Weddings were a Norm
Disclaimer: Naruto and all its characters are Masashi Kishimoto's legal property. I'm not making any money off this story; however, all the Original Characters, Original Plot-lines, and Original Themes are my own.
Warning: Language.
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There was a time when this festival had its charms—marriage between families. Somewhere down the road, love was consummated in the darkness and lamp's sparse lights. 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, left behind; it was the natural course for things to change before the new winds of a different time, different setting, different kind of love. Who was to say love had boundaries? It did not—free like the bird, like the floating leaves in autumn, like the evanescent scent of Sakura's blossoms.
Light flowed out from between the branches, blinking in the greys there. Sun glowed dully as morning raced towards another evening—eternal dilemma. Her odd-coloured hair was threaded with the play of light and dark. Shadows of leaves crawled across her powdered cheeks. 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, as if morning dew; one minute it would sit sparkling, a precious pearl on 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 shrine 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 seemed to go in all directions. Lovely!
She looked about and stole shy glances at her beloved: his skin was pristine 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 the legs.
Her eyes darted about the mass of trees and shadows, passing over the inquisitive, smiling faces. No, of course, they could not smell her! How silly. Her blush deepened to bright red. To the unwary eyes, it was as though she had painted her face like a lustful Tayū's in hopes of a languid, heavy-breathing, sweaty fucking-session. People were very nosy. What would they know?
She smiled and laughed, and he chuckled beside her, his laughter rippling through the breeze like the lightest musical tune. She stopped and said her vows aloud. He, too, said them in a raspy and 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 the kimono against her sweat-riddled skin, and it excited her. An airy touch, and the faceless thing had ghosted over her skin to entice the inner-demons. She would not mind the chaos between the sheets after this quaint custom of wedding—no, she was thrilled, heart fluttering like a lost bird's wings, thighs throbbing in need, slit quivering in heat.
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 and primal act, of which she knew he was capable. She expected tough strokes and mean thrusts and gushes 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 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. What a nice thought!
"Kiss," he said, showing a row of eye-blinding, sparkling teeth in his wide smile. "Do it, Sakura-Chan!"
She pressed her fingers to her lips and let out a 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 and lowered her face slightly to catch the lips that almost reflected her half-mast, greedy eyes. This is what a sow in heat feels like! She trembled.
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 own reflection no longer. She had to back away and admire the sticky print of saliva left there on the picture of a brooding young 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 onto the bed 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 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 and spit-coated lips, 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 truly did leave all hopefuls shamelessly masturbating and grunting, 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