Last Dance Before the Aisle

The champagne had gone straight to my head, or maybe it was the penis-shaped balloons bobbing against the ceiling of our private booth at Vibe. Twenty of my closest friends shrieked with laughter as another round of shots appeared—this one served in test tubes labeled "Bride's Last Ride." I pasted on the smile I'd perfected during six months of wedding planning, the one that said yes, I’m having fun, isn’t this exactly what I wanted?

"To Emma!" my maid of honor Katie screamed, sloshing vodka cranberry onto her silk dress. "May her marriage be as hot as tonight!"

I clinked glasses mechanically, my thoughts drifting to David's text from an hour ago: Having fun, future wife? Don't do anything I wouldn’t do ;) The winky face made something cold settle in my stomach. He'd been so relieved when I'd assured him we weren't hiring a stripper—just dinner and drinks, I'd promised. Nothing tacky.

I remembered the night he’d proposed, the genuine warmth in his eyes as he fumbled with the ring box on the pier where we’d had our first date. He’d been so nervous, his hands shaking. “You make everything better,” he’d said, and I’d believed him. I’d believed in him. That memory, solid and real, anchored the guilt that now swirled in my gut. He was a good man. He remembered my coffee order, he called his mother every Sunday, and he’d spent a weekend helping me paint my apartment before I moved into his. His affection could feel distracted, a gentle pat on the shoulder while his eyes were on a spreadsheet, but it was steady. It was safe.

Which made what happened next feel like the universe's idea of a cruel, perfect joke.

The lights dimmed. A bass line thrummed through the floor. And suddenly there she was, strutting through the crowd like she owned the place, all lean muscle and dangerous confidence in a fitted blazer that definitely hadn't come from any costume shop. My throat went dry.

"Ladies," she purred, her voice whiskey-rough and threaded with amusement. "I hear someone's getting married."

The shrieks reached deafening levels. Katie grabbed my arm, her painted nails digging in. "Surprise! We told you no stripper, but we lied!" She was practically vibrating with glee. "Her name's Raven. Cost me a fortune, but look at her—worth every penny, right?"

Worth every penny. Jesus. Raven had moved to the small raised platform in the center of our booth, and the way she moved... It wasn't the choreographed awkwardness I'd expected from the one male stripper I'd seen at Katie's bachelorette. This was different. Fluid. Like she'd been born knowing exactly how her body worked and wasn't afraid to use it.

Her eyes swept the room, dismissing the screaming bridesmaids with casual efficiency until they landed on me. Held. Something electric crackled across the ten feet between us, and I found myself gripping the edge of the velvet banquette.

"You must be Emma." She didn't ask—she knew. Of course she knew. I was the only one not screaming, the only one sitting rigid instead of reaching for singles. "Stand up, beautiful. Let's give your friends a show."

My limbs moved without permission. The room tilted slightly—too much champagne, not enough food—but I steadied myself against the table as I stood. Raven's mouth curved, not quite a smile, and she crooked one finger.

The music shifted to something slower, heavier. She shrugged off the blazer in one smooth motion, revealing a black silk camisole that clung to small, perfect breasts. My breath caught. I'd never—I'd never looked at a woman like this before, not really. Not with this sharp, sudden hunger that made my knees weak.

"Come here." She didn't raise her voice, but I heard her perfectly over the music and noise. My friends were chanting "kiss, kiss, kiss" but it felt distant, unimportant. All that mattered was the space between us shrinking as I moved forward on unsteady legs.

Raven met me at the edge of the platform. Up close, she was even more devastating—olive skin, dark eyes lined in kohl, a small scar cutting through her left eyebrow. She smelled like vanilla and something darker, more dangerous. When she reached for my hand, her fingers were warm and sure.

"Dance with me." Not a question this time. She pulled me against her, and I went willingly, my body fitting against hers like we'd practiced this. One hand settled at the small of my back while the other tangled in my hair, tilting my face up to hers.

"You're trembling," she murmured, our lips inches apart. "First time with a woman?"

I shook my head mutely, though technically it was true—I'd kissed girls at college parties, sloppy experimental moments that meant nothing. This felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.

"Good." Her thigh pressed between mine, slow and deliberate. "I like being the first to show someone what they've been missing."

The room erupted around us, but I'd stopped hearing it. All I could process was the heat building where her leg met my center, the way her hand fisted tighter in my hair, the fact that I was grinding against a stranger in front of my entire wedding party and couldn't make myself stop.

"Tell me to stop," she whispered against my ear, her breath sending shivers down my spine. "Say the word, and I'll let you go back to your perfect little life with your perfect little husband."

