Zara was making her way out the shower and as she entered the room, there he was standing before her with a hungry look in his eyes. He asked her what...took her so long in the shower. She giggled and said she had to wash the wax off from ‘down there’. His eyes widened with excitement and he took a step closer to her. “Can I see?” he asked, but before she could respond he began unraveling her bath towel and sat her down on the bed I had just finished in the shower and was walking up the stairs. As she drew closer, the feeling of dread grew. Why was she so immaculate? Why was she so clean? There was not a spot on her, not a single fleck of semen, not a hair out of place -- at least, as far as I could tell, since her head was hidden under a shroud. A fucking shroud?? What was this, the sixteenth century? Who wears a shroud to a wedding? And why was no-one getting up to use her? Why was she allowed to walk towards the altar completely unspoiled? It wasn't respect for the sanctity of. More

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