voice. “They want to seat the head table.” She looked around and faltered in her reply, so stunned was she at finding herself between her new husband and her blackmailer.

Gavin stepped in, reaching to shake the groom’s hand. “Congratulations, Stephen,” he said with warmth. “I hear you came rushing back from the States to claim your lovely bride here. Quite the romantic gesture, well played, that man. I’m very glad I can be here to share the day with you both.”

“Thank you Gavin,” Stephen replied. He seemed taken aback yet pleased by his one-time boss’s magnanimity. “It’s great that you and your friend here could make it.”

“It’s all so lovely.” Clementine beamed on introduction. “And Erica looks absolutely stunning. We could both eat her up.”

The heat of embarrassment seared Erica. She could scarcely breathe until Stephen had exchanged final pleasantries with the couple and guided her away. As she retreated, she could almost feel Gavin’s stare burning into her back.

“Who’d have thought? Gavin McClain actually being civil to me,” Stephen said in amusement. “It’s pretty magnanimous of him to come along, especially since he had a crush on you. He can take it on the chin that you’re Mrs Laughton now. He’s a bigger man than I thought.” He winked at her in considerable self-congratulation and from the mire of her mind she dredged a convincing smile.

Oh god, he’s no idea how big …

Dinner was an endurance test, at the other side of which lay Erica’s final challenge. She was seated between the swelling prides of her husband and her father, overlooking the myriad guests in the hotel’s Grand Ballroom. The elegance of the place with its Doric pillars, gold-embroidered curtains and crystal chandeliers seemed horribly at odds with her situation’s shabbiness. Everything was laid out on the starched white of the damask table clothes with precision and refinement, from the tightly-budded rose bouquets to the slim white candles in their silver holders. The room was set up for the DJ’s arrival later on, all in place for the day’s continued merriment. If only she had reason to be merry … For there is was on one side of the DJ’s podium—a great video screen onto which would be projected the ‘Story of Erica’. Whether the guests would get to enjoy the full version was up to her.

Committed now to her ordeal, Erica had practicalities to consider: namely extracting herself from the celebrations and ensuring that no one went looking for her. Exactly how did the main attraction vanish from the wedding proceedings without drawing attention to her disappearance? And how could that person be expected to breeze back in as though nothing had happened, looking like she hadn’t been rigorously worked over by … No, no, don’t go there. It was better to divert her mind from what would transpire within the bridal suite. She simply had to get herself there and cover her traces.

What would happen inside was beyond her control.

She picked her way through the asparagus, the salmon and the dessert of crème brulee, making a show for Stephen of enjoying them. For all the bespoke dishes she had so carefully selected she had no stomach. Not with those gloating eyes in the body of the room, not with Gavin and his pretty consort charming more of her relatives half to death. She got by with as little small-talk as possible, passing off her lack of appetite as headache-related; it was an excuse which now seemed doubly useful, so as the time trickled towards the appointed hour she played it up more and more, even as she fortified herself with white wine.

“It’s the stress of the day, that’s all, sweetheart,” Stephen assured her. “We’ll leave this circus behind soon and it’ll be just the two of us. You and me tucked away from the world.” He couldn’t quite keep the excitement from his voice and it made her quail in renewed dread. “Besides,” he added jauntily, “it could be worse. You could have to make a speech.”

Speeches—she had to look calm and appreciative through all of them, smiling in the appropriate places. Her dad, reliving all the stories of little Erica and her childhood marriage fixation; how happy he was now that she had chosen a husband as talented, successful and charming as Stephen. Trevor Laughton then standing up to welcome the gorgeous bride into the family, lavishing praise on his beautiful, sweet-natured new daughter-in-law. Terry Leonard, the grinning Best Man, running the fine line of acceptability in his allusions to Stephen’s past. And then Stephen himself, proclaiming himself the luckiest man in the room and far beyond. She smiled up at him on cue, trying to blot out what felt like the telepathically-transmitted crowing of her prospective defiler.

“I’m not sure words can express quite how wonderful this girl is,” Stephen was spouting, “so maybe this can.” He indicated the huge screen at the end of the hall. Scott Anderson was in place at the laptop.

