There was a wedding reception going on at a hotel in the centre of town. Jayne and Rolf. Jayne was a good-looking 22-year-old brunette, elegant and cultured, and desired by many a man in this small community. And none more so than Henk, a 25-year-old son of Swedish parents. The family had moved to England five years earlier and Henk felt almost English. He had mastered the language easily, had a good job in management with the same hotel and was popular, particularly with the girls, who wondered, as we all do about foreigners, if there was something different, something exotic and maybe kinky, about him.

He was so blond that his pubic hair must be fair too, although of course he would be shaven to the point of shininess down there. But he might have a smoothness about him, almost feminine, even though he was manly and muscular and had worked his way through a sizeable chunk of the eligible female population in the area.

Henk had met Jayne a week earlier. It wasn’t her hen night but it was the dying days of her single status. Henk sensed that she was having doubts about getting married, but then most people did, didn’t they? Cold feet, they called it in English. When you thought about it, it was perfectly natural. As much as you might love someone and want to spend your life with them, surrendering your right to have a relationship with someone else was a drastic step.

Jayne was indeed feeling like that. She was a strong, independent woman with a reckless streak that had seen her fall crazily in love several times, even eloping once when she was 17, spending a riotous, passionate, draining week in a cheap hotel in London before running out of money and realizing that there was at least one way in which she wasn’t ready for it.

So she had strolled back into her parents’ home as bold as brass and resumed her education and her normal life, but with a drunken, borderline pornographic episode on her CV.

Two years later she had met Rolf, who was ten years older and running his father’s car dealership. He had money, confidence and a certain worldliness that she found irresistible.

He was also, she had to admit, an arsehole: a domineering, opinionated jerk and it was infuriating to her that that side of him didn’t turn her right off - in fact it kind of turned her on. Being as headstrong as she was, maybe it was true that she needed someone more powerful than herself.

Whatever, he had wined and dined her, taken her on expensive holidays and generally made her feel like the woman of the world which she wasn’t, I fact, not yet.

When he proposed to her she said no, but he just laughed and asked her again a month later. And a month later. And eventually she could see this guy wasn’t going to give up and she reasoned that there were worse fates for a girl to suffer. And he knew his way around a female body, so she never went unfucked, unsatisfied.

Jayne researched the issue methodically, looking up strong female characters online, from Lord Nelson’s Lady Hamilton to Jerry Hall, with whom she felt more affinity. Hall was a serial tamer of wild men. Jayne could identify with that, and if this was to be just the first of a string of marriages, then so be it.

And when Rolf grabbed her the moment she entered the house, wrenched her clothes off and fucked her over the settee, she didn’t feel subservient. He was a man who needed a gutsy woman, and it gave her a thrill to be “taken” like that sometimes. At other times she would sit on his face and when she had pissed in his mouth he had responded with a granite-hard erection and the determination to fuck her to insanity.

And yet, and yet, and yet…

Cold feet didn’t even begin to describe it. She was angry at herself for being pulled down this road, angry at him for doing it and petrified of a future that sometimes seemed like a straitjacket.

And then her strong side kicked in again and she told herself it was a means to an end, and she did love him, whatever that meant.

The wedding took place in a chilly old stone parish church which kept both sets of parents happy. Then down to the hotel and Rolf was knocking back the champagne like it was protein shakes. And flirting with every woman in the room. She saw her life flash before her and wanted to stop it. But the deed was now done.

Swilling her fourth bucks fizz she excused herself from the little group she was with and headed for the toilets, but walked past them and down the stairs into the large lawned courtyard. It was early April, sunny but crisp. None of the guests were there, because the smokers had a better alternative at the front of the hotel.

Jayne sat down on a cold steel park bench. She felt free, alone, relieved of her burden. Little did she know she had been spotted. Henk had seen her from his office window, watched her emerge furtively and flounce over to the bench, swinging her big white wedding dress with disdain. It’s funny how all women look beautiful in their wedding gown, he thought. Or attractive, anyway. Fuckable. And this one didn’t need sartorial help. She was gorgeous in the first place. He imagined her sweet, smooth, shapely body beneath all that fabric.

Henk found himself heading down the stairs before he had even decided what to do. In seconds he was standing in front of her and they were smiling shyly at each other. Henk began some small talk but Jayne cut him short. With a flash of madness and that reckless certainty of hers she said,

“Shit, it’s colder than it looks here. Can we…?”

“Of course,” said Henk. “Come to my office.”

His office was a converted bedroom on the third floor.

The two made it unseen to the room and sat at the desk, he behind and she in front, businesslike.

This is no good, Jayne thought. She shifted to demonstrate she was uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” he said. “Not very relaxing chairs.”

