It was supposed to be a marriage made in heaven. But behind the scenes, the story was anything but sacred.
Months before the ceremony, a mutual friend confided in me: he’d been asked to be best man at an upcoming wedding. The groom was excited, the bride glowing. Everything seemed perfect—on paper. But as the date approached, shadows started creeping into the picture.
This bride-to-be had a reputation—a quiet one, but well known in certain circles. She had a way of getting close. And a few of my friends had already gotten close… intimately. So when she started flirting with me, I brushed it off at first. Harmless banter. Casual conversation about life, work, her child, her future husband. Then came the shift—subtle, but unmistakable.
Her tone changed. Her texts grew flirtier. She opened up about her doubts, her dissatisfaction, her craving for one last wild ride before settling down. She wanted to feel something—anything—other than what she was pretending to feel walking down that aisle.
Then came the day.
I was home, off from work, when she passed by unexpectedly. She said she noticed my car and wanted to check if I was okay. I told her I wasn’t feeling 100%, and she offered to “chill for a bit” before heading to work. An hour later, she showed up—fresh from a shower, skin glowing, wearing that unmistakable scent of someone who knows they’re being watched.
She complimented my home. Said a man like me shouldn’t be alone in a place like this. We sat, we snacked, we talked. And somewhere in the quiet rhythm of conversation, she told me plainly: “I’m not in love with him. I just feel sorry for him.”
There was sadness in her voice. But also desire. And when I hugged her—out of what I told myself was comfort—she didn’t let go. Her hand found its way under my shorts. And just like that, a line was crossed.
She closed the curtains. Removed her top. The kind of body that made you question all your good judgment. I tried to resist—tried to remind her (and myself) that this was her fiancé’s friend. But resistance disappeared when her lips found mine, and her breasts pressed against my chest.
What followed was a mix of intensity and disbelief. Oral so masterful I forgot we were supposed to be making good choices. She warned me she was ovulating. I told her I had no condoms. She hesitated… then gave me the green light. Just don’t finish inside her, she said.
I didn’t listen.
And she didn’t stop me.
From that moment on, the affair escalated. More visits. More sex. No guilt—at least, not at first. And then came the big day. The wedding.
I wasn’t invited. Rightfully so. We weren’t friends like that. She… well, she was otherwise engaged. Literally.
But that morning, she came to my house again. Hours before the ceremony. No bra. No panties. Just a flowing summer dress and a sinful smile.
She said, “lets do something we've never done."
I laughed in disbelief.
And then, we did.
She told me to do whatever I wanted. Her wedding dress was hours away. Her husband-to-be was clueless. Her moans filled my house like they always had—loud, hungry, unashamed.
We made love again. In the shower. On the bed. She begged me to finish inside her—said she wasn’t showering, wasn’t washing my scent off. She wanted to carry the odour, the memory, the residue of me underneath her wedding gown.
And I let her.
By the time her entourage rang the doorbell to prep her for the ceremony, we were still tangled in bedsheets and unresolved feelings.
She left my house with traces of me dripping down her thighs… and vows waiting at the altar.
Closing Thought
Some stories are hard to tell. This is one of them.
I wasn’t in love with her. And maybe she wasn’t in love with him. But what we shared in those stolen moments was real—raw, selfish, complicated.
Do I regret it? Sometimes.
Would I change it? I don’t know.
But I do know this:
Not every “I do” is honest.
Not every wedding is sacred.
And sometimes, love stories start… and end… in all the wrong places.
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