Summer Swap 6-13

Lily said the first go at the spinner was Cheyenne and Byron’s team, the order being clockwise from the game master.

Lily said to them, “Want me to spin for you? It’ll be easier than passing this card around from player to player.” She waggled the cardboard spinner. “It’s kind of flimsy.”

Byron said, “Spin for us, Lily,” and reclined on his sofa with an arm over the back.

Arlo read a sheet of directions, sitting on the small sofa behind Lily. “Okay, the first round is a body challenge. Everyone ready for that?”

Sully looked to Scarlet, but she didn’t know what that meant, either. He said, “What’s a body challenge?”

Lily said, “Byron and Chey spin a color, and then they spin for what they have to do to a body part from someone from that group color.”

Sully looked to Scarlet, and they broke out laughing.

Lily said, “Hey, guys, come on. Give the game a chance.”

Scarlet held up a hand. “No, Lily. We’re laughing because that’s perfect. I won’t back down.”

Sully made the same proclamation. “I’m not backing down from that.”

Byron eyed him. “Even if I have to put my finger up your butt? Tickle that old prostate of yours?”

Sully paused and thought about it and in that hesitation, Scarlet said, “I would pay real money to see that happen,” and they all laughed.

Carla hugged Cody’s arm. “I would, too. Maybe we can start a Go Fund Me.”

Byron looked at Lily. “That’s not on there, is it?”

“You putting a finger up Sully’s butt? Let’s spin the wheel and find out.”

Chey chuckled. “Spin it, Lily.”

Lily spun the wheel and announced, “Blue.”

Both Byron and Chey regarded their badges. “We’re blue. What does that mean?”

“Disqualified,” Sully said.

Carla said, “What do you think it means, Byron? Use your imagination.” She smiled and winked.

Sully regarded her and Cody, Carla hugging her husband’s side, her shoes off, legs drawn up under her. They were like proud parents watching their children on Christmas morning, opening all their presents, mom and dad sleepy eyed and happy, enjoying the pleasure they’d gifted.

Cheyenne said, “We . . . do it . . . to each other?”

Arlo said, “Bingo.”

“What do we have to do?”

Lily spun the hand and said, “Flutter. One of you has to flutter the other.” She spun again. “Lips. Flutter your eyelashes on the other’s lips.”

“Easy peasy,” Byron said.

But when Byron turned to his wife, Sully noted some sand in the relationship gears. There was friction between Byron and Chey. Cheyenne had swung for the fences and went hog wild in pornographic sex action, and then, when Byron had his turn, he went too far emotionally. Scarlet said he’d cuddled with Carla all night, the two of them under a blanket on the yacht’s prow, the Caribbean starlight twinkling over their noggins. Sully pictured Byron sleeping like a little baby, his mouth every once in a while suckling on one of Carla’s nipples. God, sleeping with Carla, resting your head on those big pillows?

Byron said to Cheyenne, “Do you want to flutter?”

Chey didn’t smile, just pressing her lips together, regarding her husband, unsure. “No,” she said, quiet. “You flutter my lips.”

Sully cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “Bor-ing.”

Scarlet elbowed him.

They all watched what Byron had claimed would be “easy peasy” happen with sticky, hesitating movement, like Chey and Byron needed a squirt of oil on all their joints. Byron leaned close and Chey pouted her lips, neither of them smiling, and Byron fluttered his eyelashes against her. She shook her head and rubbed her mouth. The laughter came uneasily from everyone.

Lily pointed to Philippe and Paloma. “You guys are next.” She flicked her spinner. She frowned. “This sucks. Orange. Samesies again.”

Philippe smiled. “What do we have to do?”

Lily spun once more, saying, “Squeeze...” Then smiled, looking up. “Penis. One of you has to squeeze the other’s penis.”

Philippe regarded his former wife, raising an eyebrow. “That really narrows it down.”

“Yes,” Paloma said. “I am the one who squeeze.” She stooped forward to set her glass of chardonnay on the teak floor and then turned in the seat to face her husband, who did the same, leaning back in the corner of the sofa, that sly smile showing—the one he had whenever his magnificent penis would make an appearance. He let Paloma do the work, Paloma unzipping him, her bangles jingling, getting his fly open and slipping a hand inside his shorts.

Lily said, “We have to see.”

Paloma nodded, then drew out Philippe’s enormous hairy organ, all loose skin and bulk, Paloma’s tanned hand with a good grip. She squeezed and milked that monster, looking around at the group to make sure they all saw her doing it.

Sully side-eyed Scarlet, saw his wife leaning forward, no timidity at all, stroking her throat and smiling while she watched her new nemesis playing with the object of Scarlet’s affection. It fucking turned him on like crazy to see his wife as a pervert.

Paloma let Philippe’s penis go, and it lay on his leg before he squirreled it back inside his shorts and zipped up again.

They had all remained rather silent while Paloma performed that act, no one making jokes or laughing, all of them mesmerized—or intimidated—by Philippe’s masculine equipment.

