A wedding celebration in an old park, a tradition from Burgenland, a night where old and new stories overlap. Explicit erotic novella. For ages 18+.
My cousin got married on a Saturday in August in a castle park in Eisenstadt. It was one of those weddings where her mother’s family wanted to uphold old Burgenland customs, and her father’s family was Viennese enough not to understand them. I belonged to the second group, was invited as a bridesmaid, and I had sworn to go along with everything they asked of me because I loved my cousin very much.
In the evening, there was a ritual I didn’t know. Seven men and seven women, all unmarried, stood in a semicircle around a linden tree. An aunt from Mörbisch spoke a chant I didn’t fully understand. Then we were all supposed to hang a ribbon on the tree, and whoever hung a ribbon should ask another person who also hung a ribbon a question before sunrise — any question — and the answer had to be true.
“That’s superstition,” my uncle whispered to me.
“That’s folklore,” I whispered back.
“It’s both.”
We hung our ribbons. I only understood after the ritual that they had different colors — mine was green, his, the one standing opposite, was also green. There were four green ribbons, two red, three white, five yellow.
“The colors are the secret,” the aunt said. “Whoever has the same color is your question.”
The other three green ribbons belonged to a distant second-degree uncle, a fifteen-year-old cousin, and a man I didn’t know, about my age, who later turned out to be an old college friend of the groom.
His name was Roland. He was leaner than most of these wedding guests, wore a dark blue suit without a tie, had eyes that shifted between gray and green in the light of the lanterns. Just looking at him, I felt a pull in my belly, a heat that crept up from my cunt. I couldn’t help it, I imagined him undressing me.
We met after midnight at the water basin at the end of the park. The moon hung over the boxwood avenue, and it was warm now in a way that didn’t belong to midnight.
“You’re my green,” he said.
“And you’re mine.”
“Do you believe in this?”
“In what?”
“In summer nights where you tell the truth.”
“Tonight, yes.”
He looked at me. He had a way of looking that I knew from favorite books — that concentration that wasn’t intrusive, but interested. But tonight that concentration burned inside me. I felt my nipples harden under the thin dress, the fabric rubbing against them.
He asked: “What are you afraid of, Klara?”
It wasn’t a standard question. It also wasn’t the question I had expected. I thought about it. I thought longer than someone at a water basin in a castle park normally would. But while I was thinking, my gaze wandered over his body. His hands, resting on the wall. His crotch, outlined in his pants. A thick, hard cock that was burning to be pulled out.
“Of being a different person in ten years without noticing it.”
He nodded, as if he had expected that answer. “And your question for me?”
“What’s the last thing you told yourself without believing it?”
He stared at the water for a long time. “That there’s still enough time.”
“Enough time for what?”
“Enough time for something real to happen.”
We sat on the edge of the basin, very close. He took my hand. It happened without intention, because his hand and mine were already on the wall, and the distance between them melted away without either of them trying. But when his fingers touched my palm, I felt an electric shock that shot straight into my pussy. I got wet, immediately, uncontrollably. My panties were already sticking to my cunt, and I knew if he opened my legs, he’d smell the scent of my arousal.
In the park behind us, the quartet played an old piece, I didn’t recognize it. A few lanterns had started to go out, and the park took on something folkloric in this incomplete lighting, almost fairy-tale-like — as if we were in a time when the ritual aunt was right and summer nights could actually force engagements.
“Come with me,” he said. “I know a pavilion in the back part.”
We walked. The pavilion was a small wooden house from the 19th century, with a bench, a table, a lamp that still worked. We didn’t turn on the lamp. We sat on the bench. The moon shone through the open door, and his face was half in shadow.
“Roland.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe in the ritual.”
“Me neither.”
“But tonight, I’m letting something work that I don’t believe in.”
He nodded. He placed his hand on my knee. The touch burned through the thin fabric of my dress. I opened my legs, just a crack, but enough for him to understand. His hand moved higher, pushing the hem of my dress up. I was wearing a black thong that had already wedged deep into my slit because I was so wet.
He looked at me. “Klara, I want you.”
“Then take me.”
He leaned forward and kissed me. His mouth was warm and demanding, his tongue thrust into my mouth while his hand slid between my legs. He pressed on my cunt through the fabric, and I moaned into his mouth. I could barely stand the pressure. My whole body trembled.
He pulled the thong aside. His fingers touched my bare, wet cunt. I was so wet that my labia glistened, that my pussy was practically dripping. He stroked a finger along my slit, from top to bottom, and I arched up.
“My God, Klara, you’re so wet,” he whispered. “That’s for me.”
“Yes, that’s for you. I want your cock. Now.”
He stood up and pulled me up. His hands found the zipper of my dress and pulled it down. The dress fell to the floor, and I stood only in my thong, now hanging to the side, and my high heels. My breasts were bare, full, my nipples hard like little pebbles.
He stared at me. “You’re so fucking hot.”
He leaned forward and took one of my nipples in his mouth. His tongue circled it, his teeth nibbled gently. I clawed my fingers into his hair and pressed his face into my breast. “Yes, yes, touch me.”
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