20) A night of Hens.

20) A night of Hens.

The kitchen of Jon's house smells of Prosecco and perfume, sharp citrus from the bubbly cutting through layers of floral and vanilla.

Ten women crowd the space between the breakfast bar and the living room, their voices overlapping in the bright, chaotic register of pre-drunk laughter and merriment.

Empty bottles line the counter next to a bowl of chips nobody has touched.

Megan stands near the centre, her white cane folded against her chest, one hand wrapped around a plastic flute that Stacey keeps topping up. Even though Megan doesn't really want or need it topped up. Another cruel twist of fate that has been dealt to Megan. She can't see it being touched up and has to rely on her fingers to gauge the level of any liquid.

"There's another bottle in the fridge," Stacey loudly announces, already moving toward it.

Her leather mini dress catches the overhead light, the material pulling tight across her hips as she bends.

Fishnet stockings trace the lines of her calves. Stacey looks every bit the cheap slut, Stacey knows it and she dressed like this deliberately.

She pulls the Prosecco from the shelf and twists the wire cage.

"Mum, you want more?" Stacey asks loudly.

Anne holds up a hand from her perch on the arm of the sofa.

Her green sleeveless satin blouse dress bunches at the waist as she moves.

"I' m fine for now. Save some for the restaurant." Anne says back.

Sandra stands beside Anne, one hand on her hip, the wide red belt cinching her black dress at the waist. She watches the room with the quiet attention of someone cataloguing faces, her brown eyes tracking the movement of each woman. At sixty-one, she carries her curves with the unselfconscious ease of someone who stopped caring about mirrors years ago. She reaches for a glass of water on the counter and sips it slowly, her gaze settling on Megan.

Sandra and Megan had a unique relationship, Sandra had been assigned as Megan's support person when Megan finished high school and moved out to go to university, she still regularly visited Megan. Sandra considered Megan the daughter she never had and Megan described Sandra as her 'Second Mother.'

Sandra walks steadily over to Megan and stands close beside her.

"You alright, love? You've gone quiet." Sandra asks as she stands next to her.

Megan tilts her head, her blind glasses with their black opaque lenses reflecting the overhead bulb.

The plunging neckline of her little black dress exposes the pale upper curve of her cleavage, and the glitter on her bolero jacket catches with each shallow breath.

She is wearing the same outfit she wore when she had her first proper date with Jon.

"I'm fine. Just listening." Megan replies to Sandra.

"Okay love but this is YOUR night. So try to cheer up." Sandra says rubbing Megan's arm.

"Listening to what?" Ryann asks from across the room. She stands near the hallway, her white cane propped against the wall, a glass of white wine in her hand. Pink lipstick marks the rim.

Her white blouse is buttoned to the third button, the lace of her bustier visible beneath the fabric.

"All of you. It's loud." Megan replies smiling. Her diamond teardrop earrings swaying with every movement of her head.

Helen who like Ryann is also one of Megan's oldest friends from the school for the blind and her bridesmaid, sits on the sofa, legs crossed, her glittery red dress riding halfway up her thigh.

Her dark blonde waves fall past her shoulders, and her hands rest in her lap, fingers laced together.

She turns her head toward the sound of Megan's voice, her own blind eyes hidden behind the angle of her face.

"It's always loud when this lot get together." Helen says.

"You love it, You just won't admit it." Alison, who is Megan's closest work colleague says from the breakfast bar, where she leans with her ankles crossed.

Her ginger waves spill over one shoulder, the black wrap dress tied at her waist. She swirls the wine in her glass and takes a sip, her green eyes sharp above the rim.

Helen's mouth twitches.

"I might admit it. After another drink." Helen says smiling.

Elizabeth Cole stands by the window, her long blonde hair catching the last of the evening light. She holds a glass of sparkling water she's driving herself to the restaurant separately and watches the group with a soft, maternal expression.

Her black mini dress fits close to her slim figure, the black stockings catching light along her thighs. She adjusts the strap of her black and red heels and turns to look at Jon, who leans in the kitchen doorway.

Jon fills the frame. Six-one, broad across the shoulders, his dark blue short-sleeved shirt stretched across his chest. The silver aviators sit on top of his slicked-back blonde hair. He holds a beer, condensation running down the glass, and watches the chaos with the tolerant half-smile of a man who knows the house won't be his again until tomorrow.

Regretting his agreement that the house would the common start point for his stag night and Megan's hen night.

"You sure you don't want to come with us, Jon?" Isabella asks, crossing the kitchen in her five-inch red heels.

Her sparkly black mini dress, threaded with red lace, moves with her body. She stops in front of him, close enough that her perfume, coffee and something darker, something Colombian reaches him.

She places one hand on his shoulder, leans in, and presses her lips to his left cheek, then his right. The red lipstick leaves two faint marks on his skin.

"Somebody has to hold down the fort," Jon says. As he lifts his beer.

Isabella steps back, her brown eyes holding his for a beat longer than necessary.

"You keep telling yourself that." Isabella purrs.

Her red fingernails tap his shoulder once before she turns away.

Rosa, standing near the hallway with her wire-framed glasses and knee-length black dress, watches her sister with the quiet, observant stillness of a doctor waiting for lab results.

She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and says nothing.

Britney Jackson leans against the wall near the front door, her white blouse stretched across her 14DD bust, the black figure-hugging skirt tracing the line of her hips. Her gold bracelet catches the light as she checks her watch.

"What time is the van coming?" Britney asks the room.

"Seven-thirty, Which gives us Twelve minutes." Stacey says glancing at the clock.

"Twelve minutes," Anne repeats, and raises her glass.

"To the bride." Anne raises in toast.

Ten glasses lift. The chorus comes from every direction high voices, low ones, the bright clink of plastic against plastic.

Megan's glass comes up last, guided by Stacey's hand closing over hers.

"To Megan," Sandra adds, her voice lower, steadier. More serious.

Megan drinks. The Prosecco fizzes against her lip. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and laughs a real one, unguarded, her shoulders dropping.

The doorbell rings at seven twenty-eight.

