Summer Swap 3.2

It was Scarlet’s duty, of course, to feign outrage and defiance in the face of such an affront. However, the truth was her heart galloped in her chest like a wild mustang.

“Oh, you guys are so dumb,” she said, smirking, trying not to look as struck as she felt. Were her eyes glossy?

Behind Byron, Chey rolled her eyes, and Scarlet shot her a knock-it-off look. Byron said, “You know the rules, Scarlet.”

“Why are you coming after me, Byron? Sully’s your target.”

Byron, surprisingly bold, said, “I’m getting Sully through you. Besides, whassamatter with Philippe? What, you afraid of him?”

Philippe sidled alongside her, smiling, his thick black beard spreading to make room. She was pretty sure he had dimples under there, but wasn’t sure. She’d always known him with the beard. He said, “Yeah, like our drunk friend said, whassamatter with me?”

“I’m only a little buzzed,” Byron muttered.

Scarlet said to Philippe, “Sounds like you want to get naked in the closet with me—of course you’re not going to object.” Though harsh sounding, she showed Philippe a flirty smile.

Chey cupped her hands around her mouth and called out an “ooh” sound, saying then, “Sick burn, sister.” Then, slapping a hand down on the lounger’s padding: “Now get in the fucking closet.”

***

Carla found an empty closet on the second floor, the same floor as Philippe’s suite. No one was using two of the rooms, and all seven of them packed in one of them, laughing with each other like a bunch of dumb high-schoolers. The vibe had altered somewhere in the last twenty-four hours. But how could it not? Here’s how she saw it: these audacious party games at first had been hilarious challenges luring each other into exhibitionism for the sake of fun. All involved warmed up to the idea of carefree shenanigans, and now tonight’s challenges were more a matter of wrote protocol; a path to get someone—shit, her—into position so the rest could serve as spectators. Voyeurs. All the friends, even Arlo and Lily at this point, were enjoying the ancient-Roman level of debauchery. Cody was Caligula, and Carla was his love-witch Milonia.

Chey ran to the made-up bed and tossed her butt onto it, almost spilling her wine. Byron joined her, and the other couples surrounded them, her and Philippe, shepherding them into the space in front of the open closet door.

“You guys look like angry villagers with pitchforks,” she said.

Philippe agreed and upped the ante. “Or some Children of the Corn cult or something. One of us, One of us, you know? Like that.”

Carla smirked to one side, folding her arms over her large breasts. “You’re not thinking of backing out are you?”

Cody said, “Why would he back out? Close me in a closet with Scarlet any day of the week.” He eyed her with comical menace, looking her up and down like she was a tasty piece of meat.

“Gee, thanks,” she said. “I’m just a tool to be wielded against my husband. I’m starting to feel like a sex worker now.”

Sully stepped into place. “No, you’re not,” he said, eyeing her a little like Cody did, but her husband had a wilder look in his eyes; a crazed excitement, much like he’d had in the cargo of the prop plane before they went skydiving last year. Like he was about to do something death-defying and he couldn’t believe how close the thrilling moment was coming. Something about his wild-eyed dread, his fight-or-flight expression, made her so hot. Right now, without even glancing down, she knew Sully’s rod was at full throttle. Over her. Specifically over her. His wife.

She added to the thrill for him, feigning now like her backing out was imminent. She sighed and crossed her arms and said, “This is so juvenile.”

“The words of the haughty but frightened,” Carla said.

“I’m not frightened.”

Philippe said, “What about me is so scary?”

Byron chuckled, and Philippe smirked and rolled his eyes, figuring what provoked Byron’s chuckle. Chey laughed and got up, strolling closer and sipping her wine. Byron watched her the whole time—again, another man with that hungry look in his eyes, looking at Chey’s skinny butt like it was a tenderloin.

Scarlet let Sully off the hook, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder, saying, “All right, Shrek, get in the closet with me, our friends need to be entertained.”

Someone swatted Scarlet’s ass really hard when she turned to the closet, and she yelped and spun around, angry. But it was Cheyenne, smiling wide. Chey leveled a finger at her and winked. “That makes you Donkey.”

Scarlet made an exasperated sound in her throat and rolled her eyes as high as they would go. “No, this isn’t juvenile at all.” Truth was, her heart was hammering at the opportunity to get weird with Philippe.

She turned to the closet, Phlippe standing with his hand gestured forward in the traditional “Ladies First” pose. Chey whisper-shouted: “Aren’t you guys supposed to be naked?”

“I’m not undressing in front of you all standing with your clothes on, watching me.”

“You were naked earlier.”

“The naked people—because I wasn’t the only one—separated ourselves from the clothed so they wouldn’t be uncomfortable.”

Sully said, “You didn’t want to subject anyone to unrequested nudity.”

“That’s right,” she said.

Byron, from the bed, said, “No, you stripped right in front of us first, Scar. Your thing was eye-level.”

“My thing?” she said in an offended tone.

Philippe touched her shoulder. “Come on, Scarlet. Don’t negotiate with them. We’ll take our things off in the dark.”

