Summer Swap 6-8

On this beautiful, glorious Caribbean day, she wasn’t going to let the yacht’s soap opera cloud her over. The sun baked her oiled skin, scorched her flesh and filled her with the sun’s powerful energy.

No one got it. No one understood.

Maybe she could explain it better, but whenever she tried, no one listened. They all put their walls up.

No one could see what was happening around them like she could. This was more than swinging. The events on the boat so far this summer were costumed as swinging, swapping, a little naughty fun. But there was so much more going on. The sign of a higher IQ came in the ability to understand complex systems, as if seeing them from above. Maybe none of the others were as smart as her.

Or maybe she was wrong.

Wouldn’t that be something? Talk about egg on your face.

She wasn’t wrong, though. And as much as it hurt to see Byron so intimate—so happy—with another woman, she couldn’t ignore the beauty in it. The happiness Byron felt when he was with Carla wasn’t a bad thing. The bad thing was her own hurt feelings. Hurt feelings were natural. And it took an elevated understanding of swinging to surpass them.

It’s what separated a poly relationship from swinging.

Emotion. Intimacy.

Big girl games. Big boy games.

The whole point of Cody’s summer charade, if you asked her.

But if you fucking asked her, why wouldn’t you listen to her answer?

Fucking Scarlet.

Fucking Scarlet and Cody and a worthless blow job.

She put in her ear buds and played some vintage Tribe, closed her eyes and soaked up some rays.

* * *

Sully’s eyes were on her naked backside as she changed out of her shorts. Then his hands, smoothing over her ass and her waist, his crotch pushing between her butt cheeks. Through his fly, she could feel how rock hard her husband was right now. Still: tough shit, Sully.

He tried to sweet talk her. “We put a Do Not Disturb sign on our door, baby. Come on...”

Scarlet wriggled away from him, pushing back an elbow to give her some space. “No. I want the cleaners to do our room. Look, I’m trying to get my bottoms on. Would you please...”

Now he thumped back against the wall in front of her, giving her his sexy James Dean face, looking her up and down. She covered her crotch with a hand. He said, “You turn me on so fucking much, Scar.”

A little flame flickered under her ribs somewhere and she smiled. Just a little. But still, Sully: no way.

She picked up her bikini bottoms and ran them around in her hands, looking for the back, then stepped her legs through the leg holes. Sully tried to touch her vagina before she got the bottoms up and she smacked his hand. He sniggered and looked at her with narrow, lusty eyes.

She said, “Do you know how sore I am?” Horse-cock Philippe the night before, then her husband a bunch of times last night when she knew she should have rested. She wanted to go swimming, soak in the salt water, try to soothe some of her aches. But this fucking guy she married was a sexed-up warthog today.

Sully scoffed, like she was no fun, a prude. He said, “What a whiner.”

Now she scoffed bigger, out-scoffed him. Then she flicked her hand between his legs, getting him right in the bean bag with a snap of her fingers. He buckled and groaned, hurt-laughing the whole time.

She said to his hunched over back, “That’s how sore I am. No, like that, but ten times worse.”

He duck-walked to the bed and lay on it like a shrimp. Now she felt a little bad. “You okay?”

His face looked pained, and he rolled to his back and drew down his zipper, shimmied his shorts down to mid-thigh, his cock standing up one hundred percent hard. “I think you need to kiss it better.” He thumbed it upright, a vein-scribbled tower.

She laughed at him, then did him a favor, pulling up her T-shirt and revealing her braless, naked breasts. Sully said whoa and grabbed his shaft.

“Get a grip, please,” she said and pulled her bikini top off the hook where it hung on the wall.

“I have a grip. Now what?”

She settled her top in place and tied the bikini strings behind her back while Sully watched it all. “The cleaners are here, Sully. We’re going swimming. Get that big rod of yours in some swim trunks and let’s go outside, please.”

He let his cock go and his head fell back to the mattress in defeat. He said to the ceiling, “I can’t help it. I can’t get that blow job you gave Cody out of my mind.”

