First Sight, First Sin
The first time you saw Annabelle, she was laughing, rich and unapologetic. It cut through the murmur of the café like a machete. Her head was tilted, golden hair pulled into a messy updo, catching the afternoon light. Lips, glossy pink, parted just enough to show perfect teeth. Everything about her was a dare.
Men glanced. Then quickly looked away. She intimidated them. Too bold. Too aware of the power she wielded. Not like someone begging to be noticed, but like someone who knew she couldn’t be ignored. The slow swirl of her wineglass, the deliberate crossing of bare legs, the way her fingers trailed along her own collarbone—everything calculated to unravel anyone watching.
And then there was you. Staring. Like a man condemned. Her dress was the kind of thing that should be illegal—cream-colored silk that clung to every curve, the sides gaping just enough to tease. The fabric strained over her breasts, round and heavy, the outline of her nipples faintly visible when she shifted.
You told yourself to look away. You didn’t. And then—disaster. Her eyes locked onto yours. Pale green, almost gray, framed by lashes so thick they cast shadows. Her smirk hit like a punch to the gut. “See something you like?” Your throat went dry.
You should’ve lied. Should’ve stammered out some half-assed apology. But something in her gaze—the challenge there—stripped you bare. So you grinned. Leaned back in your chair. Let your gaze drag over her again, slow and deliberate. “Just admiring the view.” A beat of silence. Then—
She laughed. Not the polite, flattered giggle most women would offer. This was a full-on, full-body laugh, the kind that made her breasts bounce. “At least you’re honest,” she said, tilting her head. “Most men just stare like guilty little boys.” You shrugged. “No point in pretending.”
Her smirk deepened. When she stood, the silk clung to every inch. “Annabelle,” she said, offering a hand. No last name. Just Annabelle, like she was the only one who mattered. You took her hand. Her skin was warm, her grip firm.
“And you are?” she prompted when you didn’t speak. You realized, belatedly, that you were still holding her hand. “Smitten,” you admitted. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and laughed. Her smile was worth every second of the coming torment. And just like that—you were fucked.
The Torture of Courtship
Dating Annabelle was sweet agony. A virgin with a sinner’s body, untouched yet far from innocent. Every glance was designed to unravel your control. She knew exactly what she was doing.
It started in small ways. In theaters, her thigh pressed against yours, warm. She’d lean close, her heavy breasts resting against your arm. “You okay?” she’d whisper, lips grazing your ear as her hand “accidentally” brushed your groin. You swallowed hard. “You know I’m not.” When you shifted uncomfortably, she’d retreat with a giggle, tucking herself away like a satisfied cat.
Dinners were exquisite torment. She’d wear those tight, low-cut tops—the kind that gaped when she leaned forward, revealing the barest hint of pink nipple. “Eyes up here,” she’d chide, tapping her fork against her glass while watching your pupils dilate. But her smirk betrayed her.
One night, under the tablecloth, your hand found the soft flesh of her inner thigh. Her breath hitched deliciously, her lips parting—just for a second—before she caught herself. “Uh-uh,” she murmured, trapping your wrist. “You’ll get your fill soon enough.” “When?” you growled. Her teeth grazed her bottom lip. “Our wedding night.” You nearly knocked over the table. “You’re joking.” She arched a brow. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Annabelle wasn’t just denying you—she was training you with merciless precision. She’d straddle your lap on the couch, grinding down just enough to make you ache before springing away. “Annabelle—” you’d groan. “Patience,” she’d sing, sauntering away, her ass swaying.
Even in public, she whispered filth in your ear when no one else could hear:
“Imagine how tight I’ll feel around you.”
“I wonder how long you’ll last.”
“I want you to dream about me.”
And God, you did.
The night you proposed, you were on your knees for two reasons—love and desperation. “Marry me,” you rasped, gripping her hand. “Please.” She tilted her head, feigning thought. “Only if you promise me one thing.” “Anything.” Her nails combed through your hair. “No release until our wedding night.” You exhaled sharply. “That’s cruel.” She smirked and made you swear. “I know.”
“Edging to Engagement”
She’d said yes. And then she’d laughed, “Now the real fun begins.” The diamond on Annabelle’s finger glittered—promise and punishment.
The night after the proposal, Annabelle straddled you in cream lace, laying down the rules like commandments. “No sex. No handjobs. No blowjobs. No coming until I say so.” Her hips rolled, wagging a finger, as you groaned. “Are you trying to kill me?” “Mmm.” She leaned in, “I’m making sure our wedding night ruins you.”
