Chapter 11: The Bachelor Party Crash
The text came through as Cherry was peeling off her jeans, one leg already out, phone balanced precariously on the edge of the bathroom sink.
GIRL. You remember Marco? From the gym, the one who spotter you that time? HIS BACHELOR PARTY. Tonight. The Velvet Room. I'm telling you, this crew is RIPE. Twelve guys, all his old football buddies, and they've been drinking since 4. Get your pretty ass down here.
Cherry read it twice, a slow smile spreading across her face. Marco. Right, the broad-shouldered Italian who'd practically passed out when she'd thanked him for the spot by grinding against him just once. Just once. She'd been good that day. It seemed only fair to make up for it now.
She checked the time. Ten forty-seven. She'd been planning a quiet night in, a glass of wine, and marking up the edits on her Waikiki piece, but the universe had clearly other plans. The universe always had other plans for Cherry Valentine.
She dropped the jeans and padded naked to her closet, scanning the options. The red dress? Too predictable. That little black thing she'd bought on a whim in a shop in Honolulu, the one that was more suggestion than garment? Perfect.
Twenty minutes later, Cherry slipped out of the cab and onto the rain-slicked sidewalk. The Velvet Room sat at the end of a block of shuttered storefronts, its presence announced by a single, discreet gold sign and a heavy black door guarded by a man the size of a refrigerator. Her heels clicked against the pavement, tiny black dress hugging every curve, the fabric barely reaching the tops of her thighs. A delicate gold chain glinted at her collarbone, and her strawberry-blonde hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders. The bouncer's eyes traveled the length of her, and he grinned, pulling the door open without a word.
Inside, the club swallowed her whole. Deep shadows and crimson velvet defined the opulent lounge, the air humming with the low, insistent bass of a distant speaker and the clinking of crystal glassware. Heavy fabrics draped the walls, shimmering under dim amber spotlights that caught the dust motes and the curves of the dancers on the central stage. The scent of expensive perfume, whiskey, and something sweeter, something floral and heady, hung in the air.
Cherry paused at the threshold, letting her eyes adjust. The place was busy for a Thursday night, a mix of businessmen in loosened ties and younger guys celebrating something. Her gaze swept the room until she found her target. A long, curved VIP booth in the back corner, cordoned off with a velvet rope, was a riot of movement and noise. A dozen men, all in dark shirts, clustered around a central figure wearing a sash that read "BACHELOR." Marco.
She walked toward them, hips swaying with practiced confidence. As she approached the velvet rope, a beefy guy with a crew cut and a polo shirt stretched tight over his chest stepped in front of her, arms crossed.
"Private party," he said, his voice flat.
Cherry smiled, slow and warm. "I'm a friend of Marco's. He invited me."
The guy didn't budge. "Yeah, I've heard that one before."
Behind him, Marco spotted her. His face lit up, a wide, slightly drunk grin spreading across his handsome features. The woman on his lap, a dancer with a cascade of dark hair and a sequined bra, looked over with mild curiosity.
"Cherry!" Marco yelled, waving frantically. "Cherry Valentine! Let her through, man! She's the best damn journalist in this city!" He turned to his friends, voice loud and slurred with happiness. "You guys won't believe who this is. I've been telling you about her. The one who fucked the whole championship team in the locker room. It was in the papers, and everything."
The crew-cut guy’s arms dropped, and he unhooked the velvet rope, stepping aside. Cherry winked at him as she passed, and she saw his throat work.
The bachelor party crew parted like the Red Sea as she approached. A dozen eager men, exactly as advertised. They were all shapes and sizes, from a wiry, tattooed guy with a backwards cap to a gentle giant of a man who must have been six-five if he was an inch. They were all staring, all grinning, all looking at her with that strangely hungry light she'd grown up learning to read.
"Marco," Cherry said, reaching him and pulling him into a hug that pressed her chest against his. "Congratulations. Can't believe you're settling down."
He squeezed her tight, his hands wandering down to the curve of her ass where the dress ended and grabbing a handful of her naked cheek. "Can you believe it? I can't. That's why we're here. Last night of freedom." He released her, gesturing expansively. "Boys, this is Cherry. Cherry, these are the boys. My best men. Say hi, you animals."
A chorus of hellos, Whoa, and Damn, Marco, where have you been hiding her filled the air. The giant, whose name she caught as Derek, raised a bottle of champagne. "You want a drink, Cherry?"
