2 comments/ 72611 views/ 9 favorites Michelle: The Bachelorette Party Ch. 01 By: litchipking Author's Note: I decided to revisit Michelle because she was so much fun to write before. She was just as much fun this time. I hope you enjoy this episode. - Chip King *** "Promise?" "Aw come on, Chelle. Just tell me the story." Her husband's voice carried the tone of a teenage boy complaining about yard work. "No." Michelle let go of his cock and crossed her arms. "I'm not telling you anything until you promise." Rob looked down from his seat on the living room chair, his erection the only thing blocking the view of his wife's ample tits. "You don't play fair," he complained. "I don't play at all unless you promise." Michelle squeezed her arms tighter around her boobs, pushing them together in what Rob called her "French barmaid look." "Alright, alright, you win. I promise." "You won't get mad?" "I won't get mad." "No matter what I tell you?" Rob gave her a concerned look. "Michelle, just what in the hell did...?" "Just promise me. Promise me right now or I'm not telling you anything." Her husband tore his gaze away from her boobs and looked straight into her puppy-dog eyes. Michelle's position on her knees in front of him gave a submissive appearance but Rob knew that was deceiving. "I trust you, baby. I promise I won't get mad -- no matter what you tell me." "Okay," Michelle said as she let out a sigh of relief. "So, I guess you want me to stroke you while I tell the story." Rob gave her a smirk like she had just asked if he would want a beer while watching the Steelers game. She smiled and reached up to run a finger along the sensitive underside of his dick. "Alright. Here's my story..." *** First of all, the strippers are Ayla's idea. And don't you raise your eyebrows at me. Just because you like looking at naked women doesn't mean I want to see any naked men. But I really don't have any choice in the matter. Honestly, looking back on it I think Ayla wanted to have strippers more for herself than for my little sister, although Erin sure seemed to enjoy them, too. "So how many strippers are you getting?" Ayla asks me, right there in the middle of our Book Club. You remember Ayla Raynor, right? Bleached blonde, too much makeup? One of Erin's college friends. No? She's the one with the big fake boobs. Oh, so now you remember. Typical. "Strippers?" She catches me off guard -- as I'm sure is her intention -- and my face flushes crimson. Here we are, talking about the moral dilemma of the latest Jodi Picoult novel and she wants to talk about strippers. Ayla pats me on the knee like I'm in a nursing home and can't find my teeth. "Don't you worry about it, sweetie. I'll take care of the entertainment." Before I can respond her friends start squawking like a gaggle of wayward geese and I realize that I am outnumbered on this. Anything I say against the afore mentioned strippers would only serve to make me seem even more of a fuddy-duddy. And yes, I'm aware that my use of the term "fuddy-duddy" only reinforces the point but I don't care. I really don't think much about it after that. Thanks to Ayla, the guest list grows to near fifty women and I have enough on my plate with arranging for the food and the music and the decorations. My boss is generous enough to allow us to use the second-floor office space and banquet room so... Oh, I'm sorry. You don't want to hear about all this. Why, you're barely hard. Well, if you let me stop talking for a just moment or two I'll fix that. ~ ...mmmm...there, that's much better. Now let me get to the part you wanted to hear. It really is a nice, quiet bachelorette party at first. The conversation is lively and the caterer really does a nice job with the refreshments. Everyone seems to be having a great time and I'm feeling pretty good about the arraignments. Erin catches my arm and tells me that she really appreciates all my hard work. I'm pleased as punch but apprehensive about the plans Ayla has made. So, I'm standing with Erin by the punch bowl when I hear the first whoops and whistles. The crowd that has quickly formed around the door parts like spreading arms and I see four men in military fatigues walking purposefully across the banquet hall floor. "Michelle!" Erin says with surprise and gives me a mischievous smile. "I'm shocked." "I had nothing to do with it," I assure her. Erin reflexively turns her head in Ayla's direction. The hussy is beaming like the prom queen and I have to fight the urge to slap the smug look off her over-painted face. "Let me just see if the boys need any help with their...equipment," Ayla says with a wink, bringing a round of laughs from her coven and I wonder for the hundredth time just how she and Erin remain friends. I excuse myself to check on the punch bowl. Of course, the caterer has already taken care of everything wonderfully -- even if the punch has a bit too much vodka in it. Actually, I just want a reason to put some space between me and the show. After a short consultation with the men and the DJ, Ayla takes the microphone and walks to the small stage at the front of the room. "Ah, ladies...could I have your attention please?" The room quiets with anticipation. When everyone is still she continues. "It seems ladies that we are in a bit of trouble." I pause for the briefest of moments to consider if these men actually are military personnel and what possible breach of conduct our gathering could have incurred. Then Ayla says that she's going to let the Colonel explain. The compact man who takes the microphone doesn't look old enough to vote, much less be a Colonel. But he speaks with a surprisingly authoritative voice which does nothing to quell my rising concern. "Ladies," he says firmly. "We have it on good authority that one of you present here is a spy." A spy! A spy for whom? For what purpose? A spy does sound a bit ridiculous but what do I know? Shit, is this for real? The small man continues despite the sprinkling of nervous laughter. "With this in mind, we have been given the authority to detain and interrogate you. I promise you, anyone holding out on us will be...punished." Detained? I can't be detained. I've never been detained. And punished? What the hell! "So if you ladies don't provide us with what we need," the Colonel continues, "we will...drill you until you can barely walk!" WHOOO! The room erupts with screams and whistles. I'm momentarily relieved that these men are just the strippers. And then instantly I think, Oh my God, these men are the strippers! Colonel starts working the crowd. "And if we must, we will pound you until you beg for mercy." Another thunderous roar from the previously sedate group of women threatens to drown out the loudspeaker. Colonel continues to talk into the microphone over the voracious din, working in his words between the building volume of the gathering. "So, tonight ladies, if you have been looking for a few good men...we are the few, the proud...we will be all we can be...because tonight is not just a job...it's an adventure!" I'm startled by the blast of Sousa