The Bridesmaid Always Comes Twice: The Adventures of Kat McKinney, Wedding Slut

By Mary Cyn

Meet Kat McKinney, Wedding Slut Kat doesn’t want to get married. She just wants to have a wedding. And have sex with her husband — whoever the hell he is — on the altar. And have the orgy to end all orgies at the reception. And… Collected here for the first time are Kat’s complete adventures — funny, fantastical, sometimes sad, but always sexy. Get Kat anywhere near a wedding… and wild things are sure to happen.Here are four tales of Kat’s nuptial naughtiness: Wedded Bliss Plus One Never a Bride Cold Feet A brand new prologue and epilogue Sneak preview of the new paranormal erotic fantasy, Erlking. (M/F, M/F/M, M/F/F, and orgy erotic romance. Adult readers only.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stillpoint/Eros
• Release date: Apr 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781537839967

Book preview

Part II: The Reception!

Julian. Oh my Julian. With his pierced tongue and purple hair he still looks absolutely at home in a business suit.

Julian is the Orgymaker. Don’t know exactly when he earned this title, but for me it was when his going-away party became an orgy, and then, on the other side of the country, his housewarming party became an orgy. It’s like the party just follows him around.

He has a charm that seems to touch everyone in the room, soon to be followed by the rest of him. It goes without saying that Julian would be invited to my wedding. Writers call this foreshadowing.

Booze would flow freely at my wedding reception. Dinner would be fantastic. Several kinds of meat would be served and a rainbow of ice cream flavors served in martini glasses. There would be music and dancing and a chocolate fountain. Flowers and candles would be ubiquitous, along with a feeling of love and goodwill.

My best friend would recite the speech from Frida about how marriage is a bourgeois sham but that to know this and get married anyway, with eyes wide open, is revolutionary and romantic.

My reception would be romantic. My family would be so proud and my friends would be so happy that love would burst forth uncontrollably from every corner of the room strengthening bonds between old lovers and forming new alliances through shared glances over champagne toasts.

And the whole night, through dinner and speeches and dancing, Julian would work the room. He would flirt with every eligible and amenable female — along with several males and couples as well. Julian flirts like breathing. Without moving he charms half the room. My best friend would flirt with all the available straight males. And I would dance with all my old flames. The ones I didn’t hate. The ones I still sleep with on occasion. You know those ones.

The night would wear on and the relations would filter out till we found our group to be solely comprised of open-minded, attractive people. No drunk uncles, no stuffy grand aunts or prudish siblings.

Truly, it would be a magical evening.

I’d be dancing with Wyatt, a habit I was never really able to kick (the boy, not the dancing.) I would press my body against his tall, solid frame and feel the desire in his body. He would want me desperately but never tell me so. He always was such a Southern gentleman. I would smile at my husband, who wold be dancing with my best friend.

Miss Kat, Wyatt would say, I must say you look damn fine.

Thank you, Wyatt, I’d say. Would you like to kiss the bride? He would and he would try to keep it chaste. Not that I’d let him.

Miss Kat! He’d exclaim. It’s your — !

And I would jerk my head in the direction of my husband, now making out with my best friend.

Oh, hell, would escape Wyatt’s lips before I pulled them back to my own.

I would revel in the warmth of his mouth, the dexterity of his tongue, until I felt the familiar hand of my husband in the small of my back. I would pull back slowly and in a smooth motion switch to kissing my husband, while my best friend took over with Wyatt, neither of them really minding.

From the corner of my eye I would see Julian beginning to draw a crowd.

And so would begin an orgy of epic proportions.

The problem with writing about orgies is that you can’t really think about an orgy. I mean, you can, but if you get too detailed it just becomes choreography... or geometry — and that’s not all that fun to write and it doesn’t give the right feeling. The feeling of an orgy, or rather, what I want this orgy to be is like.... You know that moment that happens in any really good party where all your friends are getting along and you feel like you could just stay like this forever and be nothing but completely fulfilled?

