The Groom's Unconventional Last Request

I was never good at poker. The whiskey wasn’t helping, and the lumpy leather couch in Jake’s man-cave basement was doing nothing for my concentration. But that was the point, wasn’t it? To get drunk, to be loud, to not think about tomorrow.

“All in,” Liam said, pushing a small mountain of red chips into the center of the table. His smile was a familiar, challenging slash. My oldest friend. My best man. The guy who’d introduced me to Sarah five years ago. In the dim light, the scar through his left eyebrow—a relic of a childhood bike jump—seemed more pronounced.

“You’re bluffing,” I said, squinting at my own pathetic hand. A pair of sevens. “You’ve got nothing.”

“Only one way to find out, groom-to-be.” That was Mark, my other best man, Sarah’s brother. He leaned back in his chair, swirling his bourbon. He was watching me, not the cards. There was a strange, assessing look in his eyes I couldn’t quite place. It was more than the Jack Daniels. It was the same look he’d had when he helped me move into my first apartment, a mix of scrutiny and care, but now it felt charged, like the air before a storm. He ran a hand through his perpetually tousled dark hair, a gesture I’d seen a thousand times, but now it felt deliberate, a distraction.

I tossed my cards onto the green felt. “Fold. I’m not risking my last fifty bucks on your bullshit, Liam.”

Liam cackled, scooping the pot. “Smart man. Saving your money for married life.”

The joke landed with a dull thud. We all chuckled, but the air felt charged, expectant. This was it. My bachelor party. No Vegas, no club, just the three of us in a basement with a case of beer, a bottle of whiskey, and a lingering sense of something unsaid. It had been there all night, maybe for years—a current of physical ease between us that sometimes, in a locker room or after too many beers, skirted the edge of something unnamable. A clap on the back that lingered, a wrestling match that went a second too long. We never spoke of it. We were guys. It didn’t mean anything. Tonight, with the weight of tomorrow pressing down, that unspoken thing felt closer to the surface, a silent third guest at the table.

“Right,” Mark said, slapping the table. “Enough of this. Time for your main present.”

I groaned. “If it’s another novelty tie, I swear to God…”

“Better,” Liam said, his eyes gleaming. He exchanged a look with Mark that sent a faint, inexplicable prickle down my spine. It was a look of deep, shared understanding, a conspiracy that went beyond a simple prank. “We got you a send-off. A proper one.”

“A stripper?” I asked, my voice flat. I’d told them not to. Sarah hadn’t explicitly forbidden it, but we’d had the talk. The ‘what happens at the bachelor party’ talk. It had ended with her quiet, trusting smile and me promising nothing would happen that would make her uncomfortable. A stripper felt like a gray area, a toe over a line I wasn’t sure I wanted to cross.

“Not just a stripper,” Mark said, standing up. He stretched, his broad shoulders straining the fabric of his henley. He’d filled out since college, the lanky frame now solid and capable. “An experience. Consider it my sister’s… indirect gift. A last look at the buffet before you sign up for the all-you-can-eat at one restaurant for the rest of your life.”

The metaphor was crude, and it annoyed me. “I’m not hungry for the buffet, Mark. I love your sister.”

“We know,” Liam said, his tone softening. “Jesus, we know. That’s why this is perfect. It’s safe. It’s here. It’s controlled. One hour of ridiculous, over-the-top, cheesy fantasy. Then she leaves, and tomorrow you become Mr. Sarah Miller. It’s tradition. A ritual.”

The pressure was a physical thing. Their expectation, the weight of the ‘last night of freedom’ cliché. Saying no felt like admitting something—like I was scared, or worse, that I wasn’t one of the guys anymore. Sarah’s face swam in my mind, that trusting smile. It’s just a show, I told myself. A performance. It means nothing.

“Fine,” I heard myself say, the word leaving my mouth before I’d fully decided. “One hour. And nothing… hands-on.”

“Scout’s honor,” Liam said, raising three fingers in a lazy salute. He was already pulling out his phone.

