Ciaran’s hand brushed against hers again as they reached for the same scrap of paper.  This time his fingers lingered a fraction longer than previously, running gently along her skin with gossamer lightness before darting away to pinch the prize from her grasp.

 “You’ll need to be quicker than that!”

“Cheeky bastard,” Alice said, giving him a playful slap before tucking an errant chair back into its place under the table.

The day had been boisterous; the hotel chosen for the views it offered over perfectly landscaped lawns that ran down to distant wild moorland.   Now though, with the night sky so overcast, there was nothing to be seen beyond the reflection of the long, L-shaped function room holding around two-dozen tables in various states of disarray.  At one end, a short bar was piled high with dirty glasses, and a set of double doors was kept ajar by a beer crate placed on its side.  The faint buzz of vacuuming from somewhere further down the hall floated through the anorexic gap.  Alice listened to it, lost in her own thoughts until movement in the window caught her attention. She turned, watching Ciaran head back to the bar with an armful of empty beer bottles.   He saw her looking, and grinned.

“Shouldn’t you be upstairs?”

“Upstairs?”

“Having some private time with your new husband.”  Ciaran raised an eyebrow.  “I’m led to believe it’s a wedding night tradition.”

“Unfortunately, Mark figured out another tradition is to get so pissed it took both his brothers to carry him to bed, so I guess my marriage isn’t getting consummated tonight.”

“Well, it’s still early.”  Ciaran’s grey eyes twinkled suggestively as he glanced at his watch.  “Okay, it’s almost two in the morning, but you never know.  You might still get lucky.”

Alice laughed and gave a mock curtsy, running her hands along the ivory silk of her wedding dress, brushing out wrinkles.

“I just figured I’d be better off down here doing something useful, rather than lying there while he snores.  And since everyone else took Mark going to bed as their cue to leave, well...”  She shrugged.  “Here I am.”

“Their loss is my gain,” Ciaran said, whistling tunelessly to himself as he wandered across to clear a table close to the door.  He paused, spotting yet another discarded fold of paper among the wedding debris.

“I keep seeing these,” he said.  “What are they?”

“Oh, those!”  Alice blushed as she realised what he held in his hand.  “They’re just poems.  We thought it’d be something different for the guests to have fun with.  You know - little mementos they could take away afterwards.  I guess they weren’t interested in them.”

Ciaran unfolded the paper, grinning as he read the stanza.

“The lads an lasses toy an kiss,

the lads ne’er think it is amiss;

to bang the holes whereout they piss –

an that’s the reels o Bogie.”

He gave a low whistle.  “Bloody hell!  It’s pretty raunchy stuff for a wedding, isn’t it?” he asked.

“It’s literary, actually – from Robert Burns’ The Merry Muses of Caledonia.  Turns out the man wrote about more than just haggis.”  Alice sighed.  “It was Mark’s idea, really.  He’s a college professor and it’s the kind of academic conceit that appeals to him.”

She brushed a stray lock of auburn hair away from her eyes and turned, taking two steps before looking down at the floor.

“Damn it,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

“My dress is caught.”  There was a faint tearing sound as she tugged at the fabric.  “Shit!”

“Hold on.”

Ciaran’s footsteps pattered along the parquet flooring as he threaded his way through the mess of tables to kneel behind her.  Alice felt the press of his body against her leg, his warm fingers wrapping gently around her ankle as he freed the dress.

“How’s that?”

A chair scraped along the floor.  Alice suddenly stumbled forward, hands slapping against the table in front, dimly aware that Ciaran had scrambled to his feet, gripping her waist as he helped her retain her balance.  She glanced up, her eyes meeting his through the reflection in the window.

“You okay?” he asked over her shoulder.

“Yes, thank you.”

“No problem,” Ciaran said, making no attempt to move away.  He hesitated, and then shook his head.  “Look, I know it’s not my place but your husband getting drunk on a night like this is just crazy.  If it were me, with you looking as beautiful as you do, and bent over like this?”  His fingers pressed with more urgency as he leaned in slightly.  “Shit, all I’m saying is that you’d definitely get lucky tonight.”

Alice nodded, still staring straight ahead, transfixed by the scene mirrored in front of them.

She saw herself doubled over the table that had broken her fall, palms splayed flat on the counter, wedding ring winking in the light, with Ciaran standing upright behind her.  She felt her heart quicken, aware just how closely his body was pushed up against hers.  She breathed in the muskiness of his aftershave, the warming aromas of sandalwood and oakmoss.

It was like one of those optical illusions where everything suddenly becomes clear at the final moment.  The wider room seemed to merge with the inky blackness outside like an echo subsiding into nothingness, leaving only the pair of them in a world of their own picked out by overhead lighting, cast centre-stage in a fantasy plucked from erotic desire.

Ciaran really was quite handsome.  A student at the local university, he was perhaps a decade or so younger than either Alice or her new husband.  Taller than Mark by a few inches; broader in the shoulders, narrower at the hips.  Fashionably long dark hair spilled over his shirt collar.

