SUMMER SWAP 3.3

The only thing Sully saw was his own harrowed reflection staring back at him; a bewildered man sitting on the edge of a bed with his entire lowered-brow focus on what could be happening on the other side of the mirror. His gaze burned on the silvered glass, imagining the awful carnal display beyond.

What were they doing in there?

Why was the door shaking?

Did Philippe have those big rough hands on Scarlet right now? Were they stroking up and down Scarlet’s smooth and freckled flesh?

Sully rubbed his hands up and down his bare thighs and squeezed his knees. There was an intense tightness in his belly and under his balls that he loved. Or hated. It was hard to tell. But there was no argument that it made him feel electric. More alive than he’d felt in ages. He rode the raging crest of jealousy right now, surfing into shore with sick hurt whipping through his hair and the hardest possible erection thrust up from his crotch like a raised fist. He was a-live. Capital A-L-I-V-E. Blood pounded through his body like an upstream dam had collapsed, and a hurricane of rushing lust thundered through his town’s streets and alleys.

Byron got up from sitting on the bed and came around Cheyenne, walking through Sully’s field of vision to come sit next to Sully, on his other side. Sully still stared at his own reflection—knowing his wife was naked with another man just beyond the quarter-inch of glass.

Byron side-eyed Sully, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, holding a glass of whisky that was now mostly ice. Sully didn’t look over and Byron continued to stare.

At last Byron said, “Are you mad or are you glad?”

Sully grumbled through pursed lips, still staring at his reflection. “Both,” he said through gritted teeth. “Both, I guess.”

Byron nodded his head in slow, exaggerated wags then bumped Sully’s knee with a fist, saying, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

***

Philippe said, “If I let you go, will you swear you’ll stop trying to tickle me?”

“I’m not sure,” Scarlet said, not wanting to lie. “It’s kind of funny.”

“Yeah, for you.”

“I didn’t claim it was otherwise.”

Philippe said, “What if I try tickling you?”

“I’m not ticklish.”

“That’s what I said to you.”

“Yeah, but I’m really not ticklish,” she lied.

“I would’ve said that, too.”

“Is this your way of convincing me it’s okay of you try touching me all over? That’s kind of creepy, dude.”

He laughed and she liked the way it felt to be held so tight against him and feel laughter rumble through his warm, furry, muscular body.

“I’m really starting to think you’re just as ticklish as I am,” he said.

“If you touch me I’ll scream for the cops.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, beginning to sway with her like they were slow dancing. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tickle you.”

He swatted her bottom and she gasped. The bouncing feel of her butt cheeks made all sorts of unexpected pleasure shiver through her sweating canal. She’d felt that right in her bad place. She sucked her lips between her teeth and bit them, staring wide eyed in the dark somewhere where the back wall should be. With her head pressed against Philippe’s chest this way she could hear the beating of his heart. His big, powerful heart. That was sending blood to that huge sausage between his legs. It got her to her tip-toes, flexing her stomach against the carnal pleasure swirling up from her core—but that mashed his prominent maleness against her stomach harder. Philippe grunted as though with discomfort. She said, “Is there a problem?”

“Kind of,” he muttered.

“I think I feel the problem,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said.

She chuckled to let him know it was okay, working her arms under his a little farther, latching her fingers together behind the small of his back to make herself more comfortable. She could feel her wedding ring against the scissoring fingers of the opposite hand and smiled. Sully must be going wild.

She said, “So this is it, huh? This is how we’re going to ride out the time? Two naked adults clutched together like at our high school dance, latched in a clutch so we won’t tickle each other.”

“That’s how it’s turned out,” he said.

“And we’ve got a growing problem?”

“We do,” he said, flat and uninterested, like they were at a town council meeting.

“It’s growing into me,” she said.

“It feels like it’s folded,” he said.

“That doesn’t sound comfortable.”

“It’s not.”

“Do you want to adjust it?”

“I don’t want to let your arms go.”

She bit her lips a second again, her heart rate picking up. “Do you want me to fix it for you?”

But Philippe said, “No, I’d have to let one of your arms go.”

“Hold on,” she said, adjusting herself, pushing her hips and pelvis back—

Philippe tightened his grip on her arms.

“Ow,” she said. “Hey, relax, I’m not trying to tickle you. Move your hips back.”

He moved slow, like he still didn’t trust her, easing his hips back as well.

“It’s stuck to me,” she said.

They both shook their hips and bounced their weight on their toes. Philippe’s oversized equipment had stuck to her belly. It was hot in the closet and only getting hotter. It also felt spring-loaded—like when she gave it space to move, it scissored outward against her. But at last, its own weight peeled it from her hot skin and his package fell between them.

Right away Philippe was relieved. “Oh my god, that’s better,” he sighed.