The next twenty minutes were a blur of nervous energy. We straightened up, hiding beer cans and chip bags. I sat stiffly in the armchair, feeling like an imposter in my own skin. Liam and Mark took the couch, their grins conspiratorial. The doorbell rang, and my stomach did a slow, heavy roll.

Liam bounded upstairs. I heard the murmur of voices, the click of high heels on the hardwood floor above, then descending the stairs.

She was… more than I’d expected. The cliché was a blonde in a cheap sequined dress. This woman was a storm. Her hair was a cascade of dark chestnut waves, her eyes a startling, intelligent green. She wore a long, elegant black coat belted at the waist, and she carried a small, professional-looking equipment bag. She looked like a stylish journalist, not a stripper.

“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice a smooth, low alto. “I’m Elena.” Her gaze swept the room, landing on me. “And you must be the guest of honor.”

I managed a nod, my throat dry.

“We’ll just be over here,” Mark said, his voice unusually tight. He and Liam were plastered to the couch, suddenly looking like teenagers themselves.

Elena smiled, a real smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “The rules are simple. This is for him,” she said, nodding at me. “You two are audience members. Quiet ones. Understood?”

They both nodded mutely.

She turned back to me, unbelting her coat and letting it slide off her shoulders. Underneath was not lingerie, but a man’s white dress shirt, untucked over tight black leggings. She looked effortlessly sexy, approachable. She set up a small Bluetooth speaker, and a slow, pulsing electronic beat filled the room.

“Relax,” she murmured, moving toward me. “This is supposed to be fun.”

Her first touch was my undoing. She didn’t launch into a gyration; she simply placed her hands on my shoulders, her thumbs kneading the tense muscles there. A sigh escaped me before I could stop it. She smelled like vanilla and something spicier, sandalwood maybe.

“Big day tomorrow,” she said softly, her breath warm against my ear as she leaned in. “Nervous?”

“A little,” I admitted, the confession pulled from me.

“Don’t be.” She began to move, a slow sway of her hips in time with the music. Her fingers trailed down my chest, over the fabric of my t-shirt. “She’s a lucky woman.”

The dance that followed was nothing like the aggressive, impersonal routines I’d seen in movies. It was intimate, hypnotic. The unbuttoning of the dress shirt was a slow reveal, each button a small event. Underneath was lace, black and delicate. She used the shirt as a prop, brushing it against my face, letting me catch her scent. She straddled my lap, but with a space between us, her weight resting on her knees on the arms of the chair. She was close enough that I could feel her body heat, but she didn’t grind against me. It was a torturous, exquisite tease.

I was painfully hard. I tried to shift, to hide it, but she just smiled, a knowing, gentle curve of her lips. Her eyes held mine, and for stretches of time, I forgot about Liam and Mark. There was just the music, the dim light, and the stunning woman moving like water in my lap.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them. Liam’s mouth was slightly open. Mark was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze intense, focused on Elena’s back, on the way her muscles moved under her skin. There was no leering, just a kind of rapt fascination. A shared current of arousal crackled in the room, thick and undeniable.

The song changed to something with a deeper, more primal beat. Elena stood, pulling me up with her. “Dance with me,” she whispered.

It wasn’t a question. I stood, awkward at first, but she guided my hands to her waist. We moved together, a clumsy approximation of dancing. She pressed her body against mine, and this time there was no space. I felt every curve through the thin lace of her bra. My erection pressed against her stomach, and a flush of heat shot through me, part shame, part pure, unadulterated need.

She leaned back, looking up at me. “You have good friends,” she said, her voice barely audible over the music. “They care about you. They wanted this to be special.”

I glanced over at the couch. They were watching us, their earlier jocularity gone. Liam’s expression was open, hungry. Mark’s was more complex—a mix of heat and something almost protective. He caught my eye and held it, and in that moment, a silent understanding passed between us. He was seeing me, really seeing the effect this woman was having on me, and he wasn’t judging. He was… sharing it.

The realization was a bolt of lightning to my system.

Elena felt me tense. She followed my gaze to Mark, then back to me. A new, more daring smile touched her lips. “It’s your night,” she whispered, her lips grazing the shell of my ear. “What do you want it to be?”