march-music as I watch the four military men come to attention and salute. And then, just as I am about to put my hand over my heart, the giant speakers go silent. One second...two...three...and then, wham with the base guitar of some hip-hop song and our small militia transforms before my eyes into a Backstreet Boys tribute band. The suggestive dancing seems rather juvenile to me but it has an immediate effect on the crowd of women. The first song has them all dancing, and shouting for the removal of clothing. By the third song shirts are unbuttoned and the once calm and serene bachelorette party is takes on the frenzy of a Spring Break wet t-shirt contest. I can't believe the level of hysteria I'm witnessing. The women are really eating this up. Not that I didn't expect it out of some of them but really... Chloe Santiago plays the organ at church. I can see her up front, standing on a chair and grabbing her crotch. The president of our Garden Club, Mandy West, has Doris Kellerman bent over a table and is pretending to hump her from behind. I spit out a mouthful of punch when I see Mrs. Gallimore grabbing her boobs. Damn, the woman is just shy of sixty. When I look back to the stage I see that the fatigues have magically disappeared and the four men are gyrating with the music in the skimpiest of g-strings and matching chokers, much to the delight of the boisterous mob of women. Even standing this far back I am a bit embarrassed. You know I've never seen a stripper before and I have no plans to get too close tonight. I'm thinking that I'm glad to be in the back of the herd when I hear Colonel's amplified voice over the noisy chaos. "Sources have led us to a person of interest here in this room. We have been ordered to begin our examination with this special person. Where is Erin, anyway?" My distance from the stage has led me to believe that I am relatively safe but I fail to figure in my proximity to the bride-to-be. Just as I try to slip unnoticed into the unruly throng, Erin thwarts my escape with a clutch around my wrist like a falcon on a field mouse. The edge of a spotlight meant for my sister brushes across my face and to my utter panic I realize that, despite my careful maneuvering, I am about to be the center of attention. The four men quickly surround Erin; bare chests rubbing her shoulders, thinly covered crotches pressing against her torso. I am embarrassed for her but, more to the point, I'm embarrassed for me. Erin has yet to release my wrist and so, to my immense anguish, I am a part of this semi-naked huddle; albeit on the outside. Colonel turns the microphone back on and I can hear Erin's distinctive giggle in the background of his voice. "So who is this that you've attached yourself to?" More laughter from Erin. How in the hell can she think this is funny? "My sister, Michelle," she says between laughs. "She's my maid-of-honor." "Oh, well we'll have to give her the special treatment, too." Colonel shakes his head toward the beefy Hispanic guy and before I can chew through my arm his oily body is dancing just inches from mine. My God, he's practically naked. I could just die. No, I mean it. I think I might literally die right here on the dance floor. I laugh uneasily and try to explain that I'm not in need of any "special treatment." It's obvious though that either the loud music or a language barrier has prevented him from comprehending as he gives me that same smiling nod I get from the Korean lady who does my nails. "Is that the right color?" "Ye, ye, fie dolla." I consider leaning closer to shout in his ear but that would put me closer than my comfort zone allows. Little did I know that my comfort zone was about to be blown all to hell. A tug on my arm draws my attention back to Erin. Someone has brought out a chair and she pulls my hand with her as she sits. I'm working furiously to extract my wrist from her grip when I'm suddenly frozen by the scene in front of me. One of the strippers is straddling Erin as she sits in the chair and I am mesmerized by the closeness of his bikini-clad package. His hips thrust back and forth as he actually rubs himself against her silk blouse. She tosses her dirty-blonde hair back and laughs like she's playing Pictionary in her apartment. I'm amazed at how far Erin is letting this go when suddenly I feel hands on my ass and my head explodes. My stripper -- I call him "my" stripper because in a more primitive society, given the subsequent liberties he takes with me, his clan would now owe my clan a goat. Anyway, my stripper totally abandons any attempt at decency and is thrusting his linen-clad package into my belly; much to the delight of the horde of horny women that has encloses us. I try to scream but I can't seem to produce a sound. I think my heart has stopped. Erin chooses this moment to release my wrist. Bitch! I feel my anger has finally given me the strength to speak but instead of shouting at her, which is my firm intention, I am instead captivated once again my the spectacle before me. It's like I'm in some type of suspended animation. I can barely hear the thunderous crowd that cheers on Sarge -- the name on my stripper's choker -- as he play-fucks me to the music. I'm only vaguely aware of the ever-growing number of naked boobs that spot the raucous crowd. My focus is drawn instead to Ayla's hands as they reach around to hold Colonel's semi-erect dick and Erin's eager tongue that licks greedily on the tip. "That's it, Sarge. Michelle needs a good fucking." What the fuck! The encouragement comes from Mandy West, who has taken a reprieve from doing Doris in the ass to feel up one of the Anderson twins. Thanks a fucking lot, Mandy. See if I vote for your pick on the name of the G-Club's new Day Lily. Her voice does bring me back to the reality that I'm being mock-raped for the entertainment value and I am determined to extricate myself form the predicament. My stripper is grinding me so hard that my feet are being lifted in the air. "Okay, Sarge. I need you to put me down on the floor!" My Hispanic stripper nods like a bobblehead. "Si, si, we do on floor!" Fie dolla. He picks me up like I weigh nothing and abruptly I'm on my back. Sarge positions himself between my thighs and resumes his dry-humping, only now my cute little knee-length skirt is bunched up around my waist and his cock is actually pounding against my crotch. "Oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God." I would strangle him with my bare hands if I weren't paralyzed with shock and embarrassment. I try in vain to push my skirt down my hips but my legs are spread wide to accommodate my muscled attacker's girth. Maybe I can stab him in the neck with the back of my earring. Of course, these are the things I'm thinking. Instead of voicing my objections, however, I give my rapist that uneasy laugh I usually save for my boss when he tells an off-color joke in front of a client. You know how much I hate to hurt anyone's feelings. Oh no problem, Mr. Sex Offender, I quite like being publicly degraded. Would you like to pee on me when you're done? Sarge