Scarlet said, “It’s our turn, Sully,” and took his hand. “Spin for us, Lily.”

Lily spun. “Orange,” she said, pointing to Paloma and Philipe, both Sully and Scarlet looking toward their cold war adversaries, Philippe smiling, Paloma high-browed and unperturbed.

“And,” Scarlet asked, “what do we have to do?”

Lily spun again. “Lick. . . . And lips. One of you has to lick one of their lips.”

Scarlet patted the back of his hand she held and they regarded each other with hesitating smiles. Sully said, “What do you think? You want to lick Philippe’s lips?”

Scarlet looked over his shoulder at Philippe and Paloma, saying to him, “I’ve already licked his lips.”

“I’m not licking his lips. I guess I should lick her lips?”

But Scarlet wasn’t listening, still gazing over his shoulder like she was in a staring contest. “Look at her. She thinks she’s the boss, like we did something wrong. Just living our lives, right?”

“We’re not trying to hurt nobody,” he said, ashamed of the lurid excitement sparked from thinking maybe his wife would go and lick Paloma’s lips. There was a stirring in his loins. Scarlet had already licked Paloma’s lips, though. He said, “Maybe I should do it. Lick Paloma’s lips.”

Now Scarlet looked at him, her eyes flicking to his. “Why?”

“You’ve licked both their lips. You’re not showing anybody you’re the boss that way.”

Scarlet’s mouth tugged to one side, her cheek dimpling, seeing he was correct. “Yeah, okay. You’re right. You lick her lips, but don’t back down, Sully.”

“I don’t back down,” he said, defensive.

“Don’t hesitate or anything. Make a show of it.”

He pulsed a palm toward her, calming her down. “Yeah-yeah-yeah, I know.”

She laughed, then whispered, “Don’t let me down.”

Sully rose to stand amid the group, everyone facing him, now the star of the show. A chill of stage fright hit him, but he chased it away with a bold surge, a commanding male energy that zipped through him. He looked down at Paloma and Philippe, his smug adversaries, wanting to impress his beloved Scarlet with a confident show. Lick her lips...

He sighed as if this was the hundredth time he’d played this game and he found it so wearying. Then he scratched his chest in lazy strokes and sniffed before saying, “This seems too sweet for some of us world travelers, if you know what I’m saying.”

Lily looked perplexed and a little hurt. “It’s just the first round.”

Sully lifted his eyebrows high. “It’s a wonderful game, Lily, but I say we kick this thing up a gear.”

Lily’s mouth squished to one side, studying him and trying to figure out his angle. “That’s fine. But you still have to complete the challenge. You’re not backing out, are you?”

He chuckled and closed his eyes. “From what, licking Paloma’s lips? Please. . . . Though, you know what?”

“What?”

He winked at Lily now. “The card didn’t say which lips, did it?” He smiled. He’d found his angle. Turning now to Paloma, he said, “Unless that’s too much and you want to back out.”

Paloma looked to Philippe, not following Sully’s slang and fast-talking patter. Her brows bowed in query.

Philippe said, “Ele quer dizer lábios. Os lábios”—he nodded between Paloma’s legs—“também são lábios.”

Sully heard the word that sounded like labia and figured he’d been suitably translated, crossing his arms and bouncing on his toes. He looked back, and Scarlet seemed impressed. She showed him a secret thumbs-up.

“Sim, sim,” Paloma said, smiling, not out of humor but out of confidence, slinking in her seat, facing Sully, crossing her arms like he did, her hands stroking the back of her upper arms. Her chin dipped to her suntanned collar, and she regarded him from under her brow, her eyes sparkling. She said, “That’s what I thought it was you mean.” Her knees widened. She wore that daisy yellow dress he loved to see her in, the one that made her skin dark and sexy, showed off her arms and shoulders and her long, long legs. Legs that parted for him further, revealing the insides of her thighs, up high, right where he wanted to be. This yacht trip was so much better than he thought it could be. “I will not back down. Kiss me while your wife watch. Kiss me down there while all your friends watch.”

Paloma was a tough cookie, and her confident challenge to him shook his foundation a little. Scarlet was watching. What if when he returned she was mad? Did he misunderstand the thumbs-up? And what if his friends made fun of him? What if they all laughed? What if, when he squatted between Paloma’s legs, Byron made a fart sound?

He pushed the negative thoughts back. Who cares? He was going to do a good job. He was going to impress Paloma, and he was going to make his wife proud.

Oh, and he was also going to put into motion the plan to get his time with Paloma. This would also be seduction.

He said, “This is more than a kiss, Paloma. This is a lick.”

She shrugged one shoulder, unbothered. “What’s the difference?”

He chuckled and polished his nails on his stomach. “Oh, you’re going to find out the difference. Why don’t you lift that skirt up and I’ll show you.”

He watched her sexy, long-fingered hands drop to her lap and begin to claw upward the cotton fabric, revealing more and more of those beautiful legs.

