Michelle: the Bachelorette Party

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.