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From: SR <parasol_60@yahoo.com>
Subject: NEW STORY: (SR) The Bachelor Party (MF / M+F)
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<DISCLAIMER>
miners can't read without those lamp-hats on their heads. feel free to
copy or archive. do whatever you want with it, just don't blame me.
your mileage may vary. i think i'm almost getting the hang of this.

<BACKGROUND>
in the remotest depths of 1991 or 1992 or 1993 -- back when the
worldwide web was just a gleam of spit in the corner of marc
andreesen's pouty little mouth -- i spent lots and lots of time (and
LOTS AND LOTS of money) dialed up to an annoying little bulletin board
somewhere in america's heartland. it was an addiction that i thought
i'd kicked... but sometimes on cold winter nights when my boyfriend is
miles away it comes back.

if you recognize yourself as a combatant in any of these, feel free to
contact me (parasol_60@yahoo.com) but no flames, please, cuz i'm a
delicate frail flower who might not be able to stand it.

<OBLIGATORY WHITESPACE>




The Bachelor Party

Pre-wedding jitters. What groom hasn't felt them? That sense of
impending doom, the prison walls closing in, when every flaw in your
blushing bride is magnified by the sense of "forever" and all it
implies. There's not much you can do except grit your teeth and hope
you've made the right decision. And wonder what it was that led you to
this point.

In Tom's case he felt he could say without too much equivocation that
he truly loved Marie. What wasn't to love? That perky dimpled face,
the sweet expression in those bright blue eyes, the shoulder-length
straight blonde hair, the way she cared for him, the cute little
star-shaped birthmark on the cheek of her ass. He'd known her for
years, finally "falling in love" with her one ski weekend in Vermont.
The sex, though exciting enough to start with, was still somewhat tame
for his tastes -- but he convinced himself that her shyness today only
promised improvement down the road in their nebulous future together.

Still, he was nervous. His best friend Earl knew it, and as "best
man," was determined to do something about it. Earl was famed in their
circle for his practical jokes, and sometimes Tom was afraid he might
have been a poor choice for best man. But as the wedding day loomed
nearer and nobody had tied his underpants to a tree Tom relaxed and
came to believe Earl might have "mellowed" with age.

Following local custom, it was a nominal secret from Tom when the
"surprise bachelor party" would be held. He'd figured it out when four
of his friends made some lame excuse why they couldn't get together
the night before the wedding, but feigned shock when two guys wearing
stocking masks pulled up in a late-model TransAm and hustled him,
blindfolded, into the trunk for a bumpy ride to some
knotty-pine-panelled Elks' or Knights of Columbus hall just outside of
town.

It was a typical one-room affair. Bar along the wall -- a couple of
kegs, a few bottles of bourbon for shooters. When he was hustled into
the room, still blindfolded, Earl greeted him with a big bear hug and
a 12 ounce tumbler of Jack Daniels.

"Drink up, buddy!" he roared. What the hell, thought Tom, and let the
whiskey run down the back of his throat, burning all the way.

"Beer, beer!" he gasped when it was down. Earl obliged, offering up a
draft Coors in a plastic mug. It was cool and soothing where the
whiskey had burnt going down. Everybody Tom knew was there. Guys from
high school, guys from college, guys from work. Older guys, offering
"condolences" with a wink; younger guys with a wistful yearning in
their eyes -- the ones who knew Marie, anyway. Everyone had come out
to see Tom off in "one last bash." He shook more hands, heard more bad
advice, and got slapped on the back more in one night by guys he
hardly knew than ever before in his 28 years of life.

There was a semi-organized moment during the chaos where they passed
out a series of gag gifts. A pair of handcuffs, a large plastic "ball
and chain," a bullwhip, two cans of "low-fat" whipped cream (each from
different guys), a pool cue, a couple dumb-ass T-shirts with sayings
like "My next wife is going to have bigger tits," and something in a
loudly-wrapped box that advertised itself as a "male chastity belt."
He barely glanced at most of the crap, was more interested in the
fellowship of his friends, the jokes, the confidences. Even the silly
advice. 

At one point Earl swaggered over and asked, "Hey Tom! Do you know how
to tell the groom at a nudist wedding? Me neither, but you can always
tell the best man!" Earl roared with laughter at his own joke; the
crowd roared with him. Tom's head had been swimming for a while when
he became vaguely aware of a sense of expectation among his friends.
Whispers just out of his earshot, something about some "entertainment"
planned for the evening. Tom's beer kept getting refilled while he
stayed caught up in the constant round of talking, laughing, joking,
and returning sly winks from nodding acquaintances.

Finally there was a kind of hush in the room when Tom became aware
that his own laughter was the only sound. Earl had been over by the
door, and all eyes turned to him as he let his voice rise over the
crowd, as if he'd memorized a speech. "I don't know how many of you
know what we've got planned for the night. Have any of you heard of
that new model agency in town called 'Doubles'?"

