The Hen Do Pt. 01

The early nineteen-eighties was a different time. AIDS was not widely known, most STDs had been almost eradicated and Chlamydia was a girl's name! The liberation brought about by the birth control pill, meant that unprotected sex was the norm, and lots of it.

This is the first published extract from what will become a series in the Saga of Sandra, a Seeker of Pleasure. The stories being relayed to me by Sandra herself and dramatised to make them interesting.

Everything told within these stories is one-hundred-per cent true, apart from the bits that have been embellished to make them sexier, which are many, and the bits that have been invented, which are also large in number.

The Lincolns Inn was actually a rock club in Liverpool during the 1970s/80s. The fictional Lincolns Inn in this story bears no resemblance to that club bar for the rock music.

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The Linc was not the place I would associate with hen parties. And it was not a place I particularly associated with Pam. Though she had been with me a few times, I would have thought the Top Rank was more her cup of tea, with its unceasing soul and plastic pop music. The closest thing to pop she would hear in the Linc would be Status Quo! And I'm sure Status Quo would not be please with that connection.

Only ten of us had met outside the club, but many more would arrive soon. Most of the girls from work would be there, and her sister and cousins. She was hoping for about thirty women. Though it was a hen party and our men were not allowed, it wouldn't stop her from inviting in a few strange bikers and punk rockers; I was sure of that.

Pam was that opposite pole that attracted people like me. Her hair was a beautiful shade of blonde for a start, while mine was straight, greasy, and an unremarkable mousey colour. While she usually left hers straight and flowing over her shoulder blades, she'd recently pushed the boat out and had it styled. Now it was a little spiky on top and feathered at the back. One of my buttocks took up the same space as her complete arse, and her tits were like two halves of a lemon. The old Scouse expression, "I've seen more meat on a butcher's pencil," epitomised my mate, Pam. And she didn't care whose boyfriend she shagged; I always cared. Polar opposites.

Always one to make an entrance, Pam led the way through the club. The turned heads were hardly a surprise. Even in this place, she was underdressed. I don't mean that she dressed down compared to other women, but that she was wearing comparatively little. That may be a bit unfair since I had seen women there wearing far less; my mind wandered to the already scantily-dressed rock chick, a few years ago, who stripped in the middle of a circle of admirers. Hell, in a haze of drunkenness, I'd once performed an exotic dance (let's call it that) there, myself. Although, I had been wearing a lot more to start with. That was my most enduring memory of the Linc; well, that and getting fingered by a total stranger after watching him piss in the gents. Another story for another time.

Back to Pam's arse. She wore denim, which was a similar faded blue to mine. The difference was that, while my denim took the form of full-length, flared jeans, Pam had fashioned hers into a pair of hot pants. Although, calling them panties would be more accurate. While half of each buttock undulated in the denim as she strutted through the club, the bottom halves clenched and relaxed, like a pair of throbbing iced buns, below the frayed, and very high, V-shaped hemline.

"Fuckin' hell!" shouted one of the bikers to his mate. "Throw one right up that!" His mate elbowed him in the ribs as Pam turned to look at the owner of the voice. She was grinning as if she'd just won the big one on the football pools.

"You really love attention, don't you?" I called to Pam over the music.

"Wouldn't you?" she replied. That cut deep. She never meant to be cruel or intend any malice, she just never thought. None of the others heard.

"Don't the comments piss you off, Pam?" said Mary, Pam's cousin.

"Why should they. I'm shaggable, and I love being shaggable."

And, yes, she was. If I were a bloke, I'd want to. And, to be fair, being leered at often got me tingling in the tufty club.

Above her scorching hot pants, Pam wore a black halter top that plunged almost to her navel. With no bra to spoil the effect, the flimsy garment dangled from her almost priapic nipples like a pair of black, silk scarfs on adjacent coat hooks. Bending over the bar gave everyone nearby a grand view of her pert and perfect tiny tits.

By contrast, above my faded jeans, I bared a narrow band of plump flesh. Above the flesh, I wore my favourite lightweight, cotton, denim-toned shirt of Jays. As usual, I tied the shirt below my larger-than-Pam's tits, accentuated by my bag's dark blue shoulder strap nestled in the valley between them. The shirt and jeans were almost a match. Not my usual attire for a night out on the town, but this was no ordinary night out. I was not on the pull; I did not want to attract anyone's attention; I did not want to get pissed; I certainly did not want to repeat my legendary performance on the dance floor. I just wanted to be there for my mate, Pam. Well, it was her hen party, after all.

