Two groomsmen bang the bride in a secret rendezvous as she proves she’s a good-time girl — and woman of her word.

Now is finally the time for me to come clean, even though I’ve hesitated to tell this story to anyone before. It may seem odd to share with the entire world something you wouldn’t share with a bro — or even with a progressive pastor or a nonjudgmental shrink. But, in this case, the anonymity of writing to Penthouse Letters seems perfect.

My story goes back a few years — to my university days in California. I lived off-campus with two friends. Let’s call them “Paul” and “Christopher.” Christopher and I were studious drones — not total nerds, but close to it. If anything, Christopher was quieter and less social than me. Paul, on the other hand, was much more affable. And he had a full sex life, sometimes juggling relationships with two or more women simultaneously. Christopher and I had dating lives, too, but our bedrooms didn’t have a revolving door like Paul’s did.

Late in our junior year, Paul began a relationship with “Sandra,” a sexy, smart, ginger-haired young woman who was majoring in marketing but also thinking about law school. Sandra was funny, outspoken and flirtatious. She and Paul were a good match — except when they weren’t. You’d hear them screwing into the night with wild abandon. Then, the next morning, they’d be having a screaming match about God knows what. Sandra knew about the other women Paul was seeing, and it drove her to distraction. Paul, in turn, wasn’t keen on her flirtatious ways with anybody with a penis.

They must have called it quits five or six times — sometimes for a weekend, sometimes for several months. Apart, they were both miserable. They would go out with other people during their separations, but eventually they’d drift back together. Rinse and repeat, ad nauseam.

By fall of our senior year, it seemed they’d made a final break. Paul had met an attractive art student from Texas who I’ll call “Adrienne,” and all was going smoothly. Christopher and I didn’t see much of Paul that semester, as he spent most nights at Adrienne’s apartment.

But then Sandra began showing up at our place. She’d talk with Christopher and me about how much she missed Paul, and she would rag on Adrienne, whom she called “that tit-less bitch from Corpus Christi.” She made both Christopher and me laugh. We confessed to one another privately that we each had the hots for her.

“Maybe one of us should just ask her out,” I suggested.

“Are you kidding, Pete? That’s a grand passion they’ve got going. Like something out of a fucking opera. Tosca maybe.” (Chris was a music major.) “No, sir. Keep me out of it.”

“You’re right,” I said. “But, God, she gets me horny sometimes when she shows up. I always think she’s trying to start something with me. Or maybe with you. With somebody, anyway.”

Graduation approached, and we busied ourselves figuring out the next steps in our lives. Sandra had applied to law schools, Christopher and I to grad schools. Paul planned to move back to Seattle to work in the family business. There were hints that Adrienne might accompany him, though she still had another year of college.

Late one April night — a Friday, maybe 3 a.m. — a loud pounding on the door woke me. It was Sandra. She was dressed to the nines in a slinky, shiny, copper-colored dress. She was angry, and very drunk. Her makeup was smeared with tears. She’d been at a party at which Paul and Adrienne had shown up. She’d tried to avoid them, but somehow she’d gotten the idea they were engaged to be married. She confronted Paul about it, caused a big scene by shouting at him and called Adrienne a “trashy Texas tart” — an insult I imagine she’d been saving up for weeks.

I made a pot of coffee to sober her up and tried to console her, but she continued to carry on. Eventually, Christopher stumbled out of his bedroom to see what the racket was.

“What’s wrong with me!” Sandra wailed. “Am I fucking ugly?”

We assured her she wasn’t.

She cupped her breasts in her hands. “I guess my tits are too big for him,” she sputtered. “Paul apparently likes itty-bitty Texas titties. Ha! Isn’t everything from Texas supposed to be bigger? Well, not Adrienne’s boobs, that’s for sure!”

She stood up and started wriggling out of her dress. “You guys like big tits, don’t you! I have beautiful breasts. Everybody knows it. They’re my best feature.”

Her dress fell to the floor. She took off her bra to prove her claim. Neither of us could argue that her breasts weren’t first-rate.

