The Temptation of Sinful Cynthia

(Dedicated to Kate)

Cynthia sank into the chair in front of the vanity set up in the tastefully decorated hotel room. She resisted the urge to rub her eyes, knowing that it would ruin her carefully applied makeup. Taking a shaky breath, she look herself in the mirror, trying to come to terms with the pale veil, the frilly white dress beaded with pearls, the red of her lipstick.

It's your wedding day, she thought, you're supposed to be happy when this happens, aren't you?

She had just finished running off her bridesmaids and various assistants. It was just too overwhelming, the constant chatter and excitement, the stink of hairspray, the lewd jokes over flutes of sparkling wine. Her nerves already frayed and wanting some quiet to sort out her thoughts, Cynthia... well, there was no use gilding it. She exploded, yelling at them all to just get out. Already she could tell her mascara was beginning to run, although none of her assistants and hangers-on stuck around to argue with her.

To her credit, Sara, the maid of honour, immediately switched to damage control mode. Ushering everyone out, explaining that the bride needed some space for herself, she took control of the situation and gave Cynthia what she needed. Sara cast a hurt look back over her shoulder at Cynthia, though, one that made the bride's stomach twist with guilt. These people were here to try and help her, several of them, the makeup artist, wedding planner and hairdresser, just doing the jobs that they were being paid to do. They didn't deserve to get yelled at. They had nothing to do with her situation with Brad.

There was a loud knock at the door to the hotel room, and she breathed a loud sigh. "I said to give me, like, fifteen minutes, please!" Cynthia yelled over her shoulder at the door. It didn't sound like the kind of soft, hesitant knock that someone might do to draw attention from an upset friend, that she'd expect at this point from Sara. Hopefully, whoever it was would just... fuck off. Sara said she was going to tell everyone downstairs in the banquet hall that the bride needed a little more time, maybe whoever was at the door would find Sara and leave Cynthia the fuck alone for a bit.

Not for the first time that day, Cynthia ached for a cigarette, or better yet, a joint. That was, in some ways, the heart of the problem. Cynthia had always seen herself as a free spirit, a give-no-fucks goth girl who get her first tattoo with a fake ID at fourteen, who flipped off her teachers and seized life with both hands. Somehow, she had ended up in the box of the (allegedly) happy housewife, without even realizing that the trap was there for her to step into. No, she thought bitterly, the cage was built up around her, bar by bar, when she wasn't paying attention, just being a young girl in love trying get through her English degree with her sanity and finances intact.

Now, here she was, financially dependent on her fiance, with a useless degree and few real friends. Her geeky, cute high school boyfriend had started out as an earnest, passionate engineer with a brain full of ideas, a person who was just excited to explore the limits of what his field had to offer. Since the end of college, however, he had undergone a metamorphosis into an arrogant and greedy businessman, spending increasing time at the office and on business trips. He began treating his bride-to-be more as a decoration than a person, and accessory trotted out for company functions and visits to the family.

In the wake of his scrappy little startup company (that Cynthia used to be oh-so proud of, let's not forget her own role in becoming complacent, she reminded herself) being swallowed up by one of the godlike tech giants increasingly dominating the world, Brad had decided it was time to start appearing more "legit" to his new, more wealthy peer group. And that meant finally tying the knot with his longtime alt-lifestyle goth girlfriend with the pointless degree, no job and no prospects, and making her into a good little housewife to be seen at holiday parties and barbeques, and absolutely never heard.

The root of Cynthia's tantrum started that morning, when she was sipping coffee while hunched over the breakfast bar in the condo that she shared with her fiance. While fixing his own cup, her slender, dark-haired husband-to-be slid a scrap of notepaper over in her direction, one with a list of names on it.

"What's this?" Cynthia asked dubiously. She took the piece of paper and examined Brad's chickenscratch writing. It was a list of names, several of which she recognized but couldn't put a face to. The top of the list was Brad's new boss, an aging engineer named Rob with the body and personality of a saggy bag of rice, and from there it only took a second scan of the note to put it all together. These were people Brad had invited to their wedding from his work.

Brad didn't reply right away, except by the tinkle of the spoon stirring the sugar and cream into his coffee. Cynthia's eyes went from the note to the snowman-and-reindeer printed mug in her fiance's hands. She took her coffee black, and had since she was an edgy teen, though by now she had developed a taste for it. The mug in Brad's hands made her roll her eyes. Using Christmas mugs out of season annoyed her, too.