It was a contender for the most tortuous moment of the day so far, wedding-vow vibrations notwithstanding. Everyone was laughing delightedly at the sequence of Erica-images which flashed onto the huge screen, and Stephen was looking down at his bride for her reaction. There was no reason why Gavin would play his trump card now, but what if Scott had got the discs wrong, what if he had been unable to resist shocking this nice middle-class assembly with big screen footage of the new Mrs Laughton sucking strangers’ cocks? She had to wring the happily-surprised smile onto her face as the movie played out, but one hand was clenching the other under the table as the moment of that awful segue approached.

And then … it passed. The Greek patio-dancing switched not to the hen-night grind, but to a scene at a funfair shooting range, Stephen handing her the stuffed toy he had won on her behalf. It was all cute and heart-warming, as far a cry from the tits-out, cum-spluttering bachelorette mayhem as was possible. Erica melted into relief, right before she caught sight of Scott, discreetly flaunting a second disc. The disc, the one that told her full story. He winked from across the hall and she looked away, face flaming anew.

Everything else matched expectation, down to Great Uncle Bertrand and his convoluted ramblings once speech-making was thrown open to the floor. She thought the whole thing had been wrapped with a final toast after that. Then her expectations for her day’s smooth running were smashed once more, as Gavin rose to his feet. She might have shattered the cut crystal wine glass currently in her grip, so shocked was her response. As he spoke the room began to spin around her like she had drunk too much champagne.

“It’s not my custom to speak more than I have to,” Gavin said to the guests, “but I feel it would be remiss of me if I didn’t say something on behalf of Rainbow Software, for which Erica has worked these past three years. During that time I’ve found her a committed and inspiring employee, yet I feel she has gifts yet to be fully exploited … and that’s something, Stephen, I intend to put right with no delay.” The glance he gave to the groom was reassuring and Stephen appeared to return it with one of gratitude, before Gavin continued.

“The gift I passed on earlier seems somehow inadequate now. A girl like Erica should be given something much more substantial than a spice rack.” Laughter rippled across the room. “And she will, believe me. You know, I see her here with her groom, the man who has claimed this very special woman to be his, and it makes me swell with … with joy that she’s getting today everything she so richly deserves. It’s wonderful for me to share in this occasion and I know that I’ll look back on it with immense personal satisfaction. To Erica.”

Glasses were raised, Stephen’s included, to his unconventional toast. Erica cringed, resisting the pull of Gavin’s arrogant stare. Clementine toasted beside him, gazing over in delight. Erica longed for the spotlight to fade; she could no longer bear to be the object of one man’s ravening attentions and so many others’ fawning. But then it was time for yet another ceremony. Stephen and she were picked out and photographed again, as they stood together at the architectural wonder that was their wedding cake. She clasped the knife with her husband and was sure, as she smiled into Scott’s camera one further time that the pain and tension would leak visibly from her eyes.

Then all formalities were done. Nothing remained between Erica and her adulterous appointment but a succession of aching minutes. The timepiece in her mind had an amplified tick and she checked the silent one on her wrist as frequently as discretion would allow. The evening crowd began trickling in, but she was in no mood for further socialising. She clung instead to Helen when apart from Stephen, updating her on Gavin’s demands while sneaking two further glasses of champagne to fortify herself. Helen merely nodded and stroked her friend’s arm consolingly.

Brian the DJ was setting up now and soon Erica was being ogled again, as she dutifully took the floor with Stephen to lead off the evening’s festivities. Crushed up to her handsome husband, she slow-danced her way through Lou Reid’s Perfect Day. This was the only man she should hold later on stripped of his tuxedo. She hugged him tight while other couples joined them on the floor, as though that could make things better. She even made a show of revelry when the tempo sped up and Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough kicked in. Fear and alcohol were fuelling her now, so that the darkened ballroom spun surreal with flashing lights. A glance to her watch sent a shock of anxiety right through her.

Time to make the break, to do this thing—but how could she get away?