Jon opens the door to a black Mercedes van, tinted windows, the driver in a dark suit.

He steps back to let the women past, and the hallway fills with the rustle of fabric and heels and the overlapping conversation of ten women coordinating their exit.

Stacey takes Megan's arm first, looping it through hers.

"Step down there's a lip." Stacey says as she guides her toward the van, her six-inch heels clicking on the path. Megan's cane extends, tapping the edge of the pavement, and she steps carefully, her four-inch heels finding the ground with the practised precision of someone who has learned to trust her feet.

Rosa moves to Helen's side.

"Come with me, Helen. Arm." Rosa says to Helen as she offers her elbow, and Helen takes it. Helen's glittery red dress catches the streetlight, her red heels clicking as they walk.

She grips Rosa's arm firmly she doesn't know Rosa well, but the offer is solid, and Helen's fingers read the shape of Rosa's forearm through her black dress.

Sandra crosses to Ryann.

"Here, love." She holds out her arm, and Ryann takes it, her white cane in her other hand. Her black leather skirt creaks as she moves. Sandra's heels are steady on the concrete she has done this before, guided someone who cannot see, and her pace adjusts without being asked.

The rest file out, Alison, her black wrap dress swinging at her knees, her red hair bright under the streetlamp. Anne, her green blouse dark in the shadow of the porch, her gold wedding ring glinting. Elizabeth, her blonde hair swinging behind her as she steps into the evening air. Isabella, her red heels precise on the path, her Colombian tan warm in the fading light. Rosa, guiding Helen, her wire-framed glasses reflecting the van's headlights. Britney, her gold earrings swinging, her red lipstick fresh.

The van's door opens. Leather seats, tinted windows, a sound system already humming with something low and rhythmic.

The interior smells of leather and a faint floral spray someone has prepared it. The women climb in, filling the seats, and the sound of buckles and laughter fills the confined space.

Jon stands in the doorway and watches the van pull away.

"Poor sod." He mutters to himself as the red of the taillights disappears around the corner, and then the street is quiet.

He turns back into the house.

The living room is suddenly empty. The chip bowl sits untouched. The Prosecco bottles line the bench like soldiers. The two lipstick marks on his cheek are drying, and he rubs at the left one with the back of his hand.

Mike is already on the sofa, his dark jeans creased at the knee, a beer in his hand. The scar on his left cheek catches the lamp's light. He looks up when Jon enters.

"They gone?" Mike asks.

"Yep." Jon replies.

"How long do we have?" Mike asks

"An hour or so." Jon says as he drops into the armchair opposite. His cargo pants bunch at the waist.

"The ride's not coming until half eight." Jon says.

Stephen stands by the window, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, the green satin tie loosened at his collar. His quiff catches the light, pomade gleaming. He turns the red rose buttonhole between his fingers.

"So we just wait?" Stephen asks.

"We wait, Could be worse " Mike confirms as he takes a long pull of his beer.

"Hmm, wanna play cards." Adam asks.

Mike and Stephen throwing cushions at Adam in response. The four men sit in the quiet. The house settles around them the tick of the kitchen clock, the hum of the fridge, the faint residual scent of ten women's perfumes lingering in the fabric of the curtains. ________________________________________

The van takes the roundabout at the edge of town, and the women sway in their seats. The sound system pushes something with a bass line that vibrates through the leather.

Megan sits in the back corner, Stacey beside her, their arms linked. The pink sash lolly-pink, satin, the words 'Bride to Be' printed in silver script drapes across Megan's chest from her right shoulder to her left hip. Stacey pins it on her outside the restaurant, her fingers working the safety catch with the efficiency of someone who has pinned a hundred name badges.

"You look ridiculous," Stacey says, but her voice is warm.

"I can't see it, so I'll take your word." Megan touches the satin. The texture is smooth, slick under her fingertips. She reads the raised print with her fingernail, letter by letter.

"B-R-I-D-E." Megan says with a contented sigh.

"Very good. You want a sticker?" Stacey asks sarcastically.

"Shut up." Megan growls at her sister.

Laughter ripples through the van.

Alison, seated two rows ahead, turns around.

"I can see the restaurant from here. La Dolce Vita. The sign's lit up." Alison says.

Megan sighs happily.

The van pulls to the kerb. The door opens, and the warm evening air rolls in, carrying the smell of garlic and fresh bread.

The women climb out, heels clicking on the pavement, and file through the restaurant's front door.

La Dolce Vita is exactly what the name promises soft lighting, intimate booths, the rich aroma of cream and wine and basil.

A waiter in a black apron guides them to a long table at the back, and they arrange themselves in a chaos of elbows and handbags. Menus appear. Wine lists appear. Including three in braille. The sound level rises as the gaggle of girls sit and talk.

Megan sits at the head of the table, Stacey to her right, Helen to her left. Across from them, Alison studies the wine list with the focused intensity of someone who treats alcohol selection as an academic exercise. Her green eyes scan the page. She points at something and looks up at the waiter.

"The Chianti. Two bottles. And the arancini to start." Alison orders commandingly.

"Make it three bottles," Sandra says from the far end of the table. She sits beside Anne, their shoulders nearly touching, and her fingers tap the tablecloth in a steady rhythm.

"You trying to get me drunk, Sands?" Anne asks, her green eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I'm trying to get me drunk. You're just collateral." Sandra replies.

Britney sits across from Rosa, her gold bracelet clinking against the table as she sets her wine glass down. She adjusts her white blouse, the fabric pulling across her bust, and leans forward. "So. Megan. How are you feeling? Nervous?" Britney asks.

Megan turns her head toward the sound of Britney's voice.

"Excited. And a bit sick, honestly. I think it's the Prosecco." Megan replies.

"It's definitely the Prosecco, You've had four glasses since six o'clock." Stacey confirms.

"Five, I counted " Britney corrects from further down the table. Her pink lips curve.

"You counted?" Helen's voice is soft, amused.