takes my muffled whimpers as a thumbs-up on his performance. "Oh si, you like?" Maybe I'll spontaneously combust. I've heard about it happening. I look desperately to Erin for help and again am completely flabbergasted. My sister, the aunt to my unborn children and soon-to-be wife of the venerable Grayson Stansby, is deep-throating the Colonel's cock like a circus sword-swallower. Her lips are so pouty and look impossibly sexy sliding across his shaft. And believe me, I know how awful this sounds - but despite my devastating public humiliation I am now suddenly conscious of the sticky sensation as Sarge jams my panties into my aroused pussy. God I feel like such a slut. A quick glance around the room generates more astonishment and stimulation. Kelley Butler, the florist at the new upscale grocery, is bent over a table with a tall, lean stripper pounding her from behind. And from the look on her face, their connection is much more "binding" than the one I am pretending with Sarge. I spot the fourth stripper, a light-skinned black man with a shaved head, spraying a can of whipped cream on his dick with a line of willing mouths to lick it off. All of this happens in a fog of sorts as I am drawn back to my sister's provocative blowjob. She smiles widely, the head of Colonel's cock still in her mouth; a flirtatious and adorable affectation that leads me to see my sister in an entirely different light. Damn, I never realized she was so hot. When the hell did that happen? Oh, I'm sure you could tell me the exact date and time my little sister became a hottie. And you can wipe that how-about-a-sister-sister-thing look off your horny little face. Just because I think she's sexy doesn't mean I want to do her. Oh, I know you do. I saw how you drooled over her in that green bikini at the beach last summer. Well anyway, as you can tell my thoughts are just everywhere. Oddly though, I'm only subliminally aware of Sarge's sweaty body looming over me. True, my pussy is soaking wet but even though my legs are spread like a Thanksgiving turkey the public view is mostly blocked by the stripper's baby-smooth ass. Yeah, I know. Hard to believe that this is a thought that gives me any amount of solace. Suddenly, I feel a burden lifted from me as my stripper finally disengages from our carnal embrace. I hadn't realized how heavy he was and strangely his absence distresses me. Just for a moment I feel discarded like a hasty thought. Oh Sarge, was I a good lay? Call me... But before I have more than a blink to ponder a second date, I realize that my new-found lover is not leaving me after all - he's just changing positions. Oh, pah-leez! Haven't I been through enough embarrassment for one night? Sarge scoots up my body, my legs still pried apart by his. His thighs push my knees toward my chest and before I can kill him I find myself in the most compromising and humiliating position of my life. He straddles my chest with his curiously expanding junk perched between my boobs. But this is not the worst of it by a long shot. His maneuver has somehow managed to pin my knees up by my sides. My previously concealed crotch is now on public display and horrifyingly I can feel my panties bunched into my sopping pussy! Damn my flexibility! A silent scream begs to escape my lips but I lie there mute, hypnotized by Sarge's weighty pouch dangling precariously close to my chin. I catch a glimpse of Kari Austin and Amanda Biddle, their hands over their mouths in mock embarrassment as they point and giggle at my exposed...Oh God, I can't even finish the thought. My hands try to reach around his wide torso as I try frantically to reach the hem of my skirt. I placate myself with the false confidence that the heat coming from my face will certainly set off the fire alarms at any moment. I know it's a phrase used often but I wonder if it is truly possible to die from embarrassment. And look at you with a big grin on your face! You're awful. You have to know how devastating this is for me. I'm lying there in front of all these women with a dick between my tits and my practically naked ass sticking up in the air. I'm horror-struck at the image I'm presenting and my helplessness is only making it worse, if that's even possible. But you know the other truth also, don't you? You know how ridiculously aroused I am at my predicament. You know the heat on my face is matched only by the fire raging in my flaunted sex. And even as I contemplate the obligatory mass murder of every person in the room, I can feel a trickle seeping from my panties down to the crack of my spread ass. "Come here, big boy and let me check your weapon." The husky voice comes from above me and I look up to see Ayla's devilish smile as she kneels at my head. Oh please, for the love of all that's holy, do I seriously need to be part of a public three-way! But it isn't until she leans forward and bites Sarge's oiled nipple that I realize that her cantaloupe-sized puppies are off the leash. Now I'm sure you've seen Ayla's "modestly enhanced" tits, as she likes to refer to them, like a priced-to-sell three bedroom condo. I know I've seen them naked half a dozen times myself and I rarely have any encounters with her outside of Garden Club and the occasional chance meeting on the street. Go ahead, you can feel them, she always says when they are inadvertently unveiled. For Christ's sake, I don't want to touch them. I want to know if they've had their shots! I'm fully expecting her to enter them in the County Fair next summer. I have no doubt they'll win a ribbon. Michelle: The Bachelorette Party Ch. 01 But I'm not prepared for the up-close-and-personal assault of her taut globes as they hover like hot air balloons above my face. I have to admit, though, that they are pretty impressive from this vantage point. I bet good money you could bounce a quarter off them. "Oh baby...do you have to register that thing?" I shift my gaze past Ayla's pride and joys just in time to see her glossy lips slip around the biggest cock I have ever seen. Now you know my experience with erect dicks is fairly limited. I walked in on my brother once when he was...well, he was rather small, actually. And that guy, Kenny, I dated just before I met you. You know we never did it or anything but there were a few clumsy handjobs in the front seat of his Bronco. He was maybe just a bit larger than you. Sorry. And of course there's yours. The only penis I've really gotten to know. I adore your dick, by the way. But let me tell you, Sarge is hung like a mule. His cock is built just like him; thick and solid, wrapped in a tangle of bulging veins. It looks like it lifts weights. I'm suddenly irrationally proud to have been mock-fucked by such a mighty tool. My stripper's dick can beat up your stripper's dick. I'm actually so fascinated by the blowjob occurring above me that I have inconceivably let slip from my consciousness the fact that my highly aroused, virtually bare pussy is still exposed to the world and Jesus. This is undoubtedly the most shameful display I have ever been a part of and I'm praying