I Fucked the Bridesmaid in the Coat Room of My Ex's Wedding.

My name is Ryan Maddox. Thirty. Software engineer at a mid-size tech firm in Chicago. Six-foot, lean build, still run a 6-minute mile. I don’t do drama. But when my ex Lauren invited me to her wedding, I showed up anyway.

Lauren and I ended badly—her cheating, my pride, six months of silence. Now she was marrying some finance bro named Derek. I came for closure. Or maybe just to see her face when she saw me.

Reception at a luxury downtown hotel. Ballroom dripping with crystal chandeliers, open bar flowing, string quartet playing tasteful covers. I wore a dark suit, stood in the back, sipped bourbon. Watched her in white lace, glowing. Felt nothing but cold satisfaction.

Then Taylor Brooks walked by. Twenty-eight. One of Lauren’s oldest friends. Blonde waves, blue eyes, body that filled out the lavender bridesmaid dress perfectly—curves, long legs, breasts straining the sweetheart neckline. We’d hooked up once, years ago, before Lauren. One drunken night at a bar. Never spoke of it again.

She saw me. Smiled slow. Walked straight over.

“Ryan. Didn’t think you’d show.”

“Couldn’t miss it.”

She sipped her champagne. Leaned close. “She’s happy. You should be too.”

“I am.”

Her eyes flicked to the dance floor, then back to me. “Dance?”

“No. Closet.”

No hesitation. She grabbed my hand. We slipped down a side hallway, past servers, into a coat-check room. Door shut. Locked. Dark, muffled music through the walls. Coats hanging like silent witnesses.

She pushed me against the wall. Kissed me hard—teeth, tongue, hunger. Hands on my belt. I yanked her dress up. No panties. Just bare, wet heat.

“Fuck, Taylor…”

“Been waiting for this,” she whispered. “Since before she stole you.”

I spun her. Bent her over a bench. Dress hiked to her waist. Spread her legs. Dropped my pants. Cock out—hard, thick, ready.

Thrust in—deep, no warning. She gasped, bit her lip to stay quiet. Tight, hot, gripping me. I fucked her fast—hard, urgent. Hand over her mouth. Other hand on her hip, pulling her back onto me.

Slap of skin muffled by coats. Her ass bounced. Breasts spilled from the dress. I reached around, rubbed her clit—fast circles. She moaned into my palm.

“Quiet,” I growled. “They’re toasting right outside.”

“Let them hear,” she panted. “Let her know.”

That broke me.

Fucked her harder. Deeper. Pulled her hair. Slapped her ass—sharp, stinging. She pushed back, matching every thrust. Came first—shuddering, clenching, soaking me, thighs trembling.

I didn’t stop. Kept pounding. Felt her building again. She bit my hand when she came a second time—silent scream.

“Cum inside me,” she whispered. “Mark me.”

I buried deep. Exploded—thick, hot ropes flooding her while she trembled against me.

Pulled out slow. Watched cum drip down her thigh. She turned. Kissed me—deep, claiming.

“Tell Lauren I said congratulations.”

I grinned. “Will do.”

She fixed her dress. Wiped between her thighs with a coat sleeve. Left first.

I waited two minutes. Walked back to the ballroom. Lauren was cutting cake. Smiling. Happy.

I raised my glass. Toasted silently.

Some weddings are for love.

Some are for revenge.