She sits with her hands in her lap, her dark blonde waves falling forward. She turns her head toward the sound of the table toward the clink of glasses, the murmur of the waiter, the rustle of menus. Her glittery red dress catching the soft lighting.

"I count everything, It's a habit." Britney says

Elizabeth sits at the far end of the table, her long blonde hair spilling over the back of the chair. She orders a pasta the waiter writes it down and watches the group with her striking blue eyes, her expression soft, a little wistful.

She sips her water and listens.

Isabella, beside her sister, orders in a voice that carries.

"The carbonara. Extra pepper. And a glass of the Barolo." Isabella orders. Her red fingernails tap the table. She leans toward Rosa and says something in Spanish, too fast and too low for anyone else to catch. Rosa pushes her glasses up and nods once.

The food arrives in waves. Creamy pasta, garlic bread, arancini balls that steam when broken open.

The wine flows. Two bottles become three, then four. The conversation shifts louder, looser, the careful social masks of the first hour slipping.

Megan's cheeks flush pink. She reaches for her glass and misses by an inch, her fingers finding the stem after a moment's search. Stacey moves it closer without comment.

"Megan," Alison says, leaning forward, her voice carrying the particular edge of someone three glasses past polite.

"Scale of one to ten. How good is Jon in bed?" Alison asks openly.

"Yes tell us more Amiga, how is he in the sack?" Isabella plainly, playfully asks.

The table goes quiet for half a second. Then Sandra snorts. Anne's eyes widen. Helen turns her head sharply toward the sound of Alison's voice, her lips parting.

Megan's blush deepens. She opens her mouth, closes it, and then her face cracks into a grin that she tries and fails to suppress.

"I'm not answering that." Megan says flatly.

"You have to answer that," Britney says, her red lips curving.

She leans back in her chair, one arm draped over the backrest, her wedding and engagement rings catching the light.

"It's your hen night. It's the law." Britney teases.

"It is absolutely the law," Stacey agrees, raising her glass.

Megan covers her face with both hands. The sash shifts across her chest.

She drops her hands sighs and says, clearly and deliberately,

"Twelve. Maybe fifteen." Megan says rather embarrassed.

The table erupts. Sandra slaps the tablecloth. Anne covers her mouth. Britney throws her head back and laughs, her blonde waves swinging. Isabella bangs her palm on the table and says something loud and quick in Spanish that makes Rosa cover her face with both hands.

Helen is very still. Her fingers lace tighter together in her lap. She knows about Jon knows him in a way that Megan has told her. She knows that Megan isn't exaggerating and her face gives away nothing, but her knuckles are white.

Stacey notices. She watches Helen for a beat, then looks away. She picks up her wine glass and drains it.

The dinner is served with much girl talk and laughter, Starters, Mains, Desserts and wine, or in Isabella's case, Rum.

After dinner, the van takes them to a nightclub. The bass hits them before they even reach the door a deep, physical thing that vibrates through the soles of their shoes. The bouncer waves them through, and the women pour into the dark, crowded space. Strobe lights cut through the haze of a fog machine. The bar is three deep.

As usual a throng of men make a beeline for Isabella, Rosa is ignored by the men, Sandra sits in a corner feeling out of place, Anne, Britney and Alison mingle on the dancefloor.

Stacey pulls Megan onto the dance floor. Stacey stands behind her sister, hands on her hips, guiding her into the rhythm.

Megan moves she is flexible, her body responsive to the bass, particularly after weeks of free Latin dance classes with Isabella, and she finds the beat with an instinct that surprises no one who knows her.

Her black dress catches the strobe, the glitter on her bolero sparking white. The sash rides across her chest. Her red hair swings.

Helen dances near them, her glittery red dress a small constellation in the dark. She moves with the careful, listening precision of a blind woman tracking music by sound alone her body finds the rhythm through her feet, through the vibration in the floor, through the pressure of bodies around her. Her eyes stay closed behind her glasses. Her hips roll.

Ryann finds her way to the bar. She orders a shot of tequila and downs it, her olive skin flushing. She orders a second.

Her white cane leans against the bar beside her, and she reaches for it before moving back toward the floor, tapping ahead.

Alison dances alone. Her black wrap dress shifts with her body, the tie at her waist loosening. She moves with the aggressive, confrontational energy that defines everything she does, sharp, deliberate, her red hair swinging.

She catches the eye of a man watching from the edge of the floor and looks through him, past him, as if he were furniture.

Britney dances with Isabella. The two women move together, Britney's height and Isabella's compact athleticism creating a contrast that draws glances. Britney's gold earrings swing. Isabella's red heels catch the light each time she turns. She moves the way only a woman who has danced since she was three can move, with the unconscious grace of someone whose body is her first language. And her fully rhythmic dance style accentuated by hip and butt movements combined with occasional breast swinging from side to side. Punctuated by occasional body rubbing with Britney, buttocks to buttocks. With many males intently watching.

Anne and Sandra find a booth. Anne orders gin and tonics. Sandra sits across from her, her red belt catching the purple light, and watches the dance floor with the expression of a woman who has seen enough nightlife to fill a book.

"You going to dance?" Anne asks.

"Give me another drink." Sandra picks up her gin.

"Then maybe." Sandra continues.

Elizabeth stands at the edge of the floor, her blonde hair catching the blue light.

She watches Jon's fiancée dance, her son's future wife, and her expression is soft, careful, the expression of a mother measuring a moment she knows she cannot hold.

After an hour or so Alison and Stacey gather the remaining girls up and lead them back to the van, waiting to pick them up. Their next destination is a male strip club.

The Sapphire Lounge opens at eleven. The van drops them at the discreet side entrance, and a woman in a black blazer checks their names and waves them through.

The door opens onto a different world.

The lounge is designed for women. The lighting is soft, warm, amber and gold. A main stage dominates the room, its surface polished, a pole catching the light.

Booths line the walls, each one draped in velvet. The bar curves along the back wall, backlit with amber glass.

The air smells of premium cocktails and exotic perfume, something dark, something musky, layered beneath the sweetness.

A hostess guides them to a booth near the front. The large booth near the stage so close it is just about on the stage. It is the booth reserved especially for hen nights.

