Michelle: The Bachelorette Party Ch. 02

"Fuck yeah, bitch. You're just a fuckin' little slut, aren't you?"

I will kill you one day. I swear to God I will kill you with my bare hands.

"Yeah, Art. I'myour little slut." I'm fighting a losing battle keeping the disdain out of my voice but he doesn't seem to notice.

"I bet you want my big cock inside your cunt, don't you slut?"

I have to be careful here and I chose my words with caution. There is a line that I would die before I crossed.

"If I wasn't married I would be all over that big, stiff dick." Did I just say those words? Holy shit, I think I'm channeling my inner-pornstar. I just hope it helps him get off quicker.

Art spits on his hand. He picks up the pace and, against all reason and sanity, I'm responding to it. I ease a finger into my depths so effortlessly that after a few strokes I add a second digit. Oh baby, you know I would never cheat on you but I swear there is a part of me that is hoping he loses control and forces himself on me. That's how bad off I am. I need a dick so much I am wishing to be raped by Art. I'm going to hell.

I watch him grab the base of his erection with one hand and stroke himself with the other. He's so hard he looks like he's going to bust. My thumb presses down on my swollen clit and I suddenly don't care anymore. I'm numb to the embarrassment, the humiliation, the shame. All I can think about is my impending orgasm.

"Oh, fuck that cunt, bitch. Fuck that cunt."

Even Art's distasteful words are like an aphrodisiac and I expose my tiny "come button", as you like to call it, and flick my thumb over it like plucking a banjo string. I can tell Art is getting close but now making him finish early is secondary to finishing myself.

I'm suddenly struck by the awful possibility that he will come before me. If I continued to masturbate after he finishes then I can no longer hide behind the illusion that he is making me touch myself forhispleasure. Now it's a race and I need to win. Fuck, I think I'm already in hell.

"Oh yeah, do it harder. Finger your asshole."

Damn, am I a ventriloquist? Is he reading my fucking mind? A little anal play is all I need to slide home. I pop a finger knuckle-deep into my butt and sparks shoot through my sex like firecrackers on the street.

What the hell is wrong with me? It doesn't matter that a coworker pervert is beating off while he watches me finger my ass. It doesn't matter that my boss's leather couch is so slick with my juices that I can barely stop from sliding off. It doesn't matter that I know I'm going to have to tell you this story later while we fuck. All that matters is that I'm going to win the race. I'm going to come any second now and I've never wanted anything so desperately.

Technically, our race may have been a tie.

"Oh fuck..." Art mutters.

His cock jerks in his hand and cum spurts across the room. Pretty much simultaneously, the first wave of my orgasm hits like a volcanic eruption. I press down on my clit and drive my finger another inch into my butt and then I lose the ability to hold a coherent thought. It's hard to explain the next moments with any clarity.

Somewhere in another dimension I can see Art collapse to his knees, still spraying the carpet like a spastic gardener. I hear my own whispered voice plead, "Oh Christ", as I force the remainder of my middle finger into my ass. A heavy bass beat from the party below vibrate the windows in cadence with my spasming body. It's all a bit surreal and I illogically drift off into an almost catatonic state. I'm definitely much longer recovering than is my jerk-off buddy.

I come to my senses when I realize that Art is staring at me. Of course he's staring at me. Here I am slouched down on the couch with my exposed, raw pussy open for the world and my finger still halfway to my colon. Just tattoo "SLUT" on my forehead. The odd thing is that I'm pretty relaxed about it all.

Evidence of his climax is everywhere. The carpet, his clothes, his hands are all covered in his...stuff. Listen to me. In the throes of my near-fatal orgasm I have no trouble forming thoughts and words like an Amsterdam whore and now I'm suddenly stuttering over the word "cum". I'm an idiot.

We are quiet as we clean our respective areas. Another social situation I feel ill-equipped to handle. What is the proper etiquette for post blackmail-induced mutual masturbation? I wonder if I can Google it when I get home.

"Damn, Michelle. You are one sexy bitc..."

"Don't' finish that." I put a hand up like I'm directing traffic. "Don't call me that again." I want to hate him right now but it doesn't seem right after we just came together. Perhaps the correct protocol would be to share a cyanide capsule. That's right, now I'm Emily-Fucking-Post.