"I'd like you to make a point of dancing with these people tonight, and approach them if they don't ask," Brad explained simply, setting aside his spoon, "Everyone at work talks about how hot my sexy bride is, you'd be doing me a favour by spending some time with these guys."

Cynthia wanted to crumple the note in her fist. "Excuse me if I'm getting this wrong, but you want me to spend time on our wedding night helping you score points with your work buddies?" she asked, incredulous.

Her fiance closed his eyes and gave a theatrical sigh. "It's just a little bit of dancing, Cyn. I think this is the least you can do considering the amount of money I'm plowing into today."

Fury blazed within Cynthia. "I'm sorry that our wedding is such a burden on you," she said tightly, putting the notepaper down with some effort, "But I'm not your whore to pimp out to your work buddies on the dance floor."

"Jesus, Cyn, get over yourself," Brad shot back, "It's just a little dancing, would you relax?"

Cynthia's eyes went back to scrap of paper. "I told you that Rob Mearns touched me during that last pool party you dragged me to," she replied, her voice all acid and bitterness. It wasn't exactly traumatic, but it was humiliating to squawk in surprise at the old man's hand on her ass in front of everybody, only for the fat old prick to laugh the situation off with a joke about how he was "checking the hardware" for Brad.

"I might dance with a couple of these dudes if they ask, but I'm supposed to be your wife, not your PR manager," she granted, relenting just a touch, "And I am not doing more than shaking hands with that prick." Regardless of how Brad was making her feel, it wasn't like he was exactly putting her out. The entire thing about weddings was spending the night dancing and partying, after all.

The negotiation that followed left Cynthia pissed off. She allowed herself to be talked into seeking out Brad's manager's boss, and dancing with whoever asked except Rob Mearns. But she wasn't happy about the situation, and was glad of an interruption in the form of Sara, showing up to whisk her away to the hotel where the wedding would be taking place.

And now, Cynthia had spent the morning stewing through her hair dressing and makeup sessions until she couldn't take it anymore. She had exploded at the room full of paid help and barely-known girlfriends of Brad's buddies. Cynthia sighed at her reflection, regretting her outburst. It was Brad who deserved her venom, not the people who, for all Cynthia knew, had probably been signed up for this as barely willingly as she was.

Whoever was out in the hall knocked on the door again, and Cynthia slammed her hands on the vanity surface, making a noise of frustration. Levering herself up out of her seat, she stalked over to the hotel room entrance, violently yanking the door open. "Listen, I'm being a bitch, I know, but I need-" she cut herself off mid-rant, giving an open-mouth stare at the tall man who looked down at her, with an amused smile playing across his lips.

"Sinful Cynthia," the man told her, reaching out with a large meaty hand to grip the doorframe, leaning casually, "Sara told me I could find you up here. I hope I'm not intruding."

"Vandal," Cynthia replied by way of greeting. She remembered Vandal Vickers from high school, a huge, broad-shouldered early bloomer who had been one of the stars of the school hockey team. He towered over Cynthia by nearly a foot in a modest charcoal grey suit with an emerald green tie, vest and pocket square that stood out against the bright white of his shirt. He possessed a delicately featured, handsome face that seemed an incongruous mismatch with his size. She remembered him as something of a pest, the kind of casually arrogant teenage dickhead that constantly smirked and had no problem with intimidating others and toying with the emotions of the unfortunates, boy or girl, who ended up crushing on him.

"Ah, so you do remember me," Vandal said as he started forward, into the room. Cynthia found herself giving way before him unconsciously before she caught herself. "I have to admit, you look good all in white. It contrasts nicely against those pretty eyes of yours," he rumbled with a chuckle, "Going with a runny makeup look, huh? Glad to see you're still rocking that goth aesthetic."

Cynthia turned away, back to the mirror, and saw that she had, in fact, been crying without realizing it. Inwardly cursing her lack of self control, she rounded back around to Vandal. "What are you doing here?" she spat at him, "I'm stressed out enough without having to worry about an asshole like you on my wedding day."

