Life is a complex thing. It's only when you slow down to appreciate that fact that it ends up passing you by quicker than you know how to deal with.

Sappy words and sappy advice for a sappy demon, you supposed. There was no point in belying the fact that you had grown more saccharine than you'd have liked since your summoning.

Months passed by in a blink of the eye after you and Barry went home that fateful day. Was that an odd experience, for someone of your age? Certainly not. Yet they still did so in a very extraordinary way. So many little moments and so many unforgettable conversations as the two of you truly opened up in a way that both of you had been afraid to before...

Barry had in his mind a very different idea of what marriage was compared to you. Your idea of marriage, or at least the concept you found most fitting, had been offering as your own dowry the world entire and the creation of a new contract. His idea of marriage involved ceremony and rings and vows.

This is why the very first thing the two of you did was sit down at the kitchen table and cook each other dinner. While you sat and ate together, you pulled forth the work papers stapled together with arcane providence that served as your contract.

Together, the two of you struck your names from it, and began to write it anew. There was no more need for trickery, or backstabbing, or deception - you were removing all the costs, most of the stipulations, and absolutely all the punishments. Indeed, you had never quite managed to work yourself free of that debt his kindness had put you in, and so negotiated from the point of weakness despite his willingness to agree to whatever you wrote.

It was a very long contract. Too long to go over in just one night. You think the thesis summed it up well enough.

"Till Death do we part, and in Death may we be one another's, from never until forever."

So it was signed, and the oaths you gave were accepted in full, and you could have been content with just that for the rest of his mortal life. Yet Barry was discontent, and so you strove to meet his expectations.

This is when things became a rush. All your daily rituals, all the trips out to eat or walk or enjoy some small thing, blurred together with preparation. On the same night you rewrote your contract he insisted the two of you buy rings for one another. Perhaps it was not proper, or as things went, but the two of you began to wear them on your left hands as he talked you into having a small ceremony to officiate your marriage.

What a complicated process that was.

People were quick to notice the rings, of course. Before either of you knew it half of the regular customers and most of the people either of you regularly interacted with were asking when the wedding was. If Barry wasn't considering inviting them, then he most certainly was from then on.

Then came the venue, and reconciliation with Barry's family as he tentatively sent out word about his marriage and spoke to them for the first time in years, and so many other things. Barry had promised you he wanted to keep things small. He truly tried to keep his word. Yet even with an understanding of how often humans let celebrations like these grow out of hand, it felt like a bit much.

The priest who you saw every night had just smiled the first time he saw your rings. Especially when you asked him if his not-so-subtle offer of a wedding venue was still on the table.

Barry's family began hanging around the town and introducing themselves to you at random intervals. At some point this meant Barry's sisters introduced themselves to you. They were hellions and you couldn't be prouder to teach them a selection of hexes never meant for human tongues, and in turn they couldn't be happier to torment you by helping you select a wedding dress from among the many garments you had gathered through the ages.

If either of your soon to be sisters-in-law thought you would complain or protest as they used you like a doll then they would be wrong. You had already been promised everything you wanted and more. There was no need for you to hurry when you could take your time assuring Barry received the same contentment as you.

At some point word trickles down to your 'Family' as well. You do not especially like the number of letters you receive congratulating you on settling down or the general tone of those messages. Especially when those you rebelled against heaven with and would consider true siblings start to show up around town and not so subtly try to introduce themselves to Barry.

There is not one of them who does not ask when the wedding will be as though they were already invited.

It is a time of rapid change and uncaring chaos. You would not trade it for the world, and neither would you ask to be rid of the woes of figuring out how the ever-growing list of family members from both sides of the equation are going to fit into a small church.

Still. In all of this mess, in all of this conflict, and in all of this reconciliation that Barry takes the wedding as a chance for, there is one thing that is never in doubt.

Who could provide the catering at your wedding but yourselves?

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With adherence to traditions came their breaking.