The women slide in, hips pressing together, the confined space forcing proximity.

Stacey sits at the edge, one leg crossed over the other, her fishnet stockings catching the light. Megan sits beside her, the pink sash bright against her black dress.

A waiter appears. Cocktail menus appear. The orders come fast, cosmopolitans, mojitos, and something called a Sapphire Special that involves vodka, elderflower, and prosecco.

The first dancer takes the stage. He is tall, dark-skinned, wearing a fireman's costume that is already half-unbuttoned.

The music shifts something slow, heavy, a bass line that matches a heartbeat. He moves across the stage with a controlled precision, rolling his hips, peeling the suspenders from his shoulders. The women in the booth lean forward.

Britney's blue eyes track him. Her red lips part. She reaches for her cocktail and takes a long sip, her gaze never leaving the stage. Her gold bracelet slides down her wrist.

Isabella leans forward, her elbows on the table, her chin on her hands. Her brown eyes are bright, her red lips curved. "Oh, I like this one, even though he is one or two steps behind the music." she says, loud enough for the booth to hear. Her professional dancing teacher's eye coming to the fore.

"He's alright," Sandra says from the back of the booth. She sips her gin. Her brown eyes move across the dancer's body with the clinical assessment of a woman who has seen it all before. "The one coming on after him, though." Sandra continues.

"How do you know what the next one looks like?" Anne asks.

"I don't. I'm optimistic." Sandra replies.

Laughter. Megan turns her head toward the sound, toward the music, toward the heavy beat that she can feel through the velvet seat.

She reaches for Stacey's hand and squeezes it.

"Tell me what he looks like." Megan asks Stacey. A question quickly repeated by Helen to Rosa and Ryann to Alison.

Stacey leans close. Her lips brush Megan's ear.

"Tall. Dark. Fireman outfit, but it's coming off. He's got abs. Really defined abs. And he's doing this thing with his hips." Stacey says describing the show to Megan.

"Describe the hip thing." Megan asks.

Stacey grins. She can feel Megan's shoulder shaking against hers.

"Like he's fucking the air. Slow. Rolling." Stacey continues.

Megan's blush is visible even in the amber light. She presses her face into Stacey's shoulder and makes a sound that might be a groan.

The dancer finishes his set to applause.

The second one comes out a blonde, built like a swimmer, wearing a police costume.

Alison straightens in her seat. Her green eyes narrow. Her fingers tighten on her glass.

"That's ironic," Alison says, and the edge in her voice cuts. Alison knows what Jon looks like and what his former occupation was.

"You okay, Ali?" Ryann asks from beside her, her head tilted, her pink lips curving.

"Fine." Alison watches the dancer peel the uniform shirt from his shoulders.

"Just thinking about how much I hate men in uniform." Alison replies.

"Sure you are," Ryann says, and her smile widens.

The drinks keep coming. The booth gets warmer. The dancers rotate, a soldier, a construction worker, a man in a suit who removes it piece by piece with a slowness that makes the entire booth inhale. A surgeon with a white coat and scrubs, only leaving his face mask on.

Elizabeth watches him with her blue eyes, her expression carefully composed, her fingers wrapped around her glass.

Rosa, beside her, pushes her glasses up and watches with the quiet intensity of someone taking mental notes.

Helen sits at the end of the booth, her hands in her lap. She listens. The music, the applause, the gasps and laughter and the wet sound of cocktail glasses being set down. Her glittery red dress catches the amber light. Her face is flushed, and her lips are parted, and her fingers press together hard.

The dancer in the suit approaches the edge of the stage. He kneels, rolls his hips forward, and the women in the booth lean in. Britney reaches out. Her gold bracelet slides down her wrist. Her red fingernails brush his chest, and he catches her hand, holds it, presses it flat against his pectoral. The muscle is warm, solid.

Britney's breath catches. Her blue eyes widen. She pulls her hand back and presses it flat against her own thigh, her fingers spread wide.

"Fuck," she says, quietly, to no one.

Isabella laughs. She leans forward and reaches for the dancer herself, her red fingernails splayed.

He moves to her, and she runs her hand down his abdomen, her Colombian tan dark against his skin. She says something in Spanish, low and fast, and the dancer grins.

Stacey watches Megan's face. Megan's lips are parted. Her breathing is shallow. Her hand grips Stacey's knee under the table.

"You want to touch one?" Stacey asks, her mouth close to Megan's ear.

Megan's grip tightens. She shakes her head. Then she nods. Then she shakes her head again.

"I'll take that as a yes," Stacey says.

The next dancer comes out a redheaded man in a kilt, broad-shouldered, with a jaw like a recruitment poster. He moves across the stage and drops into a split that makes the entire booth gasp. Sandra leans forward.

"Now that's what I'm talking about." Her voice is low, approving. Anne, beside her, fans herself with a cocktail napkin.

"He's very flexible," Anne says.

"That's one word for it." Sandra says her eyes don't leave the stage.

The kilt comes off. Underneath, a pair of black briefs and thighs that look like they were carved from something expensive.

The dancer approaches the booth, and the hostess motions for him. He slides off the stage, walks to the booth, and leans over the velvet rope.

Megan sits very still. Her hand finds Stacey's wrist and holds it.

The dancer takes Megan's hand. He places it on his chest. Her fingertips read the landscape--collarbone, pectoral, the ridge of his abdomen. Her touch is slow, careful, the touch of someone who sees with her hands. The sash glows pink under the amber light. Her red hair falls forward, hiding her face.

The booth goes quiet. In fact the whole place quietens.

Helen listens. She hears the music, the breathing, the soft rustle of fabric. She doesn't know what Megan is touching, but she can hear the shape of the moment the hush, the attention, the collective intake of breath. Her own breath comes faster. Her hands press flat against her thighs.

Megan pulls her hand back. Her face is flushed to the roots of her red hair. She presses both palms against her cheeks and makes a sound half laugh, half something else.

The ginger haired highlander flashes a smile and guides Megan's hand down to the waistband of his briefs.