Annabelle didn’t just tease. She turned torment into art. Mornings began with her silky chemise riding up, her ass pressed against your cock as she pretended to sleep. One dawn, you snapped. You pinned her down, grinding until she gasped. “Annabelle—” “Uh-uh.” She wriggled free, all false innocence. “Rules are rules.” Then she kissed you dizzy before pulling away and slipping into the shower, leaving you throbbing, aching.
Dinners became tests. She wore that white dress—the one that drove you crazy, the one that turned sheer under candlelight. “You look—” Your voice cracked. “Fuckable?” She smirked, trapping your wandering hand between her thighs, then giggled. “I know. Tell me,” she teased, “how badly you want to bend me over this table.” You nearly shattered the glass in your grip.
Her bridal shower lingerie arrived—creamy lace, barely there—and she modeled it for you. “Do you like it?” She knew you did. She turned, arching her back, the curve of her ass on full display. You covered your face with your hands. She laughed, snapping a photo of your pained expression. “I’m saving this for later,” she teased. “So I can remember how desperate you were for me.”
Two weeks before the wedding, she pushed you too far. You’d been good. You’d followed her rules. But when she knelt in front of you in nothing but her engagement ring, her lips hovering just above your zipper, you lost it.
“Annabelle,” you warned. “Shhh.” Her hand traced the outline of your cock through your jeans. “I’m just looking.” You yanked her up, slamming her against the wall. “Enough.” Her eyes went dark. “Make me stop,” you snarled.
For one brutal second, you considered it—pinning her to the floor, taking what she’d been dangling in front of you for months. But then she smiled, knowingly, assured in her victory. “That’s what I thought.” She kissed you, soft and sweet, before sauntering away. “Soon,” she called over her shoulder.
“The Longest Day of Your Life”
The church was packed, flowers dripping from every arch, sunlight filtering through stained glass. But you barely saw any of it. All you saw was her.
Annabelle walked down the aisle like a slow-burning fantasy, her white dress hugging every sinful curve—the swell of her hips, the dip of her waist, the way the lace bodice struggled to contain her breasts with every breath. The veil hid her face, but you knew she was smirking beneath it.
“You look like you’re about to pass out,” your best man muttered. You adjusted yourself discreetly, jaw clenched. “I might.” When she reached the altar, she lifted the veil—just enough for you to see her lips part, her tongue darting out to wet them. A silent promise. The reverend droned on about love and devotion. You didn’t hear a word.
Then it was time for vows. Annabelle’s fingers trembled in yours—not from nerves, but from anticipation. When she leaned in, her voice was low, just for you: “I promise to love, honor, and cherish you…” A pause. “And ruin you so thoroughly, you’ll forget every other woman’s name.” Your grip on her hips tightened. “Fuck, Annabelle—” The reverend cleared his throat. “The rings, please.”
The reception was worse. She danced with you first, her body pressed flush against yours, her thigh slipping between your legs just enough to make you hiss. “You’re evil,” you growled into her hair. She laughed, breath hot on your neck. “You love it.” And you did.
Every time you tried to steal a kiss, she turned her head at the last second, letting your lips graze her cheek instead. When you snuck a hand down to squeeze her ass, she caught your wrist and tsked. “So impatient,” she murmured, dragging a fingernail down your chest. “After all this time, what’s a few more hours?” You groaned. “You’re killing me.” She bit her lip. “Just wait.”
By the time you made it to the honeymoon suite, you were half-mad with need. You stood outside the door. Silence. The time had almost arrived. Then— Annabelle turned, her fingers working the stiffened peaks straining through her dress. “Well, husband?” she purred. “Ready to be ruined?”
“Undressing the Bride”
The honeymoon suite door clicked shut behind you, sealing away the last remnants of the outside world. The air hummed with pent-up desire. Annabelle stood before you, backlit by city lights filtering through sheer curtains, her wedding dress glowing like a second skin.
When you stepped forward, her palm pressed against your chest – not pushing away, but claiming. “Ah-ah,” she said, tilting her head. “You’ve waited too long not to savor this.” She pushed you onto the bed, standing in front of you with a smirk. “After all that waiting,” she whispered, “you’ll take me properly.” And then—finally—she let you touch. “Take it off me,” with a slow, knowing smile.
Your fingers, so steady when sliding the ring onto hers hours earlier, now fumbled with each tiny button. The delicate pearls resisted, then surrendered one by one with a soft snick, revealing untouched skin inch by tantalizing inch. She watched you, her breath hitching as the fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a whisper of silk and lace. And there she stood, finally—your wife—in nothing but creamy lingerie so sheer it was a sin.