After Barry's sisters had arrived and spent a frankly annoying amount of time in his home, doing their best to catch up with him, they had also found themselves baffled by your total lack of knowledge regarding said traditions. In part this is because they were surprised you hadn't asked Barry about them. You yourself were amused; they hadn't been told what you really were.

The simple answer you gave them was that you simply lacked the context to ask about the little nonsense faux-passes they had to try and stop you from committing. First among them was from showing the groom the bride in her dress before the wedding itself. Which was a shame, since you were more than eager to show off to Barry.

Their response was to clap your cheeks in their hands and smoosh your face together as they desperately tried to convince you not to do this to them, specifically. They then also started asking about things like flower girls and best men, and while you'd discussed some of this with Barry, they were more than happy to move on to such things and their own place after you'd promptly promised not to show Barry your wedding gown before the day itself.

They even wanted a Geas. It was adorable.

You promptly followed this Geas up until the day of the wedding itself, exactly as you promised, never quite mentioning that you could've shown it to Barry at any point since by all technicality the day you'd been married had been atop the mountain. You'll let them languish in that point later.

No sisters by marriage of yours are going to be making such childish mistakes. Especially when they don't realize you and Barry decided to do away with simple things like the proper procedure in the name of a small and warm wedding.

The seating for the wedding had been divided into three sections. In the leftmost section of the pews Barry's family could be sat. In the rightmost section your family could sit. And in the back, seated across both columns, the many people and customers who had asked and asked and asked for details could be sat. Further back than that, lined all along the walls, would be trays of food made by yourselves, the coup de grace of the arrangement was a wedding cake you and Barry had laboriously prepared together.

In the name of preventing the deeply arcane roots of his family from harming the unaware, and in the name of preventing your deeply tricksterish and deceitful family from deciding they were bored and would prefer to fuck with the mages and the normal folk, the ceremony would proceed with a normal amount of prompt and allow mingling... only after the two of you had seated everyone and actually gone through the ceremony.

Whatever chaos unfolded afterwards was the priest's problem, and maybe the state government's, not yours.

The day of arrives. The legions of hell, many of whom had not breathed the air of the mortal realm since the times of Solomon, marched in full force. Men and women in cultish robes and snazzy hats left their covens and their lairs and their towers for the first time in years, manila envelopes in hand, all convening on one small American suburb. The town betting pool was finally dolled out to the victors, a certain old lady cackling in a way that gave both the demons and witches gathering nearby a deep envy.

Barry was roused from his sleep that morning by the smell of eggs and spices. His eyes flickered, and then flickered once more, as he took in the sight of you leaning over him and delicately ensuring his breakfast sat in his lap without being at risk of being ruined.

"Morning, dear." You smile. Dressed all in black, your wedding dress flowed around you like the gossamer robes of death itself. Your crossed hands rested just above your waist, fingers covered in lacy gloves as you resist the urge to rub at your hands. Parts of the dress were so pale that the dark, flowery patterns running across them resembled tattoos. Barry's jaw ever so briefly as they clenched in surprise. "Feeling well?"

His eyes ran up and down you, taking in the totality of your dress. His surprise, his appreciation, they made you understand in that moment the appeal of keeping it hidden. You'd applied subtle makeup for the first time as well.

"Always, Candy." He decides with a smile.

"That's the spirit. Now eat up - this is your last chance before you have to get dressed too." You tsk. He nods, eating his breakfast more quickly than you'd ever seen him do so before, never once taking his eyes off of you.

That's a busy morning. While Barry is running around and dressing himself, you're disregarding walking around as you move back and forth, all around town. Dropping off last minute invitations, making sure that none of the food you'd moved to the church had gone cold in the night since, quickly fussing over Barry's hair while he dressed himself in a white suit...

The duality had not been intended. Both of you appreciated it nonetheless.

Nervousness is a thing you had transcended atop that mountain, but it wasn't quite something Barry had managed to overcome himself. It takes one look at his face after the two of you arrive at the church and wish the Priest well to realize that his stomach is aflutter and his nerves on fire.