Yes, Pam was marrying Richard the very next week. I had no idea why since Pam had shagged anything with a dick since she first found a taste for it. I wasn't one hundred per cent certain that a dick was a prerequisite, either. Ever the teenage puritan, she had never even let a boy grope her. Then someone found her sex switch, and she never found the off position again, which was probably the only position she had not found. Then she had met Richard, and still never found it. I would never dream of using the "s" word about another woman, but she was a tempting exception. She enjoyed sex, and good on her for it. She was one of the most attractive women I knew, and she did not need to work hard for her thrills. And who was I to judge? After all, I was no angel when it came to pleasures of the pussy. The difference between Pam and me, though, was that Richard believed that he was the only bloke that she had ever been with. Yes, he believed she was a virgin when they met and that she'd not looked at another man since. I have difficulty holding in a guffaw whenever I think about it.

Yes, this was Pam's hen night, and she'd made me promise to stop her if she got pissed and copped off. This was a bit out of character for a woman whose idea of a grand night out was getting staggering drunk and wrapping her legs around the naked waist of some hunk.

Hence the sensible dress code and the resolve not to get pissed. Well, that was going to last, wasn't it?

***

The Lincolns Inn had recently acquired the ground floor of the building next door. So, there was now a separate function room, which they hired out for special events, like hen parties. While they had installed a PA system capable of playing the heaviest metal, they hadn't got around to installing a separate bar. So we still had to queue up for the main bar. This was a small price if it meant we'd be able to rub up against lots of rock chicks and rock cocks.

"Right! Drinks time," I said once we'd established ourselves at a standing table in the corner and installed a table guard in the shape of Mary. Suzanne, being the boring teetotaller, would have been the obvious choice for this key role if she had not already been assigned the key role of Keeper of the Kitty. We had all thrown a fiver into this pot for the first few rounds of drinks, which was a fair amount of money back in the late seventies, so it should have lasted most of the night. Pam hadn't been allowed to contribute as it was her special night.

I say she was a boring teetotaller. That was not the only aspect of Suzanne that made her less than interesting. Her one concession to the wild side was wearing an oversized T-shirt emblazoned with "Jesus Was a Rock Star" on the front. I'm not sure her Methodist Minister would have approved of the sentiment.

It did strike me as odd that Suzanne was not the designated chaperone as well, if she was always sober, anyway. I wondered if this had been Pam's way of imposing some control over me. Best of friends we may well have been, but we weren't immune to a bit of mutual jealousy.

The bar pile deepened while we crept closer. I imagined I felt someone's cock stiffening against my buttock. Not an unpleasant feeling. What? I was not intending to cop off; allow a girl a little pleasure!

Despite our obvious feminine charms, there was some difficulty attracting the barman's attention over the assertive calls from the men at the bar.

"Flash your tits at him, Sandra," called Jennifer-Not-Jenny, using my full title.

"No need," Pam responded and raised herself on her toes to lean across the bar. "Barman!" The barman's head turned and he stared right into her gaping halter top. That did the trick. We each bought a pint and two shorts. We were not going to get much drinking in if we had to wait for half an hour to get served each time.

I turned with my drinks, and a pair of sapphire eyes pierced my brain, blocking the signal that told my knees to hold me upright. A waterfall of blond curls framed the picture-perfect face of the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. This was Roger Daltry's double. I willed my knees to behave and hold me steady. Christ! If Jay had looked like that, I would never want to fuck another bloke again. Hell, if Jay looked like that, I'd never allow him out alone. A faint flutter flittered around my fanny as I considered the possibility that my determination not to cop off may have weakened a little.

"Come on, San," I heard someone call from a distance. I immediately teleported back to the here and now. "Come on," Pam said from right next to me. I turned my head back to the Adonis but he had gone.

"Did you see..." I began.

"Certainly did," Pam interrupted. "I'll have him before the end of the night." I was certain she would, as long as I didn't get him first. Well, I had promised to protect her from herself.

"Remember, you're being good tonight," I reminded her.

"Oh, I'm always good. I've never had a complaint yet."

