It is so beautifully pristine that I am almost loath to blemish it with our coarse intentions, but it seems that my partner does not share my qualms, for the moment we are over the threshold he picks me up and flings me on to the plump pillows, diving down next to me while I breathe in the rose-scented spritz that permeates the cotton.
'Wow,' I purr, stretching out on the crisp linen, picking up some of the petals and scattering them like confetti into his hair. 'This is worth the money. Almost worth getting married for. Perhaps I'll change my ways and become one of those serial brides. I think I need to line up a few sugar daddies.'
'Oh, really,' he says, walking warning fingers up between the valley of my breasts and turning on to his side to look down on me. 'You would, as well. I can just see you, in a St Trinian's uniform, sitting on some elder statesman's lap, twirling your hair and pouting.'
'Oh, yes, so can I. I hope he'd be wearing some sort of starched blazer and an old school tie. Not too old though. Silver hair rather than white.'
'Hmm, yes, maybe a member of the House of Lords.' His fingertips graze my collarbone, hovering around the neckline of my silk dress. 'He'd spend all day arguing political points and drinking sherry in his club, then he'd come home to you and give you a good spanking and send you to bed.'
'You don't need to be a Lord to do that,' I point out.
'Not the last part, no.' His lips are on my neck, now there is hot breath in my ear. 'And besides, you can have your sugar daddies as long as you come back to me. And I'll do the spanking and sending to bed.'
'You already do.'
'I'm not planning to stop.' The hem of my skirt is travelling slowly, ticklishly, up my thigh. He halts at my suspender snap and lays a heavy hand on my lace stocking top. 'Do you think any of the brides that spend their wedding night here are virgins?'
'No more than the grooms, I should think.'
'Mmm, I think you're my blushing virgin bride,' he says, glinting filthily. 'And I'm the wicked man who has snared you into my clutches. It's your fortune I'm after, my dear, though your ripe little body is a substantial bonus. And you have absolutely no idea what you have let yourself in for.'
I squirm against the coverlet, enjoying the fantasy. 'Oh my,' I gasp in a hokey cartoon-heroine accent. 'Is this really what a bride has to do?'
'This is just the start, my dear,' he croons, nipping at my earlobe. 'You don't think I'm going to let you wear that hideous nightgown your mother packed, do you?'
'That's antique lace! It's a family heirloom!' His finger slips beneath the lace stocking top and strokes my thigh, a nail sometimes snagging against the mesh. 'You can't mean I have to be . . . naked!'
'That's exactly what I mean, my dear. I've bought these goods and now I intend to examine them.'
'Goods! Bought! Oh my, what a thing to say!'
'Stop your lamenting and strip, my dear, or I shall do it for you.'
I try to push him off, but he puts a hand on my ribcage and begins to unfasten the buttons that run from the neck to the hem of my shirt dress. I picture it as a wedding gown, with an ivory bodice and a blossoming of tulle and net, unlaced, ripped from me, revealing my pure white foundation garments.
In fact, I have worn white underwear today – a choice made by my subconscious when it found out it was visiting the Honeymoon Suite, perhaps. A sheer white bra and matching briefs, with tiny pink hearts embroidered into the material; rather less whorish than my usual boudoir costume, though the inevitable suspender belt sexes it up. His lupine grin when he parts the two sides of the silk to reveal it indicates his approval. He brushes a hand down the centre of my torso, places it firmly on my bare stomach and bends down to ravage my lips and mouth in a seal of possession that masquerades as a kiss.
My Sophie self sinks greedily into the embrace, even as my reluctant bride self pants and gasps and pushes at him in vain. He makes it clear that every spot, however remote, between my lips and my tonsils will be visited by his rampaging tongue, and I welcome it, my mock struggles weak and unconvincing, my cunt beginning to throb at the sense of being thoroughly taken and overpowered.
Sometimes our fucking is like this, and sometimes it isn't. Sometimes I seduce him over dinner, running my foot up his trouser leg beneath the table; sometimes I join him unexpectedly in the shower and demand soapy satisfaction; sometimes I bundle him into an alleyway, fish out his cock and give him impromptu head, ruining the knees of my stockings in the process. Sometimes our moods coincide and sometimes they don't, but one or other of us can always be persuaded to compromise.
But today, we are kicking and restraining and smacking and biting our way into the role of evil groom and virgin bride. Not too far into the role though – or I would be kneeing him sharply in the groin and putting paid to any chance of the good firm shag I am fantasising about.
He has one wrist pinned down at my side and is lowering the cups of my bra with his teeth. I pull his hair; he growls and wolfs down a breast, sucking and gnawing at it, flicking his tongue over and over the nipple until my sheer white panties are soaked and my squirming owes more to pleasure than pretence.
'Oh, oh, mama never told me about this!' I squeal, for now there is scrabbling at my knicker elastic and a fist bunched inside, knuckles bearing down between my slippery lips. He jams a knee between the softness of my inner thighs, crouched over me like a predator on the verge of tearing my flesh.
'Mama never met Sir Jasper Baddun,' he snarls, making me giggle for a second before he distracts me by whipping the knickers down to my knees. One finger explores the seat of my non-virginity while he pins my upper body to the bed with his chest. 'Oh yes, nice and tight. Nice little maidenhead for Sir Jasper.'
'You are a scoundrel, Sir!'
He chuckles, lifting his pelvis slightly so he can release his cock from the jeans he irreverently chose to wear for our rendezvous.
'I know,' he says simply, then I scream fo
r real at a sudden penetration that knocks the wind out of my fighting sails. I thank my stars that there is no actual defloration going on – Sir Jasper's technique is not the gentlest, but the game demands a forceful, pitiless sheathing, and that is what he is giving me. He keeps my wrist down and thrusts so hard that even these well-oiled bedsprings creak, shoving it up so far and so hard that I have to stop struggling or my hips and pubis will be bruised.
'I-will-take-what's-mine,' he grunts through gritted teeth. 'And-I'll-see-that-you-remember-it.' The depth of his reach, the profundity of the friction and the fingertips jamming my clit all combine to send me soaring out of my body so that only sensation remains.