Bachelorette Party
Copyright© 2026 by Sandra Alek
Chapter 1
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - The groom’s best friend agrees to organize the perfect bachelorette party. But fate intervenes, and the celebration spirals quickly out of control. It ends in an unforgettable night full of forbidden desires, betrayal, and revelations. A year later, the truth surfaces in the most unexpected way.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Cheating Cuckold Group Sex Exhibitionism Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Voyeurism
A table in the corner by the window. On the white tablecloth — three cups of coffee.
Michael pulled a thick paper envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and slid it across to Mark.
“Here’s five. Half now, the rest after Ellie comes home happy.”
Mark covered the envelope with his palm.
“Michael, that’s too much. I trust you — after all, I’m your friend and your best man.”
“No,” Michael shook his head. “Right now you’re the organizer. Business and friendship don’t mix. And I want her to remember this night. So do whatever it takes. Make her happy.”
Mark nodded and slipped the envelope into his pocket. Material recognition of your skills is always nice, after all.
“I’ll do everything I can. Ellie will be thrilled, I promise.”
Samantha — brunette, stylish glasses, slightly slanted eyes on an oddly childlike face — pulled a thinner envelope from her purse and dropped it on top of Mark’s hands.
“And this is from the bridesmaids. We booked that loft you recommended. You’re in charge of everything: lighting, drinks, the show. I need this to be top-tier, Mark. No screw-ups.”
She stood, smoothed her skirt, and nodded at both men.
“See you at eight by the entrance. I’ll check the sound.”
Samantha left, heels clicking sharply on the tile.
Michael glanced at his watch, leaned forward.
“Mark, listen. There’s gonna be a lot of alcohol. Samantha got the girls all hyped — they want wild. Just make sure nothing happens to Ellie. No random guys crashing, everything under control.”
Mark nodded, tucking the envelope into his jacket’s inner pocket.
“Mike, relax. The stripper’s a guy I know — solid, reliable. He’ll report back to me right after the performance. And I’ll be right there in the next room, same loft. Door closed, but if anything goes wrong the girls call, and I’m there in seconds to fix it. Your fiancée is safe.”
Michael exhaled and reached across the table. Mark met him with a firm handshake.
“Thanks, man. I’m counting on you.”
They parted at the exit. Mark watched Michael’s BMW pull away, then dialed the stripper.
Mark stepped out of the elevator, whistling a little radio tune under his breath. He adjusted his cuffs, feeling insanely lucky: eight grand in his pocket, perfect loft, and just a couple hours of easy work ahead. He could already picture waking up tomorrow in a great mood, every problem solved.
He pushed open the door to the dressing room. A thick cloud of hairspray and women’s perfume hit him.
Samantha stood by the mirror, nervously tapping her fingers on the windowsill.
“Oh, Mark,” she turned the second he walked in. Her face was tight. “Where’s the guy? He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. The girls are already chanting ‘Show! Show!’”
“Easy, Samantha,” Mark gave a patronizing half-smile, pulling out his phone. “He’s probably trying to build some anticipation by being fashionably late. I’ll light a fire under him.”
He dialed, put it on speaker so she could hear his commanding tone. Long, slow rings. One ... two ... three ... Mark felt his smile start to slip. On the fifth ring someone picked up — but instead of the stripper’s cocky voice, there was radio static and a heavy sigh.
“Yeah?” The voice was dry, official.
“Uh ... hey, Alex?” Mark frowned. “It’s Mark. Where are you? We’re waiting.”
“Alex can’t come to the phone,” the voice said. “This is Sergeant Warren, 12th Precinct. The phone’s owner was detained during a raid. Group disorderly conduct, suspicion of possession. Phone seized as evidence. That’s all I can tell you.”
Short beeps. Mark slowly lowered the phone.
The world suddenly snapped into hyper-focus. Every fiber in the carpet, every hairline crack in the ceiling paint. A ringing in his ears. It felt like walking across a sunlit field and realizing the ground beneath your feet had turned into bottomless swamp — slowly, inevitably pulling you under.
“Detained?” Samantha took a step toward him, eyes narrowing. “You’re telling me there’s no show?”
“I ... I’ll find someone else,” Mark started frantically scrolling contacts. “I’ve got backups. Hang on.”
He dialed the first number in “Reserves.” Busy. Second one.
“Hello? Peak Agency? I need a guy right now, loft on Fourth. Double rate. What? No, wait—”
He hung up.
“That agency has everyone out. It’s Saturday, Samantha, you know how it is...”
Third number. His palms were sweaty; the phone nearly slipped.
“Hey, it’s Mark. Anyone free? No? Not even a rookie? Shit!”
Mark leaned back against the clothing racks. Jackets and dresses cushioned him softly, but there was no comfort in it. Inside, everything was knotting into a tight, painful ball. The eight thousand in his pocket no longer felt like a gift from fate — more like burning coals searing through the jacket lining and into his skin.
“Listen to me, Mark,” Samantha’s voice turned low, almost gentle — but the gentleness carried a razor’s edge. “Ellie’s out there in the main room. She’s waiting. She’s already had enough to drink that she’s starting to get bratty. If I walk out there right now and say her big surprise is sitting in a jail cell, this party turns into a disaster. And Michael ... you know how much he values reliability.”
She took out her own phone and twirled it in her fingers.
“You’ve got five minutes. Either you pull off a miracle, or I call Michael and explain why his best friend is a useless screw-up who let his bride down.”
Samantha walked out, closing the door behind her. The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot in the silence. Mark stood alone, staring at the phone screen as the seconds of his collapse ticked down mercilessly.
The door slammed shut, and the click of the lock echoed somewhere at the base of his skull. Mark was alone. The dull bass thumping from the main room no longer just pounded his ears — it drilled into his temples, reminding him that time had turned to sand slipping through his fingers.
His hands. Why were they shaking so badly?
He stared at the phone screen again. The brightness stabbed his eyes. The contact list looked endless, but every number now felt like a headstone. He tapped the first one that caught his eye.
“Yeah?” The answer came too fast. The voice was thick with sleep.
“Listen, it’s Mark. I need a guy. Right now. Urgent. Loft on Fourth. Triple rate. Cash. You hear me?”
Silence stretched on the line. Mark could hear his own ragged breathing.