Slutbride (Hailee Steinfeld)

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

Slutbride (Hailee Steinfeld)

“What a shame, the poor groom’s bride is a whore…”—Brendan Urie

tags: Hailee Steinfeld, cheating, cuckoldry

Description: Someone told Hailee Steinfeld that men think about sex once every seven seconds. Lucky them. Imagine having six whole seconds to spare for something else…

* * *



Slutbride

Hailey Steinfeld pursed her lips in the chapel dressing room. Her shoulders twisted back and forth, making her train swirl. The dress had looked beautiful on the mannequin but felt heavy and dead on her body—like wearing a murdered swan.

The ceremony was in six hours.

Her pulse thundered as she adjusted her bun of hair, practicing expressions in the mirror. Demure. Sulty. Smoldering. Her reflection wouldn’t play ball. She just looked desperate in the glass. Ha. Some actress I turned out to be. Her teeth found her lip and tried to worry free her anxiety.

Stress about the wedding. That’s all. The most important day of her life. A million things had to go right, a million things could go wrong, and a million people would notice when one finally did. The endpoint of weeks of planning and stress—weeks of juggling a dozen plates while she herself was one of those plates. There had been rehearsals, and rehearsals for those rehearsals, and fittings, and refittings, and media junkets, and photoshoots, and late-night Zoom conferences on whether the DJ was allowed to spin “I Believe I Can Fly” in light of the R. Kellygations, and whether the monogrammed napkins on the tables were fair trade, and whether eggshell-hue fondant satisfied her requirement for a white cake, and whether the photographer should use f/5.6 or f/1.8, and a thousand other things…

Yes. Just wedding stress. It was all getting too much. She’d been strapped and darted and fastened into the bridal gown, and then she’d told her entourage to leave. Seamstress, publicist, family—everyone got thrown out of the chapel.

Their presence had become strangely…hateful.

Thirty minutes by myself, please. Yes, I love you all. Yes, even you, Helen. No, I’m not mad. I just want to be alone.

But she found that she didn’t want to be alone.

A hand drifted toward the phone secreted in her wedding train. The phone her soon-to-be-husband didn’t know about.

No. Don’t.

Hailee glanced out the window; saw a perfect day that couldn’t have turned out better if she’d ordered it consignment mail from Poshmark. An azure Santa Barbaran sky, studded politely with clouds, sunlight rifting gold over everything. The summer heat crucible-fired the chapel grounds into a brighter, more perfect version of itself—she saw white-rose pillars heaped like snow, crawling canopies of ivy, the open seating area where her husband planned to stage a pratfall (he’d rise, clutching a pigskin he’d hidden under a table)—all of it improved, transmuted, and alchemized by a gorgeous fairytale day where dawn is once upon a time and dusk is happily ever after.

She didn’t give a fuck about the weather.

She stroked her bridal gown. Her hand stopped on the fold that concealed her other phone. The strapless corseted gown had cost a hundred thousand dollars. Tamara Ralph had needed six weeks to build it. She had two more—an open-backed dancefloor dress with frothy pom-poms and ostrich feathers, and a double-satin tuxedo. She snapped on opera gloves that reached all the way up her shoulders, then fastened $50,000 Mikimoto pearl and diamond earrings to her earlobes. They caught the light; sharding it over her light brown skin. She swung her French Chantilly lace veil down over her face.

She wasn’t thinking the dress, veil, gloves, or earrings.

Instead, her hand returned to the phone. Again and again and again.

A sudden sense—like coldness—touched her nerves and burrowed inward. The bride was falling fast without a net or drag chute. A black desperate need ran a rat-race through her. A hunger born in a swamp six million years ago was roaring up to take control of her, once again.

Not today, she begged it. Not on my wedding day…

Hailee gazed into the mirror again: saw madness reaching out behind the whites of her eyes. She felt horror at its ascending presence. First it was in her, then it was her.

Every little girl dreams of her wedding.

But Hailee was a big girl, and had different dreams. Those of a crocodile.