"Giv it a tug luv." He says his accent somewhere between Scottish and Irish.

"A wedding gift from one Ginge to another." He jokes.

Megan tugs on his briefs and they come apart and away as the Velcro gives way, exposing his exposed crotch and his ginger pubes inches away from Megan.

There is a loud explosion of cheers and shouts from all the women, as Megan's hand feels his cock, intentionally or not.

Megan gasps as she realises what her fingers have in their embrace. The dancer stands for a few minutes, then leaves.

Megan fans herself with her hand.

"Right, I need another drink." Megan says, her voice unsteady.

Stacey signals the waiter.

The booth erupts into laughter and commentary and the particular chaos of ten women processing a shared experience.

Britney fans herself with her hand. Isabella orders another round. Rosa pushes her glasses up and says, "Interesting," in the tone of a doctor reviewing a case study.

The night is far from over. The dancers keep coming. The drinks keep flowing. And somewhere across town, Jon, Adam and Stephen embark on their own night out.

And his fiancé and his entourage continue.

The three eldest women among them, Anne, Elizabeth and Sandra move unannounced to the rest of their group, to the VIP room.

The three eldest women move slowly stealthily away from the rest of their group towards the VIP room.

The VIP room where if you have the cash, things both advertised and not advertised can be 'purchased.'

The velvet curtain falls shut behind them, muffling the bass throb of the main floor into something distant and dreamlike.

The private room is smaller than Anne expected it's no wider than her bedroom at home, walls draped in deep burgundy velvet that catches the amber wall-sconces and throws the light back in warm, flickering patterns.

A low sectional couch curves along one wall, upholstered in something black and soft. A single chrome pole stands near the centre, unused, reflecting the gold-tinted glow like a lazy sundial.

Kyle stands between them and the door, one hand still holding the curtain tie-back, his chest rising and falling a little too quickly. The police costume fits him like a second skin cheap blue fabric stretched across lean shoulders, the fake badge catching the light every time he breathes. His sun-bleached hair falls in messy strands across his forehead, and his jaw is smooth, boyish, the kind of face that still looks like it should be carded at a bar.

Anne lowers herself onto the couch, crossing her legs at the ankle, her gin and tonic balanced on one knee. She takes a slow sip, watching Kyle over the rim of the glass the way she used to watch witnesses on the stand steady, unhurried, letting the silence do the work.

Sandra settles beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch. She sets her own drink, whiskey down on the side table with a decisive clink, then leans back, the large red belt cutting her black dress at the waist like a statement of intent. Her brown eyes move over Kyle's body with the practised ease of someone who has seen hundreds of men undress if is she cataloguing, appraising, remembering.

Elizabeth stands a moment longer, her black stockinged legs catching the amber light, the black and red heels adding inches to her already tall frame.

Her long blonde hair cascades over one shoulder, and she reaches up to tuck a strand behind her ear a small, almost maternal gesture that looks strange in this context. Then she sits on Kyle's other side, smoothing her black mini dress over her thighs.

Three women. One man. The arithmetic is not in his favour.

"So, You do private shows." Anne says, swirling the ice in her glass.

Kyle's mouth twitches.

"I do whatever the ladies want." His voice is steady enough, but his fingers keep touching the fake badge on his chest, turning it like a worry stone. His reply laced with innuendo, meaning other things are available discretely.

"Whatever we want?" Sandra repeats, and the word lands in the room like a dropped glove.

Elizabeth tilts her head.

"Why don't you start by taking that silly badge off. And the shirt." Elizabeth says, noting to herself that Kyle and her son, Jon look remarkably similar.

Kyle's hands go to the top button.

His fingers are steady now muscle memory taking over, the routine of the stage reasserting itself. He pops each button slowly, revealing a flat, toned and tanned stomach and a chest that is lean rather than broad, the kind of build that comes from pull-ups and youth rather than a gym.

No hair on his chest. Smooth skin, lightly golden.

Anne watches him shrug the shirt off. She takes another sip of gin.

"Lose the pants," Sandra says, her voice carrying easy authority.

She uncrosses her legs, and the hem of her black dress slides up a thick, pale thigh.

Kyle steps out of the costume trousers, and now he is standing in a white jockstrap that does nothing to hide him.

His cock sits inside the pouch, the outline visible--decent, certainly, but not the kind of bulk that makes a woman's breath catch, the head just barely pressing against the stretch of the fabric.

Elizabeth leans forward.

"Come here," she says, and her voice is softer than the others, almost gentle, the way she used to sound when Jon was small and she was coaxing him to eat his vegetables.

But her blue eyes are not gentle at all.

Kyle steps closer, and Elizabeth reaches out, hooking one finger into the waistband of the jockstrap. She tugs it forward, then lets it snap back against his hip.

He flinches, with a small intake of breath.

"Not bad," Anne says from the couch.

She sets her glass down and leans forward, elbows on her knees, chin on her linked fingers.

"But I've seen bigger." Anne continues.

"Haven't we all?" Sandra snorts.

"No," Anne says, and her voice drops into something quieter, more deliberate.

"I mean I have seen bigger. Recently." Anne continues.

Elizabeth's fingers pause on the jockstrap waistband. She looks at Anne. Sandra's head turns.

"Jon," Anne says.

The name drops into the room like a stone into still water.

Elizabeth's hand goes still. Her son's name, spoken in this context, in this room, by this woman and the unspoken implication fills the space between them.

"Anne," Elizabeth says, and there is a warning edge to it.

"Don't look at me like that, Liz. You know why I did it." Anne shifts on the couch, uncrossing her legs, recrossing them the other way.

"Megan is blind. She is vulnerable. I needed to know the man she was marrying could," Anne says.

"Could what, exactly?" Elizabeth's voice is tight now, her hand still on Kyle's jockstrap, knuckles pale.

"Could take care of her. In every way." Anne meets Elizabeth's gaze without flinching.

"Oh." Sandra interjects.

"Including in bed." Anne continues.

Sandra lets out a low whistle.

"You fucked your daughter's fiancé?" Sandra asks, surprised.

