The Night I Let Go at a Bachelorette Party

The invitation arrived on an ordinary Tuesday, in a cream-colored envelope I wasn't expecting. Lorena, a former coworker from the law firm where I worked four years ago, was getting married in March and wanted me among her guests. We hadn't spoken in months, so the surprise was twofold: first, that she remembered me; second, that I accepted without thinking too much about it.

The truth was, I needed to get out of my own head. My relationship with Tomás had been dying for months, caught between loaded silences and poorly disguised reproaches. On top of that, one of my closest friends had gotten angry with me over something stupid that didn't deserve that level of drama. I was tired, sleeping badly, with that constant anxiety of knowing something is breaking and not wanting to face it. Saying yes to the wedding was an act of survival.

A week before the wedding, the second invitation arrived: the bachelorette party. Lorena had rented a private bar downtown, just for us, and sent me a message begging me to come. “I need new faces, Renata. I can't stand my fiancé's cousins anymore.” I answered with an emoji and a promise to show up on time.

That night I put on a short black dress, tight around the waist, and a pair of red heels I hadn't worn in a year. I looked at myself in the mirror while lining my eyes and told myself, quietly, that tonight was going to be for me. No guilt, no Tomás, no thinking about who wasn't speaking to me. Just me, a glass of champagne, and friendly strangers.

The bar had walls painted deep red and feather garlands hanging from the ceiling. The décor made me laugh the moment I walked through the door: inflatable dicks on the bar, boob-shaped glasses, tablecloths printed with things even my best friend wouldn't dare say out loud. Lorena hugged me as if we'd seen each other every week and introduced me to the group. There were about fifteen women between twenty-five and thirty-five, all elegant, all wearing that easy smile that only comes after three drinks in a row.

They served me a mojito before I could say hello to the last one. The night's entertainer, a short-haired blonde named Bárbara, grabbed a wireless microphone and began explaining the rules of the first game. “Explicit truth or explicit dare,” she announced. The girls applauded. I laughed nervously and took a long drink.

The first games were timid. When my turn came to go up front, I had to confess my recurring sexual fantasy. My face burned, but the alcohol was already doing its work, and I blurted out something about a stranger fucking me against the sink in a public bathroom, not asking my name, pulling his cock out as soon as he finished coming inside me. The girls shrieked. Lorena patted my back. “I knew you were one of us,” she shouted in my ear.

As the night went on, the game grew more intense. A box of sex toys appeared: they had to guess the object just by touching it, blindfolded. A girl named Federica correctly identified a purple dildo. Instead of returning it to the box, she took off her skirt and panties and dropped onto the main sofa. She spread her legs wide, spit on her fingers, and ran them over her open pussy before thrusting the toy inside in one motion. She began fucking herself shamelessly, twisting the dildo and burying it all the way to the base, her mouth open and her nipples erect above her bra. Hoarse moans escaped her every time the toy disappeared completely inside her, and a dark stain from her juices began spreading across the velvet sofa. We all watched, hypnotized. There was applause. There were screams. I felt something tighten deep in my lower belly and tried to ignore it.

Two girls in the corner were kissing with their tongues out, slowly, as if they'd known each other all their lives. One already had her hand between the other's legs, moving it with a slow rhythm that made them breathe unevenly. Another had pulled down the neckline of her dress and was letting her friend run an ice cube over her nipples, first one, then the other, until she nipped them with her lips and drew out a long gasp. The atmosphere grew dense, thick, charged with something that wasn't just perfume and alcohol. I, who had arrived planning a quiet night, discovered that I was wet beneath my dress, my panties soaked and my clitoris throbbing as if it had a life of its own. And, for the first time in months, I didn't feel guilty about anything.

***

It was almost midnight when Bárbara returned to the microphone. “Ladies, what you've been waiting for.” The lights dimmed. Deep bass made the floor vibrate. Three men entered through the side door in single file, wearing tight boxers that left nothing to the imagination. The girls stood up and howled like they were at a championship game.

All three were attractive in their own way, but it took me only a second to choose. The one in the middle had dark skin gleaming beneath the purple lights, enormous shoulders, and a waist cut as if he had been carved. His black eyes swept over the circle of women with a calm that wasn't calculation but habit. I noticed they'd put a fake name on his vest—Apollo, the fabric said—and I almost laughed. No Apollo from mythology could have measured up to him.

The routine began gently. The three men danced around the room, letting the girls tuck bills into the elastic of their boxers, sitting for a second on someone's lap, stealing a kiss on Lorena's neck. I didn't move from the sofa. I wanted him to come to me. And while I waited, I finished my entire drink.

