Forever Bride

By kathrin-inaka

Prelude

Finding the perfect wedding dress hadn’t been hard. Or at least not harder than for any other girl. I knew I had quite some curves and I knew I was going to have them still at the wedding. I’ve been trying to get rid of them since I’ve been a girl and it never worked. It wasn’t going to work in the last couple of months before the wedding. And my soon-to-be husband anyway kept saying that he liked my curves.

So, if you’re somewhat small but with a lot of curves and you want to show those curves, the only option for a wedding dress is a mermaid cut. It just took two months and five shops to find the right one. As I said, no difference to any other girl.

But shoes were a problem. As they always were. Being somewhat short I’d like to wear high heels, but that wasn’t going to be, for two reasons. First, I had basically no experience wearing high heels. And secondly, heels just didn’t look good on me. Nothing ever looked good in my feet except sneakers. Because when god distributed feet, she must have taken them out of the wrong drawer. Probably the drawer for football feet, or something like that. They were grossly oversized. Ok, nobody ever agreed on “grossly”, they all said that they were just slightly larger than usual for a girl of my size. But to me they were just gross.

After trying every pair of white shoes within the nearest thousand miles or so, I was beginning to feel a bit depressed. Until, in that weird little wedding shop out in the nowhere, the weird little shopkeeper stared at my feet for a while. She had been staring at my feet for a while, after we’d tried every shoe she had in her shop. Then she suddenly jerked as if someone had poked her right in the brainstem and turned on her heels. Which, by the way, were higher than anything I’ve ever worn. And she wore them to work like I wore sneakers.

After a lot of rummaging and odd noises from behind the curtains, she returned just when I was getting nervous. She carried, carefully and somewhat devoutly, an old shoebox intricately made from polished dark wood. Inlaid in silver and set in a font I could hardly read where the word “Forever”. Appropriate for a wedding brand, I thought.

When she opened the box and presented the shoes inside, I just bought them. I didn’t try them, I didn’t even take them out of the box, I just had a look and bought them. And they cost me an arm and a leg. But they just felt right.

Wedding Day

You just don’t put on a wedding dress alone. You just don’t. At least not if the wedding dress is worth its name. But you can try to get as far as possible and only then call in your best friend to help with the hard parts. Preserves your dignity when you’re already in your underwear.

Because, when you’re a curvy girl like me, underwear is a crucial part. Shapewear, to be precise. So first I squeezed myself in a bodysuit that wasn’t far away from a corset. It kept my tummy in and gave me a nice waist. And it had a built-in strapless bra that should help keep my boobs where they belonged. At least I hoped that together with the support of my off-the-shoulder dress it should prevent excessive sagging and give me a nice cleavage.

It also had attached straps for the stockings that I put on next. And in case you’re wondering: Yes, it was open at the crotch. I wasn’t going to get out of it anytime soon, I reckoned.

Next were the shoes, because I knew I wasn’t going to be able to reach my feet once I was in my dress. You’ve been waiting for them, haven’t you?

If you want to know how they look, other than being shiny white, google for “ballet heels”. No, not the boots, the shoes, just below the ankles. Impossible to walk in, with the exception of some incredible fit, incredible thin girls with lots of training. Not a small curvy gal with no training in heels at. I can see that now. Though you will be surprised. Don’t ask me why I didn’t see that back then. I just knew I liked them and I was going to rock them.

They were heavy, internally reinforced with a lot of steel as it seemed. But part of the weight came from their ankle bands. About two inch wide, a couple of millimeters thick, solid and heavy, as if made from steel and rigidly attached to shoes, they would make sure I wouldn’t kick off the shoes. They were also the only thing providing maybe a little bit of ankle support.

They had a nearly invisible hinge and something like a magnetic lock that opened when I pulled hard enough.

And they were connected by a chain, about as thick as my fingers. Confused yet? Back then I found it totally reasonable. Brides are supposed to walk elegantly and restricting my stride length to about half of what’s normal seemed a good way to make sure I walked elegantly. And not stretch or bulge my dress.

Last but not the least the whole shoes, including ankle bands and chain were coated in some super-high gloss metallic white paint or something like that, making them shine and glitter like every girl likes it.

What can I say? I put them on and stood. Yes, I just stood. No wobbling, no getting used to, nothing. I just stood, then took a few tentative steps before switching to a catwalk gait with rolling hips and bouncing tits. The shoes felt so natural, not even new sneakers had ever felt so natural.

Don’t take me wrong, I was still perched on the tips of my toes with just two pencil thin steel rods as additional support. If I moved my arms, my upper body or even my head too rapidly, I had to take small steps to correct my balance. Each step I had to carefully place my foot or I felt like stumbling. But all that just came naturally without any conscious effort on my side.

And, most importantly, my feet did not outright kill me. Somehow I was sure I was going to make it through the day without much more aching feet than any other bride.