"I tested him, There is a difference." Anne corrects.

Kyle stands between them, half-naked, forgotten for the moment.

His eyes dart between the three women like a man watching a tennis match.

"And?" Sandra leans back, a slow grin spreading across her face.

"How was the test?" Sandra asks as she continues.

Anne picks up her gin and tonic again. She takes a long sip. Then she sets the glass down and reaches for Kyle's jockstrap, pulling it forward to peer inside.

"Well, he is bigger than this one, Significantly." she says coyly smiling.

Kyle's jaw tightens, just barely.

"How much bigger?" Sandra asks, and there is something in her voice now something hungry and professional at once, her old instincts waking up.

"Twelve inches." Anne lets the jockstrap snap back.

"Thick. He fucked me on my own bed, on my back, and I could feel him in my throat from the inside." Anne explains

Anne says this in the way she once delivered closing arguments measured, precise, devastating.

"I came three times. He made me squirt, which has not happened in thirty years of marriage. And then he came across my face and tits, and I swallowed what I could." Anne explains matter of factly.

The room is very still. Quiet.

Elizabeth's hand trembles on Kyle's hip. She pulls it away, presses her palm flat against her own thigh.

"That's my son you're talking about," she says quietly.

"Yes," "Your son, who is about to marry my blind daughter. I needed to know he was real. That he could satisfy her. That he was not some boy pretending to be a man. He is very much a man." Anne says as she looks at Elizabeth.

Kyle clears his throat.

"Ladies, if you want to talk about." Kyle says brokenly.

"Nobody told you to speak," Sandra says, not looking at him. She is still staring at Anne.

"Three times?" Elizabeth asks.

"Three times, And I would have gone again if he had not had to leave." Anne confirms.

Sandra makes a sound low in her throat.

She turns to Kyle and looks at him with new eyes not disappointment, exactly, but recalibration. The expression of a woman adjusting her expectations downward.

"Well," Sandra says.

"You heard the lady. You are not the biggest we have had. But you are here, and he is not. so" Sandra says and she stands, her curvy frame unfolding from the couch, the red belt catching the light.

"Let's see what you can do with what you have got." Sandra says as she walks the few steps closer to Kyle.

She reaches for Kyle's jockstrap and pulls it down in one smooth motion, baring him completely. His cock springs free seven, perhaps almost eight inches, the head flushed and already half-hard. It is a nice cock, objectively. Clean lines, good proportion. But it is not twelve inches, and all three of them know it.

"Hands and knees on the couch," Sandra says, pointing. Her tone dominant.

Kyle obeys, climbing onto the sectional and positioning himself on all fours, his small round arse facing the women. The cheeks are pale and firm, the skin smooth, the cleft tight. Anne can see the faintest shadow of his hole when she tilts her head.

"Look at that, Like a peach " Anne says, and her agile tongue traces her lower lip.."

Elizabeth reaches out first. Her palm lands on his right cheek with a crack that makes Kyle's hips buck forward. The sound bounces off the velvet walls.

"Goodness," Elizabeth murmurs, and her hand comes down again, harder this time, the flat of her palm print blooming pink on his pale skin.

Kyle grunts, his fingers clenching into the couch cushions.

Sandra takes the left cheek. Her hand is heavier, the blow more practised, and Kyle's whole body jerks.

"Mmm, Firm little arse on him." Sandra says, rubbing the reddening skin with her thumb.

Anne finishes her gin and sets the glass aside. She stands, her black leather shoes clicking on the floor, and walks to where Kyle's head hangs over the arm of the couch. She reaches down and takes his jaw in one hand, tilting his face up to hers.

"Open your mouth," she says. Her tone broaching no argument or discussion.

Kyle opens. Anne leans down and spits into his mouth slowly, deliberately, the strand of saliva stretching from her lip to his tongue. Kyle swallows. His cock, hanging between his thighs, twitches and fills another degree.

"He likes that," Sandra observes from behind him, watching his cock thicken.

"Someone's done this before." Elizabeth adds gleefully.

Anne straightens and walks around the couch. She stops beside Sandra, and the two of them stand side by side, looking down at Kyle's upturned arse and his hanging balls and his stiffening cock.

"Liz, Come here." Anne says

Elizabeth joins them. Three women, all old enough to be his mother standing over a half-naked twenty-three-year-old on all fours, his arse pink from spanking, his cock jutting toward the cushions.

"I'll go first," Sandra says. She does not ask. She demands.

She reaches behind her own back, finds the zip of her black dress, and pulls it down. The fabric pools at her feet, and she steps out of it in her lacy black bra and panties and high heels. Her body is curvy, full, a size twelve with DD breasts that strain the lace, her skin medium-toned, her dark areolas visible through the fabric. Her untrimmed pubic hair curls at the edges of her panties.

Sandra continues and she reaches behind and unclasps the bra, letting it fall.

Her big tits sway free, the large dark areolas and nipples already tight. She shimmies out of the panties and stands naked except for her heels her hairy cunt on full display, the dark curls thick and untrimmed.

Kyle stares between his legs at the thick bush of hair between Sandra's thighs. His cock reaches full hardness, standing straight out from his body, seven and a half inches of flesh.

"On your back," Sandra says.

Kyle flips over. Sandra climbs onto the couch, straddling him, and reaches down to position his cock at her entrance. She is wet Anne can see it, the slick sheen on her inner thighs, the way the hair is matted and dark with moisture.

Sandra sinks down onto him in one slow, grinding motion.

Kyle's head falls back, his mouth open, a groan pulling from his chest. Sandra's big tits sway as she begins to ride, her hips rolling in deep, practised circles, the kind of movement that comes from decades of knowing exactly what angle works.

"Oh, that's a nice cock," Sandra breathes, and her voice is low and rough.

"Not twelve inches, but it fills me up just fine." Sandra says huskily.

She grinds forward, her clit pressed against his pubic bone, her big dark nipples pointing at his face.

"Mmm, yes. Right there. Right fucking there." Sandra moans.