equally for some kind soul to cover me with a tablecloth and for anyone with a tongue to lick my throbbing clit. "Mmmmm..." Ayla's moaning vibrates in the air and as she leans over me to take more of Sarge into her eager mouth I feel her stone-hard nipple brush my forehead. Good Lord, watch those things, Ayla. You could take an eye out. Unlike Erin's sensual performance earlier, Ayla sucks cock like a Hoover upright, like she's trying to pull the sperm directly from his balls. I have to confess that contrary to any predisposition I may have had concerning blowjobs as a spectator activity, I am now very much in favor of the concept. I'm beginning to like watching these carnal displays and I would be happy to watch Ayla finish him off but my legs are cramping and there is a critical situation that needs to be addressed concerning my own orgasm. As if finally reading my mind, Sarge stands, dragging Ayla's greedy mouth up like a tarpon on fifty-pound test line and mercilessly freeing me from my nightmarish exhibition. I am quick as a summer storm getting my skirt pushed back down but slightly slower getting to my feet. The awkwardness of the position has left me stiff in joints that are seldom stretched. I have lost all track of time. It feels like I was on that floor for days. More likely a few minutes. I am, of course, expecting to be ridiculed by every righteous woman in the building but I find instead that I am abruptly ignored. Maybe there are no righteous women in the building. Sarge has disappeared into the throng and seems to have taken my audience, as well as my dignity, with him. I'm not sure how to proceed. What is the proper etiquette following a stripper rape and threesome dick-sucking? I'm enthralled by the scene that unfolds before me, though. It's like an episode of Girls Gone Wild. The Colonel has left the spotlight and is now on stage smacking his penis on Kelley Butler's face. The black stripper -- sorry, I have no other way to identify him -- is still making dessert of himself and the line to lick the canned cream off his dick wraps around the snack table. I take note that Sarge has wasted little time replacing me with Janice Walters sucking on his balls and...oh my God, Sandy Kirkland, the pastor's wife, laughing as she reaches around from behind and jerks him off. My first tentative steps reveal that my panty situation is far worse than I feared. I try to squirm them back to their intended position by that quickly proves a futile task. Oh fuck it. I immodestly reach under my skirt and fish for the silky fabric but my fingers touch only flesh. Did they rip! Where the hell...oh, there...a trace of something. You won't believe how deep that thin line of silk was pushed into my slit. Oh, I want to die! These women haven't been laughing at my panty-clad crotch all this time. They've been looking at my dripping, naked pussy! The thought makes me feel nauseous but -- and this is the thing that confounds me about my body -- the image of myself in that mortifying position turns me on like gas on a flame. The urge to touch myself is almost overpowering but I somehow manage to resist the temptation to hike my skirt back up and do myself right there on the floor. I know that I have to get out of here but I can't leave without talking to Erin. I finally pick her out of a cluster of women around the bar and I hurry over. She is dancing with a young blonde woman I don't know, spilling as much of her punch as she is drinking. I'm not sure which tact to take with her and so I just walk up and glare. Seeing me, she covers her mouth to stop from spitting out her drink. "Michelle! You were awesome. Wasn't that a blast?" "A blast!? I don't know about you but I was sexually assaulted." "Yeah," Erin says whimsically, "me too." I'm thinking, I don't fucking believe you. I say, "I don't fucking believe you." She accepts a refill on her punch from Blonde Chic and drains a few inches from the cup. "Oh just chill, Chelle. I was just having some fun. Besides, all I did was give a little head. It's not like I fucked him or anything." Erin raises her drink to indicate the area beyond the snacks where the women get thicker and the clothes, thinner. I brave a few steps closer and get my first real look at stripper number four. All I can really see, however, is his shoulder-length fawn colored hair as he is sitting in a chair turned with his back to me. I do get a suburb look at Amanda Biddle's face, though. She was one of the women I noticed laughing at my compromising position earlier. Her expression is one of serious concentration as she straddles Long Hair, raising and dropping herself onto his cock. I would cover my mouth and fake shock if I thought she'd care. Or notice for that matter, with her hand rubbing her clit and her hair hiding her eyes. An arm drapes over my shoulder and I instinctively tense. "So Michelle, aren't you glad I got the strippers?" Oh thank God, it's just Ayla. I turn to tell her just how glad I am. "In case you didn't notice when your mouth was full...Oh for Pete's sake, Ayla! Cover those things." You would think that my entire body would forever be a permanently shade of red after the public porno I just shot. Or perhaps that nothing could possibly faze me, given that every woman under the age of thirty-five in this town has now seen my aroused hoohah and probably believes I was sucking on Ayla's nipples while she was bobbing on Sarge's cock. But no. It's ridiculous but here I am, absurdly filled with fresh embarrassment at being in a naked embrace with Ayla and the wonder twins. "Oh, don't be such a prig. They're just tits. Go ahead, you can feel them." "Ayla, I don't want to...oh, fuck it." I turn and grab two fists full of modestly enhanced boobs. Now this does mark the only time I've gotten to second base with another woman and I do have to admit that it wasn't unpleasant. Like she said, they're just tits - though hers were definitely firmer than my slightly saggy pair; kind of like there were two boobs stuffed into each one. "Damn, Michelle. I never thought you'd do it." Was that a hint of admiration in her voice? "Maybe there's hope for you yet." "Maybe," I agreed, giving her hooters one last playful squeeze. "But right now I really need to find a bathroom." Ayla looks a bit dejected that I'm no longer feeling her up but before the girls even have a chance to get lonely their presence is requested on the far side of the room. "Hey, Ayla." Dawn Whats-Her-Name, the real estate agent that sold Erin her house is practically busting with news. "The one they call Major is down by the gift table titty-fucking anyone who's willing." Ayla's eyes light up like a Polish church. She begs off quickly and dashes away like her boobs are the only things that can save the Major's life. Just as well. I really need to dash off myself. I scan the room again for Erin but it turn out that my ears locate her before my eyes. "Erin...Erin...Erin...Erin..." The chant is coming from near the tall windows at the back of the banquet hall. I pick up a clear plastic cup of punch and gulp