* * *

I want to fuck.

The reflection in the mirror was quivering with undisguised need. The skin beneath her hairline flushed arousal-red. She saw her heart pound in her throat—shallow palpitations of skin, anodized by sweat. Her nostrils flared like a racehorse on an eightball. Her nipples throbbed urgently beneath swatches of butcher’s tape.

I have to fuck.

She adjusted her knickers; hissed like a swan as fabric tightened on lust-engorged genitals.

Hailee reached for a tube of lipstick and dropped it. Wires had come loose between fingers and brain. She had to painfully hitch up her wedding train—the Christ-awful thing weighed a ton—to kneel and pick up the tube on the floor. The hand she curled around it was shaking like a heroin addict’s. I want dick. She puckered and applied lipstick, letting the thought crescendo up through her in a chemical wave. I want dick dick dick dick dick—

She chanted dick, vowels thudding like a hammer punching down a nail. The tube moved slower until she was pressing lipstick on, plastering it as thick as cake icing into the folds and cracks of her lips. She finished and flashed a quick smile. She looked like she’d drunk from a creek of fresh blood.

Mouthing fuck it, she fished out her secret phone from her wedding train.

…And did the thing she’d promised herself she would never do again.

>San Ysidro Ranch. Chapel in the back. I need it RIGHT NOW. You have 30 mins. - Hxx

Sent. To who? Ha. No fucking clue.

* * *

Hailee Steinfeld loved to fuck and lived to fuck. She did not suffer from sex addiction: she quite enjoyed it. She looked for two things in men: a penis, and a pulse. When Taylor Swift had gifted her a sex toy at her bachelorette’s, she’d realized that even the pulse was mostly a formality.

She had spent her twenties getting banged like a drum. Lying on her back, feet propped up behind her ears, man grunting on top of her—that was her primary recollection of the past howevermany years. She’d done some acting too, she guessed. She fucked taxi drivers, pool boys, roof repairmen, students, professors, SAG-guilded actors, musicians, A-listers, Z-listers. Anyone and everyone. She rutted infelicitously and shamelessly, enjoying men the way a child enjoys waves at the beach. Even if a particular wave is a little small or a little lackluster, there’s another one coming right behind it. And then another…

It’s a phase. I’m in complete control of this. That was what she’d told herself with each new man, each stranger’s coat flung across her table or couch, always sounding like an addict at her own intervention. I can quit any time I want!

Her wedding was supposed to be the end of her whoring. She’d close the chapter on her wild twenties, close her legs with it, and behave. Do it for her husband’s sake. He didn’t know a thing and never would.

But as she stared into her sex-crazed eyes, she realized the truth. I just booty-called someone on the day of my motherfucking wedding.. Her wedding day had finally come, and she was just as uncontrollably demon-horny as she’d always been. Marriage was not going to change her. Maybe nothing could. You can’t turn a Hailee into a housewife.

She felt locked-in. A prisoner of her body and its urges. Her hands folded into fists, and fingernails knifed half-moons into the meat of her palms. I can’t stop this. Not even in the chapel where I’ll be married. In five and a half hours, I’ll walk an aisle with a man, swear vows of eternal fidelity…and they’ll all be lies. The acting performance of a lifetime, folks! Hailee, as a faithful wife! Give her the Oscar now!

Suddenly, she wanted to cry.

* * *



Minutes passed.

Maybe the man just…wouldn’t show. That would untangle this messy ball of yarn, wouldn’t it? Her entourage would return in a few minutes, she’d get sucked back into wedding prep, she wouldn’t have a moment to think—let alone misbehave—and this would turn out to be a blip. Soon forgotten, never repeated. Wouldn’t that be nice?

…knuckles tat-tatted on glass.

She turned her head. A man waved and gesturing at the window.

She unlatched the lock with a click. Weddings and promises fled her mind like startled birds as he clambered through, filling the room with his male heat and scent. Her body responded to him. Looming over her, he made her feel like a doll, a delicate thing, ready for mishandling because it lives to be broken. Shivers cut and wove through her stomach.