Lace cups strained against the weight of her breasts, nipples peaked and begging for your mouth. Your fingers traced the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, coming to rest just above that scrap of damp lace between her thighs, ready for you, clinging to the soft, shaved flesh beneath. “Look at you,” you growled, feeling the muscles quiver under your touch. She arched into it. “All yours. Finally.”
You didn’t wait. One hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back as your mouth crashed onto hers. She moaned into the kiss, her nails digging into your shoulders as you backed her against the wall. “Months of teasing,” you muttered against her lips, pinching a nipple hard enough to make her gasp. “You think I’ll go easy on you now?” She gasped as you pinched, her hips jerking forward. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”
“Tell me,” you demanded as you licked a slow, filthy stripe up her slit. “Tell me how much you wanted it.” Her thighs trembled. “Every night,” she confessed. “I’d touch myself thinking about your mouth—oh God!—just like this.” You groaned against her, your tongue circling her clit, pulsating. She was drenched, her hips rolling against your face as you devoured her, one hand slipping beneath her to grip her ass, holding her still as you worked her over.
Her moans turned desperate, her legs shaking, hips stuttering. “I’m close—please, don’t stop—” You pulled back just enough to watch her unravel. “Not yet, wife.” Standing, you lifted her effortlessly, carrying her. “I’ve waited too long to let you come undone so easily. You’ll take it slow.” Her eyes went dark with lust. “Then fuck me properly, husband.”
“Ruin Met”
You tossed her to the bed. She landed with a bounce, her hair fanning out around her, her breasts rebounding, legs parted, waiting. You stripped away the last barriers—suit jacket, tie, shirt, belt, pants—each article falling forgotten to the floor. Her gaze tracked every movement, those pale green eyes flashing with hunger. When you finally climbed over her, the air between you ignited. Challenge. Hunger.
A year’s worth of pent-up frustration about to be unleashed with ferocity. “You ready?” you asked, your cock throbbing against her thigh. “Last chance to back out.” Her answer came in the sharp dig of her heel between your shoulder blades as she pulled you down. “Make me yours.”
The first thrust stole your breath. She was tight, molten silk around you as you bottomed out. Her body exploded beneath you, her back arched off the bed as she adjusted to your size. Every flutter of her walls was a whispered plea—more, deeper, harder—and you obliged without mercy.
“Look at me,” voice rough and commanding. Her eyes fluttered open, pupils blown wide with pleasure. Piercing. Needy. For once, the ever-composed Annabelle looked utterly wrecked—lips parted, breath coming in short gasps, her body trembling beneath yours. “Worth the wait?” she managed, voice cracking on the last word.
Your answer was nonverbal. You drove into her with a snap of your hips, swallowing her scream with a kiss as her legs locked around your waist, heels digging into the small of your back. She came like that—clenching around you with a force that nearly undid you right then, her body bowing off the mattress as pleasure tore through her.
You spun her around, flipping her onto her stomach, your hands skimming up her hips, you entered her again in one smooth thrust, drawing another sharp cry from her lips. “Quiet, wife,” you rasped, though the command was half-hearted at best. “Unless you want the whole floor to know how tight you are.” She clenched around you, her body trembling. “Let them hear.” So you gave them a show. Turns out, hotel walls are very thin…
The remaining shreds of your control evaporated. One hand pinned her wrists above her head while the other gripped her hip hard enough to leave marks. Then you fucked her in earnest—deep, punishing strokes that had the headboard slamming against the wall in a rhythm that left no doubt about what was happening behind that door.
“Ruin me,” she’d demanded earlier. You obliged. She cried out, her body thrashing reflexively. “Yes—fuck—like that—” Every thrust was punishing, desperate. She was so tight, so wet, her walls fluttering around you like she was trying to milk you dry.
Her third climax hit like a freight train, her body seizing around you as she muffled a scream against the pillow. The sight of her coming undone—back arched, muscles taut, her perfect body yielding completely to your touch—was your undoing. With a final thrust, you followed her over the edge, spilling into her with a groan that came from somewhere primal.
Afterward, silence. Just the sound of your racing hearts, the slick slide of skin on skin as you collapsed beside her. Annabelle turned her head to smirk at you. “Told you I’d be worth it,” she assured, voice hoarse. You dragged her against your chest, pressing a kiss to her damp hair. “Fuck, Annabelle,” you admitted, still struggling to catch your breath. “I had no idea.”
