Bride Overload

David was minding his own business behind the desk when five brides stormed the lobby like a pack of well-dressed wolves. Vivianne DeSilva. Lolly Dames. Sandy Love. Texas Patti. Shay Sights. All of them shouting, all of them seething, all of them booked for the same goddamn time because some idiot wrote a faulty scheduling app. Their voices overlapped like gunfire—flowers, photographers, string quartets—and David stood there sweating under cheap fluorescent lights, phone pressed uselessly to his ear while the boss refused to pick up. The decision was his now. Five brides, one time slot. Five reasons his shift might end early or violently. Then the shift. Vivianne’s hand slid along the counter and landed flat on his wrist. Lolly’s voice dropped an octave, silk over gravel. Sandy’s perfume hit his face first, sharp and sweet. One hand unbuttoned a cuff. Another brushed his belt. Five women in wedding white circling him like the dress code had finally turned into a dare. Pretty wasn’t enough, they knew that, so they closed the distance fast— mouths at his throat, fingers dragging zipper teeth open, perfume crowding his lungs until the rental hall smelled like lust instead of roses. He couldn’t pick. They didn’t give him time. Lolly sank to her knees first, palms hot against his thighs. Vivianne bit his earlobe and whispered something filthy about “first in line.” Sandy’s tongue flicked the inside of his wrist like she was claiming territory. The room narrowed to heat and breath and the soft wet sound of mouths opening, closing, competing. Each one trying to out-suck, out-ride, out-claim the others—teeth grazing, hips grinding, nails digging pale lines down his ribs while dresses hiked higher, garters snapped free, stockings sliding against his skin. Someone moaned the name of a future spouse, then laughed at how little it mattered in that moment. Someone else spat on his cock for extra slick, guiding him in before another stole the angle. Five at once—hands everywhere, lips replacing hands and hands replacing tongues, an every-which-way grind that pushed the rental hall contract into the shredder and replaced it with the single rule that whichever bride came last would be the one left out. They worked him like a job interview from hell, hungry and heartless and zero mercy for a young clerk who should have stayed home. When his knees gave, when he spilled across skin already streaked with spit and sweat, they stepped back panting, still glaring at one another like whoever swallowed most still might lose. The phones kept ringing. The hall stayed booked. And David stayed against the counter, pulse hammering, zipper open, throat raw, wondering which woman just stole his day.