"Depends," she said, sliding past him onto the plush velvet couch. She sank into it, the fabric cool against her bare thighs. "What are we celebrating?"
"Marco's last night as a free man!" the tattooed guy, Jace, yelled, clinking his glass.
"Good," Cherry said, reaching for the bottle Derek offered. She took a long, slow sip, letting the bubbles dance on her tongue. "Because I'm a journalist, and I'm always looking for a good story. And from what Marco's told me about you guys..." She let the sentence trail off, letting her eyes sweep across the semi-circle of men now gathered around her. "I think this could be the story of my life."
Marco's bride-to-be's dancer had already peeled off, sensing the shift in the room's energy. The men were all watching Cherry now, drawn in by her warm, fixed gaze. She set the champagne down and leaned forward, the neckline of her dress gaping just slightly, revealing the inner swell of her breasts.
"So tell me," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "Who's the best man?"
A stocky guy with a thick beard, seated closest to her, raised his hand. "That'd be me. Tyler."
"Tyler," Cherry repeated, rolling the name around in her mouth. "Big responsibility. Gotta keep the bachelor out of trouble."
"I'm trying," Tyler said, grinning. "It's a full-time job."
Cherry reached out, her fingers brushing against the hair on his forearm. "Must be exhausting. You need a break?"
The air in the booth went electric. The background music seemed to fade, replaced by the sharp inhale of a dozen men holding their breath. Tyler's eyes widened, and he glanced at Marco, who was watching with a goofy, approving grin.
"Uh," Tyler said, voice cracking slightly. "I mean, yeah. I could use a break."
Cherry's other hand came up, and she used both to adjust the thin straps of her dress. With one smooth, languid motion, she pulled the straps down her shoulders. The black fabric slithered over her breasts, and they spilled out, full and pale in the amber light. Her nipples tightened in the cool air. The collective intake of breath from the men was audible.
"No need to be shy," Cherry said. "It's a party. And I'm the entertainment."
She shifted on the couch, turning to face Tyler more fully, and in the same fluid movement, hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her dress and lifted her hips. The dress bunched around her waist, then slid off entirely, pooling on the velvet. She kicked it onto the floor and sat back, naked, knees together, hands resting on her thighs.
For a long moment, no one said anything. Twelve men stared at her, their drinks forgotten. Then Marco let out a low whistle.
"Jesus, Cherry," he breathed. "You weren't kidding."
"I never kid," she said. She crooked a finger at him. "Come here, groom. You're the guest of honor. First in line."
Marco didn't need to be told twice. He practically vaulted over the low table, landing on his knees in front of her. His friends whooped and cheered. Cherry parted her knees, and Marco leaned in, his hands coming up to cup her breasts as his mouth found one nipple.
"Gentlemen," Cherry said, looking over Marco's dark head at the ring of men surrounding them. "I want this story to have a very happy ending. So here's what's going to happen. We're all going to have some fun, and then I'm going to interview the groom for a piece I'm writing on modern bachelor parties. And I need all of you to be very, very helpful."
She didn't wait for a response. Marco was already moving down, his lips trailing a hot path across her sternum, down her belly. His hands gripped her thighs, pushing them wider apart. The VIP couch was deep and dark, and the amber light showed just enough but not too much. She sighed, leaning back, her head tilting to take in the sight of the men closing in, their hands unbuckling belts, their eyes fixed on her.
This was going to be good.
Marco's tongue found her clit, and Cherry gasped, her hips bucking up involuntarily. So many men, so much enthusiasm. She reached out blindly and grabbed at the nearest body, which turned out to be Tyler, still in his spot beside her.
"Not so shy now, best man," she murmured, pulling him closer, her hand finding the bulge in his pants. He was already hard, straining against his zipper. "Come here. I want to taste you."
Darkness closed in around her, a cocoon of heat and hands and mouths. She lost herself in sensation, in the wet heat of Marco's mouth, in the slide of Tyler's cock past her lips, salty and thick, in the scrape of rough hands and the press of clothed bodies against her naked skin. The world shrank to the velvet couch, the press of groomsmen, and the singular, overwhelming drive toward pleasure. She gave herself over to it, letting the night blur into a haze of moans and the mingled scents of champagne, cologne, and sex. She lost count of the mouths on her, the cocks in her hands, the bodies grinding against her. It was everything she loved, this chaotic, all-consuming attention, and she drank it in, desperate for more.
and dim shapes pressed around her, a shifting constellation of want. Marco's tongue worked her into a wet, trembling frenzy, his groans vibrating against her slick flesh, and she closed her eyes, letting the pleasure crest and break behind her lids like a wave.