She made up her mind.

Slowly, ever so slowly, and without breaking eye contact with him, Alice bent over further.  Her hands slid along the soft cotton tablecloth as she pushed her ass back until it was flush against Ciaran’s groin.  He groaned softly in response, and even through layers of fabric she felt the swelling of his cock inside his trousers.  His hands finally moved away from her hips, one circling round to massage her breast through the silk bodice, the other squeezing her buttock as she continued to press against him.

His breath was warm on her skin.  His lips brushed the back of her neck as he planted a series of soft kisses from her earlobe to her exposed shoulder and she shuddered, feeling the first telltale flush of heat bursting between her legs.  Ciaran removed the hand fondling her ass, and Alice heard the faint rasp of his zipper being unfastened.  She closed her eyes, reaching behind her to fold her fingers tightly around his erection.

How did the verse go again?  Ah!

“He put a stiff thing in my hand,

I could not bear the bangin o’t .

But lang before he went awa

I suppled baith the ends o’t.”

His cock was thick and smooth, almost feverishly warm against her palm, and his hips bucked rhythmically with the strokes of her hand up and down.  Alice felt sticky rivulets of precum trickling down the shaft and used it as lubricant, circling her thumb over the opening on his tip until he responded with little gasps of pleasure each time his foreskin slipped back and forth over the bulbous head.  Yet just when she thought he was going to ejaculate in her hand, Ciaran suddenly pulled away.  For a moment, Alice wondered if the boy had had a sudden change of heart over cuckolding another man on his wedding night.  Then she felt his weight bump against her calves.  Cold air rushed along her legs as the hem of her dress was pulled up and unceremoniously pushed into her hands.

It felt surreal.  With Ciaran no longer reflected in the window, Alice might almost have convinced herself that she was simply an onlooker to an event being experienced by someone else.  Her doppelganger, engaged in a porno fantasy: Alice through the Fucking Glass.  Except no fantasy, no matter how intense, could have explained the way Ciaran nudged her legs apart as he moved between them, his tongue tracing a soft, warm line upwards along her skin.

Instinctively, Alice tilted her hips, giving him better access as he zeroed in on her pussy.  Ciaran’s fingers lightly stroked her thighs, making her shudder.  His lips nuzzled the thin lace covering her modesty, pulling at her labia until the fabric slipped between them, and she felt herself getting wetter as his tongue poked at her opening through her panties.  It was crazy, in a way.  Even Mark hadn’t seen the lingerie, which was supposed to have been her wedding night present to him.  Yet here she was - alone in a strange room with a stranger licking between her legs, unwrapping the gift that should have been her husband’s.

A gift that was now being edged downwards.

Alice felt her panties tumble around her ankles, and she daintily stepped clear of them.  With nothing left to obstruct his access to her slickness, Ciaran glued his lips to her folds, making her writhe and grind her hips; her wet pussy sliding across his face as his tongue flicked back and forth over her clitoris.  She felt a finger push against her moist opening and curl its way inside before being joined by a second, the two digits stroking and stretching her as they worked their way in and out.  But it was the thumb gently, but firmly, pushing into her tight, virgin arsehole that tipped her to the edge - her breath coming in short, sharp gasps; her cunt bursting with volcanic-like heat as she climaxed into Ciaran’s mouth, wetness dripping along the inside of her thighs feeling like magma against her otherwise cool skin.

“O haed awa your hand, Sir,

Ye’re like to put me daft;

An ye’se get a hole to hide it in,

To keep it warm an saft”

“Fuck me,” Alice cried, not caring if anyone else in the hotel heard her.  “I want you to fuck me now!”

Ciaran stood, almost scrambling up her back in his haste to enter her.  His cock was much fatter than she was used too but her wetness aided him, and he let out a small sigh of contentment as he pushed into her fully.  To Alice, it was if the fire in her cunt had been little more than a gentle blaze that now threatened to engulf her completely.  When Ciaran pulled out, it left her with a brief moment of emptiness.  When he re-entered her, it was if she was suddenly whole again.  Without realising she matched her movements to his, pushing back every time he withdrew, desperate to keep him trapped inside her – not that the barman seemed to harbour intentions of remaining outside for very long.

It was like nothing she’d ever experienced.  Where Mark was tender, Ciaran was aggressive.  Where Mark was calm, Ciaran was frantic.  In short, where Mark made love, Ciaran fucked with all the impatience of youth.

His thick cock filled her aching hole as she squeezed herself around him begging for more, still doubled over with the hem of her dress balled up in her hands.  Alice smelled her arousal on his lips as he kissed her shoulder; his breath wild in her ear, his movements animalistic as he pounded in and out of her with increased fervour.  She felt his heavy balls slap against her clit, his hips smacking against her ass as he entered her again and again.  Beneath them the table creaked alarmingly, enduring stress tests no manufacturer could have anticipated, cast iron feet scraping along the floor with each thrust.  For some unknown reason Mark’s voice came unbidden to her mind, his rich Edinburgh burr reciting her favourite Burns’ poem:

“The carlin clew her wanton tail,

Her wanton tail sae ready--

I learned a sang in Annandale,

Nine inch will please a lady.”