"Are you ready for this?" You grasp his hands.

"I probably never will be Candy. But you're here, so I'm as ready as I'll ever be." He nervously chuckled.

"That's the spirit." You held his hand up and patted it.

The first of your guests begin to arrive. In the long and tiresome hour that follows, you're left to deal with far too many remarks, far too much small talk, and far too many congratulations as you and Barry slowly but surely corral three different herds of cats into their metaphorical cages.

Among the first to arrive were Barry's family. There was not one of them that didn't look or sound odd by the standards of the normal townsfolk they mingled with, including Barry's sisters, dressed in black dresses that they'd knitted from shadow after they helped you pick your own dress.

Other highlights include an eight-foot tall man who Barry calls his baby cousin Georgie, a woman with a hat so wide it has to be left outside, and a mountain of an old man with a wild, frizzy beard that went down to his belly and a mane of hair that looked electrocuted. Scars streaked up and down all his visible skin, and when he released Barry from a deathgrip of a hug to pull you into the same, an equally old but menacing woman caught Barry in a more constricting vice.

In the short, fussing conversation to follow you piece together that it was his grandfather and his grandmother.

"Isn't he the one who -" You realize as they leave.

"He is. I, uh, wasn't actually aware he'd resurrected himself? Is this going to be awkward if some of your family recognizes him?" Barry frowns.

"I don't think they'll give enough of a shit to bring him back when they can just wait." You admit.

Soon the conversation Barry dreads most arrives. This conversation takes the form of his mother, a woman dressed in a way that makes it seem as though she were prepared to ritualistically slaughter a man and then go to prom all at once, her face covered in smile lines and the beginnings of ceaseless wrinkles, her hair shock-white in an unnatural way.

"Barry. Look at those cheeks! And look at this pudge! Have you been eating well? I told you that you'd get fat if you tried to start a bakery, and look at what's happened! You haven't called in years and this is what I find?" She fusses and hisses, poking at Barry's cheeks and clasping his sides in a grip more iron than her hug.

"He's just fine." You defend Barry where he is too tongue-tied to do so himself. He had a bit of fat, yes, but it wasn't even enough to hide his barely defined muscle. If either of you were bothered by the fact he was anything less than superhumanly beautiful you'd have helped him solve that problem ages ago.

"Ah. You're the Candace in this equation?" His mother's attention switches to you in a bare moment. "Well. Barry certainly picked a charmer. Let's have a long conversation, you and I, hm?"

"Barry, Candace! Ha! This old woman knew in her bones that you'd get married before she'd gone and left this world!" A vaguely familiar old woman interrupts the conversation. You wave at her, frowning as you try to figure out who she was, before Barry's mother drags you away for the promised conversation.

"Miss Henderson! How've you been!" Barry greets in your stead, instantly back in his element.

"Still kicking! Or so you think, anyway." She winks.

While Barry's mother interrogates you about a great deal of things very quickly and very unkindly, your eyes flicker back and forth between her and the doors. Barry's family is punctual if nothing else, because the last of them filter into the church alongside a great deal of normal humans.

Hidden in that crowd of customers and townsfolk whose faces you had barely begun to register as familiar was a face you recognized very, very well. Deep in conversation with Barry's mother, however, you're unable to greet him yourself before Barry beats you to it, and can only stare in terror as Barry greets the middle-aged man with dark skin and darker hair.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

"Hey there, Barry! Nice to see you!" Jesus Christ smiles and pulls Barry into a hug.

"You too! I'm, ah, sorry to say this but... I don't recognize you?" Barry flushes as he breaks away from the hug.

"That's fine. I can't say most people would without the beard." Jesus chuckles, stroking his stubbly face. Barry accepts this without question. "I just came by to say congratulations to you and Candy, you know?" He offers Barry a hand with a massive hole in it.

