The urgent sound of the hooter reverberated through the open window as Yvonne's tongue and lips worked slavishly on my cock. "The taxi's here," I clarified in hoarse tones, catching the look as my fiancée glanced up momentarily.
It was a look that said: you're not going anywhere in a hurry – and she was right of course. Steadying myself on her head, stroking the golden mane, I began to buck against her mouth, thrusting into the pursed lips in much the same way I'd fuck a pretty little pussy. Honk honk, the reminder rang out from the road as I upped the tempo, taking the pigtail in hand and slamming forcefully into my fiancée's throat. She took the oral pounding willingly, saliva pooling at each corner of her mouth.
With my stag do imminent, this was Yvonne's inimitable way of reminding me what would be waiting on my return home, perhaps the greatest little cocksucker in London. As the orgasm took hold I gave a grunt of pleasure, immersing the whole shaft in the warm recess and shooting hard. Throwing back her head Yvonne swallowed lovingly.
Outside, as the hooting became ever more urgent, I allowed Yvonne to finish the job by cleaning up the cum-stained head, before quickly concealing my cock in the three-quarter length beach shorts bought specially for the weekend in Ibiza. "Be good," she said, half-joke, half-warning.
As if I'd mess about...
A peck on the cheek and I was gone, arriving outside to a barracking. "About time," observed Dave as I slid the hatch door of the taxibus open, case in hand.
"Let's party," I bawled, the words met by a rousing cheer.
* * *
It started out like any other stag do, the hotel located quickly, cases dumped and on the lash with a vengeance. By early evening we were pretty trashed and in need of a few hours rest and recuperation before the main event.
Batteries recharged from our naps, we were raring to go, joining the hordes of bar hounds for the midnight stroll down The Strip. Mouths dry from too much lager we graduated onto fruit flavoured alcopops and traffic light coloured shots.
Nearby, a group of attractive looking hens sucked on straws, emptying a blue concoction from a fishbowl. Imbued with alcoholic verve we flirted with them – as you do – and they flirted back, as much through a sense of a shared English heritage as anything. Their accents northern, ours southern, we'd heard all about Geordie girls and they'd heard all about London lads.
Being the player he was, my best mate and best man Dave had soon wormed his way in amongst them and in no time the twelve of us were heading off clubbing. It helped to ease my mind a little having the girls around: less chance of the guys getting up to mischief at my expense. For the least I could expect was a stripper covering me in foam and shaving from head to toe. That or being tied naked to a lamppost until the sun came up. Or being chatted up by some convincing looking ladyboy the lads had arranged. Or all three...or worse... A little good humoured fun I could handle, humiliation I could do without.
Just starting to mellow, I entered into the festivities as a groom-to-be should: leading the dancing and swilling down anything passed my way. The hen, a quiet girl, was of similar age, I assessed, 28, a pleasant sort of age for getting hitched these days. A decade of partying behind, it was time to settle down and take life's responsibilities more seriously.
Statuesque for a girl, easily reaching my nose, she was tall and willowy. Her breasts weren't large but then again she wasn't flat-chested either, what Dave might describe as a nice handful. Her hair had a healthy mahogany sheen, perfectly symmetrical and short to the chin, framing a pretty face. Dressed in a low cut black top with spaghetti strips and a short grey skirt, there was a familiarity about her I couldn't quite put my finger on.
An hour passed, shot after shot downed in one, as the seven of us took to shielding their group of five like unofficial bodyguards, fending off any potential competition that happened to demonstrate a passing interest. Outnumbering them, I turned to Dave: "If you guys want to...I'd be happy grabbing an early night."
Three weeks away from the wedding, frankly I had no interest in bedding other girls and cheating on Yvonne, whilst another of the guys, Charlie, was a month into an intense relationship and not likely to stray. Thus the other five could have their pick. Dave just smiled silently, the feeling of unease returning. Another fifteen minutes passed, marked by drinking, gentle flirting and uncoordinated dancing as I wondered what Dave had up his sleeve.
Then, before I even realised what was going on, it happened. SNAP.
I'd been swaying close to the hen at the time. Another snap and I looked down to see we were connected at the wrist by a pair of handcuffs. My senses numbed by alcohol, it took a moment to sink in. "Awww, come on guys," I protested as the others looked on, exhibiting cheesy drunken grins.