It’s like that, except you’re having an orgasm and there’s a cock in your mouth all at the same time.

And in my wedding day fantasy, linear time melts away and becomes a slideshow of the sights and sensations of the people I love and, in some way, make love to. Skin scents and tattoos and feminine fingers and carpenter’s hands. The taste of a smoker and metal rings

clicking between my teeth. A host of fine fabrics cleared away from eager skin. Satins, silks, and sweet warm flesh. The smooth touch of latex gloves and lubed hands on condoms. Sighs and moans — Dear lord! and Oh, my God! — slender limbs and bulky muscles, love handles, soft bellies, and washboard abs, biceps, deltoids, clavicles, and cocks. Cocks whose nuances I couldn’t begin to catalog. Spongy mons and bony pubis. Blue eyes, brown eyes, gray eyes, and green. Pierced nipples, pierced ears, pierced eyebrows, and tongues. Wine in this mouth, whisky in another, people feeding each other grapes and cheese. Licking ice-cream and cheesecake off the savory curves of their lovers. The sensual pleasure of meaty juices sucked down into my mouth. The hollow curves of cheeks kissing, the unbroken lines of bodies writhing together. Condom packets thrown around the crowd like Mardi Gras coins. Hair in the face, breast in the hands, a cock in my mouth, my ass, my cunt. Gasps and giggles, moans and screams. The heady scent of roses, tiger lilies and jasmine. Sweat and spit and a thousand different scents and skins. Everyone happy, everyone in love, if only for this moment.

And, of course, a massive circle jerk centered on me. Because, after all, this is my day.

The men of the party would surround me, all of them hot, most of them my lovers, a lesbonic pile of girl flesh writhing behind them. I would still be wearing my veil, my corset, my thigh highs and garters, a prescient string of pearls around my throat. And because it’s a fantasy I wouldn’t care a bit about the cleaning. My tits would be pushed up, haughty curves of flesh pouring out over the square neckline of my corset, my legs spread wide, my pussy dripping.

My husband, that lucky bastard, would be kneeling behind me, fucking my ass or my pussy (even in my fantasy I can’t decide which I’d prefer) and I’d be leaning back, bouncing on his well-lubed cock, my head thrown back in ecstasy.

The men would stare at me, hands furiously jerking their cocks, entranced by the hot spectacle of our intensely dirty marital fucking. My fingers would be between my legs, circling my clit, fingers wet with the juices of several previous orgasms, working me towards yet another. I would feel their eyes on me, burning into my skin, wanting desperately to fuck me even though they just had and their desire would burn hot between my thighs.

My husband would pull my hair back as he got closer to coming, his other hand grasping greedily at my breast. His breathing would be labored and my screaming would be legendary as we picked up speed and my vision blurred. And as the waves of orgasm — mine and my husband’s — racked my body, I would feel hot spurts of jizz come at me from all sides, spraying my veil, my tits, my legs, my throat. Warm, relaxed, and thick with orgasms, we’d all collapse into each other, totally sated, totally happy.

And after a thousand orgasms have been had and the hall was littered with bodies and condoms, we would lie in heaps and nibble leftover food, sharing jokes and stories, taking each other’s hair down, cleaning off each other’s makeup, come, and random food smears. Whatever clothing we still wore would be shed. Sexiness would give way to comfort. Whispered obscenities would give way to merry laughter. The conversation would become comfortably banal: I thought we’d never get there on time. Did you father ever stop weeping for joy? Did you ever think we’d end up like this? "And where exactly were you guys while we were waiting for you at the reception?"

We’d lose all care for how close the dawn was because this moment, these people would be the only future we needed. We’d hold each other like groups of lovers and old friends, laughing at old jokes and rehashing the day’s more unforgettable moments.

This day, after all, is meant for making memories. And we’ve only just begun.

Plus One

The kiss is where the fun