I should have. God, I should have. Instead, my hands found her waist, sliding up under the camisole to touch warm, smooth skin. She hummed approval, rolling her hips against mine in a way that made my vision blur.

"That's what I thought." Her voice carried dark satisfaction. "You're soaked, aren't you? Been waiting for someone to see through that good-girl act."

The crude words should have appalled me. Instead, they sent liquid heat straight to my core. I was soaked—had been since the moment she walked in. My body had known what my mind refused to acknowledge, responding to her with an urgency I'd never felt with David, never felt with anyone.

The booth was a sunken semi-circle, open to the main club floor on one side but partially shielded by a low wall and curtains on the others. We were in a bubble of shadow and spotlight. Raven's hand slipped under the hem of my dress, fingertips tracing up my thigh with devastating patience. "So many layers," she taunted softly. "Takes effort to look this innocent. Tell me, Emma—does he know you're wearing thigh-highs under that sweet dress? Does he know you picked the lace ones because they make you feel dirty in all the right ways?"

My gasp turned into a moan as her fingers found the damp silk between my legs. She pressed just hard enough to make me see stars, then pulled back, teasing.

"Answer me."

"N-no." The word came out strangled. "He doesn't know."

"Doesn't know what?"

"Any of it." I was panting now, desperate for more contact, more pressure, more her. "I'm—I'm not like this with him."

"No?" She laughed, low and filthy. "Then let's show you who you really are."

Her fingers hooked under the edge of my panties, and I should have stopped her, should have remembered we were in public, should have thought about David and the wedding and the life I'd planned. Instead, I whimpered as one finger slid through my folds, gathering wetness before circling my clit with devastating precision.

"Jesus, you're dripping." Her voice had gone rough. "Been thinking about this, haven't you? Lying in bed next to him while you touched yourself, pretending it was someone else's hands on you?"

The accuracy of her words hit like a slap. I had—for months now, my fantasies had grown increasingly vivid, increasingly... not David. I'd told myself it was normal, just pre-wedding jitters, just nerves. But as Raven's fingers worked me with expert skill, I couldn't lie anymore. The music was a pounding veil, the booth’s dim lighting a fragile privacy. My friends were a blur of cheering faces, some shocked, some ecstatic, all watching the performance of my undoing.

"Please." I didn't recognize my own voice—throaty, desperate, belonging to someone I'd never met. "More."

"More what?" She added a second finger, stretching me gently while her thumb kept maddening circles on my clit. "More fingers? More pressure? Or more of the truth you're too scared to say out loud?"

"All of it." I was riding her hand now, uncaring of the audience, uncaring of anything but the building pressure that promised to shatter me. "Please make me—"

"Come?" She bit my earlobe, hard enough to make me yelp. "You want to come all over my fingers while your friends watch? Want them to see what a greedy little slut their innocent bride really is?"

The dirty talk should have been humiliating. Instead, it tipped me over the edge. My orgasm hit like a freight train, ripping through me with such force I would have fallen if Raven hadn't been holding me up. She kept her fingers moving through the aftershocks, drawing it out until I was trembling and boneless against her. The world came back in a roar of sound—my friends were on their feet, screaming, applauding, a few with jaws agape. Katie was pumping her fist in the air, howling with laughter.

"Beautiful." Raven pressed a soft kiss to my temple, completely at odds with the filthy words she'd been whispering. "Absolutely fucking beautiful when you let go."

I clung to her, my face buried in her neck, as the reality of what I’d just done—where I’d just done it—crashed over me in a sick, hot wave. The cheers were deafening. Raven eased her hand from under my dress, discreetly wiping her fingers on a napkin from the nearby table. My legs were jelly. She held me upright, her arm a firm band around my waist.

“Whoa, Em! That was fucking epic!” Katie slurred, thrusting a fresh shot into my hand. The glass felt alien. “Drink! You earned it!”

I downed it without tasting it, the burn a welcome distraction. The crowd around us was already shifting, the spectacle over, attention fragmenting as a new round of drinks arrived. Raven’s mouth was at my ear again, her voice a low vibration only I could hear. “We’re not done. But we can’t finish it here.”

I blinked, disoriented. “What?”

“Private room. You have one, yes? Lead the way.” It wasn’t a request.

My mind scrambled. The private lounge—Katie had booked it as a surprise for later, for cake and more champagne. It was upstairs, past the restrooms, a sanctuary. A trap. “I… yes. It’s upstairs.”