“Okay,” he muttered, a little intimidated as he saw this wild creature wore no panties, and she showed him that most secret part. Paloma was unshaved, a wild thatch of sexy woman-bush darker than her sun-bleached caramel hair. His stomach tightened and his heart raced at the lurid sight. There was something unnerving about a woman so beautiful and groomed going completely au naturel between her legs. He fucking liked it. She was like a sophisticated supermodel and some hippy free-spirit of the earth all at once. His cock began to harden, plumping out under his fly.

Seduction, he told himself. Remember: seduction.

He squatted between Paloma’s open legs, Philippe enjoying the show. No one laughed, no one blatted a comical fart sound. His friends all watched this gorgeous woman show one of their friends her pussy with the expectation he would lick it.

He worked closer, both hands gripping her thighs for balance, his right hand sweeping closer, his thumb caressing her labia, locating them in the dense Amazon rainforest he circled over, looking for a runway. His face went closer, and he fought the boyish urge to giggle. This was the most hilarious thing he’d ever done. And the most sexually adventurous. He was blessed to receive such a moment in his life. He relaxed and let the giggle simmer, then dissipate. His eyes darted up to Paloma’s, and she showed him no humor. To show him humor would let Scarlet succeed over her. He was an agent of Scarlet’s; a proxy in Paloma and Scarlet’s scrimmage.

Paloma told him, “Is lick. Not thumb,” her tone domineering, Scarlet’s husband inept at following the clear rules set forth by Lily’s spinner.

He said, “I know it’s lick. I’m just waiting for you to chicken out.”

“What is this, chicken? Is it—”

But he was in motion now, dipping close, the tip of his nose sweeping south-to-north through her pubic patch. She smelled like coconut and pineapple. How the fuck could a pussy smell so good? But he offered her no compliment, no uttering of supplication that would anger his lovely Scarlet, only brought his nose back down again, jutting his chin forward and introducing his tongue to her pussy.

He loved the little jolt it produced. The tip of his tongue narrowed, wiggled against the bottom yoke of her opening, blown away by a distinct sugariness on his palate. Did she pamper her pussy in some kind of sugar dusting, some sort of tropical coconut-pineapple flavoring used in baking? If they sorted out their difficulties, maybe Paloma would share her secret with Scarlet.

Once his tongue sunk into her pussy, parting her labia, the copper tang seized his tongue and reminded him Paloma was a human like any other woman, no matter how long-limbed and sultry they may be.

Now he pasted the flat of his tongue to her labia and urged an upward pressure that had Paloma’s thighs closing against his shoulders. Her skin was hot. He angled his face up, the wide flat of his tongue going back and forth like windshield wipers in a light rain, puffing up her sex flesh, feeling them fatten under his taste buds, bowing his tongue and locating the hard bulb of flesh under her membranous cowl. Once he’d located that pleasure knot, he focused on greater pressure, stalling his lick, curling his tongue to give it drag, slow its course across Paloma’s labia, or lábios, as Philippe pronounced it. More upward pressure, his tongue snagged on her clitoris, pulling it up, harassing it, applying stress, giving it anxiety. Paloma shifted and trembled and right there, he knew he’d won.

His tongue relaxed, softened, the comber unfurling, slipping a wet line up her pussy, glissading across her clitoris, then departing from her sex flesh like an F-16 taking flight off an aircraft carrier. He chuckled, gripping Paloma’s shaking thighs to help him stand upright before her.

Paloma showed a dazed expression, not regarding him, her eyes unfocused. The blush on her tanned cheeks turned his ignition, and his powerful sex motor rumbled to life. Now he didn’t want to sit, only to get back to business and make this Brazilian super-model orgasm right in front of all his friends. Paloma’s lips had tightened and one corner had lifted. Was the Cold War over? Was she smiling? Was his oral skill the kind of Wikipedia-worthy rapprochement needed to get all four of them in bed later tonight?

He looked to Philippe, happy to see he and Philippe were on the same page, two guys nursing their combative wives through a female head-to-head they wouldn’t interfere with, only linger on the sidelines where it was safe, ride this battle out.

Paloma’s graceful hand wiped the smile from her own face. Then she adjusted her skirt to cover her exposed sex and brought her knees together.

“Okay,” she said, “you lick.”

“That’s right,” Sully said, thumbing his chest. “I lick. I’m the one who licks.”

Paloma had no comeback, only shuffled closer to Philippe, leaning her shoulder into his chest, her eyes blinking in rapid flutters, still trying to recover without showing she needed time to recover.

Sully made a show of straightening his shirt and shorts, putting himself back together like a gentleman might. If he had cufflinks, he would tug them. Then he returned to his wife, Scarlet sitting unreadable, back straight, hands on her thighs. He plopped back down next to her and took her hand, looking around at all his friends, who showed signs of heightened arousal, all of them realizing the game was starting to get real.

Byron broke the silence, tugging on his earlobe, brows raised, head cocked, pupils darting from Paloma and Philippe to him and Scarlet. “Oo-kay,” he said, “something’s going on there.” He shook his head and drummed on his thighs. “Lily, spin your dial and see if Cody or Carla has to finger Sully-boy’s prostate.”