"Nor have I!"

"We'll have to have a contest someday."

"Jay or Rich?"

"Jay, of course. You can keep your hands off my Richard!"

"Couldn't do that Pam. That's how I'd win!" I grinned at her.

We all gathered around the standing table and drank while we waited for the function room to open. Over the next half hour, plenty of other invitees arrived, and we drank some more. Inevitably, the bladders needed emptying. I prided myself on being able to hold in more than most, so the rest of the girls had already been when I gave in to the urge. Though the night was young, I still had to wait ten minutes for a cubical.

As I exited the girls' toilet, I stopped dead as I heard, "Hello again, beautiful." I looked up and, once again, I found myself staring right into Roger Daltry's eyes. This time, he stood a little distance away allowing me the pleasure of caressing his body with my eyes. His denim shirt matched mine in shade but was open from neck to navel, revealing the most God-like body I'd ever seen. His muscles glistened in the dim light; it took all my willpower not to reach out and stroke his pecs. My eyes drifted past his Harley Davidson buckle, to his leather pants. Well! A girl has to look somewhere! Fuck me, that bulge! His penis must have been like a cucumber. Unless it was a cucumber, which was not an unknown occurrence. I dragged my eyes away from the stretched leather to his face.

"Lovely hair!" What the fuck was I thinking? But I had to say something.

"Yours, too," he responded in that smooth, sexy voice. As he did, he reached out to caress my own straight, brown hair, down to my shoulder and stroked outwards to the joint. My knees shook like a pair of pneumatic drills. He so was flirting with me.

"Oh, behave," I said, flirting back. My hand disobeyed my instruction and reached to his chest, pushing playfully. As he inched back, my palm brushed his bulging muscle and stroked across his nipple. I blushed and dropped my hand.

"You do know you're gorgeous, don't you?" His smile pushed me off balance, and I took half a step backwards.

"Go on with you!"

"You are. Seriously. Beautiful."

I could feel my burning cheeks heating up as my words escaped, "It has been said." Why? Why did those words fall out?

"I'll see you later," he said, placing his large, masculine hand on the top of my arm.

"Maybe," I squeaked and turned to go back to the girls. As I did, his hand remained in situ, so his palm grazed across my already stiff nipple. I stumbled against the wall but tried to style it out, not sure if it was him or the four drinks I'd already swallowed.

***

"Fuck me!" I said as I came into earshot. "Guess who I just saw?"

"Who?" said Pam.

"Roger Daltry!"

"What?" piped in Suzanne. "The..."

"No!" Pam butted in, "Some bloke that looks like him we spotted before."

"He just flirted the hell with me," I boasted, for Pam's benefit.

"Fuck off," she said, "He's mine. It's my night"

Mary, Pam's cousin, spoke up. "Behave you slut!" The word made me cringe. "You're marrying a wonderful bloke next week, who you can shag as much as you like."

"Whom," I corrected.

"And she's living with her childhood fantasy," Pam pointed at me.

"Teenage fantasy," I also corrected.

"Does he still believe you were a virgin when you met?" Jennifer-not-Jenny worked in Pam's office.

"Of course."

"Fucking hell, P! How do you keep that up?"

"So long as no one lets slip, he'll believe what I want him to believe."

As I was about to reply with something snipey, I felt a warm, gentle hand on my arse. I turned to see Roger Daltry walk past towards the function room. Pam turned to see what I was looking at.

"Fucking hell, Sandra!" Pam spat. "Are you never satisfied?"

"Kettles; potts!" I said. "He must bloody work here. I've never seen him."

Before she could answer, one of the door staff whispered to her.

"Room's ready for us," she shouted over the music.

Pam and I were the last to pick up our drinks and move off. As we passed a group of biker-looking men, Pam shouted, "Come on Boys! We're having a party."

"Pam!" I admonished. "It's a girls' night."

"Oh, what's a hen do without a few cocks?"

I shook my head and the boys followed.

***

It was not a big room by any stretch of the imagination. It could probably hold about a hundred people at a push. There was a dance area and a small stage. With the thirty of us girls and the uninvited guests, the room wasn't even half full.

