Wedding Dress

M+f, noncon, misogyny, forced outfit
"Put it on," he said, tossing the wedding gown onto the bed.
It was bad enough that two of them were holding you sandwiched between them, unable to do anything, but this…
The dress you'd married the love of your life in. He wasn't the only cock you'd ever had, but the dress was a symbol: you were his. Your cunt belonged to your husband.
Worse still, it was on the bed you shared every night. Your husband's bed. Your husband's cunt. And you knew… these animals wanted to take that from you.
With a shove, the two holding you thrust you at the bed. Falling to your knees, all you can see is the expanse of white silk and lace. Behind the men are laughing. You can feel the two worlds colliding, a pure white expanse before you, and coarse, crude comments behind.
Trembling fingers run the length of the silk and lace. There are a million pictures of you in this dress. You know exactly what you will look like under their hungry eyes. Cinched waist, elegant, dainty… and they will sully all that, stain it, stain you.
"This is going to happen whether you want it or not." One of them says.
You could fight. There's no way you'd win. They'd throw you down and take you anyway. But they broke in, who's to say how far they'll go? You know compliance is the best way out of this… but there's a lingering ghost making it even worse.
You know they wanted you the moment they grabbed you. They got off on pinning you, controlling you, marching you through your own home. The home you shared with your husband. And to the sickening shame burning through every pore of your body, that desire has kindled a heat you haven't felt in a long, long time. That satisfying knowledge that a man wants you, wants to devour you. That they are going to force it adds to the shame, and the stokes those fires at the same time.
You hear the clink of metal on metal, and leather sliding across fabric. You don't even need to look behind you to know one of them is pulling his belt off.
"You need some fucking help?" he says, and then cracks the belt like a gunshot in the room.
Spanking can be fun, you've done it before… but this would be a beating, and you know it. They want you so badly that they are almost willing to damage the goods. And that makes your hips shift, trying to quench that fire.
Rising up on shaky legs, you reach out and clutch the dress. It still has that smell, the one that takes you right back to the reception, eating cake from his hand, champagne, and music. You force it away, dropping it down and stepping into it as they laugh behind you.
"What the?" one says, still laughing, "Get that other shit off. Then put it on, so we can see it like it was… on that night."
That night. That night, you became one flesh with another. That night, you vowed to cherish only one.
You hate that your hands are obeying these strangers. You promised to obey only one other. Shaking fingers move to the buttons on your jeans, and slide them down your hips as fast as possible. The blouse joins it on the floor. You consider keeping the bra on, but the dress wasn't made for that. It tumbles away in a second, leaving you in nothing but panties as the strangers make comments on your ass.
The dress rustles around you as you step in and pull it back up to squeeze into it with a tug, feeling it glide along bare skin, finally covering you completely. You hug it; it was with you on your big night, a constant companion. The men behind you make noises as you hug yourself, hug the dress, your muddled brain has difficulty making sense of all of it.
"Come on," one demands, the words finally gelling in your mind, "Turn around and show us."
And just like on the dance floor, you spin, feeling it rustle around you.
Your eyes meet theirs. Once again, you are in the spotlight, just like that night. All eyes are on you. You can feel them devouring you, not in admiration or hope for the future, or strengthening community, but in raw, animalistic hunger. You are the center of their world. And they mean to indulge.
This will not be a storybook ending, and you know it. No perfect day. It will be as far from those things as you can imagine. No night of bliss. You're going to be used. Used like an object, a cheap toy in a fancy wrapper. Fucked probably harder than ever before in your life, and left battered and bruised, filled, dripping, a wet, sodden, sore mess. You see it in their eyes, the doll they played dress up with, you, that doll.
When their hands descend on you and you squirm, you can feel it, slick thighs, damp and on fire like they haven't been in years. You may be a married woman, but the dress is about to transform you again. Tonight you will be nothing but holes to use, a wet, filthy slut getting exactly what she deserves, what men want…