Summer Swap 4.9

When Byron returned to the kitchen he found Cheyenne and Sully rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher. Sully spotted him over his shoulder and said, “Didn’t you bring the vacuum?”

“Do you need it?” He moved closer to Cheyenne, angling his head to analyze her expression, but she didn’t make eye contact.

Sully said, “No, we swept it up.”

Cheyenne said, “Where’s Carla?”

Byron said, “She went out to the back deck to sit with Cody. Why did you sent me to go get the vacuum?”

Cheyenne kept rinsing and loading, not looking. “I didn’t send you,” she said, dishes clinking and rattling.

He studied her for any tic, any giveaway she’d orchestrated his trip down to the bedroom suites with Carla. Cheyenne gave nothing away. So much swam in his head right now. Did Chey send him with Carla because she wanted him to have a fling; did Carla really tell Scarlet she had a thing for good ole Byron; and another one, a little jab of renewed jealousy after so much had gone right: did Chey do anything with Cody since he’d watched them together in Carla’s suite?

He shook his head, cleared his throat. “So, anyway, what’s going on up here?”

“Dishes,” Sully said.

Cheyenne said, “You and I are gonna have a little chitchat.”

Byron folded his arms. “Are we really?”

Sully dried his hands on a towel, coming over, saying, “Buddy, you have to get a load of this...”

“Of what?”

Cheyenne blasted a dish with hot water, stopping Sully, saying, “Wait until Scarlet gets back.”

Sully rolled his eyes and got back to work and Byron asked where Scarlet was and Sully said she went downstairs to check on Arlo and Lily, see if they’re okay.

Byron said, “Just tell what’s going on. Why do we have to chitchat?”

Sully looked towards Cheyenne, saying to Byron, “The girls have got some crazy story for you.”

Cheyenne shot him a dirty look. “It’s not crazy.”

Sully tossed the tea towel onto the counter, held open the dishwasher drawer for Cheyenne to load the last of the plates, then closed it and pushed buttons to get it running. He said, “It’s crazy if it’s true.”

Cheyenne crossed her arms. “It’s true.”

Byron said, “What’s true?”

Sully started to tell him and Cheyenne said, “I told you, wait for Scarlet.”

Sully said to Byron, “Chey needs back up. That’s how crazy the story is.”

“Back up for what? What’s the story?”

Sully waved the question away, letting Cheyenne get to the pots and pans, leaning his elbows on the counter and saying, “You guys went for a vacuum, you and Carla, but I don’t see a vacuum. What happened?”

“By the time we got down there,” he said, “we figured we didn’t even need one.”

“Really?” Sully said, eyes narrowed and disbelieving, raising an eyebrow. “Guy and a girl leave for a vacuum and don’t come back with one, you know what everybody’s gonna think…”

“Think away,” Byron said, and Cheyenne clucked her tongue and shot Sully a dirty look.

Sully said, “Good thing you guys weren’t gone for long.”

“Long enough,” Byron said, “to miss out on some juicy gossip, apparently.”

Sully said, “They made me sit down before they told me.”

“So this is a big deal?”

“If it’s true,” Sully said.

Cheyenne at the sink said in a raised voice, “It is true.”

Byron mouthed to Sully, “What is it?”

Sully checked that Cheyenne’s back was turned and leaned closer to Byron, whispering, “She says Cody and Carla and Philippe are cannibals and they brought Arlo along to cook us up for them.”

* * *

Lily tossed her pyjama bottoms to the floor and scooted up into the pillows, bringing up her knees and hugging her legs. Naked before Mr. Graves. And Mr. Graves was all business, opening the briefcase lid, running fingers over his instruments of exploration, analysis, and inquisition. She chewed her cheek and watched, powerless before this man who had great federal authority.

She tried one more time to assuage Mr. Graves. “You audited me last month.”

“And you told me your books were in order.”

“Isn’t there something else we can do?”

“There was,” he said, still exploring his investigative armory. “But then you let me down. No worry, though, Mrs. Lily Dixon, social insurance number 174-63-1503, because I knew you would let me down. Women like you always do.”

Why were bureaucrats always so superior and smug? Why did a little bit of power spoil every man on the face of the Earth? She was trapped in this drab Kafka nightmare, like falling into a swimming pool with a ball gown.

Mr. Graves produced the worst of his implements, and she gasped with fright. Mr. Graves ignored her, reaching into the breast pocket of his suit again and this time withdrawing his pen light. “The regime,” Mr. Graves said, “is all-seeing. The regime is—”

“All-knowing,” she finished for him.

“Exactly. There is nowhere we won’t go to find out a citizen’s secrets.”

“D-do you h-have to?”

“Part your knees for me, 174-63-1503.”

In slow and hesitating increments, Lily’s knees parted, the soles of her bare feet touching, letting her knees drop right down to touch the bedding, exposing to Mr. Graves her most sacred feminine space.

Mr. Graves pause for a moment and looked between her legs. “The regime appreciates such flexible citizens.”

The man was disgusting. She wanted to close her thighs again, but she let them stay open, impressing him with her limber legs’ ability to spread wide. Spread wide for his intrusion.

And now he shifted closer, still sitting on the side of the bed. She could see through his suit pants the knob end of his big cock pushing up the crotch. A crab apple shape pressing against gabardine. She said, “The government enjoys its dirty work.”

