I Met Marcus at That Bachelorette Party

The invitation arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, while I was checking my email between two meetings I couldn’t have cared less about. It was from Mariana, a former coworker with whom I had shared an office for two years and whom I hadn’t seen since changing companies. She was inviting me to her wedding. And she wasn’t expecting me to accept—I could tell from the tone of the message, that formal courtesy of someone sending invitations to half the world without imagining that half of them will reply.

But I accepted. I had nothing better to do that Saturday, and my personal life was falling to pieces. I’d been fighting with Esteban, my boyfriend of four years, for weeks, and the latest fight had been one of the final ones. I’d also grown distant from Lucía, my best friend since adolescence, over something stupid neither of us was willing to concede. My spirits were at rock bottom, and the idea of going out, getting dressed, and laughing for a while seemed more like medicine than an obligation.

A second invitation arrived a week before the wedding. This time, it was for the bachelorette party. Mariana had rented a bar right downtown just for us, a small place with a good reputation, the kind that closed its doors to the street whenever there was a private event. I confirmed without thinking too much about it.

I arrived at exactly eight. I didn’t know anyone except the bride. I thought it would be awkward, that I’d spend half the night glued to the wall staring at my phone, but I was wrong. Mariana’s friends were friendly, open, and loud. They offered me a drink the moment I walked through the door, and ten minutes later I’d already forgotten I was a stranger.

The bar’s decorations were outrageous. Balloons shaped like giant dicks, cakes with meringue tits, napkins printed with hand-drawn cunts. Everything was so explicit that it was embarrassing at first and funny afterward.

“First party like this?” a girl with purple hair asked me as she poured me another glass.

“This much like this, yes.”

“You’ll survive. Relax, we’re all here to have a good time.”

The games began soon afterward. Truth or dare, but the adult version. Guess the sex toy blindfolded. Confess your darkest fantasy. I participated shyly at first, biting my lip whenever my turn came around, but the alcohol started doing its work. By my third drink, I was telling a story about a guy who had fingered me in an elevator and made me come between the second and ninth floors.

The atmosphere heated up at a pace that surprised me. During the toy game, one girl guessed a purple dildo and, instead of moving on to the next turn, took off her skirt, pulled down her panties, sat on the bar with her legs spread, and started fucking herself with it in front of everyone. She drove it all the way in and pulled it out shining with her juices, moaning softly and pinching one nipple with her other hand. No one batted an eye. If anything, they applauded. Another couple—two friends who had obviously been attracted to each other for some time—were devouring each other’s mouths in a corner, one with her hand beneath the other’s skirt, moving her fingers in a rhythm that left no doubt about what was happening. A third woman was dancing topless on a table, shaking her tits with both hands.

I acclimated without realizing it. When you fall into an atmosphere like that, you either run or give yourself over to it. And I’d stopped wanting to go anywhere for quite some time. I felt free, uninhibited, alive. I hadn’t felt that way in months. And horny. Very horny. My panties were getting wet all by themselves just from watching what the other women were doing.

“Attention, attention!” one of the organizers shouted, tapping a glass with a spoon. “The star attraction of the night has arrived!”

The lights dimmed. The music changed. And three men came in through the back door.

They were wearing nothing but tight, dark boxer briefs, and it was obvious beneath the fabric that their profession had required a certain amount of advance preparation: the bulges showing through were generous. All three were attractive in their own way. The one on the left had long hair tied back and a soap-opera star’s smile. The one in the middle was shorter but compact, with tattooed arms. And the third one…

The third one took my breath away.

He was a Black man, tall, broad-shouldered, and narrow-waisted. His skin gleamed beneath the colored lights as if it had been polished. His muscles weren’t the product of easy gym workouts; they belonged to someone who worked his body seriously, patiently. He had a sharply defined jaw, a very short beard, and full lips. And in his eyes there was a mixture of professionalism and amusement that pinned me to my seat. His boxer briefs couldn’t contain him: I could make out an enormous cock hanging to one side, already slightly swollen from warming up during the dance, and I couldn’t take my eyes off that bulge.