"Well, thanks!" Barry takes Christ's hand and shakes it firmly, eyes widening as he feels the massive gaping hole in its center. "How'd you get those scars?" He asks before he can control himself.

"Prison. In Rome." Jesus nods sagely.

"You from overseas?" Barry ooo's and nods along with Jesus.

"The middle east, actually! I used to do a lot of charity. I got the message about the seating, too, so if you'll excuse me..." Jesus pats Barry on the back

"Of course, and very nice on the charity work! It's nice to meet you anew, I suppose! I'll see you afterwards!"

"I doubt it. It's your special day, after all." He winked, nodding his head your way as he walked off. Before you could think of saying anything he'd already raised a finger to his lip in a quiet shush, giving Barry one last wave before he quickly made his way to the right-hand section of the pews. Barry's mother snaps her fingers in front of your face as she tries to snap you out of your shocked, angry awe.

Finally, after answering yet another in-depth question about the intricacies of how a dying person's last breath leaves them and how to use that in ritual magecraft, and deftly evading answering questions about how you and Barry met, you manage to convince Barry's mother to leave you alone and instead take her seat in the front row.

This frees you up just in time to greet your side of the family. It was like a who's-who of those you had ever held close association with, be they young demons born after your fall from grace, or the old guard who had taken names and responsibilities while you had abdicated your way into that deep, dark abyss.

Absolutely all of them that you do not personally get to greet get along concerningly well with Barry, no matter how much innuendo or how many vaguely veiled promises accompany their words. And unsurprisingly, it is a man of vague ethnicity with a dark goatee accompanied by his unearthly beautiful wife who show up first, both of them clearly upset that the doors are wide open such that they cannot kick them open while thunder flares in the perfectly sunny sky outside.

"Candy! How nice it is to see you, what a delightful name you've given yourself." Lucifer, the Devil himself, greets you with a kiss on the cheek. You do much the same.

"Lucy, don't act like you're high and might compared to me. And Lilith! You're looking wonderful." You pat his cheeks where you'd kiss him, quickly moving on to embrace his wife instead.

"You too, dear. Now Lucy, lets not torment your sister, hm? We're here to celebrate, not shove sand into each other's underwear." Lilith chuckles, elbowing her husband hard enough to knock him against a nearby pew.

"If I had wanted only Lilith to show up I could've just held this wedding in Georgia." You agree.

"Now hold on-!" Lucifer holds up one finger. Thus begins an old argument that lasts a very long time.

Sooner rather than later it would've become difficult to discern Barry's eccentric relatives from your equally eccentric kin were it not for your familiarity with their mortal forms. Some members of both sides of the family are surprisingly hard to distinguish from the normal customers slowly filtering in through the doors. You have to turn away Barbatos when he turns up dressed like a slob.

The only reason you are not more surprised when an almost insultingly normal looking man walks into the church is because Jesus has already opened up a bottle of wine and is sharing drinks with Lucifer.

"Michael." You greet, cold as ice.

"Apollyon." He tries to smile. Your stare breaks it. Barry at least grasps that it's the Archangel he's looking at, and reacts appropriately before you shake your head no.

"You aren't still holding a grudge about the whole - "

"Yes. Just go sit down, Michael." You interrupt him. He simply nods and sits down. Kicking him out was too troublesome. Honestly, asking if literally kicking you out of heaven by the ass had been forgiven yet...

He'd even gone so far as to make a remark about how big it was. Honestly. See how he liked it.

To your great frustration, not only do more of your unfallen siblings arrive after that, but they get along with their fallen kin when you seat them together. That the son of God had likely shown up early just to get your fallen siblings in a good mood did not go unnoticed by yourself. You do not like what this portends for you later.

Yet that unbearably long hour ends as quickly as it begins. Ceremony and pomp take the way of polite smalltalk and genuine well-wishes. Speeches are given, bread is broken, wine is shared, flower-girls and best men walk down the aisles. Before you truly realize what is upon you, to the sound of cheers and congratulations, a different priest from the one who had come to know since being summoned spoke aloud while you and Barry grasped one another's hands.