Tyler's hands found her head, gentle but insistent, guiding her rhythm on his cock. She took him deep, hollowing her cheeks, feeling the thick head nudge the back of her throat before she eased off, gasped, and went down again. Somewhere to her left, the tattooed one, Jace, had stripped off his shirt and was stroking himself with a lazy, appreciative grin. A wiry guy with a patchy beard knelt beside the couch, pressing his erection into the curve of her shoulder, and she let him, the heat of him a brand against her skin.
Marco pulled back, breathless, his chin slick. "God, Cherry, you're still the best."
She laughed, a low, throaty sound muffled by Tyler's cock. "I've had practice."
Marco stood and shucked his pants in a single motion, freeing his own erection. He was thick and flushed, bobbing with his excitement. His friends watched him as much as they watched her, a strange, electric dynamic crackling through the booth. It was his night, and she was his gift.
"Come here," Marco said, tugging her arm. She gave Tyler one last suck, a final, teasing swirl of her tongue around the head, and released him with a wet pop. Tyler groaned, swaying, his dick slick with her spit. Marco guided her up off the couch, and for a moment she stood naked in the middle of the ring of men, the amber light painting her in gold. She let them look, let them drink her in. Somewhere in the club beyond, the bass thumped and a dancer's crowd cheered, but back here, in the velvet corner, this was her stage.
Marco sat back on the couch, spreading his legs. She climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, and reached down to guide him to her entrance. He filled her in one smooth, sinking motion, and they both sighed. His hands flew to her hips, gripping her tight as she began to move, a slow, rolling grind that had his eyes rolling back. His friends circled closer, hands reaching out to touch her, to stroke her thighs, her breasts, her swaying hips.
"Nicky, get over here," Marco said, his voice strained. "She likes it in her mouth. Trust me."
A stocky man with a shaved head and a thick mustache stepped forward, his hand already pumping his length. Cherry leaned forward, careful not to dislodge Marco, and opened her mouth. Nicky slid in, not too deep at first, testing, and she took him eagerly, bobbing her head while her hips worked Marco beneath her. The dual sensation, the stretch of Marco inside her, the fullness of Nicky on her tongue, made her moan, a vibration she felt ripple through both of them.
They switched positions with the fluid choreography of men who knew what they wanted. Marco pulled out, and Derek, the giant, lowered her onto the couch on her back, his massive frame blocking out the light as he knelt between her thighs. He was enormous, his cock thick as her wrist, and when he pressed inside her, Cherry gasped, her nails raking the velvet.
"Oh, fuck," she breathed.
Derek grinned, slow and easy. "You okay, honey?"
"Better than okay," she managed. "Don't stop."
He didn't. He set a deep, rhythmically pounding pace, one that had her back arching and her breasts bouncing. But she wasn't just taking; she was giving. She reached out, pulling groomsmen to her by frantically clenching hands and grabbing waistbands, taking them in her mouth two at a time, licking and stroking while Derek drove into her. She lost herself in the assembly line of pleasure, one cock replacing another at her lips, one man switching with another between her legs.
Marco was everywhere at once. He knelt by her head, letting her suck him while she fingered Jace, who perched on the arm of the couch. He was kissing her, tasting himself on her lips, then turning her over so Derek could take her from behind while she buried her face in someone else's lap.
"Story of my life," she gasped between them, and they laughed, gruff and breathless.
The couch creaked beneath them, a rhythmic counterpoint to the music, until Derek pulled her by the hips, yanking her down onto his cock hard. She cried out, her orgasm building like a pressure wave. Derek grunted and came deep inside her, flooding her, and the warmth tipped her over the edge. She screamed, her walls clenching around him as she came, shuddering against the arm of the couch.
They gave her barely a moment to recover. A wiry man with a kind face, Kevin, took Derek's place, lifting her up and settling her onto his cock, which was thinner but very long. He drove her into a second and third orgasm, alternating his strokes from her cunt to the push of his thumb on her ass, until she was a gasping, trembling mess. Nicky came on her tits, hot and thick, and then Tyler pulled her to the floor, laying her on the plush carpet in front of the couch, propping her ass up on a velvet cushion. He slid into her from behind, filling her again, while the remaining men jostled for position around her face.
