A314 and the hen party
Guys, want to be the one who infiltrates and lights a bomb under a hen party with some very frisky ladies? Here’s how.
I apply the usual dose in the usual places. I meditate on it, getting myself into the hunting mood and waiting for it to settle on my neck.
It’s getting much easier slipping into a man’s natural hunting instinct, but shaking off the old beta attitudes that had me almost permanently in the friend zone through my teens and 20s will take some doing. It keeps sticking a spanner in the works.
It feels instinctively familiar, the brain following neural pathways etched into it by millions of years of evolution. If I get in touch with my inner animal, obeying that instinctive voice, the A314 turns animal as well. It’s a chameleon.
It’s a perfectly tuned instrument now. I know how to work it and it works me. But I’ve nearly always worn it in the past when I’m suited and booted. Now, I’ve just given my casual wardrobe an overhaul and I’ve just been approached about a possible short-term contract I can do. So I’m running at the head of the wolf pack in my head again and feeling near invincible.
I put on a relaxed just-got-laid swagger, a small smile on my face and make eye contact with everyone who looks at me, male and female alike, on the way to the bar. Men nod in greeting and I return it. Some lift their glass in salute and one guy raises his fist, makes a ‘pound it’ gesture and winks. The women I approach en-route to the bar just watch with no obvious IOIs other than holding eye contact for as long as I’m in their line of sight.
At a level below conscious thought and wordy internal dialogue, instinct compels me to stop and maintain eye contact with these women, but I’m going places and continue past, locking onto another pair of female eyes that cross my path. Rinse and repeat. The reptilian brain snarls, thwarted and it lets me know that. I feel it stick a scaly claw in my male pride.
The A314 remoulds me into Morpheus, striding effortlessly through a crowd that parts in front of him. I notice a hen party sat around a corner table. 5 girls: the bride-to-be in a saucy tight little black dress and white suspenders, a bridal veil covering her hair. Nice legs. A stunning blonde dressed in white and gold, a pair of angel wings on her back; a pair of blonde twins and a black-haired girl who clearly organised this hen night. She’s orchestrating it with the help of a lurid pink vibrator and she’s waving it around with lascivious relish, much to the embarrassment of one of the twins. The second just roared with lusty laughter. It was obvious which one of the twins had drunk the most, but for now, the only effect alcohol had on the girls was smashing the volume control in their heads.
I made eye contact with the first and held it from 5 metres away. The bride-to-be and the angel in white didn’t notice - locked in girlie conversation, laughing and touching each other’s hands in a shared moment. But with the telepathic awareness that twins have, her sister becomes aware of me and looks in my direction. Hmm… I wasn’t counting on meeting twins or contending with their well-documented telepathic capability. This could complicate or it could work in my favour. Heads or tails, crazy universe. Which is it going to be?
Their friend wasn’t going to be outdone. She might not be a telepath but she still has that spooky social sixth sense that all women are equipped with and it’s working just fine. She turns and meets my gaze for a good few seconds with eyes the colour of a stormy sea framed by smoky eye-shadow.
I use the slow blink and smile on her that I use on my cat. Cats blink at you to show affection and they love it when you do it back to them. It supposedly works on humans too. She blinks back but doesn’t smile, the gesture looking more like a curious question, ‘Who are you?’
She turns back and joins her friend in teasing her twin with a sing-song, ‘Who’s your boyfriend? You’re gonna be next!’
‘No-one,’ she squeaks, the blood boiling into her face.
‘Leave her alone,’ I thought and winked at the twin who was now scarlet and pleading with her eyes to be rescued. This only makes the other one tease her harder and she swipes her across the head, an annoyed kittenish swipe. Her sister gives up, laughing. The black-haired girl is suddenly quiet, her back to me and she’s in conversation with the bride and the angel who finally noticed what was going on. They look at me and then back to her.
I moved through the crowd and sat at the bar. I ordered a drink, lapsing into what I hoped would be a congruent pose – a silent presence at the bar, lost in thought. I allowed the A314 to get to work, radiating a quietly understated sexuality.
A chair screeches across the stone floor and the dark-haired beauty walks over to the bar. The animal in me takes note of her female curves, hips swaying as she moves. She has a purpose, pushing in to my left and fixing me with a stare that she doesn’t break, emboldened by alcohol.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Buy us a drink, please? We’re having a party. You’ve been invited, babe. What do you say?’ She leans in closer, but doesn’t drop the volume. ‘Someone wants to see what you’re made of,’ she giggles.
