What Could Go Wrong At The Bachelorette Party, A series.
Copyright Catcher78 all right's reserved.
Author's Note: Everyone in this story is a figment of my imagination and even in my head as they get fucked, they are eighteen or much older. I've mentioned this before but my characters drive the story, their thoughts, words take the story where it goes. I try to evoke great writer's approach like Faulkner, Kerouac, Kesey and Hunter S. Thompson. I have no pretense as to my success. But I am trying. I detest anonymous trolls and block them. Named jerks are gone too. This story touches on aspects of Group Sex, interracial sex, loving wives and family. Not your thing move on. Save us all some grief.
I went out and shot some pool with my four brothers, pops and granddad and probably had too much Murphy's Irish Whisky. There were other smoother Irish whiskies, but I wanted my throat to tell me I was drinking something was going to fuck me up. I mean I did like getting fucked up, I just didn't want no fucking sneak attacks, if you follow me. We brought a fresh sockeye salmon and ramps from mom's garden and asked if they'd serve the salmon hard cooked on the skin side and touched on he flesh side, then use their imagination with the ramps and other stuff. It was an Irish bar hidden just off First Avenue in downtown Seattle. My bachelor's party.
I was getting married to Renee, a beautiful red head who'd stole my heart. I was twenty seven and recently discharged from the United States Navy, not able to say what, except it had to so with interpreting stuff, I spoke Korean and a smattering of different Chinese dialects (there are over one hundred and forty one of them).
I was an E-6, First Class Petty Officer. I was the family runt at five foot ten one hundred seventy five pounds with dark black hair and white skin, my grandmother said I was what they called the "Black Irish" purely Gaelic with none of that red hair and freckles that my four brothers had. I had a civilian job with the U.S. Navy doing analysis, now.
When I was ten years old at Sunday dinner I blurted out to pops, why didn't I have red hair and freckles like my brothers. Mom ran from the table blubbering and I got a cuff to the back of my head.
I learned when I was in high school from my grandmother that when Pops was in Iraq, desert storm or something, mom got a job as a secretary. Her youngest at the time was seven and her boss told her that he knew she had needs and started taking care of them of them as he bent her over his desk all day long and on Saturday. Pops was in Kuwait for eighteen months.
Mom's boss was French Canadian and handsome and hung like a mule. I was six months old when Pops returned, somewhat unexpectantly, his ship's evaporators had to be replaced and well mom was pregnant again. Grandmother said that mom was one of those Catholic girls that Billy Joel sang about.
Dad made her get her tubes tied and although they are together, married still, they no longer stay in the same bedroom. Mom still's a secretary it seems, goes on vacations and business trips with my biological dad (I had joined Ancestry as our whole family did and so did Mr. French-Canadian). Pops is more discrete.
Mom and Pop had us over for dinner, Renee and me and we talked about getting married and kids and we were so happy and my parents looked so happy for us. I was staying at home as I had moved out of my apartment and we would move into a condo I'd rented and we both had started to move stuff in.
I had breakfast the next morning with mom and had some coffee and talked. We went out and sat on the front porch as she still smoked and it was a nice Seattle morning already into the seventies with lots of bees flying around.
I said, "Mom, what was your impression of Renee?"
She stood up and flicked her burning cigarette down to the street and went inside and said, "I'm getting the coffee, I'll be back."
Pot in hand she freshened up our cups and sat down and fired up another cigarette and exhaled through her nose and said, "Pops and I talked last night, something we never do, because well, Phillipe is your biological parent, but your dad raised you.
"Tom you are the spitting image of Phillipe, I want you to meet him. Today, actually."
Without a bunch of thought, I said, "So twenty seven years and twelve months after impregnating you and another kid you aborted, you want me to talk to my "daddy". Well mommy do you have a fucking clue what it's like to be the black haired stepson, the so called Nword in the woodpile? I'm six inches shorter than my brothers and Pops. They all regularly beat me for what you did as a kid, I don't really belong to this family. All the teachers in high school somehow knew the details.
My baseball coach called me "Frenchy" Fitzpatrick. What the fuck did you do put a yellow pages ad out saying slut needs dick, call this number, I'm needy," I stood up and said, "If I were to meet him, I'd beat him to death. I got to say this and I know you're my mom, but I hate your fucking guts for what you did to this family."
I threw the coffee cup out into the street missing my old Isuzu Trooper by a foot and walked away.
She said, "She's a slut and is already fucking around on you."
"You know that just how?"
"Did you fuck her that day before you came to dinner?"
I stared at her without responding.
"She leaked cum on the dining room chair."
"Thanks mom, you're just saying this because of what I said about fucking Phillipe. Just fuck the hell off."
The sockeye was incredible and they mixed ramps and feta cheese into the baked potatoes. They brought some lamb stew too and soda bread.
I switched to Harp Lager so as not to throw up and have a fucked up day tomorrow. Renee and her girlfriends were having a low key bachelorette party, just some drinks. My oldest brother Bill Fitzpatrick brought me back to my parent's house, I had a bit of a buzz on, but got to sleep just about eleven. Big wedding date tomorrow at six in the evening at St. Anne's Catholic Church on Queen Anne hill, just south of Second West and Galer street.
At four in the morning, I was awakened to ping's from my phone. Text messages. I sat up and scooched back against the wall and opened the first text which was a video. Renee was astride a tall black man whose immense dick was slick with her cunt slime. She had another black dick in her mouth and was jerking another one.
Her hand with the engagement ring was on the black guy's ass as his long bent dick went all the way in until her nose was buried in his pubes.
Tom clicked out of them and counted the number of texts. There were thirty of them.
He got up and took a shower, then threw on some sweats and some old Reebok running shoes. He texted his oldest brother Bill who lived a mile away and asked him if he might come by. He said he had nobody to turn to and he was in trouble.
Five minutes later the response was, "Coffees on see you soon."
Quietly he went down the stairs and tip toed down the stairs as quietly as he might.
His mother was sitting on the porch in the dark smoking and drinking coffee.
She said, "Why are you up?"
"Bill's going to help me with some last minute stuff, packing up the rig before the honeymoon."
She did not know the honeymoon supposedly was to Cabo San Lucas which did not require the use of his old, rebuilt SUV. He ran down the stairs and unlocked his door and turned the key over without starting the engine and put the transmission in second gear and released the hand break and some forty five feet from his parent's house he popped the clutch and quietly rolled toward Bill's home.
It was four thirty when Tom walked into Bill's kitchen having parked out in the alley behind his home. Bill's wife had a platter of toast, peanut butter and bacon and blackberry preserves from the previous summer. She was forty seven years old, an attorney in the City of Seattle's Prosecutor's Office. She was tall and broad and looked like one of the wooden women put on the front of sailing ships except she had bigger tits and thighs that could crack a coconut.
Bill was forty five six foot seven, with red hair, that was going grey and a few remaining freckles. He was a former Seattle cop and now was an investigator for the prosecutor's office. They had six kids and it was speculated that Molly pegged Bill so that she no longer would get pregnant. It was partially true, but Bill shut down all talk or questions.
Molly looked at Tom as tears poured down his face, her face changed from the hawkeyed prosecutor to Tom's mother who she'd functioned as since Tom was five years old. She buried his head in her bosom as he sobbed, she looked at Bill who shrugged his shoulders.