“Claimed”
Dawn crept through the curtains, gilding the wreckage of your wedding night. Annabelle stirred, cataloging the delicious evidence of her defeat. The first thing Annabelle registered was the ache. A delicious throb, soreness between her thighs, marks on her hips, the faint sting on her collarbone. The sheets, still damp in places, smelled like you, like sex, like the hours she’d spent unraveling beneath you.
She stretched, wincing at the pleasant soreness, and found his side of the bed empty. A flicker of panic—until the bathroom door creaked open. There you stood, still gloriously naked, water droplets clinging to your chest as you took her in: hair tangled, lips swollen, your cum dried on her stomach.
“Morning, Missus,” you rumbled, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction. The new title sent heat flooding to her cheeks. “That’ll take getting used to.” You prowled forward, crawling onto the mattress. “Better start practicing.”
She laughed as you rolled her beneath you, relishing the way her breath hitched as your hips settled between her thighs. “You were the one with the rules,” you reminded her. “And you,” she breathed, arching into you, “are the one who begged to marry me the second I let you touch me.” You couldn’t argue.
Your hand slid up her calf, squeezing. “How do you feel?” “Like I got fucked within an inch of my life,” she admitted, shivering at the memory. You grinned. “Good.” Then, lower: “But we’re not done.” She yelped as you flipped her onto her stomach, the sheets cool against her overheated skin. “You’re insatiable—” “You promised me a lifetime,” you reminded her, spreading her legs with deliberate slowness. “And last night was just the prelude.”
This time, you took her lazily, each deep thrust drawing a whine from her throat. Your palm splayed between her shoulder blades, pinning her down just enough to remind her who she belonged to. “Look at you,” you muttered, watching her clench around you. “Still so fucking tight.” She couldn’t answer—could only moan as you curved over her, your full weight pressing her into the mattress, your hips rolling in a rhythm that felt less like fucking and more like claiming.
Afterward, when she was boneless and trembling, you dragged her into your lap. “Annabelle.” Your voice was rough. “Look at me.” Her eyes fluttered open. “Every morning,” you vowed, thumb brushing her lower lip. “Every night. Every damn time you wiggle that ass in front of me. I’m never gonna stop needing this.” She kissed you, slow and sweet. “Good.”
“A Lifetime of This”
Turns out, marriage didn’t tame Annabelle—it unleashed her. The woman who’d once teased you with chaste kisses now woke you with her mouth, slow and filthy, her tongue tracing every throbbing inch of you before pulling away with a smirk. “Coffee’s brewing,” she’d whisper, vanishing into the shower while you lay there, hard and aching.
Her wardrobe became a weapon. Lace beneath sundresses that clung to her curves. Silk camisoles under blazers that gaped when she bent forward. Nothing beneath her robe when she brought you breakfast, the fabric parting to reveal glimpses of skin that made your coffee cup shake.
At restaurants, she’d let a strap slide deliberately down her shoulder, her nipple peeking out just long enough to make you choke on your beer. Waiters would blush and stammer; Annabelle would just smile and order dessert, her bare foot working its way between your thighs beneath the table.
She’d dragged you onto the balcony, with the ocean wind whipping through her hair, she’d lean back against the railing, her back arched against the endless dark. Your hands were the only thing anchoring her as she rocked against you, her body taking every inch with practiced greed. “Someone might see,” you warned, fingers digging into her hips. Her laugh was wild, her nails biting into your shoulders. “Let them.” She clenched around you, her breath hitching. “Let them all know I’m all yours.”
Back home, reality tried to intrude. Mortgage payments. Grocery lists. The horrified realization from her prim friends that sweet Annabelle had a mouth like a dockside whore and a libido that dwarfed your college exploits. But when night fell, none of that mattered.
There was Annabelle straddling your lap on the couch, your tie looped around her wrist like a leash as she whispered, “You’re mine. Every single day.” Annabelle bent over the kitchen island, her sundress shoved up around her waist, her breathy “We should really—” cut off by your thrust, her moan vibrating through the granite. Annabelle at 3 a.m., soft and sated, her leg hooked possessively over yours, murmuring, “Again tomorrow?” like it was a sacred vow.
This morning, you caught her wrist under the breakfast table, her fingers tracing dangerous patterns along your inner thigh. “Til death do us cum, right?”
Her laughter—bright, breathless, and entirely yours—became a beckoning call as she pulled you back to bed, where you both belonged.