Part of Four
Most bachelorette parties average from between six to twelve girls. After working enough of them, I learned that fewer girls resulted in a more intimate performance due to absence of cliques and sub-groups. My smallest bachelorette party in college consisted of only four girls, and they amazed me by how far they were willing to go.
I showed up in my cop uniform, but it was more as a costume than for the act, because even the bride knew I was coming. As soon as I walked through the door, three girls surrounded me and ran their hands all over my body. The ambient lighting from a single dim lamp told me that they planned an erotic evening.
The bride cooed over my uniform. Her sister hovered in the background with a video camera on the night vision setting. A hipster with layered brown curls and black-framed glasses flanked my left, while her friend, a petite blonde pixie girl, took my right.
Instead of stripping out of my clothes like usual, the girls helped by pulling my shirt off and sliding my pants down, fondling my muscles in the meantime. The three girls pulled my thong down in unison.
“Wow,” the bride said. “Look at that.”
“Very nice,” the hipster girl agreed.
Under normal circumstances, I would’ve asked the camera girl to stop filming, but was greatly distracted by three girls taking turns fiddling with my cock. I just stood in the middle of that living room in a state of pleasant shock. Before I could thoroughly process the scene before me, the bride slipped her tongue past my lips.
This is wrong – she’s getting married, said a voice in the back of my mind. Before I could pull away to protest, I felt a moist sensation down below. I looked down and saw the hipster taking me into her warm mouth. The dark-skinned bride pushed her tongue further, smoothly.
I was vaguely aware of pixie girl rubbing my torso. “Are you having fun?” she purred.
“Mmm,” I moaned. I knew this should stop, at least with the bride, but my twenty-one-year-old body yearned for this thrilling, once-in-a-lifetime experience.
After a few minutes, the bride suggested that everyone give me a lap dance. The hipster retrieved a chair and set it down in the center of the living room. The bride’s sister circled around holding her camera, capturing all of the glorious moments, and I was enjoying myself too much to care whether this encounter ended up online.
I sat down in the chair and the bride straddled me, her black polyester pants rubbing against my erection. The fabric combined with her weight slightly chafed me, but she got up before it became too uncomfortable.
The pixie girl took her place. She lifted up her dress, revealing her shaven pussy. She squatted down over my right leg, and rubbed herself back and forth. Her stubble pricked me like a porcupine dragging itself along my leg, and her wetness did very little to ease the sandpaper feeling. I grasped her hips to redirect her elsewhere before my leg acquired a serious case of rug burn.
The pixie girl sensed my discomfort. “You don’t like my lap dance?” she asked in a hurt tone.
“Oh, I like it,” I lied. “I just wanted you to turn around so I could see your ass.”
She faced the other direction and bounced her rear end towards me. I gave it a playful slap, thinking that men pay good money at clubs for a lesser experience. She jiggled it for a few moments and bobbed it just mere inches from me. “I used to be a stripper, too,” she said.
I could tell.
Next came the hipster girl, fixing me with a ravishing stare. When she swung one leg over my lap and sat down, her thin underwear resting on my shaft, I knew what was coming next. Her hips rocked back and forth.
“I think Bethany really likes him,” the bride said.
“You go girl,” the pixie girl added. “Get you some of that dick.”
Bethany grabbed my hair and pressed her lips against mine, causing her friends to murmur in delight. I slid my thumb down towards her panties and began rubbing softly in a circular pattern. Her breathing became more audible.
“How about I get on top?” I suggested.
She nodded and got up, shooting the bride a questioning glance.
“Go for it,” the bride said.
“It’s your party, though…”
“I’ve been bad enough. You enjoy him.”
“If you don’t, I will,” the pixie girl added.
“One sec,” I said, standing up. The bride’s sister aimed her camera at me while I went to retrieve a condom out of police shirt pocket. I unwrapped the package, rolled the condom on, and kneeled in front of Bethany, who lay on the floor. This seemed too good to be true. “Is everyone okay with this?” I asked with uncertainty.
“Uh, duuuh!” the pixie girl said. “Give us a show!”
I bent over her, and slowly sank myself in, right there in front of her friends. Desire coursed through me as I pumped, and I was constantly aware of the others watching me, even as Bethany moaned and clutched my back firmly. I felt like I was on a porn set, especially with a camera aimed at me. A part of me felt uncomfortable with the recording, but lust had driven that inhibition to the back of my mind.
The pixie girl knelt down next to us and traced her hands along Bethany, pulling her top down and caressing her breasts. The added sensations caused Bethany to soon tense up. Her face contorted in concentration as she wrapped her legs tightly around me, and I buried myself deeply into her and held still until she relaxed.
Her friends cheered.
“Whew!” she said, looking up at the bride with a grin. “We should celebrate birthdays like this, too!”
“For sure!” the bride agreed.
Meanwhile, I asserted more force. When the pixie girl went behind me and massaged my balls, I quickly reached climax, feeling wave after wave pushing against the end of the condom.
After we extricated ourselves, I got up to throw away the condom. The show was over. No part of my regular male stripping routine could top that performance. I would need a wilder sex act to show these girls something different.
The girls planned to go out to the clubs and invited me along. I had to work at Jet Set, so I invited them there, but they politely declined. The pixie girl dated a bouncer there, and their relationship had ended poorly.
We talked as I got dressed. I learned that the bride and her sister were nurses, while the other two girls were attending nursing school. The bride’s soon-to-be-husband was a doctor. What would he do if he found out about this?
“So what are you going to do with the video?” I asked the bride’s sister, suddenly feeling concerned now that the sexual urge had dissipated.
“Hide it,” she said.
“No one will see it but us,” the bride said. “My man would kill me, and we’d risk our jobs if this video ever got out.
I often wondered later if they destroyed it, because that was some damning evidence to leave in a drawer. Surprisingly, I didn’t lose sleep over that video, but I was disappointed about not getting a copy. As for Bethany, we talked on the phone, but never hit it off due to a lack of common interests.
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