wedding preparations

She emerges from the bathroom wearing a black thong and sheer pantyhose. The combination is strategic—the thong pulls her cock up and tight against her body, and the pantyhose adds another layer of compression, the silky nylon creating a second skin of restraint. It's brilliant and torturous.

"How long can you wear that?" I ask.

"As long as I have to," she says, but there's already a flush in her cheeks. "But it's going to be a long day."

The hair appointments start at nine. By ten-thirty, I catch her in the bathroom at the salon, her hand down the front of her pants, eyes closed. She's only partially undressed—thong pulled aside, pantyhose intact. She strokes herself quickly, efficiently, under control but ****.

"First time?" I ask from the doorway.

She jumps, pulling her hand back, but doesn't look ashamed. If anything, she looks relieved I found her.

"The nylon," she breathes. "Every time I move, it rubs against me. I can't focus. My hair is being done and all I can think about is how much I need to come."

"How many times today?" I ask, already knowing I shouldn't have asked because it's going to make both of us harder.

"This is the first," she says, stroking herself again, not bothering to hide it now. "But it won't be the last."

She comes quickly, quietly, her hips thrusting into her own hand. When she's done, she pulls her thong back into place and straightens her pantyhose.

"I need to go back," she says, but she's already planning for the next time.

At the fitting appointment, I watch her move carefully through the alteration room. The wedding dress is pristine white, expensive, traditional. As she stands on the platform in front of the mirror, the seamstress pins the hem. I can see Tessa's breathing is shallow. Her thighs are pressed together. The nylon hose are creating that constant friction, that relentless stimulation.

She catches my eye in the mirror and mouths, "bathroom." Not a question. A statement of fact.

Five minutes later, I find her in the fitting room's private bathroom. She's sitting on the toilet lid, pantyhose pulled down just enough, thong twisted aside. She's stroking her cock with quick, urgent motions.

"It's so sensitive," she gasps when she sees me. "The nylon makes everything feel different. More intense. I can't stop—I've been like this since we got here."

I lock the door and drop to my knees. I take her into my mouth, and she comes almost immediately, unable to hold back. The silky sensation of the pantyhose still framing her, the intimacy of the small bathroom, the risk of being caught—it pushes her over the edge fast.

"That's twice," she says weakly, as I pull back. "I need to make it through the rest of the day."

"Can you?" I ask.

"I have to," she says. "But it's getting harder."

By four o'clock, we're back at her parents' house for final preparations. She disappears upstairs, and I follow after a few minutes. I find her in the upstairs bathroom, pantyhose rolled down, thong completely off, her cock standing at full attention.

She's in the mirror, watching herself as she strokes, completely lost in it now. The accumulation of the day—the constant friction, the denial, the overwhelming sensations—has broken through her control.

"Third time," I say, and she doesn't even look embarrassed.

"I can't help it," she moans. "It's just been rubbing against the nylon all day, and I'm so fucking hard. I needed to get off again."

I move behind her, wrapping my arms around her from behind. I replace her hand with mine, stroking her while she watches herself in the mirror, watching me watch her.

"This is insane," she gasps. "I'm getting married in less than twenty-four hours, and I can't stop coming."

"Maybe you should try," I suggest, speeding up my strokes.

"I can't," she says immediately. "I've tried. It doesn't work. The moment I stop thinking about it, the nylon starts rubbing again and I get hard all over."

She comes for the third time, harder than before, cum shooting into the sink. Her whole body shakes with it, and I hold her against me as she rides it out.

"We can't let anyone see," I say against her neck.

"I know," she breathes. "Tomorrow after the ceremony. We're leaving immediately, and we're going to that hotel room, and I'm not wearing any pants for at least twelve hours."

She cleans herself up in the sink, splashing her face with cold water. The makeup is still perfect. No one will know she's just come three times today.

When she emerges, she pulls on fresh pantyhose and adjusts her thong carefully. The compression is back, the restraint is back. But her eyes are glazed, her breathing still not quite steady.

She makes it through dinner. She smiles for photographs. She listens to her mother's nervous rambling about the ceremony tomorrow. And the entire time, I can see her thighs trembling slightly, the nylon catching the light as her leg bounces just enough to create more friction.

"You're okay?" her mother asks, touching her arm.

"Perfect," Tessa says, her voice steady despite the fact that I can see her pressing her thighs together under the table. "I'm just excited."

Excited. That's one word for it.