The Bridesmaids Drained My Balls

I hide in the shadows of the rooftop bar's edge, nursing a beer, watching Fiona grind her hips against Yuri like she's trying to start a fire with friction alone. The bride's bachelorette party's in full swing up here on this windy city rooftop, fairy lights strung between AC units, bass thumping from a portable speaker. Fiona's dress rides up her thighs, black lace panties flashing as she laughs too loud, her hands roaming Yuri's chest. I'm Otis, the groom's best man, supposed to be the designated driver or some shit, but fuck, I can't tear my eyes away. Reluctance hits me hard—this is my buddy's fiancée's party, her bridesmaids are off-limits, but my cock twitches anyway.

Frida spots me first. She's got that wild red hair whipping in the breeze, tits spilling out of her low-cut top as she saunters over, dragging Katarina by the hand. "Otis, you creepy fuck," Frida purrs, her voice slurred from tequila shots. "Spying on us? Bet you're hard already." Katarina giggles, but her eyes dart away, cheeks flushing—she's the shy one, always protesting at these parties, saying we shouldn't cross lines. I mutter, "Just making sure you girls don't fall off the roof," but my gaze drops to Frida's cleavage, nipples hard against the fabric.

Before I can back off, Fiona yells from across the rooftop, "Get his ass over here!" Yuri's grinning like an idiot, already shirtless, his pants tented. Enzo's there too, the other groomsman, pounding shots with the girls. I hesitate—shit, I shouldn't—but Frida shoves me forward, her palm grazing my bulge. "Come on, reluctant boy. Bride's orders. We're draining balls tonight." My heart pounds. This is wrong. The bride trusts me to keep things tame. But the wind carries their laughter, mixed with moans as Fiona drops to her knees in front of Yuri right there by the railing.

It escalates fast. Fiona yanks Yuri's zipper down, his thick cock springing free, veiny and leaking pre-cum. "Fuck yeah, give it to me," she demands, slurping him down without warning. Yuri groans, hands fisting her hair. I'm frozen, but Frida's behind me, grinding her pussy against my ass through my jeans. "See? No one's stopping. Your turn." Katarina's biting her lip, whispering, "Guys, we can't... Enzo's watching," but her hand's already on my belt, fumbling reluctantly.

Enzo laughs, stepping up. "Hell we can. Bachelorette special—groom's boys get drained dry." He pulls out his cock, stroking it slow, thick head glistening. I want to bolt—this betrays everything—but Frida spins me around, drops to her knees, and tugs my pants to my ankles. My dick bobs out, rock-hard despite my brain screaming no. "Look at this fat cock," Frida moans, spitting on it before swallowing half in one go. Wet suction hits me like a punch, her throat gagging softly, tongue swirling the underside. I grip the rooftop ledge, wind cooling my balls as she bobs frantically.

Katarina's resistance cracks. She kneels too, hesitant, eyes wide. "I... I shouldn't," she murmurs, but then she's licking my shaft alongside Frida, their tongues dueling over my length. Sloppy sounds fill the air—schlurp, gag, moan—mixing with Yuri's grunts as Fiona deepthroats him balls-deep. Enzo grabs Katarina's head, guiding her mouth to his cock instead. "Suck it, shy girl. Pretend it's not happening." She whimpers but obeys, cheeks hollowing as she takes him in, drool stringing from her lips.

Fiona pops off Yuri, strings of spit connecting her mouth to his throbbing dick. "Orgy time, bridesmaids! Drain these groomsmen balls!" She strips fast, dress pooling at her feet, shaved pussy lips puffy and wet. The rooftop's edge feels dangerous, city lights blurring below, but no one's stopping. Yuri bends her over the ledge, slams in raw. "Fuck, your cunt's gripping like a vice," he growls. Fiona screams, tits bouncing wildly as he pounds her, ass cheeks rippling with each frantic thrust.

Frida stands, shoving me onto a lounge chair someone dragged up here. "My turn to ride this reluctant dick." She's naked now, curvy hips swaying, freckles dotting her pale skin. I mutter, "Wait, Fiona's the bride's best friend—we can't," but she sinks down, pussy hot and soaking, stretching around my girth. "Shut up and fuck me, Otis. Feel how wet I am for your cock?" She bounces hard, frantic rhythm, inner walls clenching like she's milking me already. Her tits slap my face; I suck a nipple, tasting salt and tequila.