The question hung in the air, loaded with possibilities I had never allowed myself to consider. I thought of Sarah. But in this haze of whiskey and scent and touch, Sarah felt like a beautiful painting in another room. This was raw, physical, present.

“I… I don’t know,” I breathed. The ultimate reluctant admission.

“I think you do,” she murmured. Her hands slid down my back, over my jeans. “I think you’ve been a good boy for a long time. For her. For everyone.” She pressed her palm firmly against my ass, pulling me tighter against her. “What if, for one last night, you didn’t have to be?” She paused, her intelligent eyes searching mine. “My job isn’t just a dance. It’s to explore boundaries—where do yours lie? What does ‘special’ mean to you, right now, in this room?”

Her question reframed everything. This wasn’t a pre-set show. It was a negotiation, an offering. The power, terrifyingly, was mine.

She took my hand and, without breaking eye contact with me, led me the few steps to the center of the room. Then she turned my hand, palm up, and placed it on the firm warmth of Mark’s shoulder.

The contact was electric.

Mark flinched, his eyes widening. He looked from my hand to my face, shock and a flare of something else warring in his expression. “What…?”

Elena’s voice was calm, low. “Stand up, Mark.”

He did, slowly, as if in a trance. He was taller than me, his shoulders a solid wall beneath my trembling hand. We’d hugged a thousand times, but this proximity felt utterly different. The air between us vibrated.

“He’s your best friend,” Elena said, circling us like a panther. “Your brother, soon. You love him.” She came to a stop behind me, her front pressed to my back. Her arms snaked around my waist, her hands splaying on my stomach. I could feel her heart beating against my spine. “Let him feel you.”

“Elena, this isn’t…” Mark started, his voice rough.

“Isn’t what you expected?” she finished. “I told you. This is his time. His exploration.” She nodded at Liam, who was frozen on the couch, his knuckles white where he gripped his knees. “You want to watch, Liam? Or do you want to be part of this?”

Liam made a choked sound. His eyes were dark with arousal and confusion. He’d orchestrated this, but he’d lost control of the script.

Elena’s hand drifted lower, cupping me through my jeans. I gasped, my hips bucking involuntarily. “Look at him,” she said to Mark, her cheek against mine. “He wants this. He’s just been too good to ask.” She turned her head, her lips brushing my jaw. “Ask, baby. It’s your last request.”

The words were a key turning in a lock deep inside me. A lock I hadn’t known was there. The resistance, the nervousness—it was all still there, a frantic buzz in my head. But underneath it was a tidal wave of arousal, so powerful it was dizzying. The forbidden nature of it—my best friends, my future brother-in-law, this stranger orchestrating it all—was the fuel.

I looked at Mark, really looked at him. I saw the same conflict I felt mirrored in his face. The loyalty to Sarah, the ingrained boundaries of friendship, all crumbling under the sheer, illicit force of the moment. I saw the question in his eyes, and the answer, already forming.

“Mark,” I said, and my voice was someone else’s, husky and sure. “Stay.”

It was all the permission he needed. The hesitation shattered. He closed the small gap between us, his big hands coming up to frame my face. For a terrifying, thrilling second, I thought he might kiss me. Instead, he rested his forehead against mine, his breath coming in short, hot bursts. “You’re sure?”

Behind me, Elena was undoing my belt. The rasp of the leather was obscenely loud. “He’s sure,” she answered for me.

Liam finally moved. He stood up, pacing like a caged animal. “Fuck. Fuck, you guys…” He stopped, his eyes darting between Mark and me, the intimate space we occupied. There was a silent, fraught conversation between the two of them then—a raised eyebrow from Liam, a slight, almost imperceptible nod from Mark. It was a pact, sealed in a glance. They were in this together, for me. Liam gave one sharp, jerky nod, his decision made.

It was chaos after that, a blur of hands and heat and discarded clothing. Elena directed us with a quiet authority that brooked no argument. She pushed me back onto the wide armchair. Mark knelt in front of me, his hands on my thighs, his eyes locked on mine as Elena guided my jeans and boxers down my hips. My erection sprang free, and Mark’s gaze dropped, a low groan escaping him.