‘I didn’t catch your name, honey,’ I say, turning to face a woman in her late 20s possessing a voluptuous figure that reminded me of the Hollywood screen sirens of the past. Before diets and plastic surgery were de rigueur, when men were Men and women were Women, there were figures like this. Full breasts, a waist, wide hips and a peachy backside that my lap begged to be introduced to. Your classic hourglass figure, standing at shoulder-height on me, clad in knee-length black PVC boots; opaque black tights; cut-off pale blue denim shorts and a tight black top held in place by spaghetti straps. The name ‘MISS DOMINATRIX’ was written across it in bright pink. All she needed was a whip.
She flicks her carefully mussed-up dark hair back over her shoulders with a ‘What? Are you blind?’ look and points at her bust with both hands, tracing the letters with her fingers.
‘No, I’m definitely not blind,’ I think as I mime putting on glasses and lean in for a closer look, her milky-white skin a stark contrast to her top. ‘But if I stare at these much longer, I will be.’
She subtly thrusts her chest out close enough for me to catch her scent, slightly masked by a hint of Johnson’s baby oil. Mmmm… alone with her in a hotel room somewhere, an economy-size bottle of baby oil in hand. Oops, I’m a fire hazard - fire in the blood. I’m feeling horny; I’m horny, horny, horny.
‘Miss… Double… D… I’m guessing?’
She whispers, ‘I’m an E.’ She puts her hands in my hair and ruffles it, rolling her hips seductively. ‘That’s the closest you’re going to get.’
She’s throwing down the gauntlet. The alpha in my head growls – he loves a challenge. ‘I’ll come with you. Mint?’
‘Thanks!’ A pink tongue dances in her mouth, drawing the mint in through soft, glistening cherry-red lips and playing with it, her eyes never leaving mine. I take one too. Two can play at that game.
I break eyes. ‘Please, get the lady whatever she wants.’ I drop £30 on the bar and the barman nods. Domi bounces happily and she orders. We re-establish eye contact when she finishes and moisten lips with tongues. No more words.
A minute later, he puts a tray full of drinks on the bar with a knowing smile. I pick up my drink and we walk over to the hen party. I have an arm around Domi and I notice she’s got the vibrator shoved into her back pocket.
The rest of the group greets me with smiles, eager to see who bought the drinks and got my twin’s attention. All of them wanted to know the guy who had their alpha woman on his arm. Take out the Queen Bee and the rest fall. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.
I sit in Domi’s old place and pat my lap. She takes the vibrator out and plants her peachy behind, holding it up on end next to the tray. My twin squeaks, swipes it out of her hand and engages in a tug-of-war with her sister who’s laying claim to it. The bride takes it off them; both twins look relieved and the imitation phallus disappears under the table.
She introduces me to her hens in between sips of champagne.
‘The Twins - Massage and Mistress.’ 19-year-old blondes in white off-the-shoulder tops and jeans with huge camp cowboy belts, their alter egos painted above their cleavage in red lipstick and sealed with a kiss on their left shoulders. They each lift a hand in greeting, faces burning red from across the table. We weren’t meant to see that tug-of-war.
‘The Virgin.’ The heavenly vision on my left puts a cool, slim, manicured hand out with her nails painted a delicate glossy pink. I shake it. She smiles hello, cool and polite.
She’s an absolutely stunning girl in her early or mid-20s, long blonde hair cascading down her back in a loosely plaited pony tail running between her wings and reaching almost to her waist. Wide doe-like grey eyes, full lips and the figure of a dancer, all sensual curves and smooth silken skin. A white lace blouse, a wide gold sash accentuating her waist and close-fitting white trousers. Black boots with stiletto heels completed this heavenly vision and was the only hint of a potentially devilish nature showing through the embodiment of virginal beauty that she presented.
I lean to the side for a better look. ‘Are you all wearing those boots?’
Shapely legs aplenty as the bride giggles and swings a leg out from under the table. She lifts it, waggling her foot and forgetting her skirt’s a bit tight and very short. She flashes a pair of skimpy panties. The twins each lift a leg, grinning. Virgin smiles coyly, but doesn’t display. Domi lifts a leg.
‘Miss Dominatrix. She asked me if she could invite you.’ Domi bounces and grinds in my lap as she’s introduced. My blood sings in response. I brush her hair back and kiss her neck as a thankyou.
‘We did too.’ The twins squirm and giggle girlishly with delight, watching us. ‘She likes yoo-hoo.’
‘I like her too.’ Domi squeezes and strokes my hand.