He laughed under his breath again, in a way that suggested he was an adult having to deal with a bratty but amusing child. It somehow managed to make Cynthia even more annoyed."Well, when I received the invitation from Brad personally, I couldn't refuse, could I?" he told her with the arrogant smirk that always seemed to loosen a girl's panties in high school. Not Cynthia's of course, she reminded herself, as she rubbed her thighs together unconsciously. "I think the little twerp wanted to rub it in my face that he was marrying 'the one who got away' from me, the hottest alt girl in school who never seemed quite willing to give in." Vandal turned away, and shrugged, as he headed over to the tray of glass flutes, and the half-finished bottle of champagne, cool in it's bucket of ice water, "But I'm a big enough man to let the skeevy little douchebag have his day, especially when I had the opportunity to congratulate a certain little kitten personally."

Cynthia grimaced. She had forgotten Vandal's penchant for giving the girls he wanted demeaning nicknames. "Black kitten" was hers, not doubt specified to keep her different from who knows how many other "kittens" Vandal had wrapped around his fingers. She had almost forgotten about it. But something else about what he said piqued her interested, and she tried to refocus. "Wait. Brad sent you the invitation himself?" she asked, uncertain. She certainly didn't remember seeing his name of the guest list, but with a few hundred guests it was impossible to know for sure if she didn't just overlook it.

"Yes, he did," Vandal answered as he filled two fresh glasses, the room so otherwise quiet that she could hear the wine foaming as he poured it. "Me, and few of the other guys who liked to throw their weight around back in school. I don't think he realized that some of us still play on the same senior league, and we occasionally talk to each other without being friends on Snap." Vandal gave another low, deep, amused chuckle as he turned and handed a champagne flute to Cynthia.

She looked at the glass like it was a viper for a moment- she wouldn't put slipping her a roofie past Vandal- but when she reached for the glass in Vandal's other hand, he shrugged and relented, and didn't hesitate to help himself to a sip from the rejected glass. "Seems that our lad Brad really wanted to drive home to a bunch of his old bullies that he was the one carrying off the prize of the goth gf everyone was lusting for," he told Cynthia, in between sips of champagne.

Cynthia took her own, thoughtful sip of the wine, taking the time to try and get her thoughts in order. Her head was spinning. "He wanted me to make sure I danced with a bunch of his co-workers," she muttered into her flute as she lowered it, before taking a seat again at the vanity. Her eyes flicked around the mess she had made, hammering on the vanity hard enough to knock over the various cosmetics.

Vandal laughed again. "For real?" he asked, before tossing back the rest of his champagne. He looked back in time to see Cynthia's miserable nod. "I guess Bradley Townsend really does think of you as a proper little trophy to wave around and show to his friends." Vandal helped himself to a second glass of sparkling wine. Cynthia could see his dark eyes watching her carefully in the mirror, a tall, confident devil seeming to stand over her shoulder, while her face was creased with uncertainty and runny mascara.

He's trying to seduce me, Cynthia though, the idea flitting through her mind as her eyes returned to her drink. Vandal was chipping away at her regard for her fiance with all the subtlety of a battering ram, but she couldn't say that she minded it. If what Vandal said was true, Cynthia thought, maybe she deserved to have a little revenge. "Is it just you, or are there any other members of the dickhead squad slouching around?" she asked, handing Vandal her empty flute when he stepped forward and silently offered to take it.

"As far as I know it's just little old me," Vandal replied, as he sauntered back to the pouring station. "I don't exactly control what my hockey buddies choose to do or where they choose to go. The days of being 'dickhead squad' ringleader are long gone." He snorted a laugh. "More fool me, I guess," he said, a touch of bitterness in his voice as he poured, "Like I said, I didn't come here for Brad, I came here for one last chance to take a shot at you." He returned to her with the glass, and offered it to her. "To missed opportunities," he said, tilting his flute towards hers. Silently, she clinked glasses with him, and together they emptied their flutes.

"You were a pig in high school," Cynthia told him, setting aside her glass. The bigger man placed in own next to hers, close enough that they accidentally chimed together again. Vandal shrugged, and replied, "Guilty as charged," but Cynthia wasn't quite done with him yet. "If you're so concerned about missed opportunities," she continued, "Maybe I would have given you some serious consideration if you weren't sticking your cock in every girl who'd split her legs for you, or if you didn't rub in how much pussy you got with every virgin and so-called loser on campus. It's kind of wild to hear you accuse Brad of making me into a trophy at this point."