Art pauses and then smiles. "I think I'll call you whatever I want. I still have the pictures, you know."

Well, at least hating him is effortless again. It dawns on me once more just how foolishly naïve I can be. Of course he still has the pictures. He holds the same leverage over me that he did before my lascivious performance. What is there to stop him from blackmailing me forever? Well, that's it. I can't imagine any other options. Art has to die.

He is zipping up his pants when I pick up the office phone from Kim's desk. I don't have a plan other than to call you. I know it's what I should have done in the first place but my fear of total exposure was greater than my fear of a personal one. I gambled without thinking it through except I had no chance of winning. I never had the cards.

"Who are you going to call? The police? You have nothing. What did I really do? Watch you finger yourself? No crime in that. Hell, you practically begged me to watch."

I know he's right. It's my words against his. The only thing the talking to the police would accomplish is to bring the whole nasty affair into the public eye. That's why I'm calling you instead. You might not know what to do but I know I'll feel safer just hearing your voice. I listen to the first ring in the receiver at the same time Art mutters from behind me.

"Stupid cunt."

It happened before I even realized what I was doing. All at once the base of the phone was cracking him in the side of the head. It made a sickening sound like throwing a bell into mud and I dropped the phone before he hit the ground.

***

"Chelle! Oh shit, did you kill him?"

"No. I wish the hell I did but he's fine." Michelle pulled herself off of her husband's limp cock and sat back down on the floor below him. "It did knock him out cold for a while, though."

"Well then good," Rob said. "I'm glad you got the chance to clobber him."

They settled into a comfortable silence that only comes with years spent together. She rested her head on his thigh and he lightly stroked her hair. After several minutes, Rob got up and walked to the kitchen, returning with the rest of the bottle of wine.

"Okay, I know we have some real issues to work out with this phone-pic thing but I want to say something before we get into all of that: Baby, that was the best story yet." He filled both their glasses and sat back down in the chair.

"But I don't why you made such a big deal about that promise. I mean, you had to know I wouldn't get mad about you masturbating in front of another guy. Fuck, I thought it was hotter than hell."

Michelle smiled as she reached up and tickled his balls. "Yeah, I kind of sensed that when you came at the same time Art did in the story."

She shook her head at his sheepish grin and ran a finger under his soft cock, lifting it enough to wrap her lips around its head. There was something about having his flaccid dick in her mouth that was both nurturing and sensual.

Feeling him grow, Michelle gently massaged the sensitive underside with her tongue. Before long he was almost fully erect again.

"Just remember your promise," she said between little cock-kisses.

Rob moaned softly. "For the last time, Michelle, I'm not mad. I love you more than ever. The only thing I could possibly be angry about is that I didn't get the chance to deck that asshole Art myself."

"Well, you still can." She sucked him deep before completing the thought. "He's in the trunk of my car."

"What!" Rob jumped up from the chair, his erection swinging in front of him like a lead-off hitter in the batter's box.

"Your promise," Michelle reminded.

"Jeez, Chelle! How do you expect me to act when you tell me something like that?"

"I expect you to honor your promise."

"Oh, that's fucking fair. Like this is covered under that silly promise. I thought you were talking about sex."

Michelle reached for his hand. "I know what you thought. But what's done is done. Now I need you to sit back down and let me finish the story while I play with your cock."

Rob put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "So, he's out in the garage right now?"

"Yes," she replied as she unintentionally giggled. He looked so cute being obstinate with his erection swaying in front of her face.

"This isn't funny." Rob plopped back down into the chair in an adolescent huff.

"I'm sorry, you're right." Her hand immediately found his cock. "But just let me explain how it all happened."

Rob was a whole lot more agreeable when his dick was being stroked.

He gave in, like she knew he would. "Alright. But fuck, Chelle. We're talking assault, kidnapping..."

"Hush," she said, taking him into her mouth. It took a few minutes to suck him calm. "Now let me finish. You and the story."

***

So at first I really think I've killed him. He's lying there so still and a trickle of blood is running from his temple. I realize I'm not breathing. Oh shit, breathe, breathe. I can't pass out on top of him.