Kyle's hands find her hips, his fingers pressing into her pale flesh, and he starts to thrust up into her. The sound of their fucking fills the room. It is wet, rhythmic and obscene.

Anne watches, her eyes fixed on the point of connection, on the thick cock sliding in and out of Sandra's hairy cunt, the shaft glistening with her juices.

She reaches down and pulls her own green blouse up over her head, and drops her black pants down, revealing her black bra and panties underneath.

Her slim body is pale, a few freckles scattered across her décolletage, her small C-cup breasts barely filling the black bra.

Elizabeth is already stepping out of her heels when Anne turns to look. The black mini dress slides off her shoulders, and she unhooks her black demi bra, freeing her large breasts full and heavy, the nipples pale pink, are already stiff. She rolls her black stockings down one by one, then slides her panties off, standing naked, blonde and tall, her slim build curved with generous hips and those striking breasts.

"Your turn will come," Anne says to Elizabeth, and her voice is warm. Then she turns back to watch Sandra ride.

Sandra is close. Her movements have lost their smooth rhythm, becoming jerky, desperate. Her big tits bounce heavily, and her mouth is open, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

"AH! AH! YES! YES! FUCK! RIGHT THERE! DON'T STOP! DON'T YOU DARE STOP!" Sandra cries Her voice climbing, her thighs clenching around Kyle's hips, and then she breaks, her whole body shuddering, her cunt clenching and spasming on his cock. She rides out the orgasm with deep, grinding rolls, her head thrown back, her dark hair cascading down her spine. Sweat on her forehead.

"Good girl," Anne says, and the words are soft, almost maternal, but her eyes are anything but.

Sandra lifts herself off Kyle with a wet popping sound, his cock sliding free, slick and twitching. She sits back on her heels, breathing hard.

"He didn't cum," Elizabeth observes.

"No, He didn't. Your turn Anne." Sandra says looking at Anne.

Anne unhooks her black bra and drops it. Her small breasts sit high on her chest C-cup, barely any sag, the light pink nipples tight and stiff in the cool air.

She pushes her black panties down, stepping out of them, and her full untrimmed ginger bush comes into view, the red curls bright against her pale skin.

Kyle notices and his cock twitches.

Anne does not climb onto Kyle's cock.

Instead, she walks to the head of the couch and lifts one leg, planting her foot on the armrest near his face. Her cunt is inches from his mouth, the ginger curls dark with her own wetness, the scent of her arousal thick and musky.

"Use your tongue, I want to see if you can eat pussy as well as Jon can." she says.

Kyle cranes his neck forward, his tongue extending, and Anne watches it slide through her ginger curls, parting the wet hair, finding her slit. He licks upward, a long slow stroke from her opening to her clit, and Anne's thigh tenses against the armrest.

"Not bad," she says.

"But Jon would have had me shaking by now." She reaches down with one hand, her fingers threading into Kyle's messy blonde hair, and pulls his face harder against her cunt.

"Deeper. Get your tongue inside me." Anne commands.

Kyle obeys, his tongue pushing into her entrance, fucking in and out, his chin pressed against her, his nose buried in her red curls. Anne's hips begin to roll, grinding her cunt against his mouth. Her agile toes curl against the floor, her small heels forgotten somewhere behind her.

"Mmm, there we go," she breathes. As Kyle starts in earnest.

"That's it. Lick that cunt. Get it nice and wet." Anne curses.

She looks down at him, at his blonde head between her thighs, and her green eyes are sharp. "Jon ate me for forty minutes straight before he even put his cock inside me. Made me cum twice just with his tongue. Can you match that? Can you?" Anne asks mockingly.

Kyle makes a muffled sound against her cunt, his tongue working harder, swirling over her clit now in tight circles. Anne's hips stutter, and her grip on his hair tightens.

"He also has this thing he does," Anne says, her voice going breathy,

"where he puts two fingers inside and curves them up like this." Anne says as she demonstrates with her free hand, sliding two fingers into her own mouth, curling them, showing the motion. "Hits something inside that makes me, oh, oh fuck. Anne cries out.

Kyle has found her clit. His tongue is pressing flat against it, vibrating, and Anne's lecture falters. Her thigh trembles. Her fingers in his hair go tight enough to pull his head back, exposing his wet chin, his flushed cheeks.

"Don't stop," she says demandingly, and her voice has lost its courtroom authority. It is raw now, stripped bare.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING STOP. DON'T YOU DARE FUCKING STOP." Anne commands.

He does not stop. His tongue works her clit in fast, tight strokes, and Anne's whole body goes rigid. Her hips lock against his face, her thigh shakes, and a sound comes from her throat--high, thin, almost surprised.

"OH! OH! OH! FUCK!, YES!, YES!, RIGHT THERE! I'M! AH!, AH!, AHHH!" Anne suddenly cries out.

Her orgasm hits like a wave breaking. Her cunt spasms against his mouth, and she grinds through it, her fingers pulling his hair hard enough to make his eyes water. When she finally steps back, her inner thighs are glistening, and Kyle's face is soaked with her juices.

"Acceptable," Anne says, but her voice is shaking.

She walks to the centre of the couch and climbs on, positioning herself on her hands and knees beside Kyle, her pale arse in the air, her ginger bush visible from behind, her small pink asshole winking.

"Now fuck me," she says.

"And do not be gentle." Anne continues.

Kyle moves behind her. His cock, still hard, still slick with Sandra's juices, presses against Anne's entrance. She is wet enough that he slides in with one thrust, burying all seven and a half inches inside her, and they both groan.

"Ah! you're tight," Kyle gasps.

"I'm sixty-one, not dead," Anne snaps back.

"Now fuck me properly boy." Anne says to Kyle tauntingly as Sandra and Elizabeth look on.

"You, You're older than my grannie." Kyle stammers.

"Just fuck me." Anne says in a commanding almost belittling tone.

He does. His hips pull back and slam forward, his small round arse clenching with each thrust, the sound of their skin meeting filling the room. Anne pushes back against him, her hips meeting his, her small tits swaying beneath her.