“Good.” She released me just enough to let me stand on my own. My friends were already distracted, toasting each other, the moment already becoming a wild story to be told later. No one seemed to notice as I took Raven’s hand, my grip too tight, and led her away from the booth, through the pulsing crowd toward the staircase marked ‘Private.’ Each step felt like walking through deep water, the noise of the club fading into a dull roar behind us.

The private room was small, lush, and silent but for the muted bass from below. A velvet couch, a low table with an ice bucket, and a single lamp casting a golden glow. I locked the door behind us, the click echoing like a verdict.

Then she was on me. Pressing me against the wall, her mouth hot and demanding on my neck while her hands worked the zipper of my dress. The fabric pooled at my feet in a whisper of silk.

"Been thinking about this since I saw you," she muttered, her lips traveling over my collarbone. "The way you looked at me like you were starving and I was the first meal you'd seen in years."

I should have felt exposed in nothing but my lingerie and heels, but Raven looked at me like I was a revelation—like the lace and stockings I'd worn for confidence were actually armor she'd just stripped away. When she stepped back to undress, I watched with greedy eyes, memorizing the way the lamplight painted gold across her skin, the elegant lines of her torso, the dark thatch of hair between her legs.

"Touch yourself." She stood naked and proud, her body lean and strong in ways that made my mouth water. "Show me how you get yourself off when you're thinking about someone who isn't him."

My hand moved to my breast automatically, rolling the nipple through the lace while my other hand slipped beneath the waistband of my panties. It should have felt performative, but something about Raven's dark gaze made it the most natural thing in the world. I was still slick from my first climax, my body humming, eager for more.

"That's it." She moved closer but didn't touch, letting the anticipation build until I was whimpering. "Get those fingers nice and wet for me. I want to watch you fuck yourself while I decide which part of you to taste first."

The crude words sent electricity shooting through me. I was already close again, my earlier orgasm just a preview of the hunger she'd awakened. When Raven finally touched me—guiding my wet fingers to her mouth, sucking them clean while holding my gaze—I nearly came just from that, from the intense intimacy of her dark eyes locked on mine, tasting me.

"Sweet like honey," she murmured, her voice thick. "But I bet you're even sweeter straight from the source."

She went to her knees in one fluid motion, pulling my panties down and helping me step out of them. The position should have made her seem submissive, but the way she looked up at me—hungry and commanding—made it clear who was really in control here.

"Spread your legs. Hands on the wall. And don't you dare come until I say you can."

I obeyed instantly, my body moving to her commands like we'd been doing this for years. The first touch of her tongue was feather-light, just tasting, and I whimpered at the teasing pressure. She took her time—long, slow licks that avoided where I needed her most, her hands holding my hips still when I tried to rock against her face.

"Please." I was begging now, past pride or pretense. "Raven, please, I need—"

"What do you need?" She blew cool air across my heated flesh, making me shudder. "Need my tongue inside you? Need me to fuck you with my fingers while I eat this pretty pussy? Or do you need to come so hard you forget your own name?"

"All of it. Anything. Just please—"

"Good girl." The approval in her voice was better than any touch. "When you ask so pretty, how can I say no?"

She didn't tease after that—just dove in like she was starving for me, her tongue finding my entrance and thrusting deep while her thumb circled my clit with perfect pressure. My legs would have buckled if she hadn't been holding me up, her strong arms wrapped around my thighs as she devoured me.

It was too much and not enough, building me higher with every stroke until I was babbling—her name and pleas and promises I knew I'd keep. When she added two fingers, curling them to hit that perfect spot inside me while her tongue worked my clit, I exploded with a scream that was swallowed by the room's thick walls.

But Raven didn't stop. She rode me through the first orgasm and kept going, building me up again with merciless skill until I was crying from the intensity of it, from the sheer foreign perfection of it. Only when I was truly wrecked—when my legs couldn't hold me and my voice was gone—did she finally gentle her touch, helping me sink to the plush carpet and gathering me against her.

"Beautiful," she whispered again, pressing kisses to my temple as I trembled. "So fucking beautiful when you let yourself feel it."

I wanted to return the favor—needed to taste her, touch her, make her feel even a fraction of what she'd given me. But when I tried to move south, she caught my wrists.

"Not tonight." She brought my hands to her breasts instead, letting me touch and explore while she watched with hooded eyes. "Tonight was about you. About showing you what you've been pretending not to want."

"But I want to make you—"

"You will." She guided one of my hands down, showing me the rhythm she liked—firm circles around her clit, never quite touching directly. "Next time. When you're not shaking from your third orgasm and thinking about running back to your safety net."