it down like I'm taking a shot. The second one goes just as hastily. I pick up a third for the road and head toward the shouts, taking a deep breath as I try to ready myself for anything. Honey, believe me. There is nothing that could prepare me for what I see. Erin is bent happily over a table full of gifts, her chin resting on her elbows. She has a sort of pixie smile on her face and her eyes are dancing with laughter. Honestly, I don't know when I've ever seen her look as adorable. Which is what makes the fact that Black Stripper is fucking her in the butt seem so incongruent. "Erin!" I don't mean to shout but it escapes my mouth before I have time to catch it. Where the hell was my voice earlier when I really needed it? "Oh God, Chelle," she says, laughing guiltily through her fingers like hearing a joke at a funeral. "Come here." Erin nonchalantly waves me over like there isn't a huge black cock in her ass and just like a thermometer over a match my head is bristling with fire. Everyone is looking at me and I'm instantly reminded of the last time many of these women saw me only it wasn't my cherry-stained face they were looking at. "Chelle...I want to talk to you and I can't exactly come to you." She rolls her eyes back to indicate the smiling Captain -- I can see the name on his choker now. He waves. Can you believe that? He fucking waves! He's fucking my sister. The bride-to-be. In the ass. In front of every woman she knows. And he waves like he's in a god damn parade. I move slowly toward her like you know I will. A touch on my shoulder and a whisper in my ear: "You were awesome earlier." Turning to see who spoke I'm instead inturrupted by another encouraging comment. Mandy West says, "Little sister's got nothing on you. You were definitely the hottest show tonight." I smile and say thank you like she just complimented the lightness of my angel food cake and step, a little bewildered, closer to Erin. Did I just win trophy? It's like I've been dumped into an alternate world and no one informed me of the customs. As casually as I can, I lean down and yell into Erin's ear. "So, how's it going?" The tremor in my voice betrays my nervousness at talking to her in this...posture. "Pretty good, actually." Damn her! She's as cool as the other side of the pillow. It's not fair. How did she get to be the cool one? I do my best to feign unflappability. "Ah, you are aware of the well-endowed black man fucking you in the ass?" "Kinda hard to ignore." I imagine it would be. "I thought you said you weren't going to fuck anyone tonight?" "It's just in the ass." And there you go. Another custom I have not been brought up to speed on: anal sex does not count as real sex. It actually sounds like a Bill Clinton excuse. No, I did not have sex with that woman. What? Anal sex? Oh sure, I fucked her in the ass. But everyone knows that doesn't count. Everyone but me. I'm nudged out of the way by the Colonel's naked hip. He shimmies up to the gift table and waves his dick in front of Erin's face like he's challenging her to a sword fight. She plays along. Tongue and cock clash several times with no apparent winner. Then she playfully grabs his saber between her teeth and the Colonel happily surrenders. I don't know how I went through the first thirty-six years of my life without seeing anyone else doing it but tonight it seems I can't spit without hitting a new sexual act. Erin's eyes are closed as I watch her seductive lips slide over his glistening cock. It is perhaps the most erotic thing I've ever witnessed and it reaches a neglected part of my anatomy with invisible fingers. You know how much I love having you in my mouth. Well, from the impassioned look on Erin's face I don't think I love it as much as she does. I reflect for a second about what a lucky man Grayson is to be marrying her and then I remember that the lustful look that moves me is being displayed by my sister while she entertains one strange cock in her mouth and another in her ass. Maybe Grayson isn't so lucky after all. I mouth to Erin, we'll talk later, and retreat to the edge of the crowd. From this angle I can see Captain's lubed cock slipping into her puckered hole. The image is vulgar. It's obscene. And it's hotter than cayenne pepper. My hand subconsciously presses against my skirt and I feel sodden panties like cold fingers against my sex. I am oblivious to the fact that I am actually masturbating in public until a voice jolts me from my trance. "I know exactly how you feel." The tweety-bird voice belongs to a red-head I don't know. She stands topless beside me watching my sister's pornographic display with hungry eyes. Both hands cup her modest, freckled tits as she pinches her tiny nipples to attention. I'm immediately ashamed at being caught pleasuring myself but the emotion doesn't last. Maybe I am loosening up a bit. I do, however, remove my hand from my crotch. "Nice boobs," I say. I'm not sure of the protocol here either so I decide to just make up my own. She turns her head in my direction, her eyes catching mine but quickly darting back to the tabletop threesome. "Thanks. Oh, you were really hot on the floor tonight. I wish it was me down there." "Yeah, me too." I stop by the storage closet where I have left my personal items and grab my office keys. I can't leave the party but it has become imperative that I leave the room. Since I work in the building I know the layout. Admin and security offices on one, banquet hall and associates on two, and named partners on three. You know as legal aid to the Hester piece of Foreman, Cole, Hester and Finch, I have access to just about everything. The stairwell deadens the blare of the music that now seems unbearably loud. My heels echo on the steel-trimmed risers as I make my way up to the third floor. Kim Hester's corner office is at the end of the hall and I can't get there fast enough. The smaller, outer office is mine and I hurry through without even cutting on a light. The only place to sit is my desk chair and that just won't do. I move slower into Kim's office, not as comfortable in the dark with the layout. I flick the lamp on beside the black leather couch, plopping myself down onto the cushions with a huge sigh. I know the party isn't over yet but it feels like I've survived something. So, you know why I'm here. I think I could do some internal damage if I go much longer without release. But...you're going to have to wait to hear this part. I've got to pee. *** "What?" "Hey, sorry. But this is a long story and I'm on my third glass of wine." Michelle gave her husband's cock a quick kiss and then quickly ran off to the bathroom, leaving Rob alone with his hardon. He took the imposed break to refresh both their drinks and pad naked to the office to check his email. "Where'd you go?" Michelle asked the empty living room when she returned a few moments later. "Coming," he called from down the hall as he left office. "I hope not. I wasn't finished playing." Michelle was already kneeling at the chair and her husband resumed his earlier position. He set the refilled glasses