Last year, I took an evening bar job Friday's & Saturdays in a local Northern Working Man's Club to supplement my wages.
One Friday night, there was a hen party booking - one o' the local factory lasses were gettin' wed. I had grown up surrounded by these small, assertive Northern ladies & knew quite a few of them personally and many by sight. That night, there was a male DJ, six male bar staff, two female ones, a male manager and 2 burly doormen. In my early 40s, I was the oldest guy there and buff from swim & gym. The youngest lad was just 18 but most of the guys were in their 20s or 30s. That night, I'd put on a nice crisp white shirt, smart grey kecks, black shoes, me lucky, skimpy black briefs & a pair o' jazzy, plaid socks.
A heady mix of sexy lady perfumes, the hens were done up to the nines. They were about 60 or more in number, aged from 18 to late 70s. Brandishing feather dusters & tape measures, the hens were eagerly anticipating the stripper, booked for 8.30. However, 9pm arrived and the ladies were getting restless and began a chorus of 'Why are we waiting'. Also, the DJ was stoking up the anticipation by playing the famous stripper song ('Wheels') on loop. But, it turned out that the stripper had been double-booked, but had agreed to come later at 11pm, which was a bit too late...
Well, the hens were having none of it. Excitement soon turned to disappointment and then fury, as some of the more assertive ladies demanded of the manager/compere, 'We want us fuckin' money's worth mate.' Turning militant, one of the hens issued the rallying-cry, 'Right ladues, no stripper - let's see what the blokes here are made of.' Eyeing every male in the place, all the hens began the familiar chant, 'Off, off, off, off, off...' as they surrounded all 10 of us guys, who were now looking nervous to say the least.
Bearing smiles like crocodiles eyeing their prey, every guy in the place was pounced on & pinned down, as the hens began to strip us rapaciously. Trouser buttons & flies were quickly undone by determined, expert, small hands that were practiced in debagging men in the factory as part of initiations. With nothing to do right at that moment, the barmaids were egged on to join in the mass debagging and they honed in on the bloke whose privates they most wanted to see.
Being the oldest bloke in the, place, I was targeted by the more mature ladies. I was being seen to by buxom Frances (early 70s), sisters, Maggie & Madge (pert breasts mid-60s and their respective sassy, sexy daughters Chrissie (early 40s) & Denise (late 30s) & Glenys (early 40s). My shirt was ripped to shreds by these wild, cock-hungry women. Shoes, shirts & trousers went flying and were tossed aside and us blokes were soon down to briefs or boxers, as the ladies made fun of some guys' poorer choices in underpants. They were laughing at the sight of growing bulges.
Aptly, the lasses were stripping us nude to the tune of 'Wheels' still playing on loop. To massive cheers, laughter & whoops of delight, & each bloke, straddled by a lady sitting on him, came the big, theatrical reveal in time with the music. One-by-one, our undies were yanked off & tossed aside to expose a proud member. (Madge kept my briefs as a trophy). The ladies squealed and whooped in delight at thec comic sight of guys cladin nowt but their socks. Although I'd tried in vain to resist and had gone beetroot at being stripped buck-naked, I couldn't remember ever being so rock-hard.
More squeals of delight and laughter ensued as tickling sticks were used to tease our bellends and tape measures were applied to our members. Each lady doing the measuring announced the guy's vital statistic to cheers or a few mock-groans, though every guy there was now rock-hard. The ladies also got lipsticks out and, to gales of laughter, began to apply lipstick to our bellends, making them look even more livid. Cameras out, the hens delighted in taking pics of our lipsticked members and privates to send to their mates who couldn't be there. Practically every woman in the estate would have our dick pics.
Now putty in their hands, each of us blokes was being expertly wanked while having our full balls gently squeezed and tickled. The ladies decided that Frances should have a crack at my cock, while the other ladies tickled my balls. Frances had a nice firm grip, expert stroke, sexily pulling the skin back to show me livid soldier's helmet, which she licked and playfully tickled to squeals of delight. She began to build up the pace and, one by one, and whimpering with pleasure, we were wanked off to cheers each time a guy's spunk sprayed like an out-of-control garden hose.
The aftermath was utter carnage. Naked blokes of various ages & sizes were scattered all over the place - stage, dancefloor, doormen in the reception area. One guy had tried to escape up a gantry but eventually slid down into the eager waiting hands and was then completely swamped and naked in seconds. The manager had tried to barricade himself in the office, but the hens were having none of it and broke the door down. They stripped him in the office, then carried him aloft into the disco area, his face and bellend the colour of beetroot, but his proud member at 90 degrees. All getting a good eyeful, the hens laughed and cheered. Indeed, they delighted in getting a dick pic of every bloke there.
The ladies laughed when, as we'd recovered, we began to search for shirts, trousers, pants and shoes that had been scattered as they were torn off. Our shirts were mostly in shreds. Now surrounding the 10 of us blokes who were trying to dress, the hen's mother, Shirley, mid-40s and all of 5' nothing said: 'Right lads, we've given you a very happy ending. So, if you don't want us wearing your balls for earrings, you get back to serving us until the stripper comes at 11 and we want the bar open til 2!' The hens laughed even more when Eileen warned us: AND, if yer good lads, we'll give you another happy ending later. But, just wait 'til you see what we got in store for that stripper.'
