Summer Swap 5-7

Philippe set down his champagne glass on the edge of the tub. “I can’t wait to hear it.” He showed a playful expression of disinterest, knowing Scarlet a little better now (given all the dirty things the three of them had done together), and suspecting Scarlet had a ploy.

Scarlet cocked her head, showing Philippe a defiant posture and about the same unaffected expression, knowing Philippe was resisting her charm and her power, and she was unafraid of any challenge he might offer. She put a hand on her hip, the hip shot out to the side in a steadfast gunfighter pose. Philippe and Scarlet were fun to watch together, and that might have been the craziest thing a husband could realize about his wife and another man. Maybe it was because he was usually on the receiving end of his wife’s manipulations and so it was a real commiserating kick to watch her put another man in one of her scheming and performative headlocks.

Scarlet said, “Did you like that champagne?”

Philippe said, “One of the best.”

“You know your champagnes?”

“I know good champagne.”

They were testing each other, looking for weaknesses in each other’s armor. Sully couldn’t help smiling. The whole while, Paloma, snuggled into her hairy and muscular husband, looked from her husband to Scarlet as each spoke, unsure of all that was happening but amused by it, knowing while this might sound like bickering and that she couldn’t tell if Scarlet was a good person or not but it seemed all right since Philippe was smiling. Fuck, Scarlet had never looked sexier to him.

Now Scarlet said, “The royal family enjoys it.”

Philippe said, “Which royal family?”

“When one refers to ‘the royal family,’ there is an expectation of understanding.”

“I’m just making sure.”

“If it were another royal family, I would have specified.”

Paloma said, “Which royal family?”

Philippe’s eyes stayed on Scarlet, smiling big, pulling his wife even closer to him, his arm sliding right around her bare, tanned shoulders. Paloma’s hand went across her husband’s thick chest, her fingers weaving through his chest hair.

Scarlet wound a finger around, indicating the group of them together in the hot tub, saying, “Well, this royal family certainly seems to have enjoyed it, and it was perfect for the toast.” Philippe nodded and Scarlet continued, “We just toasted the night I’m going to spend with my husband.”

Philippe continued to nod, the stopped and cocked his head, eyes narrowing to scrutinizing slits.

“Just my husband,” Scarlet said, enjoying herself. “Me and my husband.”

Philippe pretended to be unbothered by Scarlet’s statement, raising one aloof eyebrow, saying, “You’re not staying?”

Scarlet sighed and looked around the tub, the deck in general, both hands on her hips. She said, “Hot tub, cold champagne, a suave man with a beard, his potent Brazilian wife—it’s like an SNL sketch about swingers. I want something more, I don’t know... sophisticated. I deserve something more sophisticated. And here’s the thing: I know you guys are capable of better. You know it, too. . . . I’m not easy.” Now she wagged a thumb in his direction. “Sully is. He’s really easy. But we’re a package deal. I need to be goddamned serenaded. I need to be swept off my feet. I want to swoon.”

Paloma seemed to get Scarlet’s temperament now, growing accustomed to Scarlet’s quest for control, but still needing clarification on something and looking to Philippe, asking, “Potent?”

Philippe looked up and to the right, seeking the right translation. “Uh... inflamável.” Paloma liked it, making a cute, satisfied face.

“Yes, flammable,” Scarlet said in a low and sudden sultry voice. “Highly flammable. Combustible.” She stooped, naked in the hot tub, cupped both of Paloma’s cheeks, her hair falling forward and shielding the two women’s faces from Sully’s view. But it was clear what happened: his wife had just kissed Paloma on the lips. Not a peck, not a bit of a smooch; no, a real barn-burner, wet mouth, lingering and seductive kiss. Paloma’s posture melted.

Each new event in this swinging extravaganza they were embarking on provided stunning revelations. He thought he’d seen the hottest and sexiest his wife could be, but nope, apparently that wasn’t the case. Because, damn it, Paloma intimidated him—and his wife, too, or so he’d thought—but Scarlet had just stared down a gorgeous exemplar of feminine beauty, and not balked or stammered, instead had taken the controls in her grip, and like a young-buck showoff, dazzled them all with her mastery. Paloma and Philippe were the experienced ones, the ones who should serve as ambassadors for their lifestyle, sagacious partakers with tenure. But, as usual, Scarlet was a student assuming the role of teacher. The sight of his wife naked with another woman, taking that woman’s face and kissing her in a clear act of domination, did wild things inside him, sending off a Fourth of July fireworks spectacle behind his eyes and inside his chest. The smile he showed grew wider; so did his eyes. Philippe didn’t even cast a sidelong glance Sully’s way, too enamored and mesmerized by the sight of the two beautiful women engaged in an interplay of complex pack dynamics, an attempt at reshuffling the hierarchical deck. Instability created chaos, and this was divine and thrilling chaos.

When at last his wife pulled her kiss from Paloma, Sully could see Paloma’s expression transformed. She was engaged, enlivened, challenged. And she loved it. Paloma sunk back against Philippe again as Scarlet stood naked before them all, water sloughing off her wet, steaming body. Her eyes sparkled as she regarded this fine redheaded specimen before her. She said, “You are something.”