on the table. "I don't know why you made such a big deal about that promise. That stripper story was hot. Besides, it would be wrong for me to get mad at you when the whole thing makes me so damn hard." She looked cautiously up from between his legs. "Oh, I didn't make you promise not to be mad because of this part of the story. It's the part I haven't told you yet." Rob's eyes grew large. "Baby, maybe you'd better climb on to finish this one." With a gleam and a giggle, Michelle carefully straddled him and slowly lowered herself down on his stone-hard erection. As always, he filled her just right. "Okay, here we go," she said. "But remember your promise." "I'm not sure I can tell the rest of the story in this position." Michelle looked down at her husband's blissful smile and worried about just how he would take hearing the remainder of her bachelorette party adventure. "That's okay, baby. You feel too good for me to last much longer anyway." Those were just the words she needed to hear. She wrapped her arms around his head and pulled his face between her boobs. Rob responded by lifting his hips off the chair and driving himself deep inside her. "Mmm...you feel so good." Michelle wiggled her knees into a more comfortable position on the upholstered chair. After a good squeeze, which included Rob's enthusiastic tongue on her nipple, she placed her hands on his shoulders and sat up straight. "You'd better pace yourself," she warned. "There is still quite a bit of story left." Michelle: The Bachelorette Party Ch. 02 I think I stopped at the part where I'm about to take off my panties. Oh, that got your attention, did it? Well, if you recall I had just made it up to my boss's office. I want a few comfortable minutes and she has a leather couch in a sitting area by the window. And the panties? You know how I get. With everything I had seen and been a part of earlier they were rather...soaked. So, how much detail do you want here? You know why I'm on this couch with my panties off and my skirt hiked up. Do you really need to hear all the...okay, okay. You can get rid of the hound-dog face. You look like a six-year old who was just told there won't be any presents for Christmas. I'll give it to you just how you like it: down and dirty. Despite the fire raging between my legs, or perhaps because of it, I take my time. The party will last for a couple more hours so I can waste thirty minutes up here without even being missed. I lean back and settle into the leather. My eyes close and my hand reaches between my legs. I let my fingers run through the curly brown triangle that you won't let me shave. I'm not sure why you like it so much but for me I find it helps with the anticipation. There is nothing arousing about toying with my pubes but still my stomach tenses and my mouth instinctively opens. It would be over in a flash if I let it. But where would the fun be in that? For me or you? So I trace my finger lightly along the outside of my lips and let the tingle of excitement swim through my body. I have never considered masturbating at my place of work and so there are no office fantasies to pull from. It doesn't take much, though, to imagine being discovered in this compromising position, even if the possibility of that is extremely remote given that the party is downstairs and I am the only one here who has a key to the rooms. I suck a finger into my mouth and then move it down to join the others. Spread with one hand, touch with the other. It's immediately obvious that licking my finger first was unnecessary as I am as wet as I can ever remember and my opening accepts my finger with ease. The great thing about masturbating is the familiarity. There are no wrong moves. The timing and touch is exactly what you want and when you want it. Of course, the familiarity is the problem as well. It's hard to surprise yourself with an unexpected sensation. The experience, though enjoyable, lacks the excitement of another's touch. But I'll have to settle since this is all I have and I simply need to come. One hand leaves my crotch to fumble with the buttons of my blouse. I tease my nipple against my thumb while letting a few slick fingers slip down to tempt my...oh, you know how I like it when you play down there. I poke gently into that tight opening and imagine that it's your finger sliding into my ass, your lips caressing my taut nipple. Keeping the finger pressed against my butt, I lower my other hand to get serious about this session. My clit is screaming for attention and I drag pressure up through my lips until I hit that neglected ball of pleasure. The first touch is always so heavenly. My eyes close again and I'm just about to loose myself in delightful abandon when I think I hear something on the other side of the room. The table lamp lights my space but throws shadows across the expansive office and I can make out little in the corners of the space. I strain to see into the dim recesses and am startled by a slight movement against the back wall. "Hello..." I feel stilly talking to an empty room. "I can see you," I bluff, almost laughing at my ridiculous ploy. "Don't stop on my account." The deep voice emerges from the darkness and slaps me like a hand to the face. My hands fly to my mouth and I scream through my fingers. I can feel my heart beating in my throat and I'm momentarily frozen with fear. But as the man comes into view my fear dissipates as quickly as my irritation increases. Arthur Corbin, one of the junior associates, walks out of the shadows. It is not until his eyes dart from my uncovered boob to my spread legs that I remember what I was doing here. My legs slam shut and I pull my blouse together "Oh my God!" I think I have reached the height of embarrassment earlier when I was exposed to all those women at the party. That suddenly seems like a trivial matter to be laughed at and forgotten. At least that incident was beyond my control. I try to talk between gasps. I think I'm hyperventilating. "What are you...how did...oh my god, I can't believe...how long have you been standing there?" I want to slit my wrist with a letter opener but I'm still too afraid to move. His laugh makes me feel even smaller, if that's possible. "Long enough. Or maybe I should say 'almost' long enough. A few more minutes and we both could have had a happy ending." For a split second my eyes are drawn to the bulge in his khakis and realize that I have been unwittingly providing a show for his arousal. I'm beyond mortified. I consider leaping through the glass but I'm not sure that the three-story fall would be fatal. "What the hell are you doing up here, anyway?" I'm just starting to regain some of my faculties and it dawns on me that although I am engaging in a lewd and improper act, I am in the office space where I am assigned. Art is a whole floor from his office. "I was in doing a little work on an account. Hard to get anything done with all that racket down there." He tosses his head to signify the muffled music coming from the party below. "Then I heard something above me and thought I'd