She eyed all her friends defiantly and turned in a slow circle, going into the closet ahead of Philippe. Once in, she turned and scowled at Chey and Chey scowled back harder, shaking her head and crinkling her nose. Scarlet winked and Chey almost went into a giggling fit, putting a hand over her mouth to stop the laugh from bursting out.

Then Philippe stepped in with her. His bulk stuffed the space full and she had to press her back to the side wall if she didn’t want to touch him.

“Cramped,” he said, sheepishly.

“Like a sardine can,” she said.

Cody said, “Plus you’re going to come out of there all oily and greased up.”

Carla said over her shoulder toward Arlo, “What would you serve them with?”

Arlo sipped his Scotch. “Definitely lemon. Lemon and some basil.”

Scarlet reached past Philippe to shut them off, sliding the door closed. Now all her friends would be looking at their own reflection in the mirrored door. Someone outside the closet shit off the room lights and it pitched the closet in near total darkness. The bed springs squeaked as more people sat on the bed, laughing and saying funny things to one another. Very close to the door, Carla said, “Im going to need some clothing passed out to me really soon, guys.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scarlet said.

They were quiet a moment and then Philippe said to her, “I guess this is the part where we take our clothes off.”

“Yup.”

“You cool with this.”

“Yup.”

“No, I mean really.”

“Yeah, really,” she said, smiling in the dark, liking how they couldn’t read each other’s expressions, only vibe off the things they said. It was kind of fun in its isolation. “I’ll go first if you’re uncomfortable.” She lifted her shirt up over her head.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” working off his own shirt by the sound of it.

“I know,” I saw you strutting your stuff down by the pool.”

“I saw you, too,” he said, and now she could hear him do down the zipper in his shorts—and actually gulped like she had trouble swallowing. It was crazy that this insane thing was actually happening. This was what she’d wanted.

“We’re not seeing anything we haven’t seen already.”

“We’re not seeing anything period.”

“Exactly,” she said, pushing her shorts down but trying not to accidentally knee the guy in his junk. It was kind of a big target.

“Just two people comfortable with their nudity, getting naked, and it’s no big deal.”

“Right,” she said, the shorts getting to the point mid-thigh where they fell to the floor via gravity. She felt the draft of Philippe’s shorts as they fell to the closet floor.

Hurry up, guys,” Carla said through the door.

He said, “You want to move back?”

“Whoa, careful, you bragger. What, you’re worried you’ll poke my eye out with your thing?”

“No, I’m worried I’m going to knee you in the stomach when I take off my underwear. Move back, I’ll turn around and knee the wall by accident instead of, you know.”

“Got it, got it,” she said. “Then we switch, and you back up while I get my undies off, too.”

“Teamwork,” he said, and then they went through the rigmarole of making space for the other to get their underwear off.

Carla said, “Guys?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scarlet said. “I think we’re about ready.”

“Pass your clothes out to me,” Carla said.

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“We can’t bend over and pick them up, there’s no room in here. What kind of luxury yacht has such a small closet?”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

Philippe said, “Open the door a little and we’ll kick our clothes out.”

“Fine,” Carla said, and opened the door enough, they could each push out their clothing with their bare feet. Philippe closed the door again and now they were trapped alone in a tiny space, both of them completely naked. She swore Philippe stood with his hands hiding his genitals. She stood plainly, arms at her side, waiting for her vision to adjust to the intense darkness.

Philippe said, “Just two naked people totally comfortable with their bodies.”

“Yup. Pressed up close and personal in the dark. No, big deal.”

Outside, Carla itemized their clothing, counting out each pice to the crowd. She couldn’t find Scarlet’s panties and asked Sully if Scarlet wore panties and Sully told her sometimes Scarlet did but not all the time and Carla asked through the door if Scarlet had panties on still.

“No,” she answered. “I kicked them out there. Does this count towards our time?”

“No, of course not,” Carla said, her hand scratching the rug outside the door, searching for scarlet’s errant panties. “The clock starts when your clothes are out here, Scarlet— Hey! I found them!”

“I told you,” Scarlet said.

Cody said, “They are officially naked!”

Some idiot applauded.

Scarlet said, “Okay, start the clock.”

Byron said, “Starting . . . Now!” Someone began a clicking tock sound.

Both she and Philippe took deep lasting breaths, sighing—not uncomfortable or anything, just unsure what to say to one another locked into a tiny closet.

Philippe sounded like he opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Then, shortly after: “What’s with the Shrek stuff, Scar? What, am I really some kind of monster?”

In the dark she frowned. There was a twinge of humor in Philippe’s voice, but it rode on a sincerer tone. You could forget yourself when you were ribbing someone, especially when that someone was a big handsome guy. Especially when they were a big handsome guy who ran his own successful carpentry business, making high-end furniture, and that person was masculine and hairy and male-personified with a gigantic dong. But Philippe wasn’t arrogant. . . . God, what if the guy was sensitive?

