Chapter 1

The bride looks majestic in her long-sleeve lace gown. Her long blonde hair, her piercing blue eyes. Tomorrow she marries into a life of perfect behavior. Today she’s a princess. I’m 24 years old and my job is to help make things seamless.

We move outside for the mountains and trees. My boss and the photographer direct everyone. The bridesmaids take their jackets off, wearing dresses with designer boots, which makes for pretty cool shots. They hug, smile for the camera, do everything they’re supposed to for lasting memories.

Her name is Sloane and she’s a Hollywood publicist. Scandal? Bad publicity? Contact a big PR firm and they might send Sloane to flip you to a positive light. She knows how. She’s not wealthy but the golden couple has enough money for a wedding at a Colorado ski resort. A classy event for their 40 guests.

After the outdoor shoot ends, the bridal party stumbles back into the lodge, still laughing from the experience. It’s 10:54 in the morning and after a brief rest they’ll have a rehearsal lunch. The bridesmaids go to their rooms while Sloane goes to her suite. They’ll change to something more relaxed.

Chris, the wedding planner, stops me as I’m about to use the lobby bathroom.

“I need you to swing by Sloane’s room,” he says. “She wants you specifically.”

“Probably help with her dress.”

“You’re probably right. And remember something. Forget the groom. The wedding industry is about the bride. She must be worshiped.”

“Got it, but is there a reason you’re telling me this? I’m already doing my best.”

“Sloane’s mother is riding my ass.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Chris puts both hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eyes. It’s like he’s staring into the depths of my soul, looking for any kind of strength or weakness.

“Repeat what I just said.”

“The bride must be worshiped,” I say. “They’re paying top dollar. Sloane’s mother is riding your ass.”

“Good. Excellent. Sloane has sisters and we want their business, too.”

“You’re making them sound like divas.”

“I’ve heard stories.”

After using the bathroom to pee and fix my appearance, I head to the bride’s suite. I knock. Her friend lets me inside. The bride is still wearing the same long-sleeve lace gown, but with a coat over her shoulders and she’s barefoot. In fact both of them are barefoot.

“You’re here,” Sloane says. “Can we talk for a moment?”

The bridesmaid does her own thing, sitting on the couch and scrolling through her phone while the tv is playing. I follow the bride into the dressing area. Closets are filled with clothes and the gorgeous wedding dress hangs on a rack.

Sloane sits by the dresser and I sit nearby.

For some reason there’s a vintage polaroid camera on the dresser table. Kind of odd, given we already have a professional photographer and people can take quality pictures with their phone. But some people love the classic look of film.

We make small talk, I tell her that tomorrow will be the best day of her life, that we’re on top of each detail. Getting lost in her blue eyes is easy. But I get the impression there’s something else on her mind, she seems distant, so I inquire.

“I’m pregnant,” she says. “Err… that’s weird to admit. But I wanted to tell you.”

“Oh, congratulations, I’m so thrilled that you…”

“Don’t tell anyone, okay? I literally found out last night. Only a few people know.”

“Got that, thank you for trusting me. I’ll make sure you aren’t served alcohol.”

“Quite thoughtful, I wasn’t drinking anyway. I’m thinking of something else.”

I lean forward. “Yes?”

Sloane sits up straighter, in the process opening the jacket wrapped around her upper body, and she gestures to her breasts. There’s no cleavage, she’s a firm b-cup. She’s not trying to be lewd about it, in fact she’s even blushing a little.

That figure, those breasts, they’ll never be the same.

“We’re planning a big family,” she says. “Which means these girls will grow up.”

Again she gestures to her breasts.

“I think motherhood is a superpower. I admire you.”

“Appreciate that,” she says. “You must think I’m shallow for thinking about boobs.”

“I think you’re human. You’re not shallow at all.”

“Well, I am. I’ve always had this intense love/hate relationship with my body. But I’ve always had my own way of dealing with that.”

Sloane picks up the polaroid camera on the dresser table and playfully looks at me through the viewfinder. She pretends to snap a shot, even making a cute sound effect with her mouth, then she hands me the camera.

I accept the camera knowing it’s a new responsibility.

“That’s from the gift shop,” she says. “Seeing it was love at first sight.”

“You want me to take some pictures.”

“If you’d be so kind.”

“Yeah, sure, of course.”

Sloane looks me in the eyes, and with the jacket still over her shoulders, she pulls the front of her dress down to expose her bare breasts. I can see what the fuss is about. They’re so perky and firm that I question how real they are. But they’re real. Either that or she has the world’s best surgeon. Given her blonde hair and blue eyes, her nipples, as you can imagine, are a bright shade of pink. Perhaps the pinkest nipples I’ve ever seen.

“Like them?” she asks.

“Incredible. Our photographer actually has experience with boudoir shoots.”

“My soon-to-be husband would never approve of that. And I’ve stalked your Instagram page and love the kinds of pictures you take.”

Right away I hear my boss’s voice in my head and feel his gaze. ‘The wedding industry is about the bride. She must feel worshiped.’ If I’m going to make a career in the wedding industry, these are the kinds of people I need to keep happy, plus these are a spectacular set of tits.

