When I married, the Berlin Wall had yet another year to stand. And we had to look West over it. Gotta tell you this because my wedding night story is not exactly following the typical American wedding nights you see in movies. However, we had the chance to be married in the church; to party at a reserved slick restaurant downtown, together with our one hundred (or so) guests; to after-party at my new home, property of my in-laws. But my in-laws gave no automobile (although they could) to their son. And the train taking us to our honey moon hotels, rolling cascades and picturesque mountains, was about to depart only Sunday afternoon. It was Saturday night. So we silently subtracted ourselves from the buzz of the after-party in the garden. We locked us in the foremost distant bedroom. And hungry Don passed to action. He couldn’t wait, mind you.
That very morning, he arrived, escorted by his best friends and cousins, to take me from my father’s apartment. To the city hall and the church, to the restaurant and so on… All day long he could hardly control his hands from stroking my waistline. And when someone told him to kiss the bride, then hang on dear. French kiss after French kiss. Long, firm and steady. Had to gently shorten the moments. For the sake of the audience. He kept whispering in my ear: “I love your flushed cheeks. Wanna bite your wild strawberry lips (which he did more than once). You’re like a juicy peach in your bridal gown.” And he slightly pinched my hip again. After all the busy day, he couldn’t wait to leave the party behind, to be alone with me. And so it began, our wedding night, with yet another French kiss.
His hands comforted my back while subtly unfastening the zipper. Getting me out of the gown was a bit cumbersome. Had to threaten him not to shred it to parts. Unruffled, his hands were undressing me. His eyes bathing my body as my dessous went away, piece by piece. From time to time, his tongue spoke French to mine.
Two nights earlier he took my virginity, in the same bed. After several months of small steps, I finally gave him free way beyond the gates. Thought that would bring less pain on my wedding night. And, I can tell, that helped. A bit! Because I remained quite tight, in spite of the champagne, in spite of the prolonged warming up. It was the most beautiful night of my life, to that date. I did not laughed out loud. Was afraid to make noises in that house. I was too shy. But happy like no one else. And like never before. I had my prince, in bed with me. Loving me, eating me, praising me in poems and prose. I was consumed by him with a genuine and copious lust. I owned him and he owned me.
As mentioned, the intercourse was still a bit painful, but not that painful as when he broke his way in, two nights before, when my hymen turned to red spots. Don’t know if spotting can happen twice when you lose your maidenhood. But I know that I bled again, after intercourse, on my wedding night. Abundantly. My period came. Ouch.
“I broke you twice, my little bunny!” He ranted with a fulfilled voice.
“Shhh… Can’t you hear?”
“Think that some of your cousins came in the next room to sleep. The after-party seems to be over.” I catch his lips with my fingers so that we can both hear through the silence of the night.
Indeed. Voices betrayed to us that the dining room wasn’t empty anymore. A few couples tried to find refuge and some rest before dawn. An all-knowing cousin sent his raunchy comments through the door to us. Don would respond but I kept his lips tight, literally. Then we slept.
Late in the morning, someone was knocking at the other door, from the bathroom. I woke him up, telling him to step to the door and politely ask what’s up. Which he did, naked, the way he likes to walk. It was one of his aunts asking in silent voice if we’re alright in there. “Sure we’re alright,” he said. “And Doris?” — returned the aunt — “is she fine?” I was more than fine but stressed by the impertinent aunt disturbing us with her nonsense questions through the closed door.
“What do you want?” Sliced Don through her sweet curiosity. And then we heard another voice. “We brought you fresh melons, open up!” In this I can recognize the voice of his raunchy cousin’s wife. She brought us a morning treat. Was that tradition or something? We didn’t know, we weren’t good at this. What should we do? Accept the melon or refuse it? I tell Don to wrap a towel around his waist and open a bit just to take the melon while returning a smile and a thankful look. I made a mistake. As the door was unlocked, Don couldn’t hold it with one hand against the flood of cousins and aunts waiting to enter our room. The melon offering WAS A TRAP!
Up to five intruders broke our intimate morning after my wedding night. In bed, I flushed again beneath the sheets. It was such an embarrassing moment. I wonder how senseless I grew with age because now I can talk about it but, for years, I didn’t even want to remember. The intruders noticed a couple of red stains on the towel around Don’s waist. In the middle, yes.
I was so uncomfortable by this new situation that I asked Don to invite them out of the room. No, not verbally. I couldn’t be impolite with our guests. I just made eye contact with Don and showed him the door. He got the idea and, bit sharp, bit funny, he thanked for the delicious sliced melon and pushed them, with a firm grace, out.
I knew that they wanted to inspect if I was a virgin before my wedding night or not. Well, as he has taken my virginity two nights before, I can say that I wasn’t. But I just entered my period, which stained Don’s dick, which stained the towel which turned the desired answer for the curious intruders. They’ll never know…