She grabbed his trunks from another hook and tossed them like a ring, like she was looking to hook it on his dick. It fell flat on top and covered him up. “Get your trunks on.”

“My stomach hurts so bad right now.”

“Sorry I whacked you.”

“Ah, that was kind of hot. I already had blue balls.”

“Sully, the cleaners will be here for three hours or so. You can’t wait three hours?”

His arms fell to the side, and he still stared upward, his trunks laying humped over his boner. “That blow job, Scar.”

She snuffled a small laugh. “I do that for you.”

“You made love to that cock, baby. You couldn’t get enough of it. It was so fucking sexy.”

“I can’t get enough of yours either, baby.”

Sully groaned and sat up, hand going to his crotch, coddling his package, his features scrunching. “Sure you can. You won’t even kiss it better after whacking it. One of my balls hasn’t even come down yet.”

She said, “I’m not sucking you off while the cleaners are here.”

Sully sighed, looked at her. “Don’t like to work under high pressure environments, huh? Are these the CSUNY 487 rules?” He stood up and let his shorts fall, holding the trunks to cover his arousal.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Sully held up his trunks now, like her a minute before, looking for the back. His erect cock stood out from under the hem of his T-shirt. “You know,” he said, “the Cock Suckers Union of New York. Local 487.” He stepped into his trunks.

She sighed with exasperation. “This is why I don’t suck your cock. ‘Cause you’re an idiot.”

He pulled his trunks up and snapped the waistband, his erection showing through the trunks. He squeezed it through the material and showed her a dubious expression. “Some people call me charming.”

She tossed him a beach towel. “Those people don’t spend as much time with you as I do.”

He strolled toward her, undeterred by her ill treatment, and the look in his eyes this time did set that small fire burning hotter, getting the flames higher, teasing her with thoughts of locking the door and spending an hour playing with each other. He said, “They just can’t handle the heat, baby. No one gets me like you do.”

She smiled and rubbed his chest. “I’m going to suck that big cock of yours.”

“Oh yeah, you are?”

“Yeah. When the cleaners get off the boat.”

He corrected her. “Ship.”

She exhaled through her nostrils and glared. “Fucking ship then, jeez. You want it or not? Because I’m telling you I’m going to make love to it, I’m going to do all those things I did for Cody.” She wanted to grab his cock right now, palm the underside, but knew neither of them could stop themselves once she did that.

Sully said, “Am I going to come down your throat like Cody did? You going to swallow me up like a good girl?”

Her cheeks burned and the back of her neck prickled with heat. She stepped back before her fire got so big they both went up in flames. “Easy, easy, tiger. Hoo. I said later.”

Now Sully started to claim the upper hand, smug-smiling, saying, “I’m starting to think I could convince you to do it right now. Look at your nipples, babe”—he nodded to her chest—“look at those happy little ladies stretching out to greet me.” He thumbed over her left nipple, the stroke of his pad protected by the satiny spandex making her butthole zing for some reason. She shuddered and knocked his hand away, butterflies in her stomach now.

He raised an eyebrow. “How about an underwater blow job?”

She backed toward their bedroom door. “In the salt water?”

He said, “I’ll give you some salt water.”

She turned up her nose. Semen? She said, “Gross.”

Sully laughed and nodded his head, knowing that was a little too much. “Sorry. I’m so horny right now.”

“Too horny,” she said, her back touching the door. “And”—she turned the door lever—“the more you beg me for a blow job, the more I want to hold it over your head like a big dangling carrot and make you do whatever I want for you to get it.”

She swung the door open and trotted out of Sully’s grasp, getting into the hall and only losing her towel to him. She said, “Who knows, maybe if you treat me well, I might give in. Best I can offer is a saltwater hand job...”

Sully wasn’t looking at her, his face turned down the hall with a frozen expression of mild incomprehension. She reclaimed her towel and turned to see what had his attention.

It was Cheyenne.