Of course, the chain reduced my gait to a short, but rapid mincing, but that only meant that my hips had to roll even more and my tits bounced even more. And it jingled with every step, making it obvious for each one around that there was something interesting going on. Fortunately my ankles were so high up above the floor, even when I placed my feet right next to each other, the chain did not touch the floor.

But, whenever I did place my feet right next to each other, the ankle bands locked together magnetically, taking considerable force to separate before I could walk again. So much force, I wasn’t quite sure how often I would be able to do that in a row before ending up with my feet locked together until I got some rest.

I called in my best friend and she came in, had a look at me and broke out in glee. She checked me up from all sides, then asked: “Is that latex?”

I blinked, then tried to look down at my body, but couldn’t see anything but my boobs. I didn’t expect them to be that large, that round and that high up. But they did look great. The built-in bra seemed to do a much better job than I thought.

But I could look at myself in the mirror and yes, the bodysuit and stockings were quite definitely made from latex. Transparent latex with a white lace print, but definitely latex. Super tight, super shiny and super clingy, bringing out every curve my soon-to-be-husband loved and I had a tendency to be embarrassed about. But nobody was going to see them except my best friend and my hubby, so that was fine.

Wondering when and where and why my spandex (or whatever) shapewear changed to latex? Probably not, because you’re reading this after the great reveal, so you know magic is a thing. Back then only very few people knew and I was not one of them. So I should have been confused, maybe even shocked or frightened, but I wasn’t. In hindsight I’d say whoever made the shoes had poured a lot of it’s-all-fine-magic into them.

And no, I do not know when my underwear changed from spandex to latex, though it must have been some time between putting on the shoes and looking in the mirror. I also didn’t feel the change, but once I realized it, I could not help but notice how sensual it felt on my skin. I’ve been into latex before, but never dared to wear it. Curves and such, you know.

“Yes, nice, isn’t it?” I answered.

“Nice? That’s hot as hell! Mike’s gonna love it!” She grinned.

“Oh, yes.” I said, blushing so hard even my boobs turned pink.

“And the shoes!” She screamed, then: “Walk! Walk for me, I want to see them in action!”

I smiled and continued my catwalk.

“Oh, I be damned, I would have loved them for my wedding. Can you take them off?” She asked.

“Of course not!” I said.

“Nice!” she smiled wistfully.

Did I already know back then that I wasn’t going to take them off ever again? I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to say that I wasn’t going to take them off for the day. But, spoiler alert, if I now turn my chair and lift my skirts, the shoes are there, looking as pristine as on the first day. I probably could find a sorcerer who could free me, but after years under the influence of the it’s-all-fine-magic I just cannot make myself do it. And my hubby still loves them, too.

After a bit more flexing about how sexy I was in my rubber shapewear and how princess-like helpless the shoes made me, I fetched my wedding dress from the hanger and handed it over.

“Wow, heavy!” She said.

“Yeah, it’s a lot of rubber and plastic and even some steel.” I agreed.

She held it up, so now we can all have a good look at it: Normal mermaid dresses are tight around the hips, down to somewhere above the knees where they flared out. More extreme versions may be slightly below the knees. My dress was tight to about mid calves, not far from the ankles. But remember the chain between my ankles? I wasn’t even going to be able to use the limited wriggle room the dress provided. And combined with the increased length of my legs when perched on my tiptoes, its proportions looked right.

My friend did something to the back of the dress. No she didn’t unlace it, because it had no laces, but she did something and it hinged open. Not literally, because for that it would have to have a hinge at the front, which it hadn’t. But the way it opened looked more like a mechanical thing unfolding than a dress being...unwrapped? Opened? You get what I mean.

Anyway, she opened it and then stood it on the floor for me to step into. Yes, the dress stood all by itself, so much steel and hard plastic were hidden under all the rubber. And not a single bit of normal fabric in sight.

Ever tried stepping into something on ballet heels and with a foot-long chain between your ankles. Yes, it didn’t work. We had to get a stool for me to sit on and lift my feet, then my friend pushed the dress close enough for me to get my feet in.

She lifted it while I pushed my hands and arms into the long gloves that were attached to the little sleeves that in turn were attached to the top of the corset.

Then something happened and the dress closed around me. And how it closed. It pushed my knees together and formed my considerable booty and hips into a rather unnatural looking bubble-butt. Together with the corset I acquired a literal hourglass shape. Yes, the corset tightened as well. So much so, I couldn’t do much but gasp for a while. I would have loved to put my hands around my waist to measure it, but with my elbows locked to my sides, I wasn’t able to reach.

For the same reason, combined with the tight gloves, I found I wasn’t even able to touch my own face. I was hardly able to maneuver my hands around my boobs, which were pushed so high, I was literally able to kiss them by just nodding my head. I was able to get my hands close enough to my mouth to use a fork, but probably not even a spoon. But other than that, my face and hair was totally out of my reach.