"Do you, Bartholomew Katherine Quinn, take Apollyon, Abaddon's Archangel, Keeper of the Pits, as yours, now and forever?" He asks. A ripple of surprise and confusion ripples through yourself and the crowd. Each side of the crowd takes a very different sort of emotion from the priest's bold declaration. You think you can hear Barry's mother break down into hysterical laughter.

"I do." Barry powers through that confusion much more easily than you do.

"And do you, Apollyon, Candace, Candy, take Bartholomew Katherine Quinn as your husband, lawfully bound in the eye of the lord?" The priest turns to you, eyes twinkling.

"I do." You say without hesitation. Your eyes narrow. Realization strikes and anger you had not felt since growing close to Barry flares inside of you. A broken halo manifests behind you, shattered and fragmented as a child’s doodle of an accretion disc. "You-!"

But the priest just winks and laughs, vanishing like the wind, as He takes his leave. Your chance to say or do anything that matters gets wrinkled up into a little ball of frustration. There is barely time for you and Barry to take the rings off one another's left hand and place them onto the right before you decide enough is enough.

You scoop him into your arms like he were a princess and you were a gallant knight, his face flushing as you also did your best to pull him into a deep kiss. The crowd cheers, and when you pull away, there is only one thing to say.

"May the celebration begin!" You roared as you marched down the aisle, Barry snugly secured in your arms. You were too frustrated to stay around for this part. You and Barry might miss eating the cake you had made together, but that was fine.

You teleport away the moment you reach the doors while the church behind you descends into a festive partying. You watch it just long enough to see the priest who should have given you your vows run out of breath to the stand, bible clutched beneath his arm, grabbing the microphone at the stand.

"I'm sorry I'm late - oh dear. What did I miss?" He blinks, his question swallowed by the noise of celebration and hysterical laughter.

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Ceremony has no place in what you're about to do. Your head swims with happiness and annoyance alike, frustration boiling in the spaces between. Only a bare minimum of decorum remains when you and Barry reappear in your bedroom, shades draped shut and bed not quite made.

Barry is clutched tight in your arms, even as you gently lay him onto the bed. If he has any questions or doubts - any thought besides reciprocating the look undoubtedly festering in your eyes - he'd have voiced them. The only noise to brush against your ears is his eager breath and the rustling of the bed sheets as he's sat down.

You take that moment to admire him. Dressed in that sparkling white suit, beard well-trimmed and well-groomed, you feel no hesitation before straddling his waist. No matter how quickly you want to usher things along you take them slowly, your nearly bare thighs brushing against his pants while his legs vanish beneath the hem of your dress. You squeeze your thighs against Barry's own as you lower yourself towards him, your chest pressing against his own, one gloved hand runs its way forward with you.

Resting atop Barry, your noses pressed against one another, Barry's heavy breath breaks against one another, you press your lips against his. A hand cups his cheek, stroking his beard. He tries to kiss you back, but you have no yet begun to kiss him. "I have a lot of frustrations to work out, Barry. I hope you don't mind you being my outlet." You murmur, pushing him back just far enough to speak. Just far enough to feel how he’d wet both your lips.

"I could never mind, Candy." He admits. His hands no longer sit idle. You can feel them gently groping your butt through your dress, grasping and massaging your cheeks with deftness and grace.

"Good. Now shut up and kiss me harder." You pull his head back towards yours with the same force as you descend back upon him. This time there is nothing that stops you from running your tongue along the edge of his lips. His tongue, hesitant, joins you. He doesn't yet realize what it is about kissing that feels good.

For but a moment you enlighten him. The feeling of tongues brushing against one another. The exchange of breath, hot and willing to give more than you have. The fullness of one another's lips gently teasing each other.

His hands falter in their massaging. He understands, in that bare moment, before you pull away.