“Touch him,” Elena instructed, standing beside us, now naked herself, a goddess overseeing her domain.

Mark’s hand was calloused, warm. It was so different from a woman’s touch. Firm, deliberate. When he wrapped his fingers around me, I cried out, my head falling back against the chair. It was overwhelming—the wrongness of it, the sheer intensity of the sensation amplified by who was causing it.

I heard a zipper, the rustle of fabric. Liam had stripped to his boxers and was standing nearby, watching, his own need evident. Elena went to him, whispering in his ear, her hands on his chest. She led him to the couch, pulling him down beside her, turning him so he had a perfect view.

“Watch your friends,” she purred to Liam, her hand stroking his thigh. “See how they are together.”

Mark’s head dipped. The first swipe of his tongue along my length was a shock so profound my whole body arched off the chair. “Oh, God… Mark…”

He didn’t answer with words. He took me into his mouth, his technique hesitant at first, then growing more confident, driven by my ragged moans and the charged atmosphere. I tangled one hand in his short hair, not to guide, but to anchor myself. My other hand gripped the arm of the chair so hard the leather creaked. I looked over at the couch. Liam was kissing Elena deeply, but his eyes were open, fixed on us, his hand moving frantically over himself.

Elena broke the kiss, her lips swollen. “Go to him, Liam,” she breathed. “He needs to see you, too.”

Liam stumbled over, dropping to his knees beside Mark. He didn’t touch, just knelt there, his face inches from where Mark’s mouth worked on me. The visual was devastating. My two best friends, on their knees for me. Liam, with his open, eager face and the scarred eyebrow; Mark, with his focused intensity and strong, stubbled jaw. The power of it, the utter debasement and devotion of it, unspooled something dark and glorious in my gut.

“Tell him,” Elena urged me, her hand stroking my cheek. “Tell him what you need.”

The words were ash in my mouth, but I forced them out. “Liam… touch me.”

His hand joined Mark’s, not on me, but on my thigh, gripping hard. Then he leaned in, his lips meeting Mark’s where they were stretched around me. A kiss shared over my flesh. I shattered. A hoarse, broken shout was torn from my throat as I came, my vision whiting out at the edges. Mark took it all, swallowing with a soft, choked sound before pulling back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up at me, his eyes glazed, his lips slick.

The silence that followed was profound, broken only by our harsh breathing. The reality of what we’d just done began to seep in, cold and sharp. I looked from Mark’s dazed face to Liam’s awestruck one. Shame, hot and acidic, rose in my throat.

Elena sensed the shift. She moved swiftly, a calming presence. “Shhh,” she soothed, kneeling before me and cupping my face. “It’s okay. That was beautiful.” She looked at Mark and Liam. “Both of you. That was a gift you gave him. There’s no shame in that.”

She stood, pulling me up with her. My legs were jelly. “Now,” she said, her voice regaining its playful edge. “The night isn’t over. It’s about giving. And receiving.” She pushed me gently toward the couch. “Lie down.”

I obeyed, stretching out on the leather. She looked at Mark and Liam. “Your turn. Show him how much you care. Together.”

The reluctance returned, but it was thinner now, a fragile veil over a furnace of awakened hunger. They looked at each other, a silent conversation passing between them—a shared breath, a slight shrug that said, we’re already in it. Then, moving in unison, they came to the couch. Mark took my left side, Liam my right. They began to touch me, not with the focused intent of before, but with a rediscovering wonder. Hands skated over my chest, my stomach, my hips. They kissed my shoulders, my neck, my jaw. It was tender and possessive all at once. Liam’s mouth was softer, more seeking; Mark’s kisses were firmer, punctuated by the scratch of his stubble. The contrast was dizzying.

Elena watched for a moment, a satisfied smile on her face, before she retrieved a small bottle of oil from her bag. She poured some into her hands, warming it, then joined the tangle of limbs on the couch. Her slick hands found me, stroking me back to full, aching hardness with an expertise that made me whimper. But it was the other touches that undid me—Liam’s mouth on my nipple, Mark’s teeth grazing my earlobe.