Ciaran’s hands ceased wandering over Alice’s breasts, returning to grip her hips as he pressed deeper into her.  She was close now, so close, whimpering as his thrusts became increasingly frenetic.  The heat between her legs was beyond control and she trembled as flames of pleasure danced across her body, gobbling her up beyond sense.  Anyone could have heard them.  Anyone could have walked into the room, or passed across the lawns below and seen the pair of them rutting in the window.  Alice didn’t care.   She bit her lip, trying to stifle her moans before giving up, crying out for the second time that night.

It was too much for Ciaran.  With a guttural roar, his hips slapped against her one final time as he came, flooding her cunt with thick jets of cum that only added to the warmth she felt.  Finally, he too fell still, collapsing atop of her, panting for breath, his thick cock deflating but still plugged deep into her body as they fought to regain their breath.

They heard the slurred voice calling out at the same time – faint at first, but growing in both urgency and volume.

“Alice!  Alice!”

From her prone position under Ciaran, Alice froze.

“Alice! Where...

“Shit!  It’s Mark!”

“Are you still in the... in the bar?”  Mark’s voice was clearly closer now, somewhere along the corridor just outside the function room.  “Alice!  Are you in there?”

“Shit!”

Ciaran cursed softly, stumbling away, struggled to tidy his appearance and tuck his cock back inside his trousers.  Freed from her lover Alice pushed herself upright, the wedding dress falling back into place, covering her nakedness, Ciaran’s cum trickling out of her warm pussy and soaking into the lining.  She had barely enough time to kick her panties under the table before her husband crashed through the double-doors, sending the beer crate sliding across the floor.

“There you are, babe!” he said, belching loudly.  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“Well, you’ve finally found me,” Alice replied.  She lowered herself into a chair, carefully avoiding looking at Ciaran, who studiously busied himself at a nearby table.

God, he looks rough.

Any resemblance to the impeccable groom from just a few short hours ago was long gone and in its place stood the dishevelled drunk in front of them: his salt and pepper hair unkempt, and his shirt half-buttoned and un-tucked.  Somewhere along the way Mark had managed to lose one of his shoes and he weaved his way towards them with an uncertain gait, tripping into a chair and sending it clattering to the ground.

“I’m fine!  I’m fine!” he growled at Ciaran, shoving the barman away as he tried to help him back to his feet.  “Just get me another drink!”

“I’m afraid the bar is—”

“Scotch.  And make it a double!”

Alice sighed as her husband hauled himself upright and stumbled the remaining distance, sinking down into the chair next to her.

“Your drink, sir,” Ciaran said.  Ice tinkled gently against the side of the glass as he placed it onto the table, eyeing Alice nervously.

Mark glared at him until he retreated back to the relative safety of the bar, before leaning in conspiratorially towards his wife.

“So,” he asked out of the corner of his mouth, “how was it?”

Alice’s eyes flickered over to the barman, and she allowed herself a little smirk of pleasure.

“He was unbelievable.  The boy fucks like a demon!”

“Really?  You wouldn’t think so to look at him.”  Mark took a small sip of alcohol, grimacing slightly.  “God, this stuff is foul.  I really don’t know how people tolerate it.”

“But you had everyone fooled.  Even I thought you were drunk!”

“Ha!  Maybe I’ll join the college’s drama society when we get home.  So he was good?”

“He was something else!  God, I love you.  Thank you for letting me have him.  I’m such a lucky girl.”

“You’re acting like the night is over already.”

“But... But I assumed you’d come to take me upstairs?”

“We’ll have plenty of time for that when we’re in Barbados.”  Mark patted her knee gently.  “Enjoy yourself!  Consider tonight as a wedding gift from me.”

“You’re sure?”

Mark chuckled, pressing a folded slip of paper into her hand.

“Maybe this will answer your question,” he said, winking.  “I love you, Alice.  Have fun, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

He rose to his feet, effortlessly slipping back into the same act from a few minutes earlier - his footsteps unsteady and his voice thick as he weaved his way back across the room, slamming the door behind him.

Alone at the table, Alice opened the note and read the verse he had penned.

“Young man, an ye should be sae kind,

When oor gudeman’s frae hame,

As come to my bed-chaumer,

Where I am laid my lane;

An lie in oor gudeman’s steed,

I will tell you what:  He fucks me five times a nicht -

Wad ye dae that?”

She smiled to herself, glancing over at Ciaran, who was watching her from behind the bar.

“I suppose you’ve got to go?” he asked, frowning.

“I’m sure my husband won’t mind if I stay for a while longer,” Alice said, laying the poem onto the table.  “And if I do, who knows?”  She raised the glass that Mark had left behind, and toasted the barman.  “Perhaps I might get lucky again.”