Here "Comes" the Bride - A Mistress Motivational (Patreon)

The first thing I notice is that she still doesn’t know what to do with her hands.

They twitch at her sides as she appears in the doorway, a little bundle of nerves wrapped in ivory lace. Under the veil, her eyes are huge, already shiny with the beginnings of panic.

Good.

She should be scared. It’s her wedding day.

It took a very long time to get the sarcastic “I’m never getting married” boy into that dress, into that body, and into this church.

The universe owes me a moment to enjoy it.

The collar gleams beautifully against her throat, the silver ring catching the stained-glass light as if it’s been waiting for this exact stage. The audience knows that that collar means.  Even grandma Ruby, who barely even knows where she is.

They know, and the smirks and chuckles only add to the delicious humiliation inflicted upon the Bride. She reaches up as if she might touch it, then remembers herself and drops her hand again. The gesture is so automatic I almost laugh out loud.

Instead, I just cross my legs, smooth my skirt, and watch.

At the far end of the aisle, he waits…tall, steady, a little nervous, and thoroughly besotted. I picked him carefully. Reliable job, kinky in all the best ways,  handsome enough but with a firm hand and an excellent temperament to keep the little thing in line.  He knows what she really is, but as long as she is seen as a shy, pretty thing who stammers when he compliments her and clings to his arm like he’s the only solid object in the room then he has no complaints.  Especially with the little cage locked in place that he will soon have a key to.  It’s such a flat, tiny cage, it is easy to forget anything is even locked inside of it.

The Bride hesitates at the top of the aisle, like an actor who’s suddenly realized the audience is real. The organ music swells, the guests turn, and there’s this perfect second where she looks straight at me instead of at the man she’s about to vow her life to. Her expression says please. It always has. She rarely uses the word, but it’s been hiding under every message, every “no”, every “objection”... every near “orgasm”.

I smile at her. Just a small, knowing curve of my lips.

She starts walking.

Things have gone too far to stop now.  There is no path for the Bride except forward.

The dress was my choice, of course. Tight through the hips, a little flare and ruffle at the hem—just enough to make long strides impossible. She has to take small, careful steps, each one making the lace whisper and the hem flirt with her ankles. Her shoulders are bare, the thin straps threatening to slip if she hunches, so she’s forced to keep her posture pretty: back straight, chest forward, every inch of her announcing her willingness, even though I know that is only surface level.

Poor thing.  She really has no love of men.  It makes it that much better, knowing she is about to dedicate her life to pleasuring one.

She’s doing well, all things considered. A little stiff, yes, but she isn’t tripping, isn’t sobbing, isn’t bolting for the exit…not that she would get far.  She has no ID, no money and no where to go.  All that’s left of what she used to be is a memory.

The light from the windows turns the veil into a soft halo, making her hair glow. People lean toward each other in the pews, whispering little “oh, she’s beautiful” comments that I can practically lip-read. She hears them too; along with the snickers from those that know what she is, and what she was.  I can tell by the way her neck turns pink. She’s still not used to The public humiliation.

She will be.

Her soon-to-be-husband loves to go out and show off his toys.  The honeymoon will almost certainly be a parade of public displays of affection.

If only everyone could see the before picture. The smug little smirk. The jokes about “ball and chain” and “I’ll never be tied down.” I caught the smug bravado, crumpled it up, and stitched it into the lining of that dress. Every time she shifts her weight, she’s wearing her own punchlines.

At the halfway point of the aisle, she pauses.

It’s tiny…just half a breath of hesitation…but I’ve been training her long enough to notice the moment of doubt. Her gaze flicks from her fiancé to the side doors.

Fight or flight, darling?

You really think you could run in that skirt?

My fingers slide into my clutch and close around the small controller hidden there.

It’s an innocuous little thing, black plastic and one single button. Just a polite, quiet bit of insurance.

She begged me not to insert the little device into her while we got her dressed.  She knew this moment would come.  Of course, she had no choice but to comply.  She has no real choice about anything anymore.

…and now seems like a lovely time for a reminder.

I press the button.

Even from halfway down the aisle, I see it hit her. Her knees soften, her posture shivers, and she has to grab a breath to keep from sinking straight onto the runner. The guests probably think it’s emotion, a sweet little overwhelmed bride moment. She even sells it that way, clever girl…one hand lifting to her chest, eyes going glossy, lips parting like she’s holding back a sob.