The other women screamed, applauded, and blew kisses. I couldn’t speak. I stared at him as if I’d never seen a man before. It’s unfair that someone like this exists, I thought. And the bastard knew it.

They started dancing. All three moved with the natural ease of men who had repeated the same routine hundreds of times, without ever seeming mechanical. They passed among us, moving close and then away, letting curious hands grope their asses, crotches, and thighs before pulling back. The woman who seemed to be in charge of the game, a blonde with a broadcaster’s voice, shouted instructions that mixed flirtation with commands.

My Black man—because he had been mine in my head from the very first minute—approached the women in order, giving each one his attention. When he reached me, I felt as if my heart were about to burst out of my chest. He bent down in front of me, took my face in both hands, rubbed his bulge against my cheek—already hot and hard, wrapped in the thin fabric of his boxer briefs—smiled, and stood up again to continue his circuit. He had barely brushed against me, and I was already trembling, my panties soaked and a stab between my legs forcing me to press my thighs together.

“Do you like him?” Mariana whispered in my ear, sitting beside me for a second. “I can see that you do.”

“He’s…” I couldn’t find the word.

“Go after him. It’s your night too.”

The next part of the routine was kissing. The blonde chose women at random, and the three strippers kissed them one by one with carefully calculated theatrics. When he finished kissing a redhead sitting near the bar, I saw my chance and stood up. I was dizzy from the alcohol and the situation, but I didn’t lose my direction.

I intercepted him before he could return to the center of the dance floor.

“Wait,” I said.

He turned. He looked at me curiously, as if assessing my boldness.

“Yes?”

I didn’t answer. I put one hand on the back of his neck, rose slightly onto my toes, and kissed him. And this time it wasn’t a formal kiss, it wasn’t part of the show. It was my kiss. I thrust my tongue deep into his mouth, slowly licked the inside of it, bit his lower lip, felt him answer with his own tongue, pushing against me, invading me. My free hand moved down his chest, over the hard grooves of his abdomen, until it came to rest on the bulge in his boxer briefs. I squeezed it. I felt it from top to bottom through the fabric. It was rock-hard. Long, thick, pulsing against my palm like an animal trapped in a box that was far too small.

“I love the cock you’ve got in there,” I whispered against his lips, squeezing again. “I really do. I want to swallow the whole thing.”

He laughed. A low, husky laugh that seemed to come from his chest.

“Be careful what you wish for,” he replied.

“I’m seriously thinking about it.”

I went back to my seat without looking behind me. I could feel the other women’s eyes on me, their teasing applause and whistles. Mariana gave me an approving thumbs-up. I was no longer the shy stranger who had arrived at eight. I sat there with my legs tightly crossed, trying to hide the fact that I needed to rub my pussy against anything at all.

The show kept escalating. The women began taking the strippers’ boxer briefs off. First from above the waist, teasing. Then all the way down. When all three were naked, there was a brief, almost reverent silence before the screaming began again.

And then I saw him whole.

He was beautiful. His cock matched the rest of him: enormous, dark, thick as my wrist, with a shiny head and a prominent vein running along the top from the base to the glans. His balls hung heavily and tightly beneath it. He was only half-hard, and he already seemed intimidating; my mouth watered, and I felt a pinch in my cunt that left me breathless. The other two silhouettes faded into the background. I could look only at that cock.

The women took turns sucking the strippers. One after another, all of them. The blonde organizer kept track of the rhythm, the seconds, and the changes. My turn with him was taking too long to come. When a short-haired girl knelt in front of him and began sucking him enthusiastically, pulling him from her mouth to spit on his glans before swallowing him halfway again, I felt something absurd, something I had no right to feel: jealousy. Jealousy of a stranger at a bachelorette party over a man I had just met, jealousy that her tongue was sliding over the cock I had already decided was mine.

I approached anyway. I stood beside him without waiting my turn. I ran my hands over his chest and shoulders and kissed his neck while the other woman continued sucking him below. He looked at me. With one hand I grabbed a nipple and pinched it; with the other I stroked his taut balls. The short-haired girl didn’t seem offended when I gestured for her to give me her place. Maybe she understood that this had stopped being a game.

