"...I do." said the groom, dressed oh-so-smartly.

	The priest said "Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."

	The groom turned to his left. He then looked upward. The bride turned to her right, looked down, took a step back, and knelt. She picked him up with one hand.

	She held him at face level. He puckered his lips, she puckered hers. Their mouths met, shortly, before she sucked his entire head into her mouth.

	It was dark and didn't smell too nice; primal fears gripped his heart. [i]Calm down[/i], he thought, [i]we've done this enough times already[/i]. They'd been engaged for a year, dating for two. He was, as it were, used to kissing her by now. Now they were married.

	She opened her mouth, letting his head out. He could feel the air and see the light again; it was relieving as usual. Their assembled families clapped their many paws.

	He was five feet and ten inches tall, and weighed 160 pounds. She was sixty six feet tall, give or take a few inches, and just over two hundred thousand pounds.

	Now, if you're at all used to fantasy, you will be surprized to hear that there was no prejudice in this world regarding the marriage of two persons so physically different. Yeah, odd as this sounds, that's just the way it was; it didn't happen very often, but it was even less often that anyone made a big deal out of it.

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	When it came time to cut the cake, he tried first. The knife was, to him, rather long and unwieldy. Standing it up like a pikestaff, the handle was up to his shoulders. The blade went far above his head.

	The groom nearly stumbled backward when he lifted the knife; instantly, his bride placed her hands near the end of the table, ready to catch him (discreetly; she didn't want to make it look like she didn't trust him).

	The setback was quite temporary, and he managed to swing the knife into the cake set before him. He heard the some of the sugar crystals in the frosting shatter -- yeah, this cake had definitely been baked by macros. The knife went through the frosting, but all his strength could not drive it more than six inches into the cake itself.

	"Nice try," his wife said, "but how about you let me finish?"

	Far from objecting, he eagerly stepped aside and gestured toward the knife. She effortlessly sliced the cake. He was expecting this from the start, really.

	One piece fed all the guests he brought, and they were even able to bring home leftovers. Each member of hers got one piece, about the same size.

	The cake was actually kinda tough, but no less sweet than usual. It had to be made strong, for normal cakes would collapse under their own weight at that size.

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	Later that evening, when the festivities had all died down, the newlyweds were outside his house. He was holding her up.

	"How are you doing that?" she asked in shock, "Earlier today you were groaning while lifting my wedding ring."

	"Tradition dictates that I carry my bride across the threshold." he said, "The power of plot compels me."

	Looking at the tiny door, she thought [i]you've got to be kidding[/i]. Giving voice to her thoughts, she said "How do you expect me to fit through that little hole?"

	Turning to point her head toward the door, he said "By the grace of God, even rich guys and welfare leeches can get into heaven. I think being able to show you the place I used to live would be a small thing to ask in comparison."

	One miracle later, she was in his living room. Her shoulders were against the north wall, her knees were pushing through the ceiling, and her tail was snaking through the door to the bathroom.

	'Living room' might be the wrong word for it; it was a large room leading on the south and east sides to the outdoors, on the southwest to the bathroom, and on the northwest to the bedroom. This one room contained a couch, a TV, and all the kitchen equipment.

	"So you lived in here for how long?" she asked.

	Stepping out of the bedroom in his pyjamas, he said "Since I was eightteen. This place was a steal because it was haunted." Seeing the look on her face, he said "Don't worry. That was taken care of the next week. Surprized the previous owners never thought to contact a priest."

	"We can't live here," said the wife, "I thought we agreed to move into my place."

	"We did," said the husband, "I just wanted to show you this place before we did. You can smash your way out for all I care. I sold the this place; the guy just wants the land, not the building. He was going to bulldoze it."

	She picked him up to kiss him again; she had to pass him from one hand to the other to get him past her knees. Once more their lips met, once more his head got wet. She sucked the night cap right off his head. Enclosed in damp warmth and darkness, this time just past his shoulders, his fears took hold once again.

	Her tongue was grabbing him, pulling him deeper. For the second time in their relationship, he panicked. He wriggled and writhed, trying to pull out.

	She opened her mouth again, and was surprised by how drenched his shirt was. "Sorry," she said, "I wanted to french you, but I guess I got carried away. I shouldn't be playing like this on an empty stomach."

	"There's leftovers in the fridge," he said, "they're not much, but..."

	She set him down on her chest and pulled the fridge from the wall. While she was passing it from one hand to the other, he removed his drenched shirt and cast it to the floor.

	He watched in horror, admiration, and a little bit of humor as she opened her mouth and poured all the contents of the refrigerator into it.

	It contained, as he had said, leftovers. It was full of meals he had previously made, and takeout from fast food joints he'd frequented. The food, the packaging, the shelves -- every loose object in the refrigerator or the freezer fell into her mouth.

	He heard many things breaking, and he knew for certain that her teeth would not be among them. When she swallowed, he felt his seat shift. "I think some of it was past due," she said unfazed, "but thanks. I feel better now."

	[i]Had she only a little less control[/i] he thought [i]I could have ended up like that.[/i] It was the first time he'd ever thought about how uneven their relationship was, and like all such thoughts it passed quickly.

	She loved him as much as he loved her, and while she also realized at that time both how easily she could kill him and how easily she could hide the evidence, nothing ever came of it.

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	I will say that they were a happy couple, though not a perfectly harmonious one. They had their disputes, but stuck it through because they'd made a covenant.

	There were days where she made him walk to work instead of dropping him off, and days where she made him sleep in her sock drawer instead of their bed.

	There were days where he came home late from drinking with the guys. There were also days where he'd really rather watch TV than sweep stuff out of the corners.

	For a while, he felt a little guilty about only being able to buy her little things for her birthday or their anniversary; single pieces of candy, keychains, pens, and one time a lighter (happy 35!).

	This was mostly because of material costs, since presents for a big woman need to be big in size and his job only paid so well. Her job got them at least enough to keep them (and the children they eventually had) fed, keep a roof over their head, and the water running.

	When, at length, he told her about his feeling this way, she laughed. "I'm [i]much[/i] happier with many small gestures than few large ones." she said, "Of course I am. If I liked big things more than little things, [i]I wouldn't have picked you[/i]."

	She gave him their deepest kiss ever, after forty years of imperfect wedded bliss.

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	In the same chapel, the same priest got down on his knees and looked to the five-inch bride. "Do you," he asked her, "take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband. To have and to hold,  for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness or in health, to love and to cherish so long as you both shall live...?"