“This is a bedroom floor,” Jayne said noncommittally. “Are they more comfortable?”

“Of course,” said Henk. He picked up a key and motioned for her to follow. Both looked right and left as they entered the corridor, and Henk threw open the door to the next room. It was a standard hotel bedroom. King size bed, made up and ready in that pampering, sterile way. Two wooden-armed upholstered chairs separated by a small table. They sat there.

Henk was praying for guidance. It looked like he had struck lucky – incredibly lucky. But you couldn’t take anything for granted. She needed to do something.

Jayne was on exactly the same page.

“These things are so uncomfortable,” she said, standing up and adjusting the volminous skirt. She hadn’t wanted an old-fashioned, billowing one, but the slim ones showed her large arse and she couldn’t have that. She sat down, clutching the hem and rearranging it so it lay across her thighs, exposing her knees. She hoped the Swedes didn’t have some excruciating code of honour. She hoped he was red-blooded enough to not be able to help himself at this point. She fished under the bundle of skirt and pulled down the garter her grandmother had persuaded her to wear.

“Garter,” she explained. “Traditional in my family.”

And, she found herself transmitting wordlessly, it has been up there near my pussy. Wouldn’t you like to smell it?

Fuck, Henk thought. Knees, thighs, intimate items. This can only mean one thing.

Henk stood and walked the two paces to Jayne. He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips. She lingered. He took her face in his big hands and kissed her passionately, deeply. Dirtily – but that came mainly from her side. He knelt in front of her and kissed her some more. His hands disappeared up the skirt and played with the satiny flesh between her stockings and knickers.

He lifted the skirt further and looked at the configuration of stockings, suspenders and angelic white panties. He could smell a combination of perfume and vagina. He bowed his head and felt her thighs part further as his nose touched her crotch. He licked the gusset of her panties, feeling the slit beneath it.

Jayne reached down and pulled the gusset out of the way, presenting Henk with her naked pussy. He licked and sucked and his thumb wormed its way into her hole.

It dawned on them both at the same time that the chair had outlived its usefulness. They stood and maneouvred awkwardly to the bed, where Jayne sat down and leaned back, wrestling with her encumbrances. Soon the suspenders were undone, the stockings were off and Henk was pulling her knickers down. He licked her hungrily and she whispered, “I want to suck you.”

Henk removed his clothes as Jayne scrambled out of the dress. She lay on her back and watched as his gleaming, pale body emerged. He was shaven around his cock and that cock was a fine, mighty thing.

He climbed aboard and 69ed her, licking her succulent juices as she manipulated his raging hardon into her mouth. Their fingers were between each other’s buttocks and suddenly Henk pulled her onto her side and grabbed her, thrusting his face into her arse.

This was great, Jayne thought. She was still a free agent, an independent spirit. Married, yes, but with another man’s tongue in her arse, where Rolf didn’t go anyway. Rolf wanted to fuck her there but he didn’t want to adore her that way, which was what this beautiful, mysterious man was doing. Should she do it to him? Never done it, didn’t really want to, decided not to. Her Scandinavian lover was eating her like a wild boar he had shot with an arrow and roasted in the woods. He was happy, lost in his own little world as he devoured her.

And then inevitably, momentously, naturally and overwhelmingly Henk was on top of her, between her legs and his big cock slid into her quivering cunt. At that moment it wasn’t a pussy, but something far more primitive than that. They were the hunter and the hunted, even if the hunted had allowed herself to be caught. And this man had his big, primitive but beautiful cock way up her cunt.

This was what wedding-night sex must have been like centuries ago, she thought, in the days when a woman might actually have been a virgin and her man had been champing at the bit for months or even years. This was a full-on, rude, crude, desperate fuck, a juicy, slavering shag with her melting all over him and now erupting inside her, shooting his blind, single-minded seed deep within her.

By rights it should have been her husband, but hey, he was going to be getting more than his fair share over the years. In the meantime she was happy, satisfied, almost ecstatic at having been shagged lasciviously, wildly, with no frills. This big man had simply fucked the life out of her.

As for Henk, he didn’t know what to think. The luckiest day of his life, probably. This beautiful, wild girl, pristine under her wedding dress, had allowed him to defile her and yet it didn’t feel the slightest bit wrong. His cock was still inside her, in pools of fanny batter and semen, like Christmas turkey in gravy.

They showered and dressed quietly, both suddenly bashful. Then Henk returned to his work and Jayne skipped downstairs and slipped back into the party.

“Where the fuck have you been?” said Rolf heartily when he finished dancing with a teenage girl.

“Just getting bit of peace,” Jayne replied.