"How many left?" she asked, her voice slurred with pleasure. "I've lost count."
"Three," Tyler grunted, pounding into her. "Not counting me."
"Then put them to work."
They did. One knelt by her head, thick and acrid, spilling into her waiting throat. The other two flanked her, one sliding into her pussy after Tyler pulled out, the other pressing against her ass, coating himself with her slickness before pushing in slow and inch by inch. The fullness, the triple penetration, made her see white. She bucked between them, impaled and overwhelmed, and came again, this time so hard she sobbed with it.
Finally, they all came together. The man in her ass roared and filled her, the man in her cunt followed, and the one in her mouth flooded her throat, and the combination of sensations, of being so utterly used, so completely filled, sent her spiraling into one last, shattering orgasm. She lay on the floor, trembling, covered in sweat and cum, her body buzzing and loose.
The booth was silent for a moment except for the heavy breathing of a dozen spent men. Then Marco laughed, low and warm. "Fuck, Cherry. That was the best present anyone's ever given me."
She pushed herself up on her elbows, her hair a wild halo around her face, her skin glistening. "The night's not over yet, groom. You still owe me an interview."
"I'll give you whatever you want," he said, flopping back on the couch, utterly drained. "Just give me a minute. Or five."
Cherry laughed, struggling to her knees. Various hands helped her up, stroking her thighs, her back, helping her find her dress. She slipped it over her head, not bothering with the straps, letting it hang loose around her hips, and her hands found the discarded recorder she'd tucked between the couch cushions. She clicked it on.
"Okay, Marco," she said, settling onto the couch beside him, bare-assed on the velvet, her dress rucked up to her waist. Several of the men, those who'd already gone, lounged around them, some pulling their pants back up, others not bothering. "Tell me about the planning. How did you pick the Velvet Room for your last night as a free man?"
Marco blinked at her, a slow grin spreading across his face. He was a good sport. He always had been. "Well, my buddy Rick here, he'd been here before. Said the dancers were hot, but the real party's always in the back rooms." He glanced around his crew, and they all nodded. "I figured, last night, I don't need to go somewhere fancy. I just need somewhere I can be with my boys." He reached over, squeezing Derek's shoulder. "Guys who've been with me since I was sacking quarterbacks in high school."
"Meaningful," Cherry said, leaning in, her recorder held out. "A lot of men would search out something more... exotic for a bachelor party. Why this, why them?"
Marco grew earnest for a moment, some of the party haze clearing from his eyes. "Because at the end of the day, when I'm married and old, I'm not gonna remember the club or the drinks. I'm gonna remember that these bastards had my back. And they're gonna be the ones I call when I need help moving a couch." He nudged Tyler with his foot. "The party's just an excuse to be together one more time as free men."
Cherry smiled, and for a moment, the mask of the insatiable siren slipped, showing the genuine warmth beneath. "That's a beautiful sentiment. Do you mind if I use that in my piece?"
"You can use whatever you want, Cherry," Marco said, his grin returning. "Just spell my name right."
The club hummed around them, the bass softer now, the crowd thinning. On the central stage a new dancer twirled around a pole, but the VIP booth had its own energy, a warm, exhausted afterglow. Cherry clicked off the recorder and tucked it away.
"Well, gentlemen," she said, rising to her feet, her dress falling around her thighs. "That was a pleasure. Literally." She leaned down and kissed Marco on the cheek. "Congratulations. She's a lucky woman."
"You could have been that lucky woman," Marco said, only half joking.
"No," Cherry said softly, shaking her head. "I'm not the settling kind. But I'm very happy for the ones who are."
She gathered her small purse and began to walk toward the velvet rope at the edge of the booth. Several hands reached out to stroke her ass, her thighs, as she passed, and she let them, smiling back over her shoulder at them. The crew-cut bouncer was still there, guarding the entrance, and his eyes were wide as she approached.
"Find everything you needed?" he asked, his voice a little hoarse.
Cherry paused, turning to face him. He was broad and solid, in his dusty blue polo, with a thick neck and a stubborn jaw. A lock of hair escaped his severe crew cut, curling over his temple. She let her gaze rake him from head to toe.
"You know," she said, taking a step closer, "I don't think I ever caught your name."