It was Cheyenne walking down the hall toward them, phone in hand, heading to the stairs up to the kitchen, coming from the backside deck, and she wasn’t wearing a single article of clothing. Not even her ball cap. Buck naked. Not a stitch. Every bit of flesh exposed in oily suntanned glory. Her breasts jostled and bounced, her trim torso rippled.

Scarlet looked to her husband, who had no shame watching Cheyenne, no sense to avert his gaze, his head oscillating to watch this naked beauty walk by. She turned back to Cheyenne, who pretended like they weren’t even there. Even as she passed by, she rolled only a mild gaze their way but didn’t acknowledge them. Chey was still mad. She strutted past with nary a chin nod or a tepid hello, just an arrogant lift to her chin, like they didn’t matter. Padded right by in bare feet, looking very sexy, Sully still watching, looking at Chey’s bouncy butt cheeks jostle with each step. The left one, the right one, the left one...

She elbowed him and he snapped out of it. He came to, shaking his head, then calling out to Cheyenne’s naked back, “Chey! Chey, the cleaners are here.”

Scarlet told him, “She can’t hear you, she’s got her ear buds in.”

And as Sully went to catch up with Cheyenne, Scarlet pulled the back of his shirt, keeping her husband in place. He looked at her, puzzled.

“Let her go, let her make her own mistakes. I’m done helping her out.”

* * *

Let them look. Yeah, she was naked. She was freer than the lot of them.

She’d stiffed them walking past, which felt good, but also came with its own guilt. She wasn’t even mad at Sully—but Sully married that two-timer. That two-timer who was her best friend.

Whatever.

She had one more chance to say hello, turning around at the end of the hall and marching up the stairs to the next level where the kitchen was. She even looked over the hand railing, thinking if she saw Scarlet and Sully, she might stick her tongue out this time. But they hadn’t caught up with her far enough down the hall for her to see them.

Well, she’d get them in the kitchen, she figured, coming to the top of the stairs and—

“Whoa,” she shouted, skidding on the top step from her slick foot bottoms. “Should have worn sandals.” Couldn’t even hear herself over “Left My Wallet in El Segundo” beating in her ears through the noise cancelling ear buds Byron bought her last Christmas. Looked up, going more careful now into the kitchen and—

Three Carib men stood in the kitchen carrying crates of resupplied beer, dressed in khaki shorts and pressed white button-ups, looking at her with eyes bright and round as the moon. Another one had a forearm draped over a dolly by the island, a Spanish man, his eyes the same. A toothpick fell from his mouth. She screeched. She covered her bare breasts. She turned her back. She covered her ass. She ran—

Not down the fucking stairs, you dolt, you’ll go down them on your slippery feet like an Olympic ski jumper, crash through the glass dining room table at the bottom of the stairs or take out Scarlet and Sully like a couple of bowling pins!

So she exited stage right, heading away from the kitchen and into the hall that led between the upstairs suites—

And right into a woman running a vacuum cleaner on the floor. Two more behind her carrying bundles of dirty laundry. She hollered again, ready to run through a wall to get out of here, leave a cutout shaped like her naked body if she had to, dive down to the bottom of the sea and live inside a giant clam for a year.

She lunged for the nearest door, aware of her breasts shaking and bouncing, her butt doing the same thing, yanked the door open and jumped inside—feet slipping again. But she didn’t go down. Door slammed closed, she put her back to it, chest heaving, body glistening with sweat and coconut scented tanning oil.

It was the bathroom. Not an ensuite, but the nice one with a big circular tub. There was the sound of splashing, and she realized she’d lost one of her ear buds in the naked kerfuffle on the other side of the door.

Cody stood before the toilet with his mighty hose stretched out of his fly, sending a stream into the bowl. He looked over his shoulder at her, not surprised, not offended, just casual, like lots of people rushed into the bathroom to watch him drain the main vein.

“Oh hey, Chey,” he said, languid and cool, eyes half-lidded. “Bathroom’s kind of occupado right now. . . . You know you’re naked, right?”