It finally occurs to me that I should check to see if he's alive. Even though some rather intimate acts have happened in the last half hour I am still repulsed by having to touch him. I tentatively place my finger on his neck and pause anxiously while I wait for some indication that I haven't killed him. Oh thank God, a pulse.

Okay, think Michelle. What to do, what to do. I glance back down and notice that the blood from his head wound is about to drip onto my boss's carpet. I grab the first thing I see and stick it quickly under his bleeding head. It's closer to my panties than I would have ever imagined him getting.

I have to do something. I busy myself by replacing the phone and straightening the office. I can't let panic immobilize me. Stay moving, stay moving.

Slowly a plan emerges. It's a stupid plan. Maybe the dumbest thing I've ever done but it's a plan and my mind seizes it like a buoy in the ocean. Once I have a direction it's just a matter of implementing it. This is what I do best.

I'm down the hall in the storage closet in a flash. I remember the stack of trunks that hold the donated clothes being collected for the Salvation Army. As soon as I reorganize the outdated clothes to empty one of the trunks and I drag it swiftly back to Kim's office.

Don't give me that look. I know I should have just continued to dial our number and talked to you but it's too late for Monday morning quarterbacking. I have to figure out how to get his limp body into the box.

Art still lies motionless on his back and as I glare down at him I am overwhelmed by disgust at this shitty man and what he has forced me to do tonight. Impulsively, I rear back and kick him hard in the nuts. He doesn't move but I feel amazingly better and more focused after this.

I've, of course, seen enough movies to provide a basic outline of what to do next. I grab some duct tape from my desk and quickly bind his wrists behind him. The bleeding from the concussion I gave him has stopped and I pull my panties from under his head. Not knowing what else to do with them I stuff them in him mouth and tape it shut.

Even lifting him, one body part at a time, is difficult and I end up turning the trunk sideways and kind of pushing him in. I buckle the worn leather straps and hurry back to the closet for the dolly. Before I can reconsider the life-altering decision I'm making, I wheel the trunk to the elevator and press B.

From here it's all pretty simple. I drive the Subaru around to the loading dock and slide the trunk in like a casket in a hearse. I' feel pretty confident that he has plenty of air. There is still some unfinished business I have to take care of back inside. I'm afraid my absence from the party has been substantially longer than I anticipated.

The episodes with the strippers seem so distant that walking back into the banquet hall feels like a different gathering altogether. The crowd has thinned out substantially -- maybe half a dozen women and the strippers remain. It's easy to see that those who are still here are the serious cock-hounds.

The first people I pass by are the Colonel as he services Mandy West. She's lying indifferently back on what used to be a cake table with her legs in the air while the man stands at her hips and thrusts into her. As I walk by, Mandy makes a motion offering me a chance to take her place and I casually refuse her like turning down a breath mint.

I see that Sarge is pinned to the floor by the Anderson twins. Sharon straddles his hips while Karen sits on his face. Or is it the other way around? Either way, Karen and Sharon are sharing some tongue and some boobs as Sarge takes care of their respective crotches.

I'm more than a bit surprised to see Ayla alone by the punch bowl. I would have expected her to be draining the life out of some poor stripper's worn out penis. But here she is, nude with a cup of punch in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I've requested that there be no smoking in the building tonight but I don't have the energy or the interest to pursue it.

"Michelle! Where ya been?"

I flop onto the chair next to her despite the fact that she is buck naked. Suddenly, a tremendous exhaustion overcomes me.

"Just taking care of some things," I reply vaguely. "What are you doing over here all alone?"

"Needed a little break, honey. I've still got some maneuvers to work with the Colonel here in a minute. Been trying to work my way up the rankings."

Ayla looks "rode hard and put away wet" as daddy used to say. Even her attention-grabbing boobs seem tired and used.

"How can you even think about sex? You look as tired as I feel." I worry for a second if the self-proclaimed tart will take that the wrong way. I needn't have concerned myself.

"Honey, I'm never too tired to fuck."

And I guess that sort of sums up Ayla in one simple sentence. I ask if she's seen my sister and she points me in the direction of the social hall -- a small room off the banquet hall reserved for smaller gatherings.

Along the way I pass Amanda Biddle sucking earnestly on a bored and limp Captain as he sits in a folding chair like a boxer after a twelve-round decision. It's actually a bit pathetic, especially because you play golf with her husband and her kids catch the bus in front of our house.