When he approached, I said nothing. I looked up at him, biting my lower lip, letting my legs open just an inch wider than they should have. He understood. He crouched in front of me, placed his hands on my knees, and began slowly spreading them apart without taking his eyes off me. It was a practiced move, yes, but it seemed made just for me.

—What's your name? —I asked, more to hear his voice than to know it.

—Jefferson —he replied, smiling as if he were giving me a secret.

—Jefferson —I repeated slowly, savoring the syllables.

I ran my hand over his boxers and felt what I had already suspected: he was hard, dense, much larger than any fabric could disguise. I squeezed him through the cloth, feeling his weight, estimating his thickness with my fingers, and leaned toward his ear.

—I want to see that cock out —I whispered. —All of it.

He stood, moved two steps away, and continued with his routine as if nothing had happened. But before he left, he winked at me.

***

The show kept escalating. One by one, the girls pulled down the boxers of the three dancers, until all three were naked in the middle of the room. When I saw Jefferson with nothing on, my mouth went dry. I'm not exaggerating. He was exactly as I'd imagined and, at the same time, better. His cock was long, thick, dark, with veins standing out along the shaft and a swollen glans like a clenched fist. It hung heavily between his thighs, only half-hard, and even so it seemed impossible. It did justice to the rest of his body. I was left breathless.

The girls formed a line. I stayed still, waiting, gauging the moment. A petite redhead knelt in front of Jefferson and took him into her mouth. She struggled to encompass him: he slipped from the corners of her mouth, saliva running down to her chin, and still the redhead didn't let up, trying to swallow him whole with short, gagging spasms. I approached slowly, hypnotized, and ran my fingers over his abdomen while he held the other girl's head, guiding her with two fingers tangled in her hair. When he looked at me, I held his gaze as if I were promising him something. The redhead tired. She stood, her lips gleaming with saliva. And then it was my turn.

I knelt. I looked up at him. I ran my tongue along his entire length, slowly, from the base to the tip, savoring the pulse running beneath his skin. I licked his balls, one by one, taking them carefully into my mouth, feeling their weight on my tongue. I moved back up the shaft, flat-tongued and wet, as if I'd been waiting for that moment for years and didn't want to miss a millimeter. He growled something I couldn't understand, a deep vibration in his throat. I gripped the base with one hand, opened my jaw wide, and took as much of him into my mouth as I could. He wouldn't all fit. It was impossible. He hit the back of my throat and brought tears to my eyes, but I didn't let go. I tightened my lips, squeezed with my hand, and began jerking him with both at once, moving up and down, sucking hungrily, letting saliva run down my chin and soak his balls.

While I sucked him, I watched him. I watched him as if he were the last thing I would ever see in my life. I ran my tongue over the tip, pressed the glans against my cheek so the bulge showed from the outside, then took him all the way back into my mouth. The girls screamed around me. Someone shouted, “That's the spirit.” I released him for a second, a thread of saliva hanging from my lips to his tip, and whispered in a hoarse voice:

—Stay with me, Jefferson. Please.

—What? —he asked. Maybe because of the music, maybe because he hadn't expected it.

I didn't answer. I stood, unzipped my dress down the back, and let the fabric fall to the floor. I took off my panties, which were so soaked they clung to the lips of my pussy. I was left wearing only my red heels, standing in front of him, and sat back down on the sofa with my legs spread wide so he could see all of me. I brought two fingers to my crotch, opened my lips, and began rubbing my clitoris slowly in circles without taking my eyes off him. Then I lowered my fingers, slipped them inside for a moment, pulled them out shining, and brought them to my mouth to suck in front of him.

—Put it in me —I said. —Put it all in me, Jefferson, now.

The room roared. The other girls, the other two dancers, someone filming with a cellphone—everyone shouted the same thing. Jefferson threw himself over me. He kissed me roughly, tasting faintly metallic, biting my lower lip until I moaned into his mouth. He grabbed the backs of my legs behind the knees and spread them until my hips hurt, and I felt the tip of his cock rubbing up and down between my lips, soaking itself in my juices, striking my clitoris with every pass.

When he put it in me, the first time it was only the tip. I arched my back. I had to close my eyes to keep from screaming. He stretched my pussy like no one had ever stretched it before, with that sweet burn of going right to the edge of what I could endure. The second thrust went deeper: he drove halfway in and stayed there for a second, letting me feel every inch. The third went all the way, striking bone and pulling a hoarse cry from deep in my chest.

—Ah, ah, son of a bitch —I gasped, without thinking about what I was saying. —Like that, like that, don't stop, fuck me, fuck me hard.