Yet, whilst I was mildly put out, my unwitting partner was livid. She spat a tirade of expletives Dave's way and made to throw a punch. But the chain tightened and she was pulled back, left swinging at fresh air, yelping as the cold metal bit her slender wrist. I winced too as my arm was almost yanked from its socket. "Fucking arsehole, let me go," she screamed and it was at that moment I realised she wasn't a Geordie like her four friends.
"No key till morning," replied Dave, and with that the group dispersed to leave the hen and I staring at one another in a mix of surprise and anger.
Worse was to come, however, a crowd having gathered around us, amused at our predicament. I felt myself reddening before being tugged away as she pushed through the wall of sinew and muscle to escape the catcalls. "Easy," I appealed, my wrist aching.
"The sooner we can get this off the better," she said coldly, dragging me away.
A hopeful request at the cloakroom brought wry looks but no hacksaw or other such tool that might free us. At the same time bemused looks continued to come from other clubbers as we moved past like a pair of Siamese twins. Guiding me to a sofa, she threw herself down, yanking my arm as she raised her hands to her face. "This is my worst nightmare," she sobbed.
"Oh, don't cry," I offered clumsily, reaching instinctively to her hair with my free hand.
"Don't touch me," she spat, exhibiting a violent look.
I reared back. "Look I'm sorry, but there isn't an awful lot we can do."
She curled up her lip. "Your friend is so dead when I get hold of him."
I concurred with the sentiment, adding: "At least morning isn't far off."
She wasn't appeased, her lip curling. I wasn't sure what to say next so I voiced the first thing that came into my head. "What's your name?"
The look she gave me couldn't have been any blacker if I'd asked her for a blowjob. It was going to be a long night.
Actually it was nearly four in the morning but I didn't suppose my best man was in a benevolent mood. Morning probably meant lunchtime and already this was as tiresome as hell. Considering the amount of alcohol I'd put away it was amazing how sober I'd become. As more onlookers shot more unsubtle glances our way, the girl moved our conjoined wrists out of sight, down by our sides. "Dawn," she said.
I turned. "What about it?"
"My name."
"Oh, right, um, hi Dawn, I'm Chris."
She pursed her lips in a forced show of greeting, clearly as frustrated as I was by the turn of events. "Some hen party this has turned out to be."
Yeah, and my stag do too, I thought, though I held my tongue in deference. It was my mate, after all, who'd orchestrated the stunt and I couldn't help but feel complicit. As more cruel smiles were issued our way, she stood, dragging me up with her. "Come on, we're leaving."
"Okay, well I suppose it would be a bit awkward if one of us pulled," I observed wryly, trying to lighten the tense mood a little and receiving a scowl for my trouble.
"Maybe there's a police station around here somewhere," she suggested as we passed the grinning bouncers before running the gauntlet of the baying queue, still drifting in despite the advanced hour.
"Just one sec," I said, pulling up sharp to remove the phone from my pocket.
Dawn had no choice but to obey.
Unsurprisingly the call went straight to voice. Nonetheless I left a message, more in hope than confidence. "Dave, this is Chris. Funny joke mate but let us go, hey. We're outside the club. Cheers mate."
Five minutes turned to ten and, when a further message went unheeded, we ambled away wounded. From the look on her face I wouldn't want to be in Dave's shoes when Dawn caught up with him. A paramedic van close by, waiting for the drunks to come piling out, could offer no assistance to our plight whilst the ten-minute walk to the police station saw it shrouded in deathly darkness. We were, it seemed, at Dave's mercy, locked together for as long as it took. "You know in years to come we'll laugh about this," I offered.
"You and your friends might," she replied defensively, turning on her heels.
I followed – not that I had much choice – away from the bright lights and prying eyes of clubland to the beach, its sand as soft as a bed of chick feathers. A large wooden jetty before us, Dawn led the way up. "At least up here no one can make fun of us, right?" she suggested.
Wrong, a couple of Spanish fishermen coming in the opposite direction grinned toothlessly as they passed. Dawn cowered at my side, cursing Dave and the handcuffs. A hundred yards of silence later we were at the very end, overlooking a calm sea in direct contrast to our turbulent moods. Dawn sat down, her legs overhanging and I of course had no option other than to do likewise, gazing out across the endless swell.
