I really do hate my brother-in-law, Danny. If it hadn't been for him, my fiancé, Stewart, would have never gone to a strip club. After all, Stewart's got his PhD, and now he even has an assistant professorship lined up, in the "Gender and Minority Studies Department." Hardly the kind of guy to have the sort of friends who would include a strip club in their schemes for his bachelor party. In fact, most of Stewart's real friends are from his department at the college, and they are mostly women. No, Stewart's real friends had nothing to do with it. Why, even the men in his field, like Stewart himself, tend to be exactly the opposite of my macho, asshole, trailer-trash brother-in-law Danny.
Danny, my sister's husband, has never seemed to like Stewart, but for some reason he came out of the woodwork this week, ten days before the wedding, and announced that he and his buddies were taking Stewart out to "sow his oats" one last time. Great. This, of course, encouraged my sister, Sandy, to throw together a bachelorette party for me. That was last night — you know the sort of thing, a gaggle of girls, mostly my working class friends of my high-school days, dragging me from bar to bar wearing a veil and begging free drinks off the male clientele — not my style at all, of course, but I couldn't talk her out of it.
The most infuriating part of the evening — last night, I'm talking about — was running into Danny and his friend Bob at one of the bars — "by accident." Naturally, that was the bar in which Tonya, a girl who had been my best friend in high school (until I went to college and she went to work as a manicurist) decided to start charging guys five bucks to kiss the bride. Danny, of course, paid up, but instead of the chaste little pucker most guys understood to be appropriate for such a "game", Danny stuck his disgusting tongue practically down my throat and grabbed both of my asscheeks, right in front of my sister, his own wife! She just smiled meekly and pretended it was all a joke, but it just burns me up how badly he treats her.
My Stewart would never be so disrespectful to me. Why even now, after a long night out with the "boys", celebrating his own pre-nuptial party, here he is, his sweet little head nestled between my thighs, gently licking and worshipping my sex. Perhaps a little too gently.
"Stewart, honey, I know you're tired, but could you please put your tongue in a little deeper ... oh, yes, that's it baby ... now back to my love button ... Mmmm, just keep that up, sweetheart."
I feel an orgasm coming, and I just know that my uterus is in a condition to gush forth with the climax. Now this is definitely the right way for the bride to finish the evening of her groom's bachelor party — the sort of ending that gives a woman real peace of mind -- with him servicing her!
Well, at least I know that Stewart didn't go over the line earlier tonight. Danny made sure of that. Danny had assured me in advance that although Stewart would get to look at a bunch of strippers, and even get a few breasts smashed into his face, there would be NO lap dances, private rooms, or "special" groom's services purchased or allowed (at least not for the groom — I am sure that the other attendees, all of whom were Danny's — not Stewart's — friends, copped whatever feels and paid for whatever frottage they might have pleased).
Of course, it was no surprise to me that Danny had NOT made me this promise out of mere gentlemanly courtesy. Ha! When I called him earlier today to ask him this favor (at home, of course, as he is once again laid off from the tire factory), he agreed, as he put it, to "keep little Stewart's weenie dry" as long as I would do a favor for him. That bastard never misses an opportunity to prove himself a creep, that's for sure.
However, the necessity of keeping Stewart 100% faithful won out, so I agreed to his terms. Sometimes peace of mind comes at a price.
So, earlier this evening -- around nine -- I pulled my car into the strip club's parking lot to fulfill my side of the arrangement. Sure enough, there was Danny, standing next to his pick-up truck, a shit-eating grin on his face.
"What are you smiling at? What's going on with Stewart in there?"
"Don't worry about sweet Stewie. He's getting nothing in there but blue balls. Seems to be enjoying the show, though, despite your image of him as Mr. Perfect. Are you dressed for success?"
"I said I would be, didn't I?" I pulled open my raincoat to show him my costume. He grunted and nodded.
"Wait, what about the —."
"Right here," I said, lifting a shopping bag in my hand.
"O.K. Let's get you situated. We need to get started — the pressure is really starting to build up with the guys."
