Monday Sneak Peek: Bridal Experience (Patreon)

At this point, it might seem as though I'm just trying to tick as many TG trope boxes as possible--and you wouldn't be wrong--but I'd had this scene planned long ago. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! This extract is from Chapter 4.

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            “Anyway, I got to thinking this week about—well, Cindy.” She leaned in a bit closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And how she might disappear some months down the line, and all those wonderful experiences she’ll never enjoy.”

            She pulled back, and smiled, and I swear there was something sad and melancholy to her gaze as she looked over me. “That didn’t seem fair to me. I want you to—enjoy this, Cindy. I’ve signed us up for the full bridal experience: drinks and nibbles, hair and makeup, and I’ve brought the lingerie. And after, once we’ve found the perfect dress—pictures, so we never forget.” Julia smiled, and her eyes were distant. “Something to remind you of what could’ve been.”

            Unexpected tears glimmered in the corner of her eyes. I opened my mouth to speak, but just then one of the shop women approached. 

            “We’re ready for you now,” the woman said, and led us through one of the archways.

            The ladies at Juno took charge, and by the time they were done with me, I was… gorgeous, absolutely fucking drop-dead sexy and beautiful, but in a demure, eyes-downcast, trembling flower kind of way. Makeup heavy, but not too bold; blonde hair gleaming, styled and erupting into bouncy, full curls. They built me from the ground up, chatting all the while. They were fantastic at putting me at ease, but absolute bullies at moving things along, iron fists wrapped in silk. “We had a man in here last week,” one whispered conspiratorially as she did my nails. “Can you imagine? You should’ve seen the look on his face.”

            “Very pretty face,” the other woman added.

            “His fiancée loved it.”

            “He did not, at first?”

            “Yet a very pretty bride.”

            “By the time we were done.”

            “But not as pretty as you,” they assured me.

            I stripped naked and changed into the panties Julia bought for me: a delicate wisp of ivory silk, decorated with sapphire bows and lace. Then creams, sprays and powders, bronzers and highlighters conceal imperfections (what imperfections?) and drawing out an almost inhuman luminosity—by the time they were done, I shimmered like a desert mirage under moonlight.

            Then the familiar ivory lingerie, that ivory corset brought back from the Clinic, and they cinched me in with almost cruel delight, per Julia’s instructions, mindful of my recent piercing which the carefully secured behind tape. I’m not sure my waist had ever been so tightly bound, tapered and narrow. A strapless bra, held up by both magic and tape, displayed my tits. Then gossamer silk stockings with exquisitely wide, decorative welts, and shoes—elegant and delicate, less tall than I’d expected but with pencil-thin heels demanding precise and careful steps.

            Finally, and after careful consideration, the dress chosen by Julia. Time and effort to squeeze into that cascade of skirts, off-the-shoulder frills and tight bodice secured over corseted curves. Drop pearl earrings and heavy necklace drawing attention to my prodigious bosom. The ladies then posed me on a little dais and snapped photos beneath soft lighting, and I felt very much the unattainable Beatrice on a pedestal. Men could gaze and write sonnets in my honour, yearn but never touch, or if they touched—touch themselves. I was virginal wank-fodder in silk and satin, and I swear my eyes were wide with disbelief in half those photos at the crushing impression of my own bridal beauty.

            But the surprise—the big reveal—was Julia herself, emerging from behind a curtain having undergone her own transformation: suit and heavy shoes, her long hair hidden beneath a short, sandy-coloured wig. She had a thin, precise moustache, and her tits must’ve been flattened by a chest binder beneath that elegant dark grey suit. There remained something distinctly feminine to her curves, but there was also something unexpectedly manly about her, too. They’d brought out a firmer cast to her features, stronger chin and thinner lips, and a wholly unexpected heat flare in my belly. I felt— dainty, as she stood next to me, and vulnerable—and consequently, desirable.

            So many photos, then: her, sliding a ring onto my finger. Side by side, arm around my waist. Veiled, and then carefully pushing back the veil to reveal full lips and my half-frightened, half-eager anticipation. Leaning in for the first, hesitant kiss, careful and chaste. Then in her arms, swept back, the heavier kiss that stole my breath and left me gasping, wanting more. With a bouquet. With flutes of bubbly raised in cheer. Alone, arms at my side and lips slightly parted and an ambiguously distant look: resigned, or ready?

            My favourite, though, was a photo taken at the very start after Julia joined. It’s an image—a memory—carried forward beyond everything that happened afterwards:

The young bride stands next to her husband. She is slightly shorter than he is, despite the heels. (A trick of the camera; Julia stood on a short riser, and my knees were slightly bent, hidden in the folds on the dress.) Silver and tiny pearls glitter in her hair, and her hair is pinned up in golden curls high on her head. Her long veil is thrown back. The man’s arm is at her narrow waist, possessive and assured. The simple dark grey of his sleeve cuts a sharp contrast with ivory white, but also with the intricate whorls of lace and tiny woven stones that glitter and catch the light. She looks tiny in his arms, cleaves to him. One hand holds the forearm across her waist closer, as though confirming possession; the other hand rests lightly against his side; and the fingernails of both hands are vividly pearlescent pink. The new husband gazes forward and upwards, as though into the future, and his lips curve, very slightly, in a smile. But the bride sees only her groom: she gazes up at him adoringly, green eyes wide with potentiality.