Sandra, recovered now, moves behind Kyle. She reaches between his legs and cups his balls, squeezing gently, and Kyle's rhythm stutters.

"And the arse, Someone should " Anne says, her voice thick.

Sandra does not need to be told twice. She spits into her palm, rubs it over her fingers, and reaches between Kyle's cheeks. Her middle finger finds his asshole and presses, circling, teasing the tight ring of muscle.

Kyle groans, his cock buried in Anne, his hips jerking.

"I, I fuck" Kyle tries to say as Sandra starts probing his arse.

"Relax," Sandra says, and her finger pushes inside, past the first knuckle, then the second. Kyle's whole body shudders, and his cock throbs deep inside Anne.

"See how he likes that," Anne says, her voice ragged.

"Jon took my arse like a man. Let's see if this boy can take it too." Anne says almost daring Kyle to do it too.

Sandra works her finger deeper, curling it, searching. She finds the bump of his prostate and presses.

Kyle shouts in a raw, broken sound and his hips slam forward into Anne so hard that she gasps. His cock pulses inside her, and Sandra can feel the contractions through her finger in his arse.

"Not yet," Sandra says, pulling her finger free and slapping his arse hard enough to leave a mark. "You don't cum until we have all had our turn." Sandra says condescendingly.

Elizabeth steps forward. She has been watching, her blue eyes dark, her large breasts rising and falling with her quickened breath.

Now she moves to the couch, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, and positions herself in front of Kyle.

"My turn," she says quietly.

Kyle pulls out of Anne, his cock emerging wet and twitching. Elizabeth lies back on the couch, her long legs spreading, her large pale breasts settling to either side, her cunt exposed and slick. She has been watching for long enough that her arousal is evident her inner thighs shine with the evidence of it.

Kyle crawls between her thighs. His cock, still hard, slides through her wetness, and Elizabeth reaches down to guide him inside.

He enters her slowly inch by inch and Elizabeth's breath catches.

"Oh, Oh, that's." Elizabeth says, and it is a small sound, almost private.

Kyle begins to move, his lean body flexing over her, his hips rolling in deep strokes.

Elizabeth's long legs wrap around his lower back, her stockinged feet she has kept the stockings on, Anne notices crossing at the ankles, her black and red heels digging into the air.

"Deeper, All the way in " Elizabeth whispers in encouragement.

"Yes go DEEPER." Sandra says smacking his right arse cheek.

"Yes and HARDER." Anne says smacking his left arse cheek.

Kyle pushes, bottoming out, his balls pressed against her arse.

Elizabeth's back arches, her large breasts lifting, her blonde hair fanning across the couch cushions.

Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, and the soft, nurturing expression she usually wears has been replaced by something raw and hungry.

"FUCK ME! FUCK ME HARDER!" she says her voice taking on a demanding tone.

Kyle obeys. His hips snap faster, the wet sound of their coupling fills the room, and Elizabeth's moans climb, low and breathy at first, then louder, more throaty, more urgent.

Anne, recovered now, moves behind Kyle. She kneels on the couch, her slim body behind his, and reaches around to grab his arse with both hands. She squeezes his small round cheeks, spreads them, and leans forward to spit directly onto his exposed asshole.

. "What!" Kyle gasps, his rhythm breaking

"Keep fucking her, This is mine " Anne says.

She presses her thumb against his rim, circling, pushing, and Kyle's whole body shudders. His cock throbs inside Elizabeth, and he thrusts harder, deeper, his hips moving on instinct now.

Anne pushes her thumb inside, feeling the tight heat of him clench around her, and Kyle lets out a strangled sound. Sandra appears beside them, reaching under to squeeze his balls, and the combined sensation.

Anne's thumb in his arse, Sandra's hand on his balls, Elizabeth's cunt wrapped around his cock has him shaking.

"Don't cum, Not yet." Sandra says her voice firm.

"I can't, I'm going to, to." Kyles gasps."

"You can and you will wait," Anne says, and her thumb pushes deeper, inside finding the spot. Kyle's hips lock, his whole body rigid, and Elizabeth's legs tighten around him.

"Inside me, Come inside me." Elizabeth says, commandingly her voice thick with need. "."

Sandra releases his balls. Anne pulls her thumb free. Kyle thrusts three more times hard, desperate, ragged and then he breaks, his cock pulsing, his cum flooding Elizabeth's cunt in hot spurts.

He groans through it, his head thrown back, his lean body trembling.

Elizabeth holds him inside her, her legs locked, her heels crossed at his back. Her own orgasm follows moments later her breath catches, her body tenses, and a low moan pulls from her throat as her cunt clenches around his softening cock.

The room goes quiet. Just breathing.

The distant thump of bass from the main floor.

The hum of the air conditioning.

Kyle collapses beside Elizabeth, his cock softening against his thigh, his chest heaving.

Anne sits back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and reaches for her gin and tonic, finding it empty.

Sandra picks up her own glass, raises it. "To Jon, For being bigger." she says.

Anne laughs a real laugh, surprised and sharp.

"To Jon." Anne says in agreement.

Elizabeth, still lying on the couch with Kyle's cum leaking from her cunt, does not laugh. But she raises one hand, and her blue eyes find Anne's across the room.

"To Jon," she says quietly. And then, almost to herself:

"My son is marrying your daughter. And he has fucked you both." Elizabeth murmurs.

"That I have," Anne says. She stands, reaching for her clothes.

"And if he makes her happy the way he made me happy, then this wedding is going to be just fine." Anne proudly comments, a wide smile across her face.

"You are a terrible mother, Anne." Sandra snorts.

"I am an excellent mother," Anne corrects, stepping into her clothes.

"A terrible mother would not have tested the merchandise." Anne says with a smirk.

Kyle, still on his back, stares at the ceiling. His arse is red from three sets of palms. His cock is soft and spent. His chin is still shining with Anne's juices.

"Can I get paid now?" he asks.

The three women look at each other. Sandra reaches for her purse. And tosses him a bundle of cash.

Then the three mature women get dressed and leave going back to the rest of their group.