Hailee had to restrain herself from pouncing like a tigress. She did not even know his name.

He was in his twenties, stubbled like shrapnel and boyishly handsome. He grinned as he loomed over her. He assuredly knew full well how full Hailee’s sexual dance card was, and how rare an opportunity it was to be chosen—though less rare than her unfortunate husband knew, believed, or hoped.

He’d dressed in what he’d probably imagined to be wedding attire—why? does he think he’ll be at the ceremony? I don’t even know his name.—which meant a blazer jacket, dress pants in a totally different tone of black, and a horrible-done tie. It dangled loosely from his neck, flopping like a hangrope. The half-Windsor knot was halfway down the length. Hailee bit her lip. Dear God, she wanted him out of those clothes for many different reasons.

“Hey baby…” Her smile widened, and she lifted up her veil.

She called them all baby because there were a lot of thems and names were hard. Baby was safe. Better than whispering I love you, Dylan into Devin’s ear. Or mixing up Edward-Rogers with Rogers-Edward (what kind of awful double-dipping parent gives their kid two first names? Be happy with one like everyone else.) To be blunt, she did not care what their names were. You can’t put a name inside your vagina.

Hailee started kissing him. It was a muscular, full-body kiss. She writhed like a serpent against his body, rotating her mouth against his with a hot sucking sound. She’d put on far too much lipstick. As she ground her lips onto its face she left deposits plastered behind, crime-scene red drawn across his stubble.

Her aggressive mouth-action drove back his head. Gripping his broad muscular shoulders with her hands, Hailee slammed him back against the wall. Thunk. The mirror wobbled as he backed into it.

He was unfamiliar with such aggression. Delighted. Just unfamiliar.

She was just getting started. Mouth-drying and blood-freezing lust riptided through her, rising with volcanic force, with this man in her path. She tore at his face with hers, her twists and grinds becoming ever more heated and ardent. She sucked on his tongue and bit his lips. Inside the flesh-gripping corset she became a human chemistry flask, boiling over with lust. Every thought looped back to sex, men, cocks, being flung around and slammed into a pile of fluid.

“I’ve missed you, baby,” she murmured from the blackest depth of her throat.

She reached down hungrily, grasping the huge bulge distorting his stupid mismatched dress pants. She palmed it, groped it, fitting her delicate hand to the banana-bulge shape of his erection. The turgid mass of meat squirmed hotly under her fingers, jerking and twitching in his pants. It wanted out. She wanted in.

The man in turn began clumsily ripping apart her dress. Her hands hastily caught his, guiding and steering. Wouldn’t do to damage Tamara Ralph’s bank-fucking handiwork, would it? Not least when she had to wear it in five or so hours. Together, they began stripping her down to her naked flesh. The cunt under her constricting dress had become a smoldering inferno. Her hand kept dropping to her needy crotch, uselessly frigging herself through about sixteen layers of fabric, then went back to the laces, untying and unzipping. Anxious to be out. Layers of satin and corsetage kept defeating her fingers, which were rattling with excitement.

Sheets of satin unwound and sprung apart, flooding the room with wedding white. She stepped out of the dress, swinging her broad hips with a pantheress strut.

“Ready?” Female mezzo-soprano asked.

“Ready.” Male baritone responded.

Their bodies connected. Hailee ground her underwear-clad hips against him, viciously humping him. She traced fingers down his erection again, and worked his zipper down over it.

HIs penis exploded out, filling her hand with flesh. A cruise missile, hunting for blood. She felt it throbbing with his heartbeat, veins snarling their crisscross against her hand.

“Baby,” she said, “we need to be fast.”

She spoke with his lips held to his. Hopefully he could hear or guess. Even if he couldn’t, men usually go fast by default. Even when you’d rather they didn’t.

Then it was his turn to strike. Hands closed on her, throwing her back.