Only if you look close, you can see the panic in her eyes. The flicker of “Mistress, please no” in her eyes as they dart to me, desperate and accusing all at once.

I release the button. Her knees recover. She takes another step.

Good girl.

I let her walk a few more paces before I tap it again…just the tiniest pulse, enough to make her gait wobble so the ruffles around her ankles flutter dramatically.  Just a little edge that I know is making that cage beneath her dress tighter and tighter.

A couple of guests murmur. Someone in the front row dabs their eyes with a hanky. Oh, look, she’s so emotional. If they only knew she’s fighting just to stay upright, fighting to hold back a forced milking… an involuntary sissygasm right in the middle of everyone.

Her face is redder than I’ve ever seen it.  Her lip between her teeth as she forces herself to hold back a tidal wave.

I release the button and her whole body slumps a little as she continues to take small tiny steps forward towards the dais.

She keeps going, because of course she does. I didn’t spend months on voice lessons, posture training, endless “walk back and forth in those heels again, we’re not done” drills just to have her melt into the carpet now.

The collar catches the light again, that little ring at her throat proclaiming to everyone: You chose this, you dumb slut!

Halfway between me and the altar, she passes my pew.

I lean forward slightly, just enough for our eyes to meet beneath the veil. Up close, the anxiety is delicious. Her makeup is perfect, but her expression ruins it in all the right ways.  Her eyes wide, mouth tight with effort, a tremor at the corners that says she is one badly-timed breath away from bursting into tears.

“Keep going,” I murmur, so soft only she can hear it. “Be a good girl.”

Her lower lip wobbles. For a split second, I think she’s going to stop, to grab the pew and hiss some desperate little begging plea.

“I’m not gay, Mistress!  Don’t make me do this!  Let me serve you!  Not him!  You!”

The words don’t come out of her lips.  Her eyes scream it.  But she knows those words will not help.

Instead, she swallows, straightens her back, and takes another step. I press the button again.  A little light edge to keep her on point.

She passes me, and the distance between her and the man at the altar shrinks.  I hold the button.  I can’t help it.  It is so beautiful to watch her shiver as she approaches him.

The groom looks so hopeful it almost makes me sentimental.

Almost.

He holds a leash with a large metal clip on it.  No need to exchange rings at this wedding.  He is claiming her in a far deeper level than a mere wedding ring.

She will be his… legally, physically and spiritually.

I could not have planned a better outcome if I tried.

She reaches the altar at last, a little breathless, shoulders still trembling with effort and emotion. He takes her hands, steady and warm, and for a moment I see some of the fear melt off her face. She is there, like it or not…

The officiant clears his throat and begins the ceremony. Vows are mentioned. Forever is implied. Everyone focuses on the couple at the front, all glowing and picture-perfect, while I sit halfway back in the church with a tiny controller resting idle in my lap.

It is almost time.

I don’t edge him again. I don’t have to. The collar, the dress, the man at the altar…all of it is already doing my work for me. I can tell by her posture. 

Every time she glances down and sees her own manicured fingers laced with his...

...every time someone sniffles at how “radiant” she looks...

...every time she feels that ring heavy against her throat, she remembers who steered her here…

...what she has become…

...and knowing those things edges her more than enough.

When the time comes and the officiant asks, “Do you take this man…” the entire church seems to hold its breath.

Her eyes flick to him, then…just for a fraction of a second…to me.

…and I push the button. 

She moans, her eyes rolling.  Her last orgasm was over a year ago.  She has been edged non-stop, her body teased... her mind tormented......edged and edged and edged...

…but never allowed more.

…and now… she is having it forced on her.  In front of everyone.

The officiant smirks letting the moan happen before continuing.

“…to be your lawfully wedded husband… to love and obey until death do you part.”

I double tap the button again, pushing the cresting orgasm the Bride is convulsing from into the next level.

“I do.”

The words are a lusty, deep moan.

The guests laughter and cheers fill the room, even as the Groom clicks the clip of the leash to her collar and pulls her into the kiss that starts the rest of their life together.

I smile.

My eyes find the best man.  Such a small little thing.  He would look adorable in a bridesmaid dress…