‘She’s my right hand who is supposed to be looking after me tonight and she’s not doing a very good job of it.’ She’s smiling. Another romance is developing. She’ll talk about this for the next few weeks at least.
Domi fixes her with an innocent butter-won’t-melt-in-this-mouth look and leans back to give me a kiss on the cheek. I wrap my arms securely around her waist, stroking with my thumb.
‘I’m doing my job, I’m keeping him away from you,’ is her excuse. No-one believes her and I trail kisses along her shoulder and the curve of her neck, losing myself in her scent. She shivers.
‘I’m Sophie,’ our betrothed lady says, removing the bridal veil and shaking her chestnut hair out. It falls to shoulder length, sleek and shining in the light with not a hair out of place.
‘A pleasure to meet you, beautiful. Thanks for inviting me. It’s appreciated.’ She bats her chocolate-brown eyes at me and smiles warmly but her eyes were too dark for me to make out any involuntary pupil dilation. ‘That’s a nice diamond.’
‘You’re very welcome and it is,’ Sophie agrees, regally holding her hand out so I could take a closer look. ‘Thanks for the drinks. It’s appreciated.’
We both laugh. I touch Sophie’s fingers with mine, tilting her hand this way and that to catch the light in the diamond. Tiny rainbows sparkle on her finger. She’s pliant, supple and very warm. Domi reclaims my arm.
I asked how she met her fiancé. A long conversation ensued with Domi sat in my lap the whole time. Her presence somehow made it painless. Normally, I struggle to comprehend the ebb and flow and the endlessly shifting currents of female conversation, but this time it didn’t bother me. I allowed myself to be engulfed, putting up no resistance and listening with a keen psychological interest – my usual defence mechanism that stops me from being overwhelmed by the sheer volume of words.
The animal was quiet except for the occasional nudge, satisfied just to keep the song flowing in the knowledge that it won’t be long now. I trailed my fingers along Domi’s thigh, then got naughty, running them up along her inside leg like the pitter-patter of raindrops, stopping a few inches short and stroking her thigh with my fingertips in a small circular motion. Stroke down to her knee and up. Up and down… up and down…
The twins notice and stare wide-eyed. Virgin rolls her eyes and smiles. Sophie keeps on talking about her fiancé, lost in her own romantic world. The girls keep up a chorus of moans and squeals, drinking in her romance like cats to catnip. Only Domi and myself are quiet, content to listen. That was enough to keep Sophie aloft on wings of chiffon and lace in her dream, chattering away.
Both hands now, both thighs. Up and down… up and down… fingertips teasing, stroking, caressing. She shivers again, harder this time and chews her lip.
‘Cold, Kitten?’ I ask softly. ‘Since you don’t have a name, I thought I’d give you one.’
She shakes her head, no, she’s not cold. ‘Lucy.’
‘Nice to meet you, Lucy.’
‘I prefer “Kitten”, but you can call me whatever you want.’ She touches her lips with her tongue and leans back again, turning her head into my neck and licking my ear just above the application point, her breath hot. I move my arms back around her waist; she moves them slightly higher and holds them there, just below her breasts. They brush my arms slightly when she moves and her nipples make an impression, hardening under her top.
The twins try to look like they weren’t ogling.
But all good things come to an end and they had to leave to get Sophie ready for her big day. The taxi was waiting to take them to the station. We emerge into the cool breeze of the early evening air and the twins took turns hugging me tight, nibbling and breathing on my ear, which made me wonder how much we’ve corrupted them. A chaste just-friends hug and air-kiss from Virgin. A full body hug from Sophie, with Miss Soon-to-be-Wed planting a smacker on my cheek.
I wish her a long and happy life.
My Kitten was last. As one, the hens start calling, ‘Snog! Snog! Snog! Snog!’ Kitten blushes.
Both Massage and Mistress point, laugh and stare at her, calling, ‘Who’s the boyfriend? Who’s the boyfriend? You’re next!’ Payback’s a bitch. I lift her jaw so that she’s looking at me, take her face in my hands and go in for the kill. We embrace and hold tight as the hens whoop and cheer, pretending to use imaginary crowbars on us.
She joins the others and I’m sorry to see her go, feeling the animal boot me in the nuts - hard.
Musk
I swear, if I wear it in a paternity-testing laboratory, it’ll twist all the results to say, ‘Musk is the father!’ I pray to whatever deity controls this crazy universe that Child Support never discovers this stuff, or I’m buggered.
You’re not fuzzy? 