“Sure, sounds easy enough.”

When she pushes the jacket off her shoulders, she gives a rehearsed smile from countless pictures taken at Hollywood events. Even with her tits out she looks regal. Like she belongs to some kind of royal family. Her nipples appear to have hardened in the moment of exposure. That exhibitionist rush.

I’ve never used a vintage polaroid before but she insists that it’s simple. I look through the viewfinder. She doesn’t break the pose. A dolled up woman in a thousand dollar dress with perky tits and protruding nipples. The dresser mirror in the background under bright lights. That level of class mixed with nudity. It’s not something you see everyday.

Sloane pushes her chest forward to accentuate her boobs. She’s lean in a way that a normal working woman struggles to achieve. Her arms are toned but it’s her rounded shoulders that pop. When she pushes her chest forward, I can see how lean she is, with her ribs showing and ripples of chest muscle on display. I’m sure she pays for an expensive meal plan and trainer.

Four quick pictures are snapped with loud clicking noises. We spread the polaroids on the dresser and wait for them to dry while her top is still down.

When the pictures dry and the images are final, we admire the shots. It’s like taking a glimpse into a different world. Seeing something you shouldn’t be seeing. A behind the scenes look… way behind the scenes.

“Fucking right,” she says. “I knew you were a great choice.”

“Don’t thank me. They’re your tits.”

I excuse myself because there’s a group lunch scheduled soon and we have to stay on schedule. Sloane agrees then slides her dress down, standing in just a thong, leaving the dress pooled at her feet. She looks at herself in the mirror, in love with her body. She makes no attempt to cover anything.

“Oh, and keep the camera with you,” she says. “We’re not done yet.”

When I leave the suite, the bridesmaid is still on the couch watching tv, with her bare feet on the coffee table. She’s blushing. She must be aware of what I’m doing with the camera. Based on her blushing cheeks, I’ll bet my entire bank account (however small) that she’s aroused right now.

The lunch is a private affair for women on both sides of the wedding. They’ve rented the entire French restaurant on the second floor while the men are elsewhere. Sloane is wearing a cashmere turtleneck with leggings and boots. The bridesmaids are dressed in similar fashion. She’s going around talking to everyone, laughing like she’s a young politician and the election is tomorrow. This is Sloane in her element, being the star of the show and letting everyone know it.

I’m so busy that I almost forget the polaroid camera hanging from my neck. Sloane reminds me when all 22 of the female guests have arrived and the restaurant is filled with chatter, and she gets my attention, telling me to get the camera ready. I’m standing by the window, she’s facing me, all the guests are behind her, talking amongst themselves. This positioning happens so fast that no one is paying attention to Sloane.

When I lift the polaroid to snap a picture, I think it’s going to be a friendly thing with Sloane and all her loved ones behind her, instead she lifts the cashmere turtleneck to her chin, even pulling up her thin cotton bra. Those pink nipples are exposed. That million dollar smile. I’m stunned but move quickly or else we’ll get caught.

She pulls her top down after I get the shot and she adjusts her bra. Quick and smooth. There’s a nervous tension in her body language but a gleam in her eyes. She’s loving this adrenaline rush. She’s loving being bad. She adjusts her bra through the cashmere, smoothing everything into place.

“Do I have bra lines showing?” she asks.

“It looks normal now. What was that about?”

“What’s a wedding without new memories?”

She winks and rejoins the women’s lunch. It’s a mix of different ages. The bridesmaids are around her age, early 30’s, all glowing with pre-wedding energy which is basically rocket fuel. A few close friends. But then there are the mothers and aunts, women in their fifties and sixties. Everyone dressed nicely and having polite conversations, in line with being respectable families. The bridesmaids might have an idea of Sloane’s other side, but I doubt anyone else does.

A few minutes later everyone takes their seats. The wait staff brings French onion soup with perfectly charred cheese and a side of crusty bread. Sloane isn’t in her seat and I notice a bridesmaid missing. Looking to the bathroom area, Sloane is waving at me to come over.

When I make my way over, Sloane is giggling with Talia, a bridesmaid, a young black woman who’s also in the public relations industry. Talia is more on the rebellious side, with frizzy curls and a gold nose piercing. They’re standing together like they’re in a huddle.

They are facing me. Their backs are toward the group of distracted women.

“Anyone looking at us?” Sloane asks.

“No, they’re all talking amongst themselves.”

“Then get the camera ready.”

Dear god, please no. I pray in my thoughts.

Sloane and Talia lift their tops fast and I snap their picture equally as fast. After the snap they pull their tops down and adjust their bras. They don’t giggle or laugh, but I can see in their eyes they got a thrill from it, and it makes me wonder what else they do together.

“Keep that safe,” Sloane says. “I need to see that later.”

Talia winks. “Me too.”

Sloane goes to the front of the restaurant and gives a short speech, thanking everyone for being here. Everyone is seated. All eyes are on her. She tells people that she’s aware it’s a hassle coming to a ski lodge for a wedding but the scenery is worth it. And there will be a few more surprises along the way.