A friend's wedding: MFM with a shy girl

If someone had told me I'd be spending the night on the veranda with two groomsmen at my best friend's wedding, I'd have been shocked. I've always been the good girl in our group. That is, the one who makes sure no one overindulges, collects everyone's phones and purses, calls taxis, and reminds everyone that they have to go to work the next day. Even the bride's mother praised me all evening: "This is someone we should follow." I smiled modestly and adjusted the strap of my dress. The dress, by the way, was mint-colored, with an open back. I spent three weeks choosing it and was unsure until the very last minute if it was too bold. Anya said, "Take it, you look like a queen in it." Anya always makes all the decisions around here. The wedding turned out to be a big one. Seventy people, a country house rented for two days, a tent in the courtyard, live music, a toastmaster with below-the-belt jokes that everyone pretended not to hear. I was running around like a clockwork in the morning: the bouquet, the forgotten rings, the bride's zipper on her dress came undone and the four of us had to stuff it back in. By evening, I was so exhausted that my legs were aching and my face hurt from smiling. I didn't have my first glass of champagne until about nine o'clock, when the newlyweds were already dancing their first dance. Then a second. Then someone slipped me a whiskey and Coke because the champagne had run out by then, and the host had hidden the normal drinks somewhere. By one in the morning, the guests had begun to leave. Some had taken taxis, some had stayed in the house, and some had fallen asleep right there on a chair in the tent. The musicians were packing up their equipment, the cooks were clearing the tables, and Anya and her husband had gone to the hotel because they had a flight in the morning. I went out onto the veranda—the one at the back of the house, overlooking the field and the old garden. It was dark there, only the string of lights we'd hung during the day still flickered with a warm yellow glow. I sat down in a wicker chair, kicked off my shoes, and stretched out my legs. My head was buzzing pleasantly, my body was taut, and I felt absolutely, utterly at ease. A couple of minutes later, two people came out onto the veranda. Dima and Kirill, the groom's friends. I barely knew them, having seen them at the bachelor party the girls and I had organized and at a couple of other social gatherings. Dima was tall, with short hair, wearing a shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a serious look, constantly doing something with his hands: opening a bottle, moving chairs. Kirill, on the other hand, was shorter but stocky, with a beard and tattoos. He'd been laughing and teasing the host all evening. Both were already quite drunk, but not completely wasted, just in that pleasant state when people become talkative and kind. "Oh, neighbor," Kirill said, plopping down in the chair opposite. "Why are you sitting here alone, like Cinderella?" “I’m resting,” I smiled. “I’m tired.” Dima sat down next to me on the sofa, which was right there on the veranda, and handed me the bottle. - Here you go. There's still a little bit left. It was rum. I took a sip straight from the bottle, and it burned my throat and spread pleasantly through my body. Dima looked at me in a different way than he had all evening. I noticed it, and I liked it. Perhaps the wine had done its job after all. We got to talking. About the wedding, about Anya, about how it all went, about how we'd have to sort it all out tomorrow. Kirill told me about how he and Dima were at university and how they once almost burned down the dorm. I laughed harder than I should have. Then Dima said: - You're not at all what I thought. - What did you think? - Well, you're so right. I thought you were a bore. But it turns out you're a cheerful girl. “I’m cheerful,” I agreed and, for some reason, bit my lip. “You just don’t know me.” Kirill chuckled and raised an eyebrow. Dima leaned closer. And in that moment, I realized that everything was going wrong. But I didn't care. I didn't care at all. I looked at Dima, then at Kirill, and smiled—that smile I usually don't use. “So what next?” I asked. Dima didn't respond with words. He simply leaned down and kissed me. His lips were warm and tasted like whiskey. I responded, and it wasn't like I'd imagined the timid kisses on the veranda. It was immediately deep, immediately real: tongue, breath, hands that reached for my back. Kirill watched. I felt it out of the corner of my eye, and it turned me on even more. I pulled back for a second, looked at them both and said: — Just not here. There's a room in the house. We got up. I walked first, feeling their eyes on my back—where the open back of my dress met my waist. The house was quiet, except for the sound of