investigate. And I'm so glad I did. Damn Michelle, I didn't know you had it in you. You're always so proper around the office." I take a deep breath to steady my response. "Art, I am obviously extremely embarrassed by this. I, of course, thought I was alone but that does not excuse my behavior. I would really appreciate it if we could just keep this between us. I really don't want to have to explain this to Ms. Hester." It's a long, tense moment before he replies. Art runs a hand through his receding red hair and seems to contemplate my suggestion. It might be best if I stab him with the letter opener first, then turn the dull blade on myself. I realize that I'm not breathing and abruptly take a big bite of air. "I think I would prefer keeping this between us, as well." "Oh, thank God." The words spill out like a sigh. "Thank you. I'll just get my things together and lock up." Maybe no one will have to die tonight. I'm trying to get out of the deep sofa without flashing him when I realize that he is not moving. I get an odd feeling when I glance back to his face. His smile has a slightly sinister quality to it. "Art, I'm going to turn off the lamp so you may want to flip on the light in my office so we can see our way out." He still stands his ground. "No, I don't think we're leaving yet." Should I be worried? I have not had many dealings with Art Corbin but the office scuttlebutt is that he has aspirations that exceed his talent. You know I don't feed on the gossip but you can't help hearing things. A few of the secretaries have gone out with him and the word is that he's decent in bed but a bore at the dinner table. But is he dangerous? He's about your height but pretty frail looking. He's always talking about the membership he has at some gym but I know he doesn't lift weights. Squash, maybe? I think I could take him in an arm wrestle. "Art, I know this has been an impossibly awkward encounter." I try to take a little control of the situation. "Let's not make it worse by prolonging it." There's that little gleam in his eye again. "Get comfortable, Michelle. You're going to finish what you started. And I'm going to watch." My eyes felt wider that a hoot owl's. "Are you out of your mind? There is no way I'm going to continue anything. You only saw what you did by accident. I could never...I would...just no!" Heat radiates from my body like coal-burning stove and my face invents a shade of red previously unknown to the universe. He chuckles like I told a cute joke. "Well, that's up to you, of course. It's not like I'm going to force you to do anything against your will." I never even consider rape as a possibility. Why am I still so slow to see the worst in people when I witness them display the worst so often? "But before you decide," Art continues, "you might want to consider the two dozen pictures I snapped on my phone while you were diddling yourself a few minutes ago." Even as I see him tossing the silver rectangle in his hand I am slow to connect the dots. So what. The asshole took pictures of me. He's already seen me live. What difference does having a picture...light bulb. Damn, I can be so dense. "What are you saying, Art?" "Saying? I'm not saying anything. I'm just sending some pictures to my computer." He presses a button with dramatic flair and I catch on to the game he's playing. Only it's so much more than a game to me. Having worked with lawyers for the last ten years I sort of know how they think. An implied threat can always be refuted. Art is careful not to put anything into words that could be used against him later. Okay, I see that murderous look in your eyes. You're just going to have to trust me and calm down. Remember your promise; you won't get mad. No matter what I tell you. I know it seems unfair that I made you promise that now but there's a lot of story left. So just settle down and keep fucking me. I promise you can punch something later. Back to the story: I try to nail him down. "So you're implying that if I don't...if I don't...masturbate...oh, God...if I don't...do that in front of you then Kim Hester will see the photos you took?" Instead of answering Art puts a finger in the air to indicate a pause in the conversation. He opens up his phone and starts talking. "Hello...Milo, my boy. What's shakin'?" I presume the person Art is talking to -- or at least pretending to talk to -- is Milo Scott, another junior associate with the firm who also plays Art's puppy dog around the office. I'm not sure where this is going but I hate how clever he thinks he is. "...oh, just hanging out at the office...trying to get a handle on the Salazar case...yeah sure, maybe about ten." He takes a quick glance at his watch. If he's not really talking to Milo then he's really one hell of an actor. "Sure, no problem...I'll meet you...oh and Milo, wait until you see the pictures I have to show you. You won't fucking believe them." He winks at me and I feel my blood boil. "No, don't even try guessing. Just trust me. You are going to be totally blown away...alright, see you then. Late." Art flips his phone closed and gave me an innocent smile. "Sorry...now where were we?" I'm close to tears but I refuse to let him see that. I wish for the thousandth time that I had some kind of superpower. Like time-jumping. Or maybe I could melt his brain with my thoughts. "You would really be that much of a fucking asshole?" "Ooh, I like how you say 'fucking'. Say it again." I don't comply. Instead I just flip him off. Art mocks surprise at my gesture and continues talking. "So, I'd really love it if you would lift that skirt and bare those tits again. You are such a sexy little bitch." I flare like a brush fire in the wind. "Bitch? Did you just call me..." "How's your mom?" he interrupts. I'm stunned into a brief silence by the disjointed switch of subject. As usual, I'm a bit slow on the uptake. "I'm really trying to take a bigger interest in the personal lives of my coworkers. I was thinking I'd give your mom a call, maybe go out for coffee or something. I'm sure I'd have plenty to share with her." Okay, now I've caught up and I really want to kill the son of a bitch. Actually, killing him seems far too merciful. Just how bad is this waterboarding shit, anyway? "Of course, if I meet her on Monday it will have to be a late morning rendezvous. I have an early staff meeting with all the partners and associates. I'm supposed to have a presentation on the work I'm doing here today. I was worried about having visual aids but I think I might have solved that problem." The weight of the situation finally settles on me and I feel suffocated by the implications. My family, my job, my entire life in this community is at stake. How could I ever face anyone? When I passed a stranger on the street would I always wonder if they had seen the pictures of my filthy display? I could never leave the house again. I mull over my choices as quickly as I can. I could beat the shit out of him but he would still have the pictures. Even if I destroy his phone, he's already sent the pics to his email so it would do no