Against the chapel wall there was an escritoire—an antique writing desk with lacquer so old it was almost black. Suddenly, she found herself flung onto it, folded up onto it, legs slashing apart then clapping back together as he shoved her into the wall. Then he lunged between her legs.

“Oh my God…” her vision spun with head-twisting need. Suddenly in a sitting position, she saw the streak of pussy juice she’d just painted across the escritoire’s surface. It glistened like a racing stripe. His shadow fell over it.

He flung his pants down around his ankles. Then he tore off her panties—they clung stickily to her arousal-wet cunt—and dragged them down her long legs and feet, before tossing them aside in a sticky heap.

The sudden coolness on her wet slit made her draw in air. Her sex glistened, pale and hot and stark. Her clit pulsed like a pearl between the labiae minora and majora, her prepuce, and her mons pubis. Her ass felt hot and itchy, melting like gloop into the cool wooden hardness. There was something perverse about that. As though the desk would participate in her ravishment and defilement.

The leering man leaned over her like a fairytale ogre and extended his hand forward. He found the entrance of her velvet fuckslot, and plunged his forefinger inside her. The thundershock of penetration crashed against her consciousness. Filled. Ful-filled. Yes, yes, yes. One finger. Two fingers. Take me, daddy. Put your whole hand in. Your whole arm. Your whole body, your whole existence. Split and probed by a digit, Hailee caught the glass-sharp scream that was tumbling up her throat. Barely.

Grinning, he fingerfucked the lusty bride atop the escritoire. His other hand gripped her shoulder for support, and soon migrated to her throat. She arched her back and swiveled her hips, mewling against the pressure of his thumb on her carotid. His other thumb rolled across her clit like thunder; driving his index and middle fingers into her sucking core with sharp, percussive stabs. His big tradesman fingers cut through her quivering flesh, a heat that melted her from the cunt up.

“Oh, oh, oh yesssss!”

Slurping moist pumping noises filled the room as he fingerbanged Hailee Steinfeld with punch-press precision, hammering out pleasure against the anvil of her crotch. She gasped. Then moaned. Then wailed. Trying to modulate the sound down before she attracted company, and probably failing. His fingers blurred into wet streaks before her eyes as she was defiled on her wedding day. She threw her head back and moaned, struggling her bra off and slinging it to the floor with her last conscious neuron. Her bare breasts flashed into the air, quivering mounds capped by erect nipples. The pale surfaces of her tits caught effulgence like stray moons. She was dripping in sweat, just pouring with it. Her entire body was porcelain in a furnace.

“St…st…stop…” she gurgled, not wanting to orgasm on his hand. She wanted his cock to have that honor. And time was running out.

He looked confused but pulled his hand out of her sucking snatch. Its pink folds seemed to latch at his retreating fingers, willing the invader to stay. His hand was splattered to the wrist with secretions from her Skene and Bartholin’s glands.

“You okay, girl?”

“No. I am getting married in a few hours.” A vicious downtilt of brow shadowed her eyes. “And I brought you here to fuck. So hurry up.”

There was no time for anything else.

And also no interest, frankly. Hailee Steinfeld spent so much time thinking and fantasizing about sex each day that she needed virtually no foreplay. For her, being alive was foreplay. And once the act started, she inevitably grew impatient with the fondling and shilly-shallying of men. Hurry up. I’m desperate. Just get inside me.

She smiled ruthless-red and splayed her dripping cunt for him. His cock lurched, rising back to full attention. She had such gorgeous long legs, and she threw them almost back up to her ears on the antique writing desk.

He approached her scissored-open gash, eyes wide as he stood at the fork of her legs. He climbed on top of her, his bulging pink erection waving in the air like an alien stalk, seeking her feminine heat.

The escritoire groaned as he settled his body’s weight atop hers. Excited thrills chased and crashed through her. The wood was sanded smooth beneath her bottom. No splinters touched her as she was forced back onto it, ass flattening out, with his hand back on her throat. Throttling her, as his cock hunted for the way in.

