She despised him. 

Despised the wisps of hair that straggled from his nostrils, the saliva speckles that adorned his lips as his mouth gurned to reveal crooked tombstones demanding a hygienist's attention. Despised the heated wave of his breath ripe with stale hints of alcohol and cigarettes and garlic. Despised the weight of his body against her thighs, her pubic bone, her stomach as he slammed his swollen and insistent member into her weeping, receptive cunt. 

She'd despised him when she first met him all those lunar months and years ago. Despised him as they waltzed through the expectations of courtship; the coffee, the drink, the meal, the first kiss and the entwining embraces of flesh that inevitably progressed to needy rutting amongst unwashed bedding. Despised him as she stared bleary-eyed into his smeared mirror the morning after and used her finger as a toothbrush before stalking home in the early light pursued by regret. 

She despised the getaway weekends at rental cottages, to days lost sex and wandering barefoot and windblown on empty beaches. Weekends that progressed to weeks in the sun at intriguing but not quite exotic foreign destinations. Dousing herself in alcohol and sunshine before sliding her glowing, sweat and aftersun coated flesh across his as she growled her pleasure into the cloying stillness night after night. 

She despised his friends and his family, his hobbies and interests, his opinions and the sneering condescension with which he would thrust them into every conversation no matter how banal. She despised the tightness of his arse, the squareness of his chin, the bulge in his boxers, the roughness of his hands on her moisturised flesh and the knowing ease with which he would spread her thighs and tongue her sopping slut-cunt to the point of pleasure before leaving her hanging and begging for release. 

She despised believing that every day would be the last, that he was but a phase, a fling, a beating heart and a pulsing cock with which to dally until something better came along. Despised the fact that day never came and despised him for the lies she told herself to keep herself tethered to disappointment. 

Despised him now as her nails raked down his back, leaving tramlines burning in his flesh as she clung to him, back arched, breasts up-thrust, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs as he pistoned gloriously into her wanton wanting.

Despised him as her muscles squeezed possessive about his throbbing length, dragging him into her, desperate to feel the smashing of his cockhead against her cervix as she screamed and squealed and panted in lustful abandonment. Despised his screwed-up eyes, his flushed face, the quivering tension in his body, and the grunted exclamations as his hips ceased thrusting and she felt his male wetness spurting into her already drenched sex. She despised her own orgasm as it spiralled from her pulsing core to overwhelm her resistance and consume her entirety. 

But mostly, she despised him for placing that gold band on her finger on that near-perfect spring day as bemused she'd stood observing herself decked out in ivory. Despised him for the structured bodice, the concealing veil, and the extended train that hid her complaining feet squeezed into ill-fitting shoes. Despised him for trapping her with self-uttered words of assent as surrounded by sanctified air and watched over by seraphim and cherubim, she mumbled... 

"I do"