“Who wouldn’t want to fuck a woman with this body?” she said. “Wouldn’t you, Pete? Christopher? You should fuck me now, the both of you!”

But the moment those words tumbled from her mouth, she crumpled onto the sofa, her face buried in her arms. She sobbed. Christopher handed her his bathrobe, and she quickly wrapped it around herself.

It was 6 a.m. when she managed to fall asleep, and well after noon when she finally woke up, hung over but calm. Fortunately, Paul had stayed over at Adrienne’s that night. Christopher had texted him, warning him that Sandra had crashed at our place. We found a shirt, some running shorts and flip-flops she could wear, so she wouldn’t have to parade home in broad daylight in her slinky party dress.

After she showered, she wolfed down a bowl of cereal along with more coffee. She apologized for throwing herself at us sexually in the middle of her drunken fit.

“You guys are so sweet,” she cooed. “You could have taken advantage of me, but you didn’t. I owe you one.”

“You owe us nothing,” Christopher said.

“Listen to me,” she said. “I really would have screwed the two of you. But I’m glad I didn’t — not all fucked up like I was. I know it’s going to work out with Paul. Adrienne is gonna be history very soon. And the two of you will dance at our wedding — and possibly not with each other.” She giggled. “I have no doubt of this whatsoever. But, I’m promising this to you both. Before Paul and I take our vows, I’m gonna go to bed with the two of you. No, don’t laugh! You’re both sexy beasts — and you’re good guys, too. I shall fuck the living shit out of you some night when I’m sober enough to enjoy it. As God is my witness.”

That was six years ago. We’d all moved on with our lives. I went to grad school in New York, Christopher to a music conservatory in New England. Paul, as he’d planned, moved back to Seattle — but without Adrienne in tow. (The idea that they were engaged turned out to be fake news.) As for Sandra, she was accepted at several law schools, but wound up staying in California and going to Stanford. (I told you she was smart.)

We all stayed in touch over the years, mostly through social media. And then, two years ago came the shocker. On Facebook, I learned Paul and Sandra were back together — living in San Francisco, near her family. She was working for a large law firm. Several months later, I learned they were engaged. Chris and I were soon called on to be groomsmen at their wedding in S.F.

“I can’t believe you two got back together, let alone that you’re getting married,” I told Paul when he phoned.

“You know how it is,” he said. “Nobody else will have us.”

A Saturday afternoon ceremony and celebration were scheduled in the Marina District. I flew out early on the beforehand Thursday for the bachelor party that night. Christopher and I were to bunk together in a hotel close to the wedding site, which was on the waterfront. We’d both managed to stay single over the years, though Chris had just come off a long relationship with a cellist he’d met at the conservatory near Boston.

Paul and Sandra met us at the hotel and took us to lunch that afternoon. She looked even hotter than she had back in our college days. The filmy dress she wore gave me flashbacks to the times I’d been turned on by her killer body. My mind flipped back to the night she’d given Christopher and me that long look at her bare breasts.

Right away, I detected some tension between Sandra and Paul. They barely looked at one another.

“Everything okay?” I asked Paul when Sandra went to the ladies’ room. “Wedding jitters?”

“It’s fine. She’s not thrilled about the bachelor party tonight, though she’s got her own bachelorette thing.” He smirked. “Our party’s gonna go a little over the top. I mean, just to clue you in, my cousin Phil is supplying the condoms, but if you have a favorite brand, feel free to bring your own.”

I’d figured there would be strippers or lap dancers at the stag event, which was to take place in a deluxe suite on the top floor of the hotel where Christopher and I were staying. But apparently it was going to get crazier than that.

It was about eight that night when Chris and I arrived at the suite. About 15 other guys were there — mostly Paul’s coworkers, along with a few cousins and family friends. A buffet spread and a fully stocked bar had been set up. Two sexy cocktail waitresses worked the room, wearing old-timey, ’50s-style stripper attire: G-strings and pasties with tassels. Alcohol flowed freely, but Chris and I were determined to pace ourselves. The bash was scheduled to go late into the night, and we didn’t want to crash and burn.