As his dick plunged into her pussy, she arched her back, writhing and hissing. Becoming seventy percent woman, thirty percent cat. His crotch slapped against the meaty fork of her legs. Each one knifed a stab of carnal ecstasy through her body’s circuitry. Dark sizzling sensations bounded through her, one after the next. His shaft was splitting her open, turning her out like a secret.

Splat. Splat. Splat. “Ohh. Ahh. OOOH.” Different sets of lips making different sets of noises. Truly, we all worship God in our own way.

He found a rhythm, and began humping her sloppy snatch. He plunged in, and in, and in. Carving apart cunt. Wet and hot and hot and wet. Fucking the soon-to-be-married woman without restraint or surcease. Gasping himself as his bulging cock burrowed through her quivering flesh-gorge.

“That feels so good baby…!” She moaned, as he planted himself inside her. Black sinful pleasure depth-charged through her central cortex with each punishing fuck-thrust. The beast in her was awake and hungry and tearing apart its cage.

Cunt full of cock, mind full of pleasure, she snapped her eyes down to her crotch. She saw his rampant shaft feasting messily on her cunt. GlrrrraaaaaaAAASSSHHHplapschlup! GLUUUUUBB schlorrb sploort gluuuuug!!

Gripping her thrashing legs, he took his fucking up a gear. His face was frozen in a skull-like grin as he rammed his cock home.

SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT!

His rapid-fire strokes were sending cunt nectar flying and splattering over her skin, over his skin, over the desk, over the floor, and over her dress.

As she was pummeled into sweet oblivion, Hailee wondered if the wood would stain, if her sweaty ass would leave a permanent impression as she was dicked into it. At her high school, a set of lockers had become known as the Steinfeld Locker. Two large circles were pressed against it, where her breasts had worn away the paint after their mistress had been pounded against it a hundred times. There were also two indentations on the side, where her fingers had gripped the sides for support. For all she knew, those marks were still there now. She wondered who used the Steinfeld Locker today, and how much they knew or suspected.

It was nice to think that you were becoming…permanent.

SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT!

Leaning over her, his raging shaft shplunked in and out, socketing inside her with big cunt-busting thrusts of his hips. Her pussy lips distended and bulged with the thickness of the invader lurching through her.

Gasp. Gasp. Oh. Gasp. She felt her pulse racing—stabbing counterpoint against the throat-choking hand. Her legs thrashed and her toes twisted as pleasure convulsed and foamed and boiled and oh—

“I’m gonna…OH BABY!”

His fucking hips were rocking the escritoire like a hobbyhorse as he sunk down into her moist depths, surging and exploding and testing her limits. Back and forth, back and forth. Propelled by cock, she began to lose her sanity. She began wondering at the odds it would break as he fucked her up into the skies, flung spinning into a dizzy climax.

Her leg muscles seized. A tsunami of intense pleasure scalded over her. The surge gathered force, and then broke apart in her gaping crotch.

“UGHHHHH!” Hailee gurgled as the world flashbanged to white. A savage sweltering blast rocked her. Hailee clamped back her orgasmic moans as she blasted squirt against the man’s slamming cock. She rolled her hips forward against his, smacking flesh against flesh. Her clit was on fire, raging in parabolic arcs.

She wanted to scream—usually did scream—but couldn’t. Not now. No knowing how long she’d have before her entourage returned and sucked all the air out of her lungs once again. Sign this legal document. Pose for a photograph. Approve these flowers for the reception. Yes, you approved them last week. Approve them again. Dance for us, monkey. Being a celebrity means you eat well…but the last course at the banquet is you.

He dropped his ass down, socketing his hips into her clunge. Her cunt swallowed his entire cock in one final and mind-bursting clench and spasm. SCHLOCK! He pumped against her cervix, making her exhale sharply. The relentless cock dug deeper into her moist twat, his weight settling on top of her. He rooted through her with heavy, lust-fired stabs of sheer muscle.

Then he stopped thrusting. His enormous prick throbbed once—a visceral meaty kick. A grunt told her what was about to happen.