“Yeah,” she said, “I’m not so sure about that.”

His growing penis had fallen between them and now the dorsal ridge pressed right against her cloven mound. And just like before, it seemed to want to spring outward, putting pressure right against her most exciting erogenous zone.

“Oh shit,” he said, realizing what he was feeling.

Her scissored fingers were slick with the sweaty heat this predicament brought. She didn’t want to let him go, but this contact was forbidden.

He said, “I’ll let you go if you face the other way.” His voice had a desperate, lusty tone. Being trapped in the tight hot space with him, naked, touching, playing, had turned her on incredibly—and had obviously done the same to Philippe. “Okay,” she whispered, knowing it was the right thing, but a little disappointed her turning around would end the naughtiness.

As they came apart, Philippe lifting his arms a little so she could slip out, she said, “Or...”

“Or what?”

“Let me adjust it.”

“Okay,” he said, and she could hear him swallow afterward.

Now with her arms free—and Philippe trusting she wouldn’t take advantage of his surrendered control—she moved back, not too far, already not liking the chill on her skin being apart from his warm body, and let her hand go down. This was it. When her fingertips slipped over the skin of his penis he chuffed in an excited burst of air and flinched.

She said, “This thing’s not ticklish, too, is it?”

“A little,” he admitted. “Not the penis so much, it’s, you know...”

“You’re a mess,” she said and they both laughed.

She formed a C-shape with her hand, clutching his enormous hanging—and half-hard—penis, and was shocked how wide it felt in her grip. Under her breath, she muttered, “You have the hugest fucking penis,” hefted it upright—it was so crazy big—pushed it against his own body, then let it go and returned to hugging him, latching her fingers around behind his back once more. She made a satisfied sound, laying her cheek on his hairy chest. His penis was a squishy column between them, and the feel of the tip so close to her breasts drove her wild. This was the beginning of what she desired: to check his thing out, to play with it, to mess around with such a freaky totem of masculinity. Her pulse pounded in her ears and she felt the tickle of wetness in her creases. Philippe’s arms returned their bear-hug around her.

She said, “You must be popular on cold winter nights.”

His arms hugged her a little more, not trapping her arms, but embracing her. His huge hands crossed over behind her back, his palms resting just above the curve of her ass cheeks. The column of flesh between them grew larger.

Philippe said, “This isn’t driving Sully too crazy?”

“It is. But it’s good,” she said.

“He’s cool?”

“He’s very cool.”

She sensed Philippe nodding. “I like Sully.”

“Yeah, he’s okay,” she said.

They both laughed in their mutual embrace, and Philippe did something bold and unexpected. His big, strong hands slipped lower and held her ass. It was warm and welcome and exciting. She let him know it was okay by nuzzling her cheek against his furry chest. Philippe coddled her ass, thumbs smoothing the flesh.

A knot of deep carnal lust tightened around her heart and she went lightheaded. A strong mating urge squeezed her brain and she had to shake it away.

He said, “I heard a little about last night.”

“Cody can’t keep his mouth shut,” she said, squinting her eyes hard and chasing away the feeling of hungry need.

’Nope. Carla.”

“Carla wasn’t even there.”

“Anyway,” he continued. “Sounds like you guys are cool.”

Every breath she took swelled her chest against Philippe’s hardening cock. Their skin stuck together when she inhaled, peeled apart when she exhaled. There was something about the simple act of breathing now that imitated copulation. Breathing had become sexual.

“We’re cool,” she whispered. He was taller than her, so his crotch was higher, but seriously, his erection had grown up between her breasts. Like, what-the-fuck?

“So, I don’t what that might mean to you guys, but, you know, if you, say, wanted to—”

The sliding door rumbled open like lighting, so fast and hard it banged against the far end of the frame. She shrieked and Philippe grunted and they shoved each other away. Their stuck-together skin tore apart and she felt cold and naked and exposed. Everyone was laughing.

“Holy fuck,” Philippe shouted with laughing shock.

Scarlet could make out the shape of Carla standing hip-shot, one hand on her waist. Though the lights weren’t on, the room was nowhere near as dark as the closet had been. She could make out everyone’s shapes, standing, seated, all looking into the closet. Her heart beat like deafening drums inside her skull.

Philippe said, “No way that was fucking seven minutes, Carla. What the hell?”

Someone flipped on the lights and Scarlet shimmied to hide her naked body behind the half-closed side of the sliding closet door. Philippe was caught out in the open—but he’d already tucked his massive organ down between his legs. He had nothing to show. Sully stared into the closet blinking against the new brightness, cheeks hollow, eyes dark and still showing a savage electricity.

Carla smiled. “The best part of Seven Minutes In Heaven is yanking open the door at six minutes. Everyone knows that.”