Paul, though, was fully drunk when we arrived. He cornered Christopher and me and confessed that things had become more strained between him and Sandra since lunch. They had even talked of calling off the wedding!

“He and I traded places. I sucked her clit while she swallowed his whopper.”

“That cocktail waitress over there — the dark-haired one with the beautiful fat ass?” Paul pointed toward her. “That’s Bethany. I’ve known her for years. Wild girl — a dependable booty call. Sandy got wind that she’d be here tonight. I said I deserved a hall pass ’cause, tonight’s the last night I can bone anyone besides her for the rest of my fucking life.” He laughed and added the word “theoretically,” though he slurred it so badly it came out “theo-rectally.” He belched, loudly. “I told Sandy she could have a hall pass herself if she wanted one, but she pitched a fit. I said, ‘Fuck you, Sandy. Bethany’s gonna fuck me tonight, and the other slut we’ve got coming is good to fuck everybody else.’”

Christopher and I looked at each other. Even allowing for his drunkenness, this didn’t seem like the Paul we knew from college. He’d grown mean-spirited and sad.

Lap dances were soon underway. The other stripper, a blonde named Dusty, moved from guy to guy. I was definitely aroused by her moves. As she pushed her outsized breasts into my chest and ground her ass against my groin, my cock stiffened and throbbed. Christopher later confessed he’d nearly creamed his shorts before she moved on to the next guy. Meanwhile on the mattress, Bethany sat on Paul’s lap, tangling her arms around him and kissing his neck. She removed his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt and began playing with his nipples. The other guys stood around the bed watching. In little time, she’d stripped Paul to his boxer briefs. The other guys, chugging their ever-replenished drinks, grew loud as they egged Paul on.

Bethany shimmied out of her G-string, which she then flung across the room. She pushed Paul down on the bed, fell to her knees and took his hard-on in her mouth. She sucked him aggressively, making him moan. She rolled a condom onto his penis. After a few minutes of tugging at his dick, she got on top of him and attempted to ease her pussy onto him, but he was going soft — and quickly. She kept trying to revive his erection, but with no luck. After a minute or so, the groom-to-be began snoring loudly. The guys booed and hissed their disappointment. Undeterred, Bethany grabbed Cousin Phil and began unbuckling his belt. Dusty followed suit with one of the other guests. Paul, meanwhile, continued sawing logs, dead to the world.

I checked the time. It was 8:45.

Christopher and I went to the bar and tried to engage another party guest in conversation, but he was too interested in the first stages of what was becoming an all-out gangbang to pay attention.

“What do you think?” I asked Chris.

“Let’s book.”

It was barely nine o’clock when we left the party — an event that was supposed to go into the wee hours.

Christopher and I had had a long day, and we were still on East Coast time. We talked for a bit. We watched the 11 o’clock news and called it a night.

About 12:30, I woke to someone rapping on our door. I thought maybe it was one of the dudes from the party — even Paul, maybe — coming to haul us back to the orgy. I got out of my bed and went to the door, careful not to wake Chris.

“Who is it?”

“Me. Sandra.”

I stepped into the hallway. Sandy looked stunning in a white blouse and black silk trousers. Her long red hair was pulled back from her face.

“What happened to your bachelorette party,” I said.

“That was a bust.” She took my hand firmly in her own and looked me directly in the eye. “Kiss me,” she said.

“What?” I asked incredulously.

“Last I knew, you weren’t deaf. What do you think I said? Fucking kiss me.”

I put my hands on her arms, leaned in and kissed her softly on the mouth.

“Nice try,” she said. She grabbed me by the face with both hands and pulled my mouth onto hers. She kissed me long and hard. When she finally pulled away, she asked, “Is Chris in there?”

I nodded.

“I want him, too,” she said. “He needs to kiss me.”

“She’d arranged herself so Chris could lap at her cunt while I licked her ass.”

“Have you been drinking?”

She laughed. “Stone-cold sober. You think I only want to fuck you when I’m drunk? Wouldn’t that be rather insulting?”

“Sandra, it’s late.”

“Not too late to make good on my promise.”

“Promise?”