He rammed his bloated cockhead against Hailee Steinfeld’s cervix, and emptied his balls into her baby chamber. She quivered as she was flooded by thick pulpous seed. He ejaculated copiously, then pulled his cock out, shooting thick and sticky strands over her belly button. White sperm flowed out of her, burbling a path across the escritoire before dribbling onto the chapel floor. Her pussy was slack and fucked open, releasing his load like an oil spill. Cum glooped out in a slow ebb. Her entire body shivered, like she was in the flux of a high fever.

Pant. Pant. Hailee spun dizzily through a chemical sea, lost and unable to follow the passage of time. She blinked and saw—oh fuck!—movement outside the window.

A parade of people was walking up to the chapel. Her people. The ones she’d sent away.

Her half-an-hour was more than up, and the idiotic Hollywood dance now had to resume.

She gripped the man’s shoulder, and used it to hoist herself back to her feet.

“Hide!” she hissed to the man, finding her bearing. “Don’t let them see you!”

She scooped up handfuls of wedding white. “You’ll have to pack me back into this. You know how to do that, right? No? Okay, I’ll show you. First, you have to…”

* * *



The wedding came and went in a flash. Sudden enough to shock. Over so quickly that she wondered if it even happened.

Later that night, Hailee lay in bed, caught in fearful non-symmetry with her new husband. He was asleep. She was awake. She wondered what life would look like now. Wondered and wondered. She had told lies that day. But had everything been a lie? Down to the pith and core? She hoped not. She was married. And that had to mean something, right? Otherwise, what was the point? But ultimately, she didn’t know the truth.

She had grim, dreadful certainty about one fact, and one fact only.

She had fucked her new husband several times—waking him up several times for yet another go-around—and it had not been enough. From his comment on the last go around—wow, what’s gotten into you tonight, huh? he considered this an unusually heroic sexual performance, and not one she could count on every night. Even if it had been enough, it still wouldn’t be enough. And now she couldn’t sleep.

Her clit was throbbing like a ticking bomb, and she urgently had to deal with it. She did not want to embarrass her husband and herself by waking him up again.

Sighing, body heavy with regret, she got up, stood up, threw on a nightdress, and belted it around her waist.

At the doorway, she cast a glance back at the sleeping man who was her husband.

I love you. You’re my soulmate. I have no wish to hurt you.

And sometimes the greatest expression of love is to never reveal who we are.

* * *

She was nearly silent as she padded from the room and then down the hall. Her feet gleamed like fish in the blueness of night, seeking out velvet rugs, placing themselves in the mortise joints of the floorboard. Please God, no creaks. Nobody could hear this. Nobody could know.

I do. She’d whispered that, refulgent in white and gleaming like the sun. But ‘I do’ is an incomplete sentence. What is it that I do? Who is it that I do?

Entered the hotel lobby; found it silent and dark. The desk was unattended. Good. She glanced at the mirror, and her glass-frozen face. Her cheekbones and jawline looked bleak and white, like the antediluvian topography of the moon.

She had no wish to hurt him or anyone.

But…

I don’t have a choice. The feeling was inside her now. Lust, raging like a storm. Roaring with all its teeth. I really don’t have a choice. Does that make it any better?

She bit her lip. Her reflection bit it back. She flicked eyes left. Didn’t quite see her reflection copy the movement. A slave to what it is. Just as she was a slave to what she was. A reflection can be anything we are, but not anything we are not. And even though you walk an aisle with a man, and vow to him your fidelity until death do us etc…you might find that you can’t actually fulfill that oath. Because of your nature. Because you, too, are a reflection.

Oh well.

Her marriage would still mean something.

Just so long as she tiptoed very quietly at night. And didn’t make the floorboards creak. And kept her secret phone on silent.

Hailee paced from the silent hotel lobby to the moon-glazed car-park, and began texting around for another man to fuck.

THE END

[TheLW]

Hailee Steinfeld is absolutely perfect for a cheating/cuck story. I really enjoyed this story, thanks for sharing.