“He’s ready,” Elena announced. She looked at me, her green eyes serious. “This is your choice. Your last request. What do you want?”

I looked at the two men who meant the world to me. I saw not just my friends, but partners in this forbidden pact. The last barrier within me crumbled. “I want… I want to feel you,” I said, the words a raw scrape. “Both of you.”

Elena nodded. She guided Liam to lie on his back beside me. Then she helped me straddle him. The position was intimate, vulnerable. I could feel Liam beneath me, hard and eager. She coated him with more oil, then her fingers found me, pressing, circling, preparing me with a gentle, insistent pressure. I buried my face in Liam’s neck, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

“Relax,” Liam murmured, his hands stroking my back. “It’s just me. It’s just us.”

Mark was behind me, his chest to my back, his arms around me, holding me steady. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve got you, brother.”

Elena’s finger breached me, and I cried out, the sensation strange and overwhelming. But as she worked me open, the pain began to melt into a deep, shocking fullness. When she judged me ready, she guided Liam to my entrance.

“Look at him,” she told Liam, pointing at Mark’s face over my shoulder. “Look at your friend while you take his.”

Liam’s eyes, dark with lust, locked with Mark’s. He pushed up, and I sank down.

The feeling was indescribable. A stretch, a burn, then an incredible, all-consuming fullness. I was impaled, held between them, connected in the most primal way imaginable. I was sobbing, but they weren’t tears of pain. They were tears of release, of a boundary so thoroughly crossed there was no going back.

For a moment, we were frozen, a statue of forbidden desire. Then Liam began to move, and Mark moved with him, a counter-rhythm that rocked me between them. Elena’s hands were everywhere, coaxing, encouraging. She kissed me, swallowing my moans.

It built slowly, then all at once. A coiling, unbearable tension deep in my core. The slap of skin, the guttural groans of the men holding me, the sweet, encouraging words from Elena—it all fused into a symphony of sin. I was the instrument, and they were playing me to breaking point.

“Now,” Elena gasped, her hand working furiously on me. “Let go for them.”

I came with a violence that felt like my soul was being torn from my body. My vision went dark, my back arching impossibly as wave after wave of pleasure-pain wrecked me. My climax triggered theirs; I felt Liam shudder beneath me, his release filling me, and a moment later, Mark’s hot spill across my back, his groan a raw, broken thing in my ear.

We collapsed into a heap of spent limbs and shuddering breath. For a long time, no one moved. The world was reduced to the scent of skin and sex, the weight of limbs, the slowing thunder of hearts. Elena carefully extracted herself from the tangle, fetching a soft towel and a warm, damp cloth from her bag. She cleaned us with a maternal gentleness that was at odds with what had just transpired. She wiped the sweat from my brow, the spend from my stomach and back, from Liam’s hip. She tended to each of us in turn, a silent, efficient minister. No one spoke. The only sounds were the slowing of our breath and the distant hum of the furnace.

Eventually, she dressed, the professional once more. She looked at the three of us, a mess of men on a couch, and smiled. “That,” she said softly, “was a proper send-off.”

She left as quietly as she’d arrived. The click of the front door closing upstairs was the period at the end of the sentence.

The silence in the basement was absolute. The air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and oil. I couldn’t look at them. I stared at the ceiling, the popcorn texture suddenly fascinating.

Mark was the first to move. He sat up, running a hand over his face. He stood, found his boxers and jeans, and pulled them on with a quiet, deliberate slowness. He didn’t look at me.

Liam just lay there, an arm thrown over his eyes.

The shame returned, a cold, heavy blanket. What had we done? Tomorrow, I would marry Sarah. Mark would give her away. Liam would stand by my side as my best man. We would smile, and hug, and it would all be a lie. The physical evidence was being cleaned away, but the memory felt branded onto my skin, into the very marrow of my bones.