snoring somewhere upstairs. I led them into a small living room on the ground floor, with a sofa, an armchair, and a floor lamp. I closed the door. I didn't think anymore. I just did what I wanted. Dima approached first. He turned me around and pulled the zipper on my dress—slowly, all the way down, all the way. The dress slid to the floor, leaving me in my panties and a thin beige strapless bra. Kirill was already sitting in the chair, unbuttoned his shirt, and looking at me openly. I didn't cover myself. Instead, I straightened my back and looked him straight in the eyes. Let him look. Dima hugged me from behind, placed his hands on my stomach, then higher – on my breasts. He unclasped my bra in one movement, and it fell somewhere on the sofa. Dima's palms were large and hot. He squeezed my breasts, ran his thumbs over my nipples, and they immediately hardened. I leaned my head back on his shoulder and exhaled. Kirill got up from the chair, came over, and knelt in front of me. He pulled my panties down – just down my legs, and I stepped over them. Then he spread my legs and ran his tongue between them – from bottom to top, once, slowly. My knees buckled. Dima held me by the waist. Then everything became a blur. They laid me down on the couch. Dima kissed my neck and chest, nibbled on my nipples, and Kirill didn't leave my side, working his tongue so hard I started moaning loudly and didn't recognize my own voice. I didn't care that people were sleeping in the house. I ran my hand through Kirill's hair and pulled his head closer. He added a finger, then a second, and I arched. “Enough,” I said finally. “I want your cocks.” I slid off the couch and onto the carpet. I knelt down. Two men stood in front of me, already naked. I didn't choose – I took Dima's cock first, then Kirill's, then Dima's again. I took him deep, all the way to his throat, using my hand to help me, looking up. Dima's was long and smooth, Kirill's was thicker. I liked that they were different. I alternated between them, drool running down my chin, and I didn't care. Dima held my hair and set the rhythm, and Kirill stroked my cheek and said, "That's it, that's it, that's good." Then Dima picked me up, turned me around, and bent me over the sofa. I braced myself with my hands on the seat. He entered from behind, hard, all the way, and I cried out. I was so wet that he entered easily, but I still felt him stretching me. He started moving, and I immediately bukvoeb.org moved back to meet him. Kirill came up from the front, and I took his cock in my mouth. We moved like that: Dima behind, Kirill in front, me between them, and it felt like I was being torn in two, and that was exactly what I wanted. Dima slapped my buttock. Then again, harder. I moaned back, as much as I could with a cock in my mouth. Kirill said: - She's not modest at all. Look at her. "I'm not modest," I breathed out when he left. "I was just waiting for the right moment." Dima slowed down, pulled out, and pressed his head against my other hole. I tensed for a second—a reflex, nothing more. He ran a finger there, wet from me, and began to slowly enter. It felt tight and unusual. I held my breath, then exhaled and relaxed, and he entered deeper into my ass. Kirill stood nearby, watching. I reached out and took his cock so he wouldn't feel forgotten. Dima moved slowly, carefully, then with increasing confidence. My ass adjusted. After a couple of minutes, it wasn't enough, and I began to push back, impaling myself on him. Kirill stood in front of me again, and I took his cock in my mouth, and now all three of us were moving in the same rhythm. The carpet beneath my knees shifted, the floor lamp shone directly in my face, and I closed my eyes. “I won’t last long,” said Dima. “And there’s no need,” I replied. He pulled out, turned me around, and they both stood in front of me. I dropped to my knees again, pushed my hair back, and opened my mouth. Dima came first—I felt the hot cum hit my tongue and throat, and I swallowed without pulling away. Kirill jerked his cock a couple of times with his hand and came right after him, and some of the cum landed on my chin and chest. I ran my finger over it, collected it, and licked it. They looked at me, dumbfounded. Then I sat down on the floor, leaned my back against the sofa, and laughed. Simply because I felt good. Dima brought a towel from the bathroom, Kirill found my dress and draped it over my shoulders. The three of us sat on the floor, drank rum from the same bottle, and didn't say anything important. I don't remember how I ended up in bed. I only remember waking up alone in my room that morning, with a headache and dry mouth. Anya sent me a message from the airport: "Thank you for being there." I replied: "You're welcome, darling." And I thought I wouldn't have to lie to her—I really was there. Just not quite where she thought.