"All right. But I just want to remind you that you are an uncouth son of a bitch for extracting this from me. You should be willing to protect Stewart's virtue just because I ask you too."
"Usually, Stewart's virtue is the last thing I'm worried about. Now just take that coat off and climb into the truck here."
A couple of minutes later, he had me situated just as he wanted. I was in the back seat of his pick-up truck — no wonder they call it a "SuperCrew" cab, it is actually quite enormous, with plenty of room. My "costume," which I had worn under my coat, was my wedding wardrobe, including the veil which I had brought along in a Macy's bag.
Well, not my whole wedding wardrobe. I wasn't wearing my dress, but at least I was wearing my white lace corset, the elegant one I had selected to pull in my already incredibly tiny twenty-three-year-old waist. And my garter belt, holding up sheer thigh-high white silk stockings. And my frilly white panties. I really like those, they're ruffled, and have a cute blue silk bow in front. You know: "something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue." I can't wait for Stewart to discover the adorable little bow, on our wedding night a week from this Saturday, as he undresses me for the first time as "Mrs. Stewart Panderwayste." I was rudely interrupted in this pretty thought.
"Jesus, for a college cunt, you sure are stupid."
"What? Watch your mouth, I'm not some truck-stop trash like you run around on my sister with. What are you talking about?"
"Your panties. They need to go on outside the garter. How can they be pulled off like that?"
"Fine, why don't you just take them off me completely then, you oaf?"
"Oh, no. We need to put them on first so that they can come off later, believe me. Part of the whole effect. We got to change them around."
He reached for the front pair of snaps on my garters, separating the straps and then feeding them down and through the panties before refastening them. Clever — I thought he'd think he had to take everything off to achieve the configuration he was demanding. To assist, I grabbed the hand strap above my head — I was sitting lengthwise in the truck seat — and pulled myself up, which lifted my bottom up off the bench seat and allowed him to unhook, pull through, and then refasten the garter straps in back as well.
When I lowered myself back down to the seat, I relaxed my arms a bit. The chain connecting my wrists, which ran through the hand strap loop, jangled softly above my head. At least the bastard was thoughtful enough to use padded cuffs.
"I suppose you're going to fuck me now."
"You wish. No, I'm not going to fuck you ... now. I'll be back in a minute. Don't go anywhere!"
With a grin the handsome jerk slammed the truck door and left me alone in the dark. Well, not completely in the dark, seeing how the flashing neon "gentlemen's club" sign was shining on me through the back window of the truck's cab.
He was gone for what seemed like forever, but it was probably just a few minutes. Once I thought I heard him coming — I could hear sounds quite well in surrounding parking lot since he'd left the front windows cracked open several inches — but then I realized I was just hearing the conversion of a couple of skeezie guys leaving the club for home, probably to release their over-stimulated libidos on their long-suffering wives. I felt a wave of fear for a few moments when I thought about how these strangers might react if they found me helpless. Luckily, they turned in another direction, looking for their cars.
After that false alarm, I almost didn't hear Danny's approach until he was practically right on top of me. The second voice I didn't recognize.
"I still think you're bullshitting me, Dan. For the historical record, I'm not falling for this — I'm coming out here to humor you."
"It's not bullshit. She's in there waiting for you."
"But she's a stripper, from the club, right?"
"No, she's my wife's kid sister, and a week from Saturday, she's going to be the blushing bride of your new friend Stewart, the poor fucker getting nothing we've been cock-blocking back in the club. Pretty awesome, huh?"
"Jesus fuck! I hope you're not shitting me, this is fucking great."
"Check it out. Here we are." The rear door at my feet opened, and the dome light blinded me for a moment.
"Now you tell me — does that look like a stripper from this club, or like the classy, stuck-up sort of bitch who would wrap a poor sap like our 'buddy' Stewart around her little finger?"
"I'll be damned. She even looks like your wife a little bit."
"Yeah, but her body is still in great shape, unlike Sandy's. And her pussy is a lot tighter."
"Gee, I don't have a baseline for comparison on that one."
.... There is more of this story ...