“I should go,” I croaked, sitting up. My body ached in unfamiliar places, a deep, tender soreness that was a relentless reminder.

“Don’t.” Mark’s voice was rough. He finally looked at me. His expression wasn’t one of disgust or regret. It was raw, open. “Don’t run away from it.”

“Mark, we… with your sister…”

“I know,” he said, sitting on the coffee table facing me. “I know. And I don’t have an explanation. I don’t have a way to make it fit. But it happened.” He took a deep breath. “It happened because we love you. In a fucked up, way-beyond-friendship way, maybe. Tonight… it wasn’t about her. It was about you. About us. A last… everything.”

Liam lowered his arm. His eyes were red. “He’s right, man. That was… that was for you. All of it. The stupid stripper idea, the poker, the whiskey… it all led to that. To us showing you…” He struggled for words. “Showing you that you’re ours, too. Not just hers.”

The meaning seeped into my bruised soul. It wasn’t an excuse, but it was a reason. A twisted, profound, masculine ritual of letting go and claiming all at once. The ‘last night of freedom’ wasn’t about freedom from Sarah, I realized. It was freedom from the man I was supposed to be. For one night, I was just a body, a receiver of pleasure, a point of connection between two men who loved me.

I looked from Liam to Mark. My friends. My brothers. The men who had just shared the most intimate, forbidden experience of my life.

“I don’t regret it,” I said, the truth of the words settling in my bones as I said them. And it was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. The guilt was there, a cold pebble in my gut, but it was tangled with a profound gratitude that felt equally true, a warmth that fought the chill.

A slow, relieved smile spread across Mark’s face. “Good. Because I sure as hell don’t.”

Liam sat up, punching my shoulder weakly. “Me either. But we are never speaking of this again. To anyone. Especially not to Sarah. This goes to the grave.”

“To the grave,” Mark and I echoed in unison.

We cleaned up the basement in a comfortable, silent camaraderie. We gathered empty bottles, wiped down surfaces, folded the poker table. The tension was gone, replaced by a deep, weary bond that felt older than time. When we were done, we didn’t say goodnight. We just stood there in the middle of the room, surrounded by the ghosts of what we’d done. Then, wordlessly, we moved into a three-way embrace. It was different from any hug we’d ever shared. It was closer, fuller, an acknowledgment of a new, secret knowledge that lived in the space between our bodies. We held on for a long moment, then parted without a word.

I drove home in a daze. The streets were empty, the world asleep. The sun was just beginning to think about rising, painting the sky in muted shades of gray and pink. I let myself into my quiet apartment, the familiar space feeling alien, like I was a ghost visiting a life I’d left behind. I went straight to the shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand. I scrubbed my skin until it was pink, washing the last physical traces of the night away—the scent of Elena’s perfume, the sweat, the oil. The water pooled at my feet, swirling down the drain, but the feeling of fullness, of being utterly known and used, lingered beneath my skin.

I slid into bed, my body humming with a deep, satiated exhaustion. The sheets were cool and clean. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from the group chat with Liam and Mark.

Mark: Get some sleep, brother. Big day tomorrow. Liam: See you at the altar, you lucky bastard.

I smiled, a real smile, for the first time since Elena had walked down the stairs. The simple normalcy of their texts, the unwavering affection in them, was an anchor. I typed back.

Me: Wouldn’t be there without you two.

I put the phone down and stared at the ceiling. In a few hours, I would put on a tuxedo. I would stand before our friends and family. I would look into Sarah’s beautiful, trusting eyes and vow to love her, to cherish her, to be faithful to her for the rest of my life.

And I would mean every word. What happened in Jake’s basement wasn’t infidelity. It was something else entirely. A sacrament of a different kind. A last, glorious, unrestrained communion with the men who had shaped me, a final gift of shared desire before I devoted myself wholly to the woman who completed me. The guilt was there, a quiet companion, but it was not the only resident in my heart. There was also a strange, hard-won peace.

It was my unconventional last request. And they had granted it, beautifully, terribly, perfectly.

As I drifted into sleep, I didn’t feel guilt. I felt whole. And ready.