Scarlet said, “I am.”

In the long, pregnant silence that followed, Sully wanted to joke, to say something like What am I going to do with this erection? It was clear, though, what he was going to do with his erection—put it in his wife—but most importantly: he didn’t want to step on his wife’s game. Scar had just pulled off the heist of the century by toeing up to Paloma, and she didn’t need her dopy husband trying to claim some meager glory.

Now Scarlet leaned to touch Paloma’s face once more, taking her chin and stroking a thumb over the plump curl of the Brazilian woman’s perfect mouth. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

With that, she rose, looked at him and nodded her head to the side in a we-should-get-out-of-here gesture, turned and stepped out of the tub. Philippe chuckled, and Sully scrambled out of the hot tub to keep up with his wife.

* * *

No, Byron thought, the word coming to him in urgent demand. No! Chey didn’t set him up on purpose. That was scapegoating. And scapegoating relieved himself of duty, of responsibility. He was a big boy. He could have orgasmed if he wanted to. Said with authority, “Sorry, Chey, this orgasm is going to happen.”

No, Chey didn’t want bad things for him.

He was in charge; he was in control. His brain had fucked up his last experience with Carla, and he wouldn’t allow it to interfere tonight. No way, no how. He pushed thoughts of his wife aside—not out of his heart, only out of his mind where they would linger and do damage.

He cupped the back of Carla’s neck, loving the silky feel of her screwy blonde bob against his skin, loving the warmth of her inflamed flesh. She worked his zipper down and yanked open the fly. His hips shimmied to accommodate her pushing his open pants down, thrusting forward to her the pronounced curved hump of his white cotton shrouded boner, trying to burst out of his tighty-whities. Carla sucked her lips into her mouth as if in startled awe; a young woman in her first sexual experience, staggered each time she took a step further down the thrilling but forbidden path.

He couldn’t reach down and jab two fingers against that shut-off point Lily had taught him—what kind of weirdo would do that in front of the hottest girl at the boarding school?—but he could set the pace for the encounter, and he could still his mind and control the excitement of his breathing. His hips humped his cock belly toward Carla in autonomous and eager rolling, but he took her chin and got her looking up to his face. He kissed her again, slowing the freight train, enjoying the feel of her tightened lips curling to their natural plumper shape against his own. The whole time, he placed pinpoint focus on their working mouths, pushed away the locomotive drive his orgasm had embarked on, putting on the brakes, practically hearing the squeal of metal on metal at the new sparking friction fighting against his ejaculatory momentum.

Carla’s damp lips plopped from his, and her pupils darted over his own as she put her fingertips on the underpants’ waistband, slowing, hesitating, like an inexperienced girl not knowing if she was moving too fast. Her eyes trembled as she showed him a face that said so much. It said, I hope you don’t think I’m too bad—I’m just a sweet young girl who is so darn horny I can’t even stop my little old self from doing these naughty, naughty things. Please, accept me for who I am, don’t judge me, don’t think I’m a girl without virtue, I just wanna share this moment with you, and if you want to get dirtier with me, I’ll get dirtier. In fact, make me get dirtier, I won’t mind...

How did Carla assume such theatrical greatness? The act was so convincing he felt transported to an actual dorm room in a faraway land.

That look on her face intensified as she drew down the front of his underpants, and then her eyes left his to witness the thing she’d revealed. His cock went free and outward, upright and proud, like a flexing forearm. A silvery thread of precum connected from the tip of his cock to his stomach. His shaft glimmered with the bath he’d already produced from the most intense sexual excitement of his life.

Carla emitted a soughing gasp, a sound of mild shock and arousal, like this was the first penis she’d seen in real life. His hand went to her bare shoulder, coddled the smooth surface, touched her arm. Her eyes went back to his, pleading, without saying a word, seeming to look for his permission to touch it. In way of granting that permission, he touched her instead, the heel of his thumb crossing over her bare bosom flesh, the point of her erect nipple dragging across. Then Carla grasped him, tentative and timid, but surrendering to her teen curiosity. The gentle squeeze she placed on his shaft gushed forth a river of more precum and she made a small sound of delight now that set his mind reeling.

Then she became that devilish girl again, looking up at him, daring him to stop her, warning him that while she was a sweet innocent, she wanted to bad things with him, and why not, they were in a locked room far from their homes.

She shimmied lower, eyes connected to his, watching to see what he might do if she pushed one breast forward and tapped the slippery head of his cock against that rubbery nipple. Now it was him gasping. Now it was him in serious trouble.

Gates opened up in his internal mechanisms, and tubes and vessels expanded, flexing with the pumping of seminal fluid as all he’d erected as barricades against premature ejaculation crumbled. The torrential power of imminent orgasm thrashed against his ramparts, pounded his break walls, spilled over the sides like rising hurricane waters. He pulsed endless clear lubrication over Carla’s throbbing nipple, encoating it like a Jurassic mosquito in amber.

Carla mewled at the erotic sight, this super-dirty teen private school girl thrilled by the basest earthly pleasures, swirling his penis against her nipple faster and faster.

“Oh boy, oh no,” he grunted through clenched teeth and grabbed twisting handfuls of her bedding.