Vows Pt. 03

The damn toy has first gotten bigger and then shrunk again, and it vibrates at random times. I can only hope that nobody else can hear it. I sure do. The vibration shivers through all of my bones. I am mortified at the idea of it sliding out of me. Would it land on the floor with a wet splat-and-clatter? Or would it dangle between my calves, held up by the cable, feeling like a real soggy fish?

And I am also so, so very horny. Dylan is giving attention to my vagina, so I love it even while I loathe it. It's probably messed up. I don't care anymore.

As though he knows I'm thinking about him -- then again, I'm always thinking about him -- Dylan turns away from his current conversation partner and makes eye contact with me from across a distance. His handsome face brightens with his trademark smile, smug and confident and knowing.

Just like that, I know it's time to get married. To tie the knot.

He comes to me and gently leads me away from my parents and up to the pavilion. All around, the guests start paying attention to us as we walk past them, my hand on Dylan's elbow, his hand covering my hand.

He huffs a laugh when it takes me forever to get up the three steps. Other people might think that it's because of the skirt or the high-heeled shoes. Dylan and I know it's because I'm tightening my pelvic floor to keep the wriggling vibrator from slipping out of my sopping wet pussy.

In the pavilion, there is a small table with two stacks of thick luxury stationery paper, maybe two or three sheets each, two elegant fountain pens laying on top.

According to the Vow, words are just noise. Writing them down, however, is a behavior. Thus, writing them down gives them concreteness and value. And a promise that's written down becomes a cousin of the Vow itself.

Dylan and I have spent the last few days writing down our goals and expectations for the future. Our wishes and hopes. Our vows.

We exchange them. I stifle a scandalized gasp when I see that Dylan's vow for me is mostly explicit descriptions of what he plans to do to me and my body parts, and how the enforcement of the behavior he wishes me to exhibit for him will generate a conscious attitude and routine conduct and deportment that will enable me to be and do whatever the hell I want in life.

For your own perfection, and my unending pleasure, I vow to make your cunt ache every day and night. You will accept the hurt I will give you as evidence of my honest devotion to you as your husband, of my love of all that you are, and of my vow to our shared future.

We simultaneously reach for our fountain pens. He signs my vow to him with an elegant flourish, never breaking eye contact, and I do the same. Or I try to, because when I get to the last swish of the last letter of my name, the vibrator jerks fiercely inside of me. My knees lock up, my body jolts, and the priceless pen clatters to the floor, splattering ink on the stone.

"Uhm, ungh, sorry," I manage, half-moaning, forgetting my very first lesson yet again. The vibrator pumps into me, poking my tense vaginal muscles. I start sweating with the effort to keep it from slipping out of me.

While our audience murmurs appreciatively -- I swear I can hear my mom gasp in romantic delight -- Dylan goes down to a knee in front of me and picks the pen up, like a perfect gentleman. He smiles up at me and offers the sleek writing utensil that now has a visible scuff on its polished mantle. As I take the pen from him, he mouths 'You're perfect, Lizzie' to me.

Or maybe it's 'You're so fucked, Lizzie'.

I ache and clench and drip.

***The End***

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