She raised her voice, practically shouting. “My promise to fuck you! To fuck you and Christopher!”

“Shhh.”

“No!” Her voice was loud enough to wake everybody on the floor. I quickly pulled her into the room. A lamp was on and Chris was sitting on his bed, looking confused, his eyes adjusting to the light.

“There’s Christopher!” said Sandra. “Kiss me, Christopher!”

She scrambled over to him, pushed him back on the bed, fell atop him and began kissing him. He didn’t seem fully certain what had hit him.

When she finally came up for air, she said. “Take your clothes off. Both of you.”

“Sandra, you’re marrying Paul tomorrow. You don’t really want to do this.”

“Paul’s an asshole,” she said. “Paul used his hall pass tonight, and now I’m using mine.” Her eyes were full of fury. “Paul fucked some skanky whore at that bachelor party. I know that. I went by there a little while ago. So disrobe, boys. Now. I vowed I would screw the two of you before I married Paul, and I’m a woman who keeps her vows.”

We tried to reason with her. Who knows? Maybe Paul did eventually wake up and fuck that chick — but Sandra was pretty determined to have us. She began taking her clothes off as we spoke, and, before long, Chris and I found ourselves undressing, too. Her words were madness, but at the moment, they made perfect sense.

We were all soon nude. My thick prong throbbed with anticipation. Sandra grabbed it with one hand and pulled me toward her. I caressed her soft yet firm breasts and teased her aroused nipples. Her tits were as stupendous as I remembered from the night she’d last bared them to us.

Sandra had Christopher’s hard-on in her other hand. And, damn, was that a revelation! I’d never seen Chris’s erect dick before. I was astonished by how enormous it was — at least a full inch longer than mine, with a big helmet-shaped head. Sandra fell to her knees and began going back and forth between his boner and mine, sucking ravenously.

“I’m so wet,” she said. “Who’s going to eat my pussy?”

“I am,” said Chris, without hesitation.

“I heard Christopher gasp as he shot his wad, while pounding her snatch.”

We all got up onto the bed. Sandra continued to suck me while Chris buried his face in her twat. After a while, he and I traded places. I sucked her clit while she swallowed his whopper.

Soon, she’d arranged herself so Chris could lap at her cunt while I licked her asshole. It vaguely flew through my mind that the woman whose anus I was tonguing would, within 48 hours, be standing in front of God and everybody to trade rings with the man she supposedly loved. I banished the thought and kept on licking.

Finally, she got what she was craving: a double penetration, straight out of the nastiest porn flick imaginable. I strapped a condom onto my dick and lay on my back as she lubed up her asshole with some goopy concoction. Facing away from me she slowly, tantalizingly, lowered her ass down the length of my erection. Moments later Chris was on top of her, pushing her back on top of me. He thrust his fat prick toward her cunt. She moaned as his bulbous dickhead plunged deep inside her. I nuzzled her neck with my lips as I fucked her butt. The three of us eventually found a rhythm that worked — and we rode the waves toward our orgasms like three passengers crammed inside a lifeboat. I held my breath as I felt my load let go. Directly after, I heard Christopher gasp as he shot his wad, while pounding her sopping snatch.

We eventually disentangled. Sandy brought herself off with her hand. She gasped like a drowning woman as she climaxed. We didn’t say anything for what seemed a long time.

“Mission accomplished,” she declared at last. “But, I swear, if either of you is idiotic enough to let this get back to Paul, well… I believe the phrase is ‘There’ll be hell to pay.’ Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to Mommy and Daddy’s house to sleep with my stuffed animals.”

The following afternoon came the rehearsal for the ceremony and a banquet for members of the bridal party. The day after that, the wedding itself.

Everybody got through the day without catastrophe. Paul didn’t forget the ring. Sandra’s Aunt Rachel sang “Evergreen.” Rice was thrown.

At one point that weekend, Chris and I tried to talk about what had happened with Sandra. But the words for it didn’t exist. Not, that is, until I wrote them down to send to Penthouse Letters.

But mum’s the word. As you know by now, Sandra keeps her vows. I wouldn’t want anybody to have to wind up paying hell.