You do not need breath. He does. And you can feel his penis, hot and stiff, pushing against the edge of his pants and lightly rubbing against the thighs that had begun to more snugly hug his waist while you kiss.

One finger lingers on Barry's beard as you pull backwards and up. That ringed hand lingers further on his chest while your other reaches down, for the hem of Barry's pants. It teases and flicks the elastic hem, letting it snap back against his skin, as you lower your butt until it’s resting atop his crotch.

To strip him would be a bother. You rest your hand on his pants, and will them to vanish. Bare skin meets hairy legs. Nothing is stopping your legs from rubbing against Barry's. Nothing is stopping his penis from sitting straight as you position yourself atop it, Barry's hands slipping down to grasp your legs.

You do not slip it inside. Not yet. For the moment you are content to let it rest in the firm grasp of your cheeks. You tense them ever so lightly as the burning rod that is his penis finds itself firmly held there. Its tip is wet and sticky just like the vagina eagerly anticipating it.

It's not enough. Your hands come up, grabbing Barry by the shoulders, forcing him to sit upright as you slowly drag him out from beneath you and put him at rest against the headboard.

Elaborate metaphors have no place in carnal pleasure. In the foreplay, in the enjoyment of what was to come, in appreciation of what you were about to consume and who was about to consume you in turn - but there was no place for more. There was no use to adding metaphor and prose to how another's privates felt in your hand while you held it or how another's hands felt exploring your body.

Yet still you found yourself pausing. A natural lull settled over you and Barry. He was nearly breathless, what little had held in anticipation as he waited for whatever it was you had positioned him better for. You sat on your knees and a sticky butt, Barry's surprisingly cold toes wiggling against your butt, taking him in.

He still wore his jacket. You hadn't bothered stripping him of anything more than his pants and his trousers, and you would be keeping things that way. There was an element of specialness to the night that shouldn't be done away with. The only bit of his pale, creamy skin you should be seeing was his erect penis.

It stood upright, now, shaking ever so lightly. It was a thing you would likely become very acquainted with in the coming years. Yet you had felt it long before seeing it. It is neither too large nor too small. Barry begins to reach for it, likely if only for the peace of mind of holding it still. A thought seizes your mind as you grab at Barry's wrists.

When did circumcision become this popular?

You hold his hands where they were. The momentary respite you had given him ends when you let go, letting your own hand briefly brush against his belly. Your left hand finds itself cupping his testicles, squeezing at them and fondling it like a well-loved stress ball. That hand's thumb and index finger find their way around the base of his penis, pinching at a bit of skin as you begin to rub the index finger back and forth, rubbing at it. Each back and forth motion pinches and releases that little slip of skin against your thumb, the fabric of your gloves brushing relentlessly against the lace glove in your hand.

Your other hand finds it way higher up. It traces its way up, alongside what should be the underside of his penis, a bulging, burning vein pressing itself so hotly against the underside of your palm it feels like a brand. The neck of his penis, even hardened and stretched out, is soft and squishy - no longer wrinkled, but still very different.

This time you curl your index finger up before you wrap your thumb around his penis's neck. Your lower fingers begin to work his shaft while your thumb traces its way down the penis's head, silk stained white by precum as you rub as much of the lubricant as you can all over the neck of the penis. Then, sufficiently lubricated, you press your thumb against the neck of Barry's penis and begin rolling it against your curled-up index finger.

It is a deft maneuver. It's also a dangerous one. You tease his entire head, gently massaging and fondling it in a way too experienced and expert to call it a jerking motion. Not when you kept his penis so still. Barry shivered beneath you, doing nothing at all, tensing and accidentally seizing up in pleasure. His fiercest shivers, his greatest tensing, came when he first felt the cold metal band of your wedding ring rub against him. Yet he did nothing at all in return.