I knelt in front of him. I took his cock in both hands, and even then I couldn’t get my hands around it. I looked at it one last time—the swollen glans, purple with blood and shining with the other woman’s saliva—and put it in my mouth as deeply as I could. Only half of it fit. The head filled my mouth completely, stretching my lips and bringing tears to my eyes. I savored it with a hunger I didn’t remember ever having felt before. I ran my tongue along the vein underneath, sucked his balls one by one, putting them into my mouth, spit on his cock, and rubbed it over my face, smearing my cheeks with my own saliva. I put it back in and sucked it quickly, gagging, forcing myself to take it deeper until the tip touched the back of my throat and made me retch. I masturbated him with both hands and put him back in my mouth. I tried to swallow him whole, but I couldn’t. He was too big. And that made me want him even more. I felt him pulsing in my mouth, his balls tightening, a thread of saliva and precum running down my chin to my cleavage.

“Stay with me,” I said, lifting my face, my lips swollen. “Please, Daddy, stay just with me. Fuck me, come only inside me.”

He looked at me with a smile I couldn’t decipher.

“What?” he asked.

I didn’t know whether he hadn’t heard me over the music or wanted me to repeat myself. I didn’t repeat it in words. I stood up. I was wearing a short, lightweight dress that was easy to remove. I pulled it off in one movement and was left wearing only my red heels and nothing else. I wasn’t even wearing panties: I’d taken them off in the bathroom ten minutes earlier, soaked through, and left them wadded up in my purse. I sat back down on the edge of a low sofa, spreading my legs wide open for him, showing him my shaved pussy, glistening with how wet I was.

“Put it in me, please,” I said, looking him in the eyes, holding two fingers between my legs to spread my pussy lips and show him exactly where he had to enter. “Put the whole thing in, all the way.”

The entire bar was watching. The women had stopped whatever they were doing. The other two strippers were watching too, amused, their cocks in their hands. Someone began chanting:

“Fuck her! Fuck her!”

The others joined in. It was a tide of voices, laughter, and demands. My Black man, my Marcus—because afterward I learned that was his name—leaned over me. He kissed me again, more slowly than before. He spread my legs even farther with his knees. He ran his cock over my slit two or three times, rubbing the glans against my clitoris, coating himself in my juices. He positioned his hips. I felt the tip resting there, pressing against my entrance, barely opening me.

“Are you sure?” he asked in my ear.

“Please.”

He began to enter slowly. It hurt. He was enormous, and I was very tight, and even though I’d been soaked for some time, my body wasn’t prepared for anything like that. I felt myself opening inside, inch by inch, each vein on his cock scraping the walls of my cunt. I lost my breath when half of him was inside me. When he reached the bottom, I felt him touch something no one had ever touched before. It was the kind of pain you don’t want to stop. The kind you want to feel more of. I dug my nails into his shoulders and arched my back, and a long, filthy moan escaped my throat.

“More,” I begged. “More, you son of a bitch, more.”

He started fucking me. At first carefully, gauging me, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back in until he bottomed out. Then faster, harder. Each thrust made a sound: his balls slapping against my ass, the disgusting and beautiful squelch of my wet pussy swallowing him whole, the sofa creaking beneath us. I moaned without holding back, without thinking about who was listening, shouting things I hadn’t even known I knew how to say.

“Break my pussy, break it, don’t stop.”

The women around me had stopped chanting. They were applauding. Some were recording with their phones. Others were slipping their hands beneath their skirts while they watched us. I didn’t realize it until much later.

“You son of a bitch, don’t stop,” I told him, scratching his back. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, right there, give me more.”

He grabbed one of my tits with his free hand, pinched the nipple, and twisted it slightly. He bent down and sucked it while he continued thrusting into me. I bit his shoulder to keep from screaming even louder than I already was. I felt the first wave of orgasm rising through my legs, closing my pussy around his cock, squeezing it like a fist.

“I’m coming,” I warned him. “I’m coming, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t…”

I came all over him, my red heels trembling in the air. I screamed. I dug my nails in until I saw red marks on his dark skin. I felt everything inside me contracting, my pussy clenching in spasms around that enormous cock that kept driving in and out without mercy.