Katarina's moaning now, fully in, straddling Enzo's lap reverse-cowgirl style. His cock spears her tight pussy, juices dripping down his balls as she grinds. "Oh god, it's too big... but don't stop," she begs, her reluctance melting into frantic need. Yuri pulls out of Fiona, slick cock shining, and they swap—him to Katarina, who yelps as he stretches her wider. Enzo takes Fiona doggy-style against the bar cart, bottles rattling with each slam. "Take it, you slutty bridesmaid. Bet the bride never told you to fuck us like this."

I'm lost in Frida's cunt, her ass grinding my thighs, clit rubbing my pubes. Sweat slicks us both; the rooftop air smells like pussy and pre-cum. "Harder, Otis—fuck me like you mean it," Frida demands, nails raking my chest. I thrust up, balls slapping her ass, reluctant thoughts fading. Who gives a shit anymore? Enzo groans nearby, "Gonna fill this whore," and unloads in Fiona, cum bubbling out around his shaft as he keeps pumping.

Fiona spins, pushes me off Frida. "My pussy now." She's insatiable, straddling me reverse, impaling herself. Cum from Enzo drips onto my cock as she rides, mixing with her juices. "Feel that? Another man's load lubing you up. Fuck the bride's maids raw." Her ass cheeks spread wide; I watch my dick disappear into her sloppy hole, frantic bounces shaking the chair. Frida kneels by my head, shoving her cum-smeared pussy on my face. "Eat it, reluctant boy. Taste yourself."

I lap at her folds, tangy and thick, clit throbbing under my tongue. Yuri's railing Katarina missionary on a towel, her legs wrapped around him, screaming, "Deeper—breed my bridesmaid cunt!" Enzo strokes himself hard again, joining Frida at my face, but she bats him away, sucking his balls instead. The rooftop spins with moans, skin slapping, wet squelches everywhere. Wind howls, but we're a frantic knot of bodies.

Katarina cums first, back arching, pussy gushing around Yuri's pistoning cock. "Fuuuuck!" She squirts a little, soaking his abs. He pulls out, flips her onto all fours. "Time for the main event, ladies. Bukkake these bridesmaids—cover 'em in groomsmen cum." Fiona slides off me, eager, kneeling center stage by the rooftop's glass wall, city skyline mocking us below. Frida and Katarina scramble beside her, tits out, mouths open, tongues lolling like desperate whores.

Reluctance surges back in me—shit, this is filthy, permanent—but my cock aches, balls heavy. Yuri strokes first, grunting, "Here it comes!" Thick ropes splatter Fiona's face, hitting her cheek, lips, dripping into her cleavage. She moans, rubbing it in. Enzo's next, aiming for Frida—blasts her forehead, nose, open mouth filling with salty white. "Swallow it, redhead slut," he orders. She gulps, strings connecting her chin to her tits.

Katarina's turn. I stand over her, Yuri and Enzo flanking, cocks in hand. "Do it," she whispers, fighting herself one last time, but her fingers spread her pussy lips, inviting. My hand flies frantic on my shaft, balls tightening. Yuri erupts again, painting her tits. Enzo hits her tongue. I lose it—cum jets from me in heavy spurts, first rope across her eyes, second in her hair, third filling her mouth till it overflows down her neck. "Fuck, take my load, you reluctant little cumslut," I growl, watching it pool on her skin.

They're drenched, giggling and moaning, scooping cum off each other, swapping filthy kisses. Fiona licks Katarina's cheek clean, then snowballs it back. Frida fingers herself with the mess, cumming hard, body shaking. Yuri's not done; he jerks a final load onto all three faces, mixing ours. Enzo high-fives me, cocks softening in the breeze.

We collapse in a heap, panting, cum drying sticky on their skin, the rooftop reeking of sex.

Fiona wipes a glob from her eye, grins at me. "Balls drained, Otis. Bride's never hearing about this."

But as the city sirens wail below, my phone buzzes—the bride herself, texting: Where the fuck are you guys? Party's over.