Barry was still hesitant. Still unsure. He sat and let you guide him, let you use him, but he wasn't taking the initiative. It was almost adorable. Simple problems have easy solutions, however, and so you release the hand that had been fondling his balls and instead use it to guide his hands upwards. He had been neglecting your breasts, after all.

His hands slip beneath the hem of your wedding gown's bust, sweaty fingers brushing against your bare skin and accidentally pulling the bust down. Your nipples are caught between his fingers as he gropes and kneads at them like bread, defaulting to what experience he does have to bring you pleasure. It leaves your nipples neglected, twitched and tugged and brushed, but the pleasure his kneading brings it enjoyable nonetheless.

The two of you watch each other's faces closely. Barry is at least determined to figure out what he's doing right. He looks into your eyes, memorizing every detail of your face, to find the smallest hint of if what he's doing is right. He's breathing more heavily and more quickly himself, face flushed and ears red, eyes flickering when he can't focus. So you don't bother to hide your feelings. You put on a show of expressing them when Barry is doing well.

Enough becomes enough. Barry is ready to become a twitching, insensitive mess beneath your hands. You won't allow it just yet. The hand you'd freed up finds its way to the hem of your dress, pulling it up far enough to show him your dripping wet sex.

There's little left to do but draw yourself up. Up and against him, his hands trying to keep their grip on your breasts, knocking aside your dress and leaving them exposed to the world. "Are you ready? Barry? Hug me tight. Tight as you can." You proclaim.

As you pull yourself up, draw your face closer to his once more, you're forced to change how you grip his penis. Drawing it forward with you, forward until it's pressed against his belly, you pinch a different part of him - pinch at the tubes and veins just beneath his urethra. His hips buck up, slapping against your own, as you deny him his orgasm and let go of his penis entirely. Your hands come to rest on his chest as you balance yourself above him.

Barry tries his best to listen to your orders. His hands leave your breasts to follow their way beneath your dress, his slick hands feeling up the bare skin of your butt with much more enthusiasm than before. His fingers artlessly trace their way there, first feeling your wet folds, then the sticky stain of his precum, and then at last your flesh. He hugs you tight like this, pulling you closer to him while you draw yourself over him, skirt held high.

Your hips lower just slowly enough that you can feel his cock press against your slit. Without hesitation you let yourself fall, your entire being feeling as though it's focused on the sole goal of choking his penis. The hands that had been grabbing your butt find themselves grabbed.

You want more. You will have more. Hands grasped in his own, your right still sticky with precum, he doesn't protest it when you raise his arms up - up above his head and far above - as you lower yourself onto him.

Your veil and your hair billow down around your faces, a private partition that gives both of you dim views of one another. For the first time you're aware of how flush your face is. That thought is brushed away as the two of you kiss once more, hands tightening in one another.

Legs wrapped around one another, his penis firmly held in your vagina, chests smashed together as you kiss one another, hands clasped together; at last you give him relief. You start to ride him instead of merely holding him, your folds constricting and wrapping in a way just as expertly tailored to tease every nerve in his dick.

You pull away from the kiss, face still close that it's impossible to feel anything but Barry's breath wash over your face, impossible to stare at anything but his flickering eyes and slack face as you at last allow him to cum. You feel yourself buck and lose yourself, drawn close but not quite brought relief, as his semen splatters across your insides.

You hold them there, his tense body relaxing beneath your own, hot and burning as his softening dick. You're reluctant to pull away, gently unwrapping yourself from Barry, his eyes closed as you pull away. There is more yet to do.

Before he's conscious of what you're doing, Barry's dick is slipped between your breasts, your arms folded over them and holding them tight as you rub. Desire wells within you, and so it is made to well within his penis, rejuvenated and already hardening as you rub and clean it with your breasts.

"I hope you're ready for more, dear." You test the word. It's not unpleasant. It's even enough to make Barry's penis perk up a little more, its head suddenly smearing itself against the edge of your lips rather than hovering near it. "We're not going to stop until this room smells like nothing but sex."

He gets to moan only once before you're atop him again.