My bachelorette party got out of control

My name is Valentina. I’m 28 years old. And tomorrow I’m marrying Martín.

We’ve been together for six years. He’s a good man. He loves me. He respects me. He gives me everything a woman could ask for… except one thing. Except the only one that matters.

Right now, sitting in my apartment’s bathroom, with my wedding dress hanging on the door and the moral hangover hitting me harder than the alcohol one, I can’t stop shaking. And it’s not from wedding nerves.

It was last night. My bachelorette party.

My friends, those fucking bitches, took me to a club downtown. Not one of those places with fake strippers in leopard print pants. No. This place was darker. More expensive. More dangerous. They told me it was a “surprise.” The surprise came two hours later, when we were all drunk, laughing like crazy.

His name is Thiago. Or at least that’s what he said. Brazilian. Dancer. His body was tan and shiny with oil, his abs marked like a grid, and he had a smile that melted my panties instantly. Very tall. With big hands, long fingers, and a look that was already fucking me before he said a single word.

“The bride, huh?” he asked, walking up to me while my friends screamed and clinked their glasses.

“The bride,” I said, and my voice came out so weak it was embarrassing.

They threw bills at him. Piles of bills. They pushed me toward him. “Make her dance!” “Show her what Martín is going to miss!” “Her last night of freedom, Val!”

And me, who was never one of those girls, always the good girl, the faithful one, the one who never looked at another man… I let myself go.

We started dancing. He pressed against my back, his hips against my ass. The rhythm was slow, heavy, Caribbean. I felt his hard cock pressing against my ass through that tiny dance outfit. I closed my eyes.

“Does your boyfriend dance like this?” he whispered in my ear.

“He doesn’t dance,” I answered.

“Too bad.”

He turned me around. He looked me straight in the eyes. And then, in front of all my friends who were whistling like crazy, he kissed me. But it wasn’t one of those playful kisses. It was a wet kiss, deep, with tongue, with bites. He grabbed the back of my neck and kissed me like he already knew he was going to fuck me stupid that night.

My legs were shaking. I was soaking wet.

“Take us somewhere private,” one of my friends, Sofía, yelled. “The bride has a debt to pay!”

He smiled, took my hand, and put me in a taxi. My friends stayed at the club, celebrating. And I left with a stranger.

His apartment smelled like incense and him. He put on music, the same one playing at the club. And before I could say anything, he pushed me onto the bed.

That night he fucked me seven times.

Seven.

Martín, if I’m lucky, fucks me once a week. And when he does, he lasts five minutes. Always the same two positions. Always with the lights off. Always asking “do you like it, love?” in that sweet voice that kills me with pity. He’s never dared to pull my hair, to spank me, to say a single dirty word in bed. Never.

Thiago, on the other hand…

First, he put me on all fours on the bed, grabbed my hips with those huge hands, and shoved it all in at once. I screamed. Not from pain. From pleasure. He was so big I felt like I was tearing inside, but in a way that made me want more. He pulled my hair back, arching my spine, while he rammed into me like I was his.

“Who’s fucking you?” he asked.

“You,” I moaned.

“What’s my name?”

“Thiago… Thiago…”

“And who’s Martín?”

“My… my boyfriend…”

“Martín is a fucking idiot. For letting you come to this city alone. Martín is a fucking idiot. For not knowing how to fuck you like this.”

And I agreed with him. In that moment, with another man’s cock inside me, filling me completely, I agreed with him. I came three times in a row, screaming, soaking the sheets. He didn’t stop. He changed positions. He put me on my back, spread my legs open like a book, and penetrated me while looking into my eyes.

“I like brides,” he said. “They taste like sin.”

I laughed. I laughed like I hadn’t laughed in years. And I felt alive. Alive like I’d never felt with Martín.

The second time was in the shower. The third against the window, watching the city lights. The fourth on the floor, the shaggy carpet burning my back. The fifth he sat on a chair and made me ride him until my thighs still hurt. The sixth he put me on my side, lifting one leg, giving it to me slow but deep, until I was crying from the intensity.

The seventh was at dawn. We were exhausted. He lay back and said, “You decide if this is the last one.”

I got on top again. I moved slowly, looking at his face, his eyes closed from pleasure. And while I did, I thought about Martín. About his face when I walk down the aisle tomorrow. About the kiss. About the reception. About the wedding night.

And I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do it.

Because now I know what it’s like to be fucked properly. What it’s like to be left shaking, sore, full. What it’s like to have a real orgasm. Multiple orgasms.

Thiago came on my stomach. He wiped himself off with his own shirt. He looked at me.

“Don’t get married,” he said.

“It’s too late,” I answered.

“It’s never too late to not ruin your life.”

He kissed my forehead and fell asleep. I got dressed in silence, took a taxi, and went back to my apartment. It was six in the morning. Martín had left me a message: “Only one more day, love. I love you so much. Tomorrow you’ll be my wife.”

I read the message three times. And I cried. But not from emotion.

I cried because I love him. I cried because he’s a good man. I cried because it’s going to break my soul to do this to him. But I also cried because I can’t, I can’t, I can’t spend the rest of my life with a man who fucks me like we’re in a 1950s movie.

It’s eight in the morning now. My mom is going to arrive in an hour to help me get dressed. My friends from last night haven’t stopped texting me: “How was it?”, “Did you fuck him?”, “Tell us everything.”

I haven’t answered.

The white dress stares at me from the hanger. The shoes, the jewelry, the veil. Everything ready.

Everything ready for a lie.

What do I do? Do I get married and pretend? Do I learn to live with bad sex? Or do I cancel everything, break Martín’s heart, and confess that a Brazilian dancer fuck me seven times like he never could?

I know the right answer is to end it cleanly. To tell him I don’t love him anymore. Not to mention Thiago. To spare him that pain.

But I’m a coward.

That’s why I’m here, writing this, while time runs out.

And that’s why I know that, no matter what happens, nothing will ever be the same again.

Because once you’ve tasted heaven… hell becomes the only place you fear.