He studied her with contempt. “You speak the words of a dissident. And you wonder why they send me after you.”

“I’m not a dissident,” she said. “I’m a good girl. I’m a really good girl.”

“So you say,” Mr. Graves muttered, clicking his government-issue flashlight on and off. She already knew its brightness, 3000 lumens, ready to spot anything he didn’t like, ready to flood her most sacred pink space with megawatt stadium lighting.

“Lay back for me,” he said, leaning over her. Then he rested the stainless steel speculum on her belly and she jolted. “Stay still, 174-63-1503.”

“It’s cold,” she complained.

“There will be much discomfort. You should prepare yourself.”

“I know,” she said. “I know…”

“If I remember correctly,” he said, “174-63-1503 is much easier to spread when she is warm.”

She whimpered. “Are you going to use... use the machine?”

“You don’t want me to skip it,” he warned.

She shook her head now, dragging her fingertips up and down her lean tummy on either side of the spotless gynaecological instrument.

Now Mr. Graves returned to his briefcase, removed from the foam padding with the inserts cut into it, a small gray metal box with a toggle switch and dials on it like an old stereo tuner from her grandpa’s apartment. He touched her heels, and she scooted her legs straighter to give him space to rest the machine. He unwound the thick black electric cable, stepped off the bed, and plugged it into the wall socket. Then he took a moment to clean his glasses, put them back on. He sat then, and snapped on blue latex gloves. He was humming in his throat again. Wagner.

This detestable man. This gray bureaucrat disguising his contempt for the feminine with a cloak of authority.

With a latex-clad thumb, Mr. Graves touched between her legs. She whimpered, sucked her lower lip into her mouth and bit it. She looked up at the ceiling. He worked between her legs, slipping a finger up and down her slit. He said, “You’re very wet.”

“No, I’m not,” she said.

“Your mind is a dissident, but your body craves the regime’s touch.”

“M-maybe I’m a little wet,” she said. “But it has nothing to do with you or your stupid regime.”

“I’m looking now for 174-63-1503’s pink pearl,” he said, nudging a finger pad into her furrowed flesh, divining from her sex folds that swollen part of her, bursting with powerful feelings. When he found it, she emitted a high ghostly sound, and then clamped a hand over her mouth so Mr. Graves wouldn’t hear it. Wouldn’t hear her enjoy it.

Mr. Graves’ gaze focussed between her legs, unhitching from the machine its thin red and black cables and the small rubberized alligator clip attached on the end. He said to her, “What’s the frequency?”

“Ten,” she mewled. “Ten megahertz.”

“Before we begin the inquisition, would you like to bite on my belt?”

She shook her head no, angry. “Just do it already,” she spat.

Mr. Graves finger-flipped the stainless steel toggle switch, and the machine began to hum and vibrate between her parted thighs.

“Oh no,” she gasped, her toes curling, her legs writhing on the bed. And then Mr. Graves turned one of the dials, slow, one megahertz, two, three... Each click of the dial raised the insane vibration and wild electric current through the alligator clip and onto her clitoris. As the jagged rubber teeth bit into her bursting, succulent sex bulb, humming and throbbing, her toes tightened further and her legs kicked and writhed as intense pleasure ripped through her like a tropical thunderstorm. She gasped and panted and squeaked, holding back as much sound as she could, hands turning to fists and drumming on her hipbones as she struggled to fight back a huge orgasm.

She wouldn’t orgasm for the government. She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t. Not anymore.

But now with the machine running, its internal electric dynamo purring like a mean old house cat, he removed one more of his instruments from his briefcase, and presented it so she could see. A huge, translucent gummy-blue dildo studded with smooth round bumps.

“Oh no,” she said. “Not that one.”

Mr. Graves nodded.

“It’s so big, and I’m— I’m so little down there.”

“Yes, 174-63-1503. If I’m to investigate, if I’m to know your deepest secrets, I must touch your deepest hidden spaces. . . . Now, a formality before we begin...”

He removed his phone from his pocket, lay the huge blue dildo on her tummy, right next to his evil speculum, and put a knee on the bed, looking to get between her legs. She gulped. It was hard to swallow. The pleasure thrumming through her made consciousness hard to get a grip on. Mr. Graves took a picture of her lady parts with the alligator clamp biting on her clitoris, and she complained through the sex fog. “Hey!”

“This is for business documentation, 174-63-1503.”

“Who’s going to see those pictures?”

“All the agents back at the office.”

“Oh my gosh,” she cried, her head falling back into the pillows, rolling from side to side as a trembling orgasm leaked from her pussy into her body, getting her thighs shaking, only threatening a huger orgasm to come. Maybe one she couldn’t contain.

Mr. Graves took more and more pictures of her pussy. Holding her labia apart, pulling down on her yoke, tapping on the rubberized clamp on her clitoris. Each time he touched her, and she heard the click of his phone’s camera, crazy after-orgasm shocks ricocheted through her—and when they did, they triggered a whole new orgasm. Her eyes teared, and she formed fists so hard her hands shook.

Then he put away his phone, telling her now. “I think I’m ready to begin.”

“Be-begin?”

He lifted the blue dildo, waggled it at her, its massive bulk bowing up and down as the huge fake cock head bobbed before her eyes. “This is only the beginning. I’m going to make you pay, Lily.”

“No, no,” she cried, “I can’t take it anymore!”

Someone knocked on their door.