Then my friend put the pearl choker around my neck. It had been sold as choker, because it was relatively tight and made of three parallel rows of pearls. But somehow it had converted to something that really earned the name “choker”. Not only relatively tight, but absolutely tight. And so many rows of pearls, it was longer than my neck. Well, ok, exactly as long as my neck if you stretched my neck as far as possible.

If I held my head straight and slightly up, it dug only somewhat uncomfortably into my shoulders and chin and I was able to breath and even swallow. I was also able to turn my head, at least somewhat. And also able to look down, at least somewhat. But both were mightily uncomfortable and I found myself unable to breath when I craned my head too far.

Last but not least she put on the veil. I didn’t really want a veil, so it was not more than a bit of light fabric attached to my hair to hang down my back. Or at least that’s what it had been when I tried it. Now it was a heavy mass of fabric, at least not rubber, that covered my whole head. At the front it fell down to just above my boobs. So my face was totally hidden, how modest, but my boobs were still there for everybody to stare at. How...modest? Anyway, at the back it fell down to just below my shoulders, not to hide my corseted waist, I guess.

And yes, when I said it totally hid my face, I meant it. When it was down, I could hardly see and with my breath trapped beneath it, I also got hot and breathless. And it was going to be down a lot, nearly all the time. With my arms locked to my side, I was never able to reach up high enough to push it out of my face. So I had to ask people to push it up whenever I wanted to eat or drink. And no matter what I said, nearly everybody put it down again right when I was done. And even if nobody thought about that, it slid down by itself after a couple of minutes when I moved too much. Or moved at all.

In case you’re wondering: I had a breeze of a day, I totally enjoyed myself and the whole wedding. I ate as much as the corset permitted and drank a bit, but not too much, because I didn’t want to get tipsy on ballet heels. And I danced all night. As much as my outfit permitted without fainting or stumbling. And nobody seemed to notice anything. Not even the slippery puddles I left everywhere I stood for more than a couple of minutes. My pussy was literally dripping wet. Who would have thought that fighting an over-sexed wedding dress would do that to me.

Yes, I know, you want to know about the wedding night. Yes, that took place, too. I guess by now you’ve guessed that I wasn’t going to get out of the dress anytime soon. So, how did it work? Well, quite handily: Everything of the dress below my waist turned into...well, I guess I call them leggings. Very fancy leggings with a lot of lace and pearls and what not. Very bride-like. Except for the open crotch, of course. That happened about the moment we left the party and were out of sight of the crowd. No, most of our wedding night didn’t even take place in our room.

The ankle chains? Oh, turns out there are many positions that do not require the woman to separate her legs too much. And, though I’m not sure about that, they might have lengthened considerably whenever needed. But I can’t say I was paying much attention at that time.

Aftermath

I guess you’ve guessed it by now, I’m writing this still in a wedding dress. It actually takes considerable willpower to write that, because the it’s-all-fine-magic keeps telling me that all that isn’t actually interesting enough to write about.

Overall the dress got more extreme over time, probably because both my hubby and me like it like that. But because the dress somehow adjusts to the situation, it is sometimes better and sometimes worse.

At the moment, for example, I’m not actually sitting at my computer, but I’m kneeling in front of it. The dress is skin tight and stiff like steel from neck to knees, so I cannot actually sit. There is no chain at all between my ankles, instead they are connected by a solid steel figure eight. With my feet still in their ballet heels, there is no way I’m going to get on my feet or even move away in any form. So I’m going to kneel in front of the computer until someone comes and picks me up. My hands and arms are mostly free, except stuck in skintight white rubber opera gloves, so I can use the computer. A lot of the time they are connected by chains to various parts of my body, making them rather useless.

I’m also veiled again, but in rather peculiar fashion: A wide-brimmed hat is held on my head by a band around my chin that’s so tight I cannot even open my mouth. The veil is attached to the outside of the brim and then again at the collar of the dress. From the inside I can barely see enough to use the computer, but from the outside there is nothing but an anonymous fabric cone instead of my head.

Most of the time my permanent wedding dress is too much, too heavy and too hot, both literally and figuratively. But there are situations where a full wedding dress would be deadly.

Our honeymoon we celebrated in Rio de Janeiro, in the summer. Most of the time my dress wasn’t much more than a white corset that covered me from just above my nipples to just below my ass. Combined with white lace stockings, white lace opera gloves and a breezy veil fixed to my hair, I still looked like some sort of bride, I guess. Or maybe like a wedding version of a samba dancer, because most of the time I carried around a gigantic feather fan fixed to the backside of the corset. When there wasn’t enough space for it, a much smaller fan was attached to the back of the pearl choker that held my head erect.

By the way, I think Salsa is the only dance possible on ballet heels with your ankles chained. Even having your wrists chained to your waist by a heavy belt works with Salsa.

Now I have to stop, I’m so horny, I cannot focus anymore. And my husband is coming home in a bit. I have to prepare dinner. And the bedroom for, hm, desert.