There was a quizzical, noncommittal murmur from the crowd, and Earl
continued, "Well, this place offers to get you models matching all the
classic beauties. Every chick from Marilyn Monroe," there was an
intake of breath from the assembled male throats, "to Cindy Crawford.
Now I thought about this. And I'll tell you, guys, I'd sure like to
get my hands on Cindy Crawford." There was a growl of assent from the
room, and Earl went on. "But I thought about it, and there's one
'classic beauty' I think we'd all really like to see tonight. So, with
the help of a photo I filched from Tom's wallet, let me present..." He
swept his arm to the door, where a woman stood in the shadows.

As she stepped forward into the light Tom was stunned. The woman
standing there appeared to be a twin of his bride. He only vaguely
heard the rest of what Earl was bellowing as he walked over to the
woman. Her hair was shorter than Marie's, curlier. A slightly darker
blonde, too, now that he looked more closely. And her makeup --
somehow it was cheaper, more garish. She reeked of some cheap perfume
his Marie would never have worn, and her posture was somehow sluttish
in her tall spike heels. Still, it was Marie's face, Marie's blue
eyes, even Marie's body, in a trashy sort of way, if you kinda
squinted a little. She wore a miniskirt over dark stockings and a
tight tank top. Earl walked over to her, spun her around with an arm
around her waist, and ripped her skirt off, pointing to the left cheek
of her ass, where a crudely shaped star had been inked in. "See," Earl
called out for the benefit of the crowd, "she's even got that star
birthmark you told me about!"

It took a few seconds for Tom to get it straight in his whirling
brain, but eventually it struck him, and he mumbled to himself, "Yeah,
but it's on the wrong side."

Earl released the model, she stumbled to her feet and grabbed the beer
out of Tom's hand. After she'd chugged about half of it, some rolling
down her chin, she looked up at him and laughed in his face, pouring
the rest of it over her chest. He recalled that Marie hated beer as he
took in the way the wet tank-top clung to the woman's full breasts,
outlining her prominent nipples.

"Why don't you help me out of this wet shirt, Sport?" she asked him.
Her voice was as cheap as the rest of her, and Tom was surprised that
it was her differences from Marie that began to turn him on, more than
her superficial similarities. He reached for the beer-soaked cloth
between her breasts, and tore the shirt in two pieces, to the loud
cheers of the guys now clustered around to ogle this gorgeous, naked
woman wearing black stockings, heels, and a smile. The best man picked
up the bullwhip and started clowning around; one of the other guys
suggested that they all "take turns seeing what she's got!"

She turned to the guy who said that, fell onto her knees and opened
his pants, letting her bright red lips give him a big wet suck. While
she was occupied with that Earl picked up the pool cue, walked around
behind her, and poked the thick top of the cue up between her legs.
She moaned a little and spread her legs to let it inside. He lifted it
upwards, she was raised to her feet, bent over at the waist with the
pool cue stuck up her cunt and a guy's cock deep in her mouth. Seeing
her that way the crowd started chanting for the groom to "pork her
ass... pork her ass... pork her ass" over and over again.

Tom was so hot for this woman that he straddled the pool cue with his
pants still on one leg, and stuck himself up inside her asshole while
she was chomping on the other guy's rod. Earl poured another beer over
her soft cheeks to lubricate Tom's entry, and he slid himself in and
out in time to the group's wild chant of "pork her ass... pork her ass."

But watching while he slid inside her he was puzzled for a second, and
thought he saw two star-shaped birthmarks on her ass, one on each
cheek. He promptly forgot about it, thought he must have been drunk or
seeing double, and he started yelling to the woman, "Go ahead, suck
him dry you cock-sucking whore. You love getting your asshole plowed
while you've got a cock down your throat, don't you bitch? I'm gonna
fuck your goddamn ass till you can't sit for a fucking week. I'm gonna
rip you fucking in half, you goddamn fucking slut, you piece of shit.
Take it. Take it up your fucking shithole. Take it all. All of my
goddamn scum right up your sweet fucking ass, you slut, you bitch.
Aaugh, I'm coming you fucking, god, shit, take it, now, fucking, shit,
you..." and he held her hips locked in his hands as his cock spasmed
over and over inside her.

Loud waves of cheering broke out among his friends. One passed him
another beer, he took it in a shaking hand and chugged it down as he
pulled out of the woman's asshole with a sucking sound and kicked her
to the floor amid raucous laughter. He wondered for a second if he
should have thought about safe sex, then decided, "Hell, no, I fucked
HER! She didn't fuck ME. Let HER worry about fucking AIDS. Bitch."

And he reached for another beer while his friends lined up for their
turn in the saddle.

In the morning, red-eyed and hung over, he stood at the altar railing
in church. He had on a tux, a bow tie, tight shoes. His tongue was dry
and scratchy, the organ music hurt his ears. The bridal march began
and he turned to see his bride coming down the aisle toward him. He
looked out over the sea of faces: relatives, old teachers, former
girlfriends, a few guys from last night who looked as wiped out as he
felt. His bride was heavily veiled, but all through the ceremony he
couldn't keep his mind off the woman last night, laughing at him while
beer dribbled from her chin to her tits, or lying on the table while
his friends took turns in her cunt, or shot their load on her face.

He went through the motions of the ceremony in a haze, until finally
they said to him, "You may now kiss the bride," and he raised the veil
to kiss her and noticed that Marie's blonde hair had been cut and
curled, and seemed darker somehow.






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