He chuckled softly without stopping his movements. He began thrusting with a heavy, long rhythm, pulling almost all the way out before plunging back in, making skin slap against skin with every blow. The girls formed a circle around the sofa, cheering us on, laughing, shouting slogans I wouldn't remember afterward. I dug my nails into his back and bit his shoulder when he began thrusting harder. I grabbed one of my breasts with my free hand, he squeezed it, bent down to suck one of my nipples while he kept fucking me, and tore another, sharper moan from me. The sound of skin striking skin mingled with the bass of the music and the wet noise of my pussy swallowing him again and again. I don't know how long it lasted. I didn't care. At some point I felt my first orgasm rising from the soles of my feet, passing through my entire body, and I clung to him as I came screaming, biting his neck so I wouldn't wake half the city.

He turned me over before I had finished trembling. He put me facedown, my knees on the sofa and my back arched, my ass held up for him. He spanked me, the smack sounding like applause, then did it again, spreading my cheeks with both hands so he could watch himself put his cock back inside me. It went in again, and the sensation was different: more violent, deeper, more mine. In that position he hit a spot that made me see white. I asked for more. I begged him not to stop. I pleaded for things I would never say aloud in my normal life.

—Break me, Jefferson, break my pussy, give it all to me, harder, deeper, you son of a bitch, like that, like that.

He grabbed my hips and began fucking me as if he wanted to drive straight through me, pulling me backward with every thrust and making my tits swing forward with every impact. He ran a finger over my ass, wet with my juices, and pushed it just inside, to the first knuckle. I screamed. I came again, clenching around him, soaking his balls and thighs and leaving a shining puddle beneath him.

When he was close, he gently grabbed my hair and made me turn my head.

—Come here, baby —he said, his voice deeper than ever. —Come take it all.

I understood at once. I climbed down from the sofa, knelt in front of him, and opened my mouth as if it were the most natural thing in the world, my tongue out, looking up at him. He grasped his cock, gleaming with my juices, and began jerking off quickly, aiming it at my face. The first jet struck my cheek and nose, hot and thick; the second went almost entirely into my mouth; the third landed on my tongue and chin, and the last, weaker spurts ran down my chest and filled the hollow between my breasts. He came inside and outside, in equal measure, a lot on my tongue and the rest on my chest. I closed my mouth, swallowed everything inside me, and smiled at him with white lips. Then I ran a finger over my cheek to collect what was dripping down and sucked that off too. The girls burst into applause as if I'd won a tournament.

***

From then on, my memories become blurry. I know someone brought me my dress, that Lorena hugged me, laughing so hard she cried, and told me I was the best guest of the night. I know the other two dancers were with other girls in other corners of the room, one riding one of them and moving slowly, another on her knees sucking the third one's cock against the wall. I know I had one more mojito than I should have. And I know that after that I remember almost nothing.

The next morning I woke up in my bed, with no real understanding of how I'd gotten there. I had a message from Lorena: “The three of us put you in a taxi. You got home safely.” I replied with a heart. I didn't ask her anything else. When I stepped into the shower, I found finger marks on my hips, a small bruise on one breast, and my pussy still swollen and burning whenever the water touched it. I smiled to myself beneath the hot spray.

I spent days looking for Jefferson. I asked Lorena for his information, she asked the entertainer, and the entertainer played dumb. The agency that hired them didn't give out private contacts. I searched for him online under every possible name, knowing that “Apollo” was just for show and “Jefferson” might be as fake as the other one. I never found him.

Months passed. I got back together with Tomás for a while, then left him for good, partly because every time he touched me I closed my eyes and imagined someone else. My friend and I forgave each other over that stupid thing. Lorena got married. I went to the wedding in a more respectable dress and a proper hairstyle, and no one at that party could have guessed what had happened at the bar seven days earlier.

But even today, whenever I pass a gym or see a broad-backed man crossing the street, I remember him. The way he looked at me when I begged him to stay. The way he chuckled softly while he fucked me all the way to the hilt. That “come here, baby” that melted me inside like no other phrase ever had. Many nights I touch myself thinking of him, with two fingers inside me and my thumb on my clitoris, trying to repeat the rhythm he set with his hips, and I come alone, biting my pillow so I won't scream his name.

This is as close as I'm ever going to come to saying it out loud. If you ever read this, Jefferson, it was me. The one in the red heels. The one who begged you to stay. The one who swallowed your cum on her knees in front of fifteen women—and would do it again tomorrow. If you remember me, send me a sign. I'll still be waiting for you, pussy open and mouth ready.