“You’re a big man, Philippe,” she said, wincing at the very close and loud sound of her voice in the cramped space. It was already getting hot in here. “And, you know, Shrek was a big likable lug. The whole point was defending you because of—”

“I’m kidding, Scarlet.”

“Oh,” she said, rubbing her arm. Philippe chuckled his low rumbling sound and she chuckled, too. “You do have a greenish tinge.”

“No, I don’t.”

“In certain lights.”

“Like an ogre?”

“Yeah. Or pea soup.”

“Maybe I should see a doctor.”

“That’s up to you. What’s your insurance like?”

More chuckling. In the close confinement like this, her most attuned sense obliterated, his chuckle vibrated on her skin in an arousing way. It reminded her of being in a cave with a grizzly bear. A big, good-looking grizzly bear who turned her on a little. A little more than a little.

“Seven minutes is a long time to stand still like this,” he said, sighing.

“We could play I Spy.”

“Okay,” he said, like they weren’t both in total darkness. “I spy with my little eye...”

The tip of his finger poked her right in the belly button and she jumped and gulped and then broke up laughing. “Are you fucking kidding me? Did you just poke me in the belly button?” She rubbed her stomach with her palm.

He said, “No—uh-oh, what if there’s someone else in here with us?”

“Or something,” she said with a gasp of fright. “Were you trying to poke me in the belly button?”

“The truth?”

“Hey now, Philippe.”

“So that was your belly button?”

“You have great aim.”

“I have a good sense of scale.”

“Like you know my height, your height, and can tell by my voice where my navel would be?”

“Triangulation.”

“Like a bat.”

“Again with the monster stuff.”

“Not a vampire bat,” she said, laughing, “more like—”

“Like the bats you cuddle up with?”

“How about Batman?”

He was quiet a second, like he was considering it. “Yeah,” he said at last, “I like that. Batman.”

“All right, Mr. Batman, let me try.”

“Go ahead.”

“Okay, wait,” she said, squinting in the dark like it might help her see better, raising up a pointing index finger. “Say something...”

“You gotta tell me what you’re aiming for first.”

“Don’t trust me?”

“No.”

“I’m offended. Okay— your left nipple.”

“My left nipple?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Go for it.”

“I can hear you standing straighter.”

“Here’s my voice,” he said. “Find my nipple. You got one shot.”

She drew a circle in the dark, pinpointing where she imagined her target might be, then jabbed it forward, hitting flesh.

Philippe laughed like he might be a little ticklish and moved back.

She said, “What was that? Did I get it?”

“That was my bicep,” he said.

“So I was close. Make a muscle.”

“Why?”

“Are you making one?”

Movement in the dark. “Yeah.”

She moved her hand around in the inky black, found his forearm—a thick and massive forearm—then grabbed the ball of his hard bicep and squeezed it. It was like a river rock. “You’re strong,” she said.

“Make a muscle,” he said.

“Me?”

“There’s just the two of us here.”

“I know, but I don’t lift weights.”

He said, “Are you making one?”

She sighed, raised her arm and flexed. “Yes, I’m making—”

Fucking guy poked her right in the belly button again.

She yelped and leapt back, laughing and rubbing her stomach. “What the hell, Philippe?”

They both snuffled giggles in the dark, and now she joined index finger and middle finger together and jabbed straight out, not caring where she got him, just stabbing really hard. She hit his hairy muscle and her fingers folded. Philippe bristled and bumped the door with his elbow.

“Are you ticklish?”

“No.”

She made claw-hands in the dark.

Philippe anticipated it, saying, “Don’t, Scarlet.”

“I’m merciless, Philippe,” she said grimly, like a movie super-villain—then launched a double-handed claw attack at his sides, finding his hard body, scrambling up his ribs like rabid spiders, scurrying all over him while he freaked the fuck out, grunting, laughing, hitting the walls with his elbows, hitting the door and making it shake. He hooped his arms around her, trapping her arms against his sides and holding her that way.

From outside, Sully said, “What the heck’s going on in there?” Cheyenne brayed a drunken laugh.

“We’re fine,” Scarlet said, her voice tight and breathless. Her naked front squeezed against Philippe’s naked front, her arms pinned to his sides, trapped underneath his thick, powerful arms. His body hair felt warm and comforting against her bare skin. The threatening bulk of his huge penis and scrotum squashed against her stomach, and in the dark, the feeling was alluring, arousing, and making her wet. Her breaths came damp and hot. Philippe’s did, too.

Philippe raised his voice to be heard on the other side of the door. “How long is it?”

Byron said, “I think that’s Scarlet’s job,” to Cheyenne and Cheyenne brayed laughter again, a big annoying hee-haw sound usually reserved for when Chey drank too much Jagermeister at the sorority functions. She actually kind of loved that laugh.

Sully said, “Forty-five seconds.”

“We have a long way to go still,” she whispered.

“Uh-huh,” Philippe hummed.

His chest hair bristled on her lips. Her hard nipples scored his skin. The prominent package of his ample man-flesh swelled against her. His organ was growing.