He gave me no respite. He pulled his cock out, shining all over with my juices, and turned me around. He put me on all fours on the sofa, grabbed my hair with one hand and my waist with the other. He positioned me, spread my ass with the thumb of the hand holding my hip, and entered me again. From that angle, he reached even deeper. I felt as if he were going to split me apart and, at the same time, as if I had never been fucked better in my life.

I begged him to fill me. I begged him to give me everything. I begged him to fuck me like a whore, not to show me any mercy, to leave my pussy destroyed so I would remember him for an entire week. I begged for things I had never said aloud to anyone, things I had never even thought so clearly.

“Like that, Daddy, like that,” I pleaded. “Put it all the way in, don’t pull it out, never pull it out.”

He pulled my hair backward and arched my neck. He drove into me in long, brutal thrusts, each one shaking my entire body and making my tits bounce against the sofa. I could hear the wet, obscene sound of my pussy swallowing his cock over and over, mixed with my moans and the women’s applause.

“Do you like the way I put it in you?” he growled near my ear.

“Yes, yes, yes, more, Daddy, give me all of it.”

“Whore.”

“Yours, your whore, come in your whore.”

He spanked me so hard that the entire bar heard it. I was grateful. He did it again. My ass burned and my pussy throbbed, and I felt myself about to come again, this time with him inside me, and I didn’t hold back. I came screaming his name—the one they had just told me, which might not even have been his real name—squeezing his cock from the inside with every ounce of strength in my body, collapsing onto my arms on the sofa, my ass raised for him while he held me by the hip like a broken doll.

When he was about to come, he pulled out. He turned me over, grabbed my face with one hand, almost roughly, and ordered me:

“Come on, open your mouth. Get it out.”

I knelt again. I opened my mouth. I stuck out my tongue and placed it beneath his glans so he could aim properly. He masturbated himself twice, three times, squeezing the base of his cock, and exploded. The first jet hit me thick and hot, striking the roof of my mouth. The second landed on my tongue. The next ones filled my mouth completely and overflowed at the corners, running down my chin to my neck and between my tits. I took it all. I barely let a drop fall. I closed my mouth and swallowed it all, feeling it slide down my throat, dense and salty, then opened it again so he could see it was empty, my eyes watering from the pleasure and the intensity of everything. I licked his glans until the last drop, sucked him slowly to empty his balls properly, and kissed the tip softly. The women burst into applause.

***

After that, I don’t remember much. Someone helped me get dressed. Someone gave me another drink that I probably shouldn’t have accepted. The other two strippers were already doing the same thing with other women—one was coming on the redhead’s tits, while the other had two friends taking turns sucking him—but I had eyes only for Marcus. I watched him get dressed, trying to memorize him. I wanted to ask for his phone number. I wanted to ask him for something. Anything. But the alcohol won, and I fell asleep on a sofa with my pussy still throbbing, without even telling him my full name.

When I woke up, it was already daylight and the bar was empty. Mariana took me to her place, gave me water and coffee, and laughingly told me what had happened. I asked her about Marcus. She didn’t have his information. The organization had hired an agency, the strippers were independent contractors, and she couldn’t even remember which agency it was.

Two years have passed. I’ve spent two years thinking about that night more than I should. I’ve gone out with other men. I’m in a stable, peaceful, healthy relationship. But sometimes, when I’m with my current partner and close my eyes, I return to the sofa in Mariana’s bar. I feel that enormous cock opening me from the inside, Marcus’s hands pulling my hair, the hot stream falling onto my tongue, the chorus of women applauding. And I come. Every time I think of him, I come.

That’s why I’m writing this. In case Marcus—or whatever your real name is—ever reads it. I’m the girl in the red heels. The one who stripped naked in front of everyone. The one who begged you to stay. The one who swallowed your cum to the very last drop. If this story happens to sound familiar, write to me. I don’t want to rebuild my life or ruin my present. I just want to know that night meant something to you too.

And if you never read this, that’s all right. You’ll still be the best fuck and the best confession I’ll ever be able to tell.