There wouldn't be a next time. We both knew it, but neither of us said it out loud. Instead, I learned the way she liked to be touched, the breathy sounds she made when I found the right spot, the way her eyes rolled back when I finally—carefully—slid one finger inside her.

"Fuck." Her hips rolled against my hand, losing some of that perfect control. "Just like that. God, your hands—"

I added a second finger, marveling at how different she felt from David—softer, hotter, every reaction honest instead of performative. When she came, it was with my name on her lips and her nails leaving crescents in my shoulders, beautiful and real and mine in a way nothing had ever been.

We lay tangled on the carpet afterward, trading lazy kisses that tasted of both of us. The real world felt impossibly far away, but I could sense it creeping back in—David's face when I came home smelling of sex and another woman, the wedding invitations waiting to be addressed, the life I'd spent months planning crumbling under the weight of this truth. The guilt was a physical weight on my chest, heavy with the memory of his hopeful smile when we’d chosen the wedding bands.

"I can't—" My voice cracked. "The wedding, David, everything—I just cheated on him. In a club. I’m a terrible person."

"Hey." Raven tipped my face up, her expression softer now, the performer’s mask gone. "You're not terrible. You're human. And you’re in a fucked-up situation."

"But I feel like—like everything's different now. Like I can't go back to pretending I don't want this."

"Then don't pretend." She kissed my forehead, a surprisingly tender gesture. "But Emma, listen to me. I'm not a therapist. This was... intense. And hot, obviously. But it was also a job for me. A really good one," she added, a wry twist to her lips. "Don't blow up your life because a stripper gave you the best orgasm you've ever had. That’s a shitty foundation for anything."

Her bluntness was a bucket of cold water, but it was also a relief. It wasn’t sage wisdom; it was pragmatic, almost harsh. "So what? I just go back and marry him?"

"I didn't say that." She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Figure out what you actually want. Who you actually are when no one's watching. That’s the work. This?" She gestured between us. "This was a spark. Maybe it lights a fire, maybe it just burns out. But you've gotta figure out your own fuel."

Brave enough. I thought about the careful life I'd built—college boyfriend turned fiancé, safe job in marketing, wedding venue chosen for the photos rather than the meaning. Everything designed to look right without ever asking if it felt right. David deserved more than a wife who fantasized about women while he slept beside her. I deserved more than a life of quiet pretending.

"What if I want you?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Raven's smile was sad and beautiful. "Then you know where to find me. But Emma? Make sure you want me, not just the way I make you feel. Or the idea of me as an escape hatch. There's a difference."

We dressed in silence, helping each other with zippers and stray hairs, building back the walls we'd torn down. At the door, she pulled me in for one last kiss—deep and claiming and goodbye all at once.

"For what it's worth," she murmured against my lips, "I think you're brave enough for anything you decide to do. Even if that thing is walking away from me right now and never looking back."

I left the room first, walking through the club on unsteady legs. The music felt abrasive now, the lights too harsh. Katie found me by the bar, her face glowing with triumph and too much tequila.

"Holy shit, Em! That was the hottest thing I've ever seen. David is going to die when he hears—"

"No." The word came out sharper than intended. "He's not going to hear about this. Ever."

Something in my expression must have convinced her, because she nodded slowly. "Okay. Girl code. But... are you okay? You look... different."

I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar—hair wild, lips swollen, eyes holding knowledge they'd never had before. Different was one word for it. Transformed might be another.

"I'm okay," I said, and for a moment, it was true. Then the guilt and confusion rushed back in. "I need to go home."

The next week passed in a fog. I moved through the final fittings, the seating chart adjustments, the rehearsals, like a ghost inhabiting my own life. David was sweet, concerned. "You seem distant," he said over dinner two nights before the wedding, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "Just pre-wedding jitters, right? Everyone gets them."

I looked at his kind, familiar face, at the little crinkles around his eyes I used to love, and felt a canyon open up inside me. "Yeah," I whispered. "Jitters."

But it was more. It was a constant, screaming dissonance. I’d stand in the shower, the hot water pounding my skin, and my mind would replay the feel of Raven’s mouth, the sound of her voice, the terrifying freedom of that room. Then I’d remember David bringing me soup when I had the flu, patiently holding my hair back. I’d remember his excited face when we toured the vineyard where we were to be married. He was planning a life, a real one, with me at the center. And I was a fraud.