Ironically it was Stephen who provided her cue. “You’ve been quiet since dinner,” he said, as she trailed him from the now-packed dance area, feigning sheer physical tiredness. “Probably shouldn’t have had so much bubbly. Did it make the headache worse?”

“Yes, it’s starting to feel like a migraine.” Her heart rather than her head pounded as she seized this opportunity. “I could do with some air perhaps.”

“Maybe you need to head up to the suite and lie down for a while.”

“No!” she protested a little too urgently. She couldn’t have him go looking for her there. “I need to take a break, that’s all. And get something for my head. Can you stay with the guests and keep everyone happy while I’m gone? Please?” She had been signalling to Helen, and her chief bridesmaid joined her hurriedly from the dancing throng. “Helen, could we … maybe …”

“It’s fine, Stephen, I’ll look after her if she’s a bit poorly,” Helen promised. Stephen stared at his bride uncertainly.

“You haven’t had any time with your own friends,” Erica insisted. “They need to see some of you. Let me get some fresh air. I’ll be okay.”

“All right, sweetheart,” he said, smiling with affection and kissing her cheek softly. “Take care of her, okay?” he instructed Helen, as she spirited Erica away.

“Okay, what do you need from me?” the bridesmaid inquired in a hushed tone once she had Erica alone.

“Time, I need time! Say till … till ten thirty. And no one is to … you know, interrupt.” Her mind reeled with disturbing images of what might be interrupted. “They can’t even know where I’ve gone.”

“It’s okay, I can cover for you,” Helen told her calmly. “Once people start asking, I’ll say you’re in the ladies’.”

“But my mother will come looking! You might cope with Stephen, but mum will insist on your taking her to me, I know what she’s like.”

“I’ll deal with your mother, I’ll deal with them all—buy you the time you need,” Helen insisted. “I’m an excellent liar when I have to be. You have no idea. Erica, you have my word—no one will come looking.”

Erica was reassured. Checking around, she could see neither of her key persecutors. Significantly, it seemed, they had departed the Grand Ballroom. Camille was chatting animatedly to Terry the Best Man and Kate was all over her boyfriend, Brian the DJ. Erica’s parents appeared to be bonding with Stephen’s. More evening guests had arrived, including she noticed with a rush of helpless anger, Eloise Mayhew. No doubt the treacherous bitch intended to hug the bride while revelling in her own mischief. No matter—there simply wasn’t room to fret. This business had to be got through. She looked back at Helen, summoning the nerve required to reach her all-important destination. “Okay, I need to go and do this.”

“God, I feel responsible for the whole thing,” Helen told her.

Erica reached out and touched her friend’s arm, her eyes welling. “Don’t go blaming yourself. Everything you did was well-intentioned, I know that. You’ve been such a good friend to me—you couldn’t know how spiteful anyone else was going to be. Just keep everyone else from finding out where I am.” Emotion surged. “Oh Helen, how am I going to be with Stephen tonight after this?” Then she swallowed back the sudden on-rush. “I’ll see you after. Keep everyone away, please.”

Checking behind to see that no one else from the main party was observing her, Erica left, heading for Reception. Gavin was observing along with Clementine from one of the plush foyer sofas, she noted, and her heart drummed quicker as she waited for her key-card at the vast mahogany desk. This was real. This was happening. God, what a terrible thing she was doing. What a terrible, horrible thing.

She made for the elevator—purse clutched grimly, the key-card slipped inside. She blanked a couple of old school-pals along the way, lest they try to engage her in chat. Gavin and friend were on the move now too. As the great doors slid smoothly open, she thought the couple were going to join her, but instead Gavin rang for the elevator opposite, providing her with a discreet nod like she was a co-conspirator, not a victim. Her own doors sealed her off from them and for the few short moments’ ascent to her floor she was alone.

Ascending to hell. How appropriate on this weirdly askew wedding day. Because it was all horrible, right? There wasn’t any part of her that wanted what the next hour promised. No perverse corner of her brain which found it scarily exciting. To submit completely, as a man she had once desired did whatever the hell he pleased with her body, while the one she had just married chatted to friends a few floors below …

The elevator drew to a stop and delivered her to her ultimate wedding-day fate.

TO BE CONTINUED