Vandal smirked at her, and Cynthia looked away from his eyes when she could feel her pulse rising. Was she seriously considering this? "Well, there is one key difference between me and Brad," he said, as he looked down on her. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her jawline, soft enough to make her shiver as he ran his fingers down to her chin, and tilted her face up to look at him. "When I use and objectify people, I don't lie about it," Vandal told her, looking serious. Crazily, Cynthia shivered again under his stare. She hadn't really noticed before how his charming teenage good looks had aged from cute, overconfident boy into a kind of dignified, self-assured handsomeness. "If I was to claim you like a prize and parade you around in front of my friends, I wouldn't lie about it, it would be because you wanted to be treated as Daddy's pretty little ornament."

Cynthia rolled her eyes at him. "'Daddy'? Really?" she asked, her voice dripping with mockery, but she could feel the heat in her cheeks. He did have very strong looking hands, and briefly she wondered what it would feel like to have those hands wrapped around her wrists, holding her down. She blinked, giving her head a brief shake. Where did that thought come from? The champagne? She had never taken the submissive position with Brad. If anything, it was the other way around.

"Forgive me for having such pedestrian tastes, o queen of the night," Vandal had replied with a chuckle, drawing Cynthia's attention back to him, "I'm sure you're into freakier sex than I could imagine, but as you pointed out I'm hardly a blushing virgin."

Now it was Cynthia's turn to snicker. "Actually, do you really want to know?" she asked him, rising out of her chair so she could sit on the vanity, and taking a moment to settle the skirts of her wedding gown. There, much better, she could actually face him now. Her eyes met his, and again she felt a rush of heat to her cheeks and looked away. "I never really fucked anyone but Brad. We've been together since, what? The eleventh grade? I fooled around a few times before that, got eaten out a few times, did, you know, hand jobs...." It struck her as ridiculous that she was having this kind of conversation with a man she hadn't seen in years, on her wedding day, but a part of it excited her, too. "...But I never really got to experience much. The whole slutty goth girl stereotype really doesn't apply here." She reached out a hand and poked Vandal's chest. "You've had far more action than I, Mr. Hockey Himbo."

He did take hold of her wrist, then, and Cynthia thought her heart was going to pound through her chest. His grip was firm and powerful, but gentle, exactly how she imagined it might be. Abruptly her eyes widened. Could he feel her pulse, did he know how her heart was racing because of his touch and attention? "How about it, Sinful Cynthia?" he asked her, his voice low now. He leaned forward, and the scent of his spicy aftershave made her head swim. "Your husband-to-be wants to parade you around his friends and old enemies, turn pretty little Cynthia into a trophy so that everyone forgets what a whiny, weedy loser he was in high school." His other hand came up, to gently stroke her cheek, and she desperately tried not to nuzzle his hand. "I trust your taste enough to say that he wasn't always like that, no doubt," Vandal continued, "But that doesn't change what he is now. You don't have to let him control your every move. What better way to show that you're not going to be an obedient, good little housewife than to...."

Something deep inside Cynthia would not bend. A little voice that reminded her that she had just downed a third of a bottle of sparkling wine, that she was stressed and just had a fight this morning, that above all she needed space. Her other hand came up, and planted flat on his chest. "No," she told him in a voice that was surprisingly thick. She cleared her throat and repeated herself. "No, not like this. Give me... give me a minute to think. Please."

Vandal smirked at her again, but he did relent, releasing her wrist and taking a step back. "Sure," he told her, crossing his arms as he regarded her, "But you really ought to think carefully on whether or not this is a one-time offer."

Cynthia's mouth worked for a moment while she found the words. "Don't... don't get me wrong, I am interested," she looked him over again, the thickness of his arms, the broadness of his shoulders, "Very interested, even. You are good at what you do, I guess you've had a lot of practice, but...." She swallowed, her mouth dry. "If I'm going to cheat on my husband on my wedding day, if I'm going to fuck you, I don't want it to happen because of a passing whim. I want...." she trailed off again with a shiver. What did she want? Did she even know? "It should be a deliberate choice," she finished, "I owe myself that."