"Keep working, Amanda. You can save him." I try to be encouraging but my sarcasm bleeds through.

She gives me the finger and keeps sucking. I would normally be offended for days at such an occurrence. Tonight it takes me three steps before I've forgotten about her completely.

I reach the social hall door and walk in without any mental preparation whatsoever. Stupid really when you consider the evening thus far. You would think I would learn. Once again I find Erin in a pose that makes my jaw drop.

The little red-head with the freckled titties is lying flat on the floor. Erin is incredulously on top of her in a sixty-nine position, both faces in the other's pussies. When did this happen? My sister is bisexual! I had no idea and the thought is momentarily more shocking than personally witnessing the first girl-on-girl action of my life.

Just so the scene is not completely gay, the Colonel - Ayla's missing officer -- is on his knees behind Erin taking turns fucking her and pulling out to let Freckled-Tits suck him. The stripper, however, seems much like an afterthought as the concentration appears to lean heavily on the girl parts.

Where a day ago, or even a few hours earlier for that matter, I would have felt my heart in my throat and my face color like a peach in the sun, now I just walk toward Erin's head and squat closer.

"Hey, sis." I can be cool, too.

Erin pulls her face out of the cutest little red landing strip you can imagine and looks up at me. I know now that she can't possibly be embarrassed but she still gives me this darling little coy, almost bashful smile. There's no doubt what guys see in her. She feigns innocence so believably even when engaged in the most explicit public scenes. Guys must get hard as soon as she walks in the room.

Oh, don't pretend you're immune. You think I haven't watched the drool dribble down your chin when Erin plays volleyball in those short shorts. Seriously, I don't mind if seeing or thinking about another woman makes you hard. As long as I'm the only one who gets to play with it.

"Oh my God, Michelle. I can't believe this night." Erin wants to talk.

"Yeah, it's been unbelievable for me, too." I lower myself and sit down cross-legged between Freckled-Tits knees to face my sister and, subsequently, the red-trimmed Happy Meal Erin has been enjoying.

"Erin, I didn't know you were..." Still, I have trouble with words?!

"Bi?" Erin completes. "Well, it's not like an official job title. More like an occasional hobby."

Well that sounds...intriguing, I think. Like stamp collecting. "I see. And what about the stripper back there?" I nod to the muscular dude humping her from behind.

"Yeah, he showed up out of nowhere and just started fucking me."

What's a girl to do? "He's in your hoohah, you know?"

"Yeah." she says like a shrug and I wonder why she even wants to get married.

The truth is, I'm not sure I know this Erin. Of course, that means that I never knew her which makes me a bit sad. Don't get me wrong. Despite her obvious penchant for casual sex, I really like the free-spirit I see dancing in her emerald green eyes. I have no desire to emulate her semi-adulterous actions but I envy the shameless passion and brazen desires she satisfies without losing her appearance of innocence. Now that we have seen different sides of each other -- no jokes, I know what you're thinking - I hope the two of us will share more.

"Listen, Erin. I have to leave."

A worried look crosses her face. "Is everything all right?"

I'm amazed at how she can show such genuine concern for my well-being with a pussy in her face and her own being tag-teamed by a tongue and a cock. It's like we're sharing a scone and a coffee at Starbucks.

"Everything's fine," I lie. "I just need to get out of here. But listen, it's already nine-thirty. I have Frank from our janitorial staff coming at ten. He'll take care of closing up the building. Just tell him I'll be back tomorrow early to take care of our mess."

"Nonsense. You don't have to come back in on a Sunday. I'll just pick up..."

"Erin, no. This is your party and I will take care of it. Besides, you're busy fucking two people now, and who knows how many more will need to be fucked after this."

She laughed. "You're a peach, Chelle. This party was awesome. Thanks. I really needed it."

I don't know exactly what she means by this comment but I let it go. I give her a quick kiss like we always do when we see each other or say goodbye. Of course, I do this out of habit before taking into account where her mouth has just been.

Her lips are still moist with Freckled-Tits' pussy and the musty flavor passes to mine like a germ. The glint in Erin's eyes lets me know she's aware of what just happened and I leave quickly so as not to embarrass myself further. Good grief, now I have hoohah on my lips.