good. I'm sure I can't figure out the password for his computer. I'm screwed. I see few options so I resort to the thing I dread maybe even more than exposing myself to this creep. I beg. "Please don't do this, Art. This is more than just a silly game. You will ruin my life." "I don't want to ruin your life. You know what I want." Yes, I know what you want you little piece of shit but you can't know...oh my God, am I actually contemplating this? The thought of touching myself in front of anyone but you is...unthinkable. I can't wrap my mind around the image. It's actually so far out of my realm of thought that I can't even dream it. "Art, you don't know what you're asking. I just can't. You don't understand how impossible...how embarrassed I am at even the littlest things. I need to take medication to go to the gynecologist." Art studies me for and for a fleeting moment I think that I may have cracked through. Then he says this: "You either spread those legs right now or I'm leaving. And I don't think you really want me to leave upset." I shoot scorching daggers at him with my eyes. For the moment I'm too angry to focus on the possible impending degradation. Art shrugs his shoulders and pulls out his phone. He casually snaps another picture of me in my livid state and turns to walk away. I panic. "Wait!" After my display with the stripper earlier this should be a piece of cake, right? One more person staring at my hoohah shouldn't make a damn bit of difference. Sure, it's a guy but it's just one guy. Sarge is a guy and he already practically fucked me on the floor in front of dozens of people. Why should I even care if this degenerate gets added to the list? What's one more? But it isn't the same. I was helpless to stop what happened downstairs. And even though it is the arousal from those very acts that brought me here for relief, I would have crawled through glass to get away from it. Or would I? Did I secretly want that public humiliation? I was trying to remove myself from the situation but how hard was I really trying? Art turns to walk out again and I understand that I don't have time to diagnose all my sexual peccadilloes at this precise moment. Before I can talk myself out of it I close my eyes and spread my legs. I know, I know, you can't believe I actually do it. Well, I'm right there with you, sweetie. But trust me, I do it. And I sit there in painful silence, a slightly queasy feeling enveloping me as my entire body reddens. I think maybe I'm sweating blood. I'm mortified by the sticky feeling between my legs, knowing that I'm not only showing him my privates but that I'm obviously in a heightened state of arousal. I might have questioned my inner desires when reviewing the events downstairs but there is no way any part of me wants this! I pray that one of us will have a stroke in the next five seconds. I honestly don't care which one. "Nice..." His voice trails off and I imagine his depraved leer. I'm still too overwrought to open my eyes. "Now the tits." I'm in my happy place, I'm in my happy place, I'm in my happy place. It's not working. I bite my lip so hard it almost draws blood. My legs stay open while I separate my blouse. One boob lies bare having been freed earlier for my solo pleasure. "That's a start. Now lose the bra." I can hear his breathing becoming irregular and raspy. I squeeze my eyes tighter and unclasp my bra, showing him both of my boobs. Now you know how I feel about my boobs. I've yet to figure out what the big deal is. When I'm talking with a guy I'm constantly losing their gaze to my cleavage. And you pant over them like a puppy with a new bone. It seems Art is in the same club. "God, they're even bigger than I thought. Those are some sweet tits you got there, sugar." There is a hint of something in his voice I can't quite place. It's almost like a worshiper before a holy shrine. I finally open my eyes to see his face and am somehow shocked by what I should have seen coming a mile away. It's inevitable that his dick would come out sooner or later but seeing it in his hand throws fresh fuel on my emotions. I don't want to see this but now that I've looked I can't seem to pull my eyes away. It's like a hideous car wreck, my eyes involuntarily glued to the horrid scene. It's bigger than I would have thought. Not that I've given much thought, or any thought for that matter, about the size of Art's penis. I want to look away but somehow I can't. The sheer idea that this asshole even has a dick is a repugnant thought and I cringe because I can't help noticing that his cock more than fills his hand and he's hard as glass. "You like that big cock, don't you?" Do I need this? After everything that's gone on tonight do I need to get caught ogling his dick? So now, on top of everything else I'm now going to have to scratch my eyes out. "Oh yes, you and your dick have so much in common," I say. Art is unaffected by my sarcasm. "So let me see you play with that cunt." I physically recoil at the use of the "K" word, as my friends and I call it. Such a vulgar term for a beautiful thing. I almost reprimand him for his choice of anatomy terms but then recognize that I don't really want to have a conversation with the sleazeball. It's not that I don't know that touching myself is expected. Hell, it's why I've he's had me flashing my kitty at him for the last several minutes. But now that I actually have to do it I'm having second thoughts. Shit, who am I kidding? I'm way past second thoughts. My finger brushes the moist lips of my sex and I'm jolted by the sensation. Oh Peter, Paul and Mary, this confirms it. I'm a big fat whore; an exhibitionist slut. I'm actually getting turned on by this emotional rape. There is no question that I have seriously underestimated the intense erotic power of these circumstances. I can't remember ever being this sensitive and as I move my finger deeper into my silky flesh I am flooded by a pleasure so extreme it threatens to take my breath. It's like I've been dipped in endorphins. Oh, this is going to be quick, I think. Hell, I just might come in the next ten seconds. Perfect. That will end this show before it even begins. But then the reality of the situation hits me and I inwardly scold myself for being so naive. Art doesn't give a rodent's fart about my orgasm. This is about him getting off. If I want this to end, I need to make sure he finishes quickly. The moan that I previously held at bay now escapes me -- anything I can do to hasten his release. I hate that I'm so irrationally aroused by the very thing that petrifies me but there is no denying my body's reaction. I'm as horny as a furloughed sailor. "Oh yeah, that's hot. Play with your tits." I'm not accustomed to having my masturbation directed but I decide the best way to end this is to play along. My free hand grabs fist full of boob and I bring it up to my mouth. I'm disgusted and stimulated by my display as my tongue stretches to reach my nipple. I hear a grunt from my audience and I want to throw up. Just as badly, I want to come. I'm going to need some serious therapy.