The DJ was not, much to my disappointment, the Greek god with the golden mane, though he was still handsome, in a way that a biker girl may wet her panties over. Dressed in back boots, black jeans, a black Motorhead T-shirt, and a red bandana that kept his straight black hair from covering his face, DJ Jet (what else) hardly moved, or spoke, as he selected his favourite standards. I certainly would not complain and neither did the rest of us who were just pissed enough not to care what our dancing looked like but not so pissed that we couldn't dance.

The few guys that had gate crashed offered some gratuitous dancing. None of them were anything to write home about. Even Pam managed to resist their not-so-obvious charms, even if she couldn't resist teasing. As she was dancing a bit close to one guy, I observed him slip a hand up her thigh to insinuate a finger into the leg of her hot pants. Our workmates gasped as she landed a punch under his left eye as For Your Love, ended. I could have heard a needle dropping onto a haystack, as everyone held their breath. The tension broke when the offender said, "Okay! You could have just said no." DJ Jet, started another track.

"You come here often?" shouted one guy into my ear.

"Sorry. Wanna come back to mine after?"

"Oh, come on! Can't you do better than that?"

I held up my left hand. "I'm engaged, and I want to stay that way."

As more music played, some more gate crashers came through the door. Some guys, some chicks. I didn't bother saying anything to Pam; she hadn't exactly been reticent when she'd invited a group of randoms in.

"Fair enough," he turned and pissed off to pester someone else. Pam was not wearing her engagement ring, which did not really surprise me.

"Ignore him," came a voice from behind, "he'll try it on with anything."

"Thanks," I replied, "really makes me feel wanted."

"No! I didn't mean..." he stumbled over his words. "I mean, he just... I really can't say anything now, can I?"

"No."

"I'm Steve, by the way," he offered me his hand.

"And this is a private part, by the way."

"Sorry. It's just, your mate over there," he pointed to Pam, "said..."

"Well that's the bride to be, this is her hen do, and she's already too pissed."

"Okay," he held his palms up in submission and walked away.

The lights dimmed to black, and the music abruptly stopped. The opening chord of Twenty-First Century Schizoid Man crashed through the silence as bright white light flooded the stage. Half of the women screamed in delight and half just stared, open-mouthed. There, leaning on the back of a low, upholstered chair, and wearing a faded denim shirt, leather pants with huge Harley-Davidson buckle, cowboy boots, and stetson, stood Roger Daltry Lookalike! He was the fucking stripper!

This was my first ever male stripper, and I had preconceived ideas about what would happen, which were to be well and truly dismantled over the next couple of hours. Our stripper began to writhe with the music in such a provocative way that every fanny in the room would have started weeping, I was sure; well, I knew mine was. I glanced around; the men were just as engrossed. Why, I thought, would men want to watch other men strip? I found out soon enough.

Replicant Roger peeled away one side of his shirt, keeping his nipple covered and then repeated the action on the other side. He slid the shirt off his shoulder, back again, repeated with the other shoulder, much as a girl stripper might do, and then he started to button up. Disappointed moans rolled around the room, so he unbutton and the girls cheered. The routine repeated.

Inch by tantalising inch he peeled off the shirt to reveal one, smooth, muscular pectoral, as the room thrilled. Cheers and whoops rang around the room when he finally threw the shirt into the crowd. He leapt from the stage, all twelve inches, and began to writhe around the women, up close and personal. The women around him stroked his back, his arms, and his chest. He loved it. That was the end of my fantasy evening, I thought.

Lifting the chair by the short leg with one hand, he placed it on the floor. He was either incredibly strong, or the chair was incredibly light. Dragging one of the gate crasher girls, he sat her in the chair, pulled her knees apart and put his foot between her thighs. She wore a white T-shirt, nipples betraying the lack of a bra, and patchy denim jeans. His toe was definitely up hard against her crotch, and she was blushing. He pulled up the leg of his leather trousers and signalled her to pull down the zip on his boots. She obliged. He made her grab the boot while he lifted out his foot. Balancing on one leg, he held his hand out; she passed him the boot and he launched I onto the stage. As shocked as I was, my eyes locked onto his bare toes as his foot drifted back to the chair; the girl yelped as he walked his toes towards the warmth of her crotch. A psychic link formed between her fanny and mine as his big toe stroked up and down her seam and my pelvic muscles clenched. She screamed and threw his foot to the side, almost up-ending him, and leapt up to run back to her mates.