The wedding planner

I'm hitting the wedding planner's office with nerves buzzing and my cunt still sore from the morning we just had. That velvet voice on the phone didn't prepare me for the man himself—tall, clean-cut, and already looking past my tits to the altar when we met. My fiancé sipped espresso while the guy walked us through florals and string quartets, but the whole time all I could think was how he’d bent me over the marble counter at the tasting the week before, yanking my thong to my knees and sinking balls-deep on the first stroke. His hand sealed over my mouth so we wouldn’t spook the catering staff two rooms over. He pumped me like he already owned the day we’d say our vows, thick shaft stretching me until I was dripping down my stockings. Best man after “best day of my life.” Cock like a Sicilian secret no wedding planner has any right owning.