The night before the wedding, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my old childhood bed in my parents’ house, the ‘bridal suite’ for tradition’s sake, and stared at the ceiling. I thought about walking down the aisle. I thought about saying the vows. I thought about a lifetime of good mornings and shared taxes and comfortable silences that might slowly suffocate the part of me that had roared to life in a strip club’s private room. Was that part me? Or was it just a fantasy, a last rebellion? Raven’s pragmatic voice echoed: Make sure you want me, not just the way I make you feel.

But it wasn’t just about Raven. It was about the feeling. The authenticity. The shocking truth that I had never, not once, felt with David the all-consuming hunger I’d felt for a stranger in minutes. That wasn’t fair to him. It wasn’t fair to either of us to build a marriage on a foundation of my quiet despair and his unwitting ignorance.

The clarity didn’t come in a lightning bolt. It came as the pale dawn light filtered through the curtains. It was a simple, cold fact: I could not say "I do" to him. Not tomorrow. Not ever. The thought of standing there and making that promise felt like agreeing to bury myself alive. The guilt of leaving him at the altar was monstrous, but the guilt of trapping him in a lie for decades was worse.

I stood at the altar on Saturday in the dress I'd spent months choosing, the silk and lace feeling like a shroud. I looked out at the crowd of family and friends who'd come to witness my happily ever after. David beamed beside me, handsome in his tuxedo, confident in our future together. My stomach churned.

When the officiant asked the time-honored question, "If anyone present can show just cause why these two may not be lawfully married, speak now or forever hold your peace," a profound silence fell over the vineyard. It was the moment for coughs, for awkward smiles. I felt Raven's presence like a ghost—not as a person to run to, but as a symbol of the truth I had touched. Her hands on my skin, her voice in my ear, her blunt honesty burning through every lie I'd been telling myself.

I took a deep breath that seemed to suck all the air from the garden. David glanced at me, his smile faltering at the edges.

"I do," I said clearly, my voice not shaking as I turned to face him fully. The gasps were immediate, rippling through the rows like a shockwave. My mother’s hand flew to her mouth. "But not to the wedding. I object to living a life that isn't mine. I object to pretending I don't want things I want. I object to being too scared to be who I really am." My eyes filled, but my voice held steady. "David, you are a good, kind man, and you deserve so much more than a wife who isn't fully here. I am so sorry. I can't do this."

The devastation on his face was a wound I knew I would carry forever. The confusion, the hurt, the public humiliation. I mouthed I’m sorry again, then carefully removed my engagement ring, placing it gently in his limp hand. I turned and walked back down the aisle alone, the stunned silence broken by my mother's sharp sob and the rising murmur of the crowd. I held my head high, Raven's words echoing in my head: brave enough for anything you decide to do.

The three weeks that followed were a special kind of hell. The fallout was nuclear—the disappointed parents, the furious friends, the cancelled vendors, the gossip. David, to his credit, after the initial rage, asked for no contact. I moved into a sublet, quit my job because I couldn’t focus, and spent days staring at walls, wondering if I’d made the most catastrophic mistake of my life. But in the quiet, beneath the shame and chaos, a small, stubborn ember of certainty remained. I had been honest. It was a brutal, ugly honesty, but it was mine.

I found her on a Tuesday night at Vibe, sitting at the bar in jeans and a leather jacket, her hair in a messy bun, looking nothing like the fantasy she'd played that night. She was nursing a beer, watching a basketball game on the muted TV. She saw me approach and raised an eyebrow, not quite smiling.

"So," she said, gesturing to the empty stool beside her. "What did you decide?"

I sat, ordered a whiskey, and let the familiar burn steady me before I looked her straight in those dark eyes that had seen right through me. "I decided I don't really know what I want," I said, the admission freeing. "Not in detail. But I know what I don't want. And I know I want to learn who I am when I'm not pretending. I want to make mistakes and figure it out on my own terms." I took another breath. "And maybe... maybe I want to start with dinner. As two people. Not a bride and an entertainer. If you're interested in more than just the girl who needed awakening."

Raven studied me for a long moment, her gaze assessing, stripping away any remaining pretense. Then a slow, real smile touched her lips. "I think," she said, reaching across the bar to take my hand. Her touch was familiar and new all at once—warm, solid, a promise of something real. "that brave looks good on you. And yeah—dinner sounds perfect."

I smiled—my first real, unforced smile in weeks—and let her lead me out into the cool night air. Behind us, Vibe pulsed with music and laughter and a thousand other stories beginning and ending. But ahead of us, the city lights glittered with unknown possibilities. Ahead was not a guaranteed happy ending, but an honest beginning. It was terrifying. It was mine.

Turns out the best dances begin when you finally stop following someone else's choreography and dare to move to the rhythm of your own desperate, truthful heart.