Premise:
When 27-year-old bride-to-be Callie steps into her final dress fitting, she expects a quick check and a few pins. But the new seamstress isn't what she expected. Luca-mid-30s, sharp jaw, quiet hands, eyes like sin-offers more than alterations. With her fiancé distracted and the boutique locked, Callie finds herself spread over a fitting stool, panting, as fingers slip under lace and dirty whispers leave her soaked.
* * *
The boutique was quiet, lit with warm golden light and lined with mannequins in ivory silk and pearl-threaded lace. The hush made everything feel reverent, sacred.
And a little dangerous.
Callie stood barefoot in a cream satin robe, her engagement ring glinting on her finger, heart pounding as she stared at herself in the fitting mirror.
Today was her final dress fitting.
She wasn't sure what she expected when they told her the head seamstress had taken leave, and that someone new would be doing the final adjustments. She didn't expect him.
Luca.
He stepped out from behind the curtain with a soft smile and quiet confidence. Tall, lean, hands marked with fine ink lines and calloused from years of handling fabric-and, if her racing pulse was any clue, bodies.
His jaw was sharp. His voice smoother than the silk he worked with.
"You must be Callie," he said, walking slowly toward her. "Let's get you in this gown."
She swallowed. "Right. Yes."
He held it up-layers of pale lace, fitted bodice, delicate buttons down the back. His eyes didn't drift, but there was something in the way he looked at her... like he already knew what she looked like under it.
She stepped forward.
Luca held the gown open and said, "Step in."
She did, lifting her arms as he guided the bodice up around her torso, the cool fabric brushing her thighs. His fingers tugged the dress higher, smoothing it along her hips, then her waist, until he stood flush behind her-close enough she could feel the warmth of him through the lace.
He zipped the back slowly.
"You've lost weight since your last fitting," he murmured, voice low against her ear. "The dress still fits, but now it wants to cling."
Callie's breath caught.
He reached around her, hands settling on her waist-firm, controlled, precise. Then he adjusted the top of the bodice with both palms, sliding his hands up, pressing the cups tighter against her breasts.
Her nipples hardened instantly beneath the fabric.
His thumbs swept beneath the swell of each breast-"just to smooth"-but lingered. His fingers grazed the sides of her ribcage, his breath now near her neck.
"Do you feel secure in it?" he asked.
Her voice was thin. "I... I think so."
Luca's hands didn't move.
"I think we need to be sure."
One hand drifted downward, down the curve of her hip, then lower, sweeping slowly along the outside of her thigh through layer after layer of silk.
Callie exhaled sharply.
"Is that alright?" he asked.
She nodded. Didn't trust herself to speak.
He shifted behind her-closer now. She could feel the press of his chest to her back, the warmth of his thighs against hers. His hand slipped beneath the outer skirt layers, finding the slit of the underdress, fingers skating up the bare skin of her thigh.
She inhaled sharply as he reached her panties-just a thin satin thong.
His fingers trailed along the waistband, then slid beneath it.
"You're soaked," he whispered.
She whimpered.
"Do you want me to stop?"
"No," she breathed. "Please..."
His fingers slid between her folds, parting them gently, dipping between slick lips and finding her clit in one smooth stroke.
Callie gasped, one hand flying to the mirror for balance.
He rubbed in slow, tight circles-perfect pressure, firm and focused. Her knees wobbled.
"I want you to come standing up," he said softly. "Right here. In this dress. I want you trembling before anyone else ever sees you in it."
She moaned-quiet, choked, desperate. Her thighs pressed together around his hand as he worked her faster, fingers gliding over her slick pussy, thumb stroking her clit again and again.
"Fuck-Luca-oh my God-"
His other hand slid up, cupping her breast, thumb rolling over her nipple through the fabric.
"You're gorgeous like this," he whispered. "Desperate. Dripping. Mine, just for now."
The heat coiled fast. Too fast. Her hips rocked against his hand. Her legs trembled beneath the weight of the gown.
"Come," he growled. "Let me feel it."
And she did.
The orgasm tore through her with a breathless cry, her body going stiff, then buckling as his fingers kept rubbing, coaxing every last pulse out of her clit. Her pussy clenched, soaked, her breath fogging the mirror as she collapsed back against his chest, gasping.
He held her up, his hand still between her legs, fingers slick with her.
When she could breathe again, he leaned in.
"Now," he said, mouth at her ear, "let's talk about your train."
Callie was still trembling when Luca guided her away from the mirror. Her legs didn't quite work, her pulse thundered in her ears, and her panties clung sticky between her thighs. But she didn't hesitate when he took her hand and led her toward the center of the boutique-where the wide velvet-covered fitting stool sat, waiting like a stage.
"Up," he said softly.
She obeyed.
He helped her step up, then hoisted her gently onto the cushioned seat, the weight of her wedding dress spilling down around her legs like a bridal cloud. Her heels dangled just above the polished wood floor. Her breath came in short, shallow pulls. She didn't know what to say-and didn't want to say anything at all.
Luca knelt in front of her.
"Open for me," he said.
Her knees parted.
The silk and lace of her gown rustled as he slid his hands under the layers, bunching the skirt up slowly, exposing more of her thighs with every inch he gathered. His eyes stayed locked on her face-calm, devouring, deliberate.
She was already soaked. Her panties clung like a second skin, the thin fabric slick with arousal.
He reached up and hooked two fingers under the waistband.
"You wore white lace," he murmured. "How fucking perfect."
Then he pulled them down. Slow. Worshipful.
She lifted her hips just enough to let him drag the panties over her thighs, past her knees, down her ankles. He stuffed them into the pocket of his vest like a trophy.
Luca sat back on his heels, hands sliding up the insides of her thighs-firm, warm, reverent. Then he leaned in, and with one long, wet lick, dragged his tongue up her bare pussy from the base of her slit to the tip of her clit.
