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Prologue
Brendon
9:45 PMFRIDAY
When I told my fiancée that she should consider being more adventurous in bed, the last thing on my mind was opening our marriage to twelve fucking Chippendale dancers.
Guess I should’ve been more specific, huh?
But, no, my fiancée took a different route. Which is why I now find myself standing in the doorway of my own Vegas honeymoon suite, watching my wife slither around the bed with what looks like a dozen very oily and very naked male strippers.
Well, they’re not completely naked. They’re still wearing their tuxedo cuffs and bowties.
Fucking my fiancée is a formal affair, apparently. It’s a punch to the gut. There’s no pretending that it’s not.
One moment, I’m ready to put my bachelorhood behind me—ready to become the kind of man who can look himself in the mirror without wiping the makeup of last night’s one night stand off of it.
The next, I’m watching a male stripper wipe cum off my fiancée’s back and put his bachelorhood behind her, so to speak.
To be honest? Not my kink, not by a fucking long shot.
So I clear my throat and say, “Surprise, honey. I’m home.”
“Brendon!” Henrietta gasps in shock, her left tit in the mouth of a dark-haired stripper while she’s got her hands wrapped around a depressingly diminutive dick.
“If I knew you preferred small dicks,” I say in a voice so calm it scares even me, “I could’ve told you long ago it was never going to work with us.”
A few of the guys are smart enough to catch on to the fact that I just insulted them. Only a few, though. The others might not have even heard me, what with various cocks in their mouths, asses, and fists.
Henrietta tumbles off the bed and falls toward me. Her hair, which she’s normally very particular about having hairspray-helmeted in place, is a matted mess that can only be the result of a few hours already spent fucking this group of less-than-adequate guys.
Granted, this whole situation is far from normal. For me, at least.
For all I know, Henrietta might have been hosting orgies in our bedroom every time I had an away game.
I guess it’s true what they say: you never truly know someone until you walk in on them fucking a dozen strippers at once.
“It’s not what it looks like,” she pleads, clutching my shirt.
I’m not really sure she knows what those words mean—because I don’t know what else this could possibly be. She had another man’s cock in her ass. They’re not exactly holding a bake sale here.
I calmly peel her fingers off the fabric and place them at her side.
I reach over to the settee and grab a robe, throwing it at Henrietta so she can cover herself—more for my benefit than hers, honestly.
“It looks like you’re fucking a bed full of STDs the night before our wedding, babe. I think I get the picture, more or less.”
Quantity over quality never struck me as Henrietta’s M.O., but then again, neither did group sex.
“Hey man,” a blonde dude getting blown by another blonde dude says. “That’s a little uncalled-for.”
“Is it?” I raise an eyebrow. “Better safe than sorry, buddy.””
“I amsorry, Brendon. Please, can we talk about this?” As Henrietta cinches the robe at her waist, she has the decency to look embarrassed.
She turns around to survey the scene from my vantage point. She nervously chews on her fingernail for a moment before turning back to me.
“I…I…was getting tips from them,” she says. “You’re just so much more experienced than I am in the bedroom, so I wanted to learn a few things to please you.”
