Weddings were a Norm
Disclaimer: Naruto is Kishimoto's property. No money is being made from this story.
Warning: Language.
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There was a time when this festival had its nuances—it was about marriage between families. Somewhere along the road, even love was consummated in the darkness and sparse lights of the lamps. It was tradition. And what was life without its progress, its strides to move past them to create . . . something different from the norm?
Life was about progress, indeed. Things were taken up and things were left behind; it was the natural course of things to change before the new winds of a different time, a different setting, a different kind of love. Who was to say love had boundaries? It did not. It was free as a bird, free like the whispers of floating leaves in autumn, free like the evanescent scent of Sakura's blossoms.
A soft light spilt out from between the branches, blinking between the shadows there. Sun was a dull glowing object as morning raced towards another evening—an eternal dilemma. Her odd-coloured hair was threaded with the play of light and shadows. Shadows of leaves crawled across her soft cheeks. It was a happy day—a different day.
She was to be wed to her beloved. Life was short, and it was good for girls to avail the time of spring in their lives. That was her reason. Life was short and fleeting like the morning dew: one minute it would sit sparkling like a precious pearl on the cool leaves, and the next it was gone.
She steadied her breath, smoothing out the pesky wrinkles in her pretty kimono. She would not let her inhibitions ruin this day; so she stared back at his reflective eyes. His expression was sober, but she knew that he was happy, too. He might not show it, but he was . . . she knew. She just knew.
She walked down the wavy path to the priest who stood beneath the last Cherry-Blossom tree in full bloom. Wind had plucked fresh flowers to shower the audience with delicate pink petals. The fragrance just seemed to go in all directions. It was lovely.
She closed her eyes, stealing shy glances at her beloved: his skin was still so white, his throat, long and lovely. He was still the most beautiful man she had ever laid her eyes on. His mien was wonderful and exquisite. Her heart throbbed, and she felt herself seep out a little moisture from between her legs.
Her eyes darted around the mass of trees and shadows, passing over the inquisitive, smiling faces. No, of course, they could not smell her. It was so silly. Her blush deepened to bright red. To the unwary eyes, it was as though she had painted her face like a lustful Tayū in hopes of a languid, heavy-breathing, and sweaty fucking-session. People were so silly. What would they know?
She smiled and laughed, and he chuckled beside her, his laughter rippling through the windy area like a musical tune. It was lovely. She stopped and said her vows aloud. He, too, said them in a raspy, jovial voice that did not sound appropriate for his age. When would he grow up? But that was what she always loved about him: he was a free spirit, and she was shackled to him and his allure.
Wind pressed her kimono against her sweat-riddled skin, and it excited her. It was an airy touch, and the faceless thing had ghosted over her skin to entice her inner-demons. She would not mind the chaos between the sheets after this quaint custom of wedding. She was excited about it, heart fluttering like a lonely bird's wings, thighs throbbing in need, slit quivering in demand.
And she had waited and waited for his touch—waited for him to liberate her from this never-ending ordeal. She had preserved her innocence for him to tear at it in a wild primal act she knew he was capable of. She expected tough strokes and mean thrusts and a gush of messy fluids from their conjoining upon the new bed she had bought. She wanted it to be raw, real, surreal.
So the old man said a few kind words, and the dangling folds in his old skin shivered as he spoke. Thoughtlessly, she reached up to touch the glowing seal on the vast expanse of her forehead—she would never grow old like this priest; she would always be young and taut for him. He would never grow out of desire for her youth. She would remain perfect for him to pluck her flower daily. It was a nice thought.
"Kiss," he said, showing a row of eye-blinding, sparkling teeth in his wide smile, "do it, Sakura!"
She pressed her fingers to her lips and let out a soft laugh, exhaling a hefty breath afterwards. This was embarrassing. All prying eyes were watching her. She could not—she just could not. But one look at that face melted her heart, and she leant forward, lowering her face slightly to catch the lips that almost reflected her half-mast, greedy eyes.
She pressed her lips with a smacking-wet sound against the clean glass, and her tongue traced the cold barrier between her and her beloved. She could see her reflection no longer. She had to back away and admire the print of saliva left there on the picture of a brooding man in an expensive glass frame.
"Oh, Kami, look at all the snot you've left there!" Naruto exclaimed, and she cracked an embarrassed grin, her face turning stark-red like the jiggling backside of an impatient baboon in heat. "He'll be back, Sakura-Chan. I'm just exchanging vows on his behalf, ya know?" He lifted the picture in his hands to examine her thick tongue strokes.
Everyone laughed, and Sakura grew hot and bothered. She wiped the copious amount of sweat from her face and exhibited a grimacing smile before the crowd. It could not be helped: she would throw him down when he would get here and ride him better than Gaara had ever ridden his sand. That gourd would know its inspiration!
"Stupid bastard—he didn't even attend his own wedding!" Naruto spoke, watching Sakura's hand dutifully clean the sticky saliva off the frame in an attempt to wipe it clean. "I miss him . . . " He sulked and scratched the back of his head.
"Me, too!" she ejaculated with a wide grin, staring at the picture and that beautiful face made by the mischievous and naughty Kami drunk on the finest sake they had ever sipped or sniffed—he really did leave all shamelessly masturbating and grunting behind him, like rutting animals, in his wake. And she thought with a leer dancing on her lips: the colder you are, the wetter I get!
Ah, weddings . . .
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The End