Callie gasped.
He groaned.
"Fuck, you taste unreal."
He spread her with his thumbs, leaned in, and started to eat her like he was starving.
Long, slow laps at first. Licking her in wide, greedy strokes-wet tongue flattening against her clit, then dipping low to tease her entrance before flicking back up.
Her hips bucked off the stool.
"Hold still," he murmured into her pussy. "I'm not finished yet."
His hands clamped down on her thighs, holding her wide open. Then he sucked her clit into his mouth and started to hum.
Callie whimpered, grabbing fistfuls of the tulle overskirt bunched in her lap. It was too much. Not enough. Perfect.
"God-Luca-fuck, don't stop-"
"Not a chance," he groaned, mouth still working between her legs. "You're gonna come on my tongue so hard they'll feel it in the next boutique over."
His tongue was merciless now-tight flicks, fast circles, and every few seconds, a deep, slow drag that made her entire body twitch.
Her thighs quivered. Her breath broke.
And he didn't stop talking.
"You ever had someone eat you in your wedding dress?" he whispered, breath hot against her pussy. "Soaked through silk, shaking in white, dripping on my face?"
She sobbed, grinding against his mouth.
He moaned louder, licking her harder, hands sliding under her ass to tilt her hips up, getting deeper. He slid a finger inside her-then a second-fucking her slow while his tongue worked fast.
The sound of it-wet, filthy, sloppy-echoed off the boutique walls.
She couldn't hold it.
"I'm gonna-fuck-I'm gonna come-Luca-don't you dare stop-"
He sucked her clit harder, pressing his fingers deeper.
Callie let out a strangled cry, clutching the tulle like a lifeline as the orgasm hit her like a wave. Her pussy clenched around his fingers. Her thighs trembled violently. Her voice broke into a sob of his name.
He didn't stop.
Not until she sagged forward, panting, sweaty, completely undone on the fitting stool.
Then-finally-he pulled back, licking his lips, beard shining with her slick.
He looked up at her like she was the only thing in the world worth breaking vows for.
And then he said:
"Next time I fuck you, you're gonna be bent over that mirror. Veil on. Mouth open. Taking every inch like a bad little bride."
The boutique smelled like sex and satin.
Callie was still breathless, legs parted on the fitting stool, thighs slick with her own orgasm and the ghost of Luca's mouth. Her dress was hiked above her hips, bodice loosened, veil hanging from one pin in her hair like a fallen halo.
Luca stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his cock thick and heavy in his slacks, the outline unmistakable.
He looked at her like a man not done.
"Stand up," he said, voice rough.
Callie obeyed on trembling legs.
He took her by the waist, turned her toward the full-length gown mirror. Her reflection looked nothing like a blushing bride-cheeks flushed, lips swollen, tits barely held by the loosened bodice, the skirt bunched indecently around her waist.
"You see yourself?" he asked, leaning close to her ear.
She nodded.
"You're about to look even filthier."
Luca took her by the arm and guided her forward-bent her over the velvet fitting chair in the center of the room. The rich burgundy upholstery creaked under her weight. Her palms flattened against it, the edge of the chair pressing into her hips.
Behind her, he sank to one knee. Spread her open with both hands.
"Still dripping," he murmured. "That sweet little pussy's begging for cock."
"Luca..." she gasped, looking back over her shoulder.
He was already undoing his belt.
His cock sprang free-long, thick, already glistening with precum.
He stepped up behind her, pressed the blunt head of his cock to her slick entrance.
"You want this?"
"Yes."
"You want me to fuck you in your wedding dress? Bend you over like a dirty little bride and ruin you?"
"Yes. Fuck me."
He shoved in.
Callie screamed.
One hard, brutal thrust. All the way to the hilt.
"Fuuuck," Luca groaned. "Tight little cunt. So fucking wet. You were made for this."
He pulled out halfway-then slammed back in, hard. The sound of skin against skin echoed off satin and mirrors. Her hands clutched the chair, nails biting into velvet.
He grabbed her hips and started fucking her deep, slow, and rough-hips slamming into her ass, every thrust punching a moan out of her throat.
"God-yes-just like that-"
"You'll think about this," he growled, bending low, breath hot on her neck. "When you walk down the aisle, you'll feel me inside you."
She sobbed-part pleasure, part guilt, part more.
"I shouldn't-I'm-"
"You're mine right now. You're not anyone's bride until I say so."
He slammed into her again. She screamed his name.
His hands gripped her waist, then one slid up her back, curling around the loose veil still pinned to her hair.
"You're gonna come," he growled. "Gonna cream all over this cock and make a mess of that sweet little white dress."
Her pussy squeezed him, fluttering with every stroke.
Then he pulled the veil off mid-thrust and tossed it to the floor.
Callie shattered.
Her orgasm tore through her, legs shaking, pussy clenching around him, her voice breaking as she screamed into the velvet chair. She gushed, dripping down his cock, thighs soaked, body jerking with every aftershock.
Luca didn't stop.
He fucked her through it-rougher now, chasing his own end, pounding her into the chair as her body trembled beneath him.
Then he groaned, slammed in deep one last time, and came hard, cock twitching as he spilled inside her, hot and thick, filling her full.
They stayed like that-connected, panting, soaked in sweat and cum and satin.
When he finally pulled out, she slumped over the chair, hair a mess, lips parted, veil crumpled beneath her heels.
Luca stepped around her and gently pulled the bodice back up over her tits.
"You're still the most beautiful bride I've ever seen," he said, brushing hair from her face.
She laughed, hoarse. "You just say that because I let you fuck me in couture."
He kissed her